In our first blog post of the year, Dr Imogen Wegman provides a guide to tour guiding. Imogen, who recently completed her PhD in History at the University of Tasmania, talks about the joys and frustrations of leading tour groups, explains how it can improve your skills as a scholar and communicator, and shares some selections from her collection of memorable moments.
An older man stands in front of the cells in the Port Arthur Penitentiary, admiring the ruins of the stone walls and floors. He turns to his family, clearly proud about deducing the purpose of these small rooms. He declares them to be shower cubicles. As a tour guide, there are times to feign deafness, but some things cannot be ignored. I step forward, “Uh, sir, these were the cells, where the prisoners were kept, where they slept. Not showers.” He insists, pointing at the little stone shelf built into the wall, “Showers! For the soap!” His companions look on, uncertain who to believe. I try once more, this time showing him the illustrated information board. “See?” No. I would not be winning that battle. Another guest calls for my attention, and with some relief I move away.
For the past six summers I have worked as a tour guide in Hobart, taking guests from the cruise ships that visit our harbour out to experience some of southern Tasmania’s heritage, culture and food. This was a welcome break as I researched and wrote my thesis. But it was more than a change of scene. I started tour guiding and my PhD in the same summer, and I quickly found it to be an extension of my academic work. With limited opportunities for teaching within the university, guiding is an effective place to practise communicating complicated concepts to the most general of audiences.
There are lots of different types of tour guiding – site-based, themed, multi-stop, posh, regular… I usually work on tours booked onboard, chosen by guests for the stops on the route. The compulsory part of my job is to get them all back to the ship on time and in one piece. I work alongside a coach driver (although a lot of companies use driver-guides), and any talking I do en route is up to me.
Like giving a conference paper, multiplied by fifty
Being a tour guide is not for everyone. You become a performer for a captive, but not always captivated, audience and it can be a confronting exercise. At any given moment, only half of your audience will actually be listening to you. They have come on this tour to see Australian animals or taste Tasmanian wines, not to get a history lesson. Your audience will probably have some retired academics, but it will also have young couples, eastern European oligarchs, American ranch owners, Indigenous peoples, children, and a shaky granddad sent on tour by a family who want someone else to look after him.
*murblemutter from the back of the coach*
Me: “Can everyone at the back hear me?”
Them shouting: “No!”
*Twiddles mic volume* “How about now?”
Them: “No! It’s not you mate, there’s a bloody rude woman on her phone and we can’t hear over her!”
The questions they ask won’t be theory-laden trip hazards, but they will reveal prejudices you need to decide how to address. In Tasmania I am regularly asked if this island ever had an Indigenous population. This is despite spending the first twenty minutes of the tour talking about the history of the island before 1788. Holiday brain is real, and it makes people forget everything.
You’ll need a thick skin – the grumpy uncle who thinks doing a PhD is a waste of time also goes on holiday, and doesn’t keep his views for the family table. My usual response to rudeness is to mentally catalogue that person and their behaviour as fodder for future dinner party stories, while tossing my head with an insincere laugh and walking away. I have an entire digital folder of amusing moments. Guests will also insist that they are right, which will equip you for dealing with those inevitable statement-questions at conferences.
How to get into it
My mother has been guiding for the cruise ships for years, and as the new season approached in 2013 she mentioned to her bosses that I could ‘talk under wet cement’. I accompanied a couple of tours to see how it worked, and then I was in. In my experience this is how a lot of the touring industry works – I have been offered tour guide positions based on an official application process, but have also seen a lot of emails from the bosses asking for new names to add to their lists.
Not everyone has a contact on the inside, but if you think you might like to get into tour guiding, start by looking on TripAdvisor for reviews of tour companies in your area, watching for clues about the guides they hire – reviewers often mention that their guide is studying if they think it affected the quality. Go on some tours and talk to the guides – they might tell you who to contact, and you’ll get a feel for how the companies operate.
Do I need tour guide training?
Sometimes yes, sometimes no. In Tasmania there are no requirements of certification, but that might vary around Australia. Even if nothing is required, it is good practice to think critically about every tour you have ever been on – what did you enjoy about the guide’s performance, what not? If I have an experienced driver I’ll often ask for their feedback at the end of the day. Often companies are looking for employees with some kind of heavy vehicle license, so they can talk and drive at the same time, but walking tours around our cities are getting more popular, and site-specific tours don’t usually require any driving.
A couple have an album of their visit to Bonorong Wildlife Sanctuary from a few years earlier. They are determined to recreate some of the photos.
Her: Where can I hold a koala bear?
Me: Oh, holding them stresses them out, but you can go and have a photo next to one.
Him: But we held one last time, here’s the photo. Is that somewhere else?
Me: No, that’s here, but the person holding it is an employee, and she’s holding a wombat, not a koala.
Her: So you know her? Why can she hold a koala bear?
Me: Well, it’s a wombat…
Her: No, it isn’t.
Me: Yes, it is. They’re from the same family, so they do look a little similar…
Her: But how can I hold a koala bear like she is?
Me: *exit left, with haste*
So, what do I talk about?
Some companies give their guides scripts to learn and recite, but the best companies will encourage you to do some research and find new stories to tell. I have the advantage of researching Tasmanian history, so there has been a direct conversion from my thesis into a commentary. Not everyone researches local history that can feed directly into their guiding however, but we are not bound by our research topics. As trained researchers, we have the skills to filter good research from bad, fact from fiction, and I would argue that this is what makes us valuable guides.
I focus on a narrative that runs from 40,000 years ago to the late-nineteenth century. As we drive this is broken up by discussion about local landmarks and smaller stories – non-Australians love hearing about the Bunnings Onion-Sausage debacle if we go past a prominent hardware store. I try to end each of my history bits at a key point, and then pick it back up later when there’s another stretch of road. I don’t usually tell them explicitly about my PhD unless it comes up in conversation, although I will sometimes mention that I’m a historian.
Listen to how your guests respond. The questions they ask reveal a lot. Some questions will tell you they just weren’t listening, but don’t take that personally. There are usually some engaged guests who ask for clarification or more information. Ask yourself if that meant you used too much jargon, or didn’t explain a fundamental concept? In my first tours I heard a lot of surprise that convicts would receive land grants, because I hadn’t properly explained that the earliest convicts sent to the colonies were young, fertile, healthy, and chosen to populate and build a new centre of British control. Generally I try to remain neutral, aware that every tour group includes a broad political spectrum. I am unwilling to spark off a fight in a fully-packed coach.
Find a balance between simplification and too much detail. Credit your group with some brains, and remember that often people think history is boring because of the way it’s told, rather than the content. Tell some humorous stories, a bit of mild gore, some adventure, but do what we are trained to do – use it to illustrate a larger point about the convict system, supply shortages, whatever part of the history you are up to. Practise using humour to make a serious point, but be careful and be receptive to the response. If something doesn’t work, try telling it differently next time – you will end up on the same route hundreds of times, use that to refine and hone your skills.
Be aware of what your guest is actually asking. They will ask questions that seem dumb, but consider what might be pushing that question – what basic principle might they not be familiar with? This applies also in academia, where we tend to assume understanding as we work with expert audiences, which can be frustrating for newbies to the field. View your topic as an outsider would. For Americans this might be the role of a governor within Commonwealth countries, for older Australians it might relate to mid-twentieth century school lessons about the ‘extinction’ of the Tasmanian Aboriginal peoples.
A conversation I have at least once every tour
A: I’m looking for Bus 7.
Me: Yep, you’re with me, on this one here.
A: This one?
Me: Yes, this is number 7.
A: You’re sure?
A: Honey, she says this is our bus.
B: Number 7? This one here?
B: This is our bus?
Me: Yes! Number 7!
B: Oh. OK.
This job has been met by some academics with scorn – recently on hearing that I had started a few regular jobs post-PhD, someone commented that I ‘must be able to stop with all that tour guide stuff now.’ But with every tour I am becoming a better communicator of history. I am nowhere near perfect, but I do credit this job with improving my written and oral storytelling skills. So, every time someone tells me they’d learned something new, has an engaged question, or asks for a book recommendation to learn more, I do a little happy dance because what I’m doing might just work.
It’s Friday, 21 December 2018, and here at the University of Wollongong the corridors are very quiet indeed. I have not seen anyone all day down my end of Building 19, a notorious rabbit warren where usually at least a few lost souls are wandering around hoping to find a printer, a kitchenette, a classroom, or maybe just a way out. Office doors are closed and locked (I assume; I haven’t been randomly testing doorhandles). The classroom opposite my office is, for once, quiet. The only person to make tea today in the kitchenette nearest me is, well, me—this entry is brought to you by my fourth pot for the day of T2’s Morning Red blend.
So, clearly, people have already skedaddled for Christmas. But what does summer and the holiday season mean for ECRs, especially historians in Australia? I put out a call for comments on Twitter a couple of days ago and solicited a few more from colleagues not on that platform. I have not been able to name everyone personally, but all the responses on Twitter can be read through the preceding link.
Overwhelmingly, it appears that summer is writing season. If even half the ambitions expressed come to pass, there ought to be a bumper crop next year of journal articles from our emerging historians. Jillian Beard notes that her first summer post-thesis is a busy one, with two journal articles and a fellowship application on the go. For some, the writing projects are even larger, extending to book manuscripts. Ben Wilkie, our most recent Q&A participant, is one of them. Ana Stevenson, another Q&A veteran, also has a book on the go, but she highlights one of the challenges for historians with appointments in the Global South: the holiday season gives her the opportunity to read books inaccessible in South Africa.
Working (no exclamation mark)
We all have our rent and bills to pay—indeed, for those without the security of an ongoing contract, this is probably the overriding concern. Will there be tutoring work next semester? Will funding applications be approved? The stress and anxiety of wondering where the money comes from is acute for many at this time. So it is unsurprising that some respondents are only taking a few days off before returning to teaching summer courses, or have lined up contracts to perform research assistance (RA) over the holidays. Poor Mahsheed Ansari mentions that there is still marking to do! Chelsea Barnett, whose Q&A went live in September, has RA and admin work because, as she puts it, there is “No rest for the wicked… or for ECR academics, apparently.” Speaking personally, before I began my (fixed-term) appointment here at Wollongong, I spent my summers at the University of Melbourne performing as much RA as possible. Let me tell you, being in the old Arts West, now replaced by an inferior modern showpiece, on New Year’s Eve was even more surreal than being in UOW Building 19 right now (somebody just walked past my office! What is happening!).
Summer, hopefully, is not all work. Many respondents have carved out at least some time to rest—”rest, rest, and rest”, as Kim Kemmis says. Anne Rees is spot on about the need to resist “academia’s busyness culture” because “good scholarship requires a fresh mind”. But Anne also highlights that the ability to take leave and refresh the mind is a privilege of employment that not all ECRs possess. For people with appointments such as mine or Anne’s, we can take leave if we want, knowing that we will still have income over summer. For casuals, this season is often a poor one: every day taken to recharge the batteries is a day’s pay foregone. It speaks poorly of the modern university that the demands for greater productivity are not coupled with the means for a large portion of the academic workforce to have the rest necessary to produce quality scholarship.
But enough critiquing the modern university; we will all keep doing that in 2019, no doubt. It appears that those of you who are taking time off—by whatever means you have managed to secure it—are really looking forward to some solid reading. More than one respondent remarked on the opportunity to read fiction as a startling novelty. Ben Wilkie quips that he will be “reading a fiction book for once”. Effie Karageorgos, another past Q&A contributor, is keen to sit down with some Agatha Christie. I have been waiting to read Claire Coleman’s novel Terra Nullius since October: I took it on a flight but spent the whole trip writing, and have not had another opportunity to pick it up until this week. I have just reached the twist, and I can say that this book is a treat.
I am not travelling for the first Christmas in years—I’ve talked some of my family into visiting me. But many of you are off to see family. Others have foreign holidays lined up. Hannah Loney, a historian in Melbourne who is not on Twitter, wrote to me to describe two glorious weeks in Indonesia: time to read, to swim in the ocean, and to enjoy good food and drink. And now she feels refreshed, able to take on journal article submissions, book proposals, and teaching preparation. She notes that although it’s not great to lack paid leave, one perk of casual appointments is being able to just book the tickets and go. Certainly when I was at Melbourne Uni I did similar, making trips to New Zealand during quiet periods of employment without needing permission from anyone. Having paid leave is a delight, something I scarcely believe I am entitled to after years of casual contracts, but the associated paperwork is not a thrill.
It would be remiss of me if I wrote this entry without dishing out some congratulations. You might recall the recent call for applications for the Australian Historical Association–Copyright Agency ECR Mentorship scheme. All the applications received were of high quality, attesting to considerable talent, insight, and ambition. The panel of judges were delighted to award the six mentorships to Jillian Beard, Margaret Cook, Nicholas Ferns, James Keating, Mia Martin Hobbs, and Ryan Strickler. Some of them gave comments in reply to the summer activities tweet—it sounds like they will soon be getting stuck into the articles funded under the mentorship. I, for one, am really looking forward to what they produce. With any luck I might be able to shine a spotlight on it during 2019 with this blog.
Speaking of this blog, if you are interested in participating, please get in touch. I want to hear from you whether you would like to do a Q&A (either the series for ECRs or that for established scholars), write a how-to guide, describe a book or other object that changed your life, or propose a new feature. A number of people have suggested that a series on Academics With Children would be welcome, so I am keen to hear from scholars at any stage of their career, with children of any age, who would like to discuss experiences and issues facing parents in the tertiary sector. I am also interested if any reasonably well established scholar would like to write a “how to survive your first academic conference” guide for our newest historians.
Contact me, André Brett, at firstname.lastname@example.org if you’re keen.
It might be the holiday season, but email now if you wish; you won’t get an out-of-office reply. I will only be taking off the public holidays because I actually like working through summer. Heat is unbearable, the sun is not my friend, and I did not become a historian to spend time outside. You will find me tapping away on grant applications, book manuscripts, and book reviews—but, as a sop to the season, I might be doing it from my desk at home with the pleasant hum of cricket on TV in the background. I like my office in Building 19, rabbit warren though it may be, but installing a television might be excessive.
All the best for the holiday season. Go crack open a beverage of your choice (a beer for me), grab a good book (because it seems that’s what all of you want to do), and settle down somewhere comfortable (even if it’s outside). See you in 2019!
My name is Dr Ben Wilkie, and I completed my PhD at Monash University. I graduated back in 2014. For work, I am sometimes a casual academic. I am also an Associate with the Centre for Irish and Scottish Studies at the University of Otago, Dunedin, and have been elected as a Fellow of the Society of Antiquaries of Scotland. I dabble in music writing and reviewing on a freelance basis, too, but mostly I’m busy at home being a dad to my eight-month-old son Harry.
How did you come to be a historian?
I came to be a historian through a series of happy accidents. At home, growing up, we had lots of books around, and we were encouraged to be curious about the world. Public education can be hit or miss in rural Australia, but at primary and secondary school I had some excellent teachers with a passion for history. I ended up doing two sets of VCE History. I wasn’t going to go to university, but all my good friends were leaving town for Melbourne and I had serious fear-of-missing-out. My first degree was to be a Bachelor of Music. In my second year, I had the chance to go on a tour of Russia and Scandinavia with a string ensemble—my first international trip!—and followed that up with a holiday in Germany. In Berlin, I was struck by the immediacy and presence of the past throughout the city, a landscape politicised in the extreme and scarred by history. It all inspired me. I remember getting onto a computer at the hostel we were staying and enrolling myself in a handful of history units for the coming semester. Six months later, I had decided to drop my music degree to focus on studies in History and Philosophy.
Undergraduate history would eventually lead to an offer from the university to do an honours degree with a scholarship, in which I started one dissertation—‘Music, the Virgin Mary, and Lay Devotion in Early Modern Florence’—and dropped it halfway through to do another topic, which was about Scottish migrants in and around my hometown in the Western District, Hamilton. This was a much more accessible and affordable topic for me at the time, and I did well enough to get a PhD spot with a faculty scholarship and later support from the Australian Postgraduate Award.
In between all of this were numerous near-total dropouts from my studies, personal crises, the first semester of a law degree, multiple aborted attempts to enrol in a Masters of Theology, regret that I never finished my B.Mus, and regret that I never finished that really great sounding first honours dissertation. I would be lying if I said the provision of scholarships to undertake honours and HDR degrees wasn’t a key factor swinging my decision-making as an early-20-something-year-old with very little idea of what he wanted to be when he grew up. So, yes, a series of accidents and wrong turns, and perhaps a few carrots along the way too.
Tell us about your PhD research
My PhD was, eventually, titled ‘Weaving the tartan: Culture, imperialism, and Scottish identities in Australia, 1788-1938’. In essence, it was a broad social and cultural history of the Scottish diaspora in Australia from the late eighteenth century to the early twentieth century, and I situated this story in a wider imperial and colonial context. One way to think of it is that I was seeking to add an Australian case study to the growing literature on Scotland and the Empire. In light of contemporary criticism of some of the ‘contribution histories’ and ‘ethnic biographies’ of the 1980s I wanted to return to some old ground and reframe the story of the Scots in Australia. I was particularly interested in Scottish migrations, business connections, and cultural maintenance, as well as the diversity of the diaspora itself in terms of religion, politics, identity, and so on.
Why does it matter?
It matters because, when it comes to the British Empire and the European colonisation of Australia, Australian historians have not been very good at drawing distinctions between the various national components of these phenomena. An exception might be the Irish and Irish Catholics, whose traditional association with the working class and the left side of politics perhaps made them more attractive to historians of a previous generation. Otherwise, the distinct English, Welsh, Irish, and Scottish relationships to Empire are overlooked in our historiography. And so my PhD and subsequent research responded to two concerns. First, historians such as Ann McGrath have encouraged us to untangle the component ethnicities homogenised as ‘white’ in the context of settler colonial histories, and where my work most strongly attends to this challenge is in discussions of Scottish-Indigenous relations. Second, the historian of imperial Britain, John MacKenzie, has long argued for a more nuanced, ‘four nations’ approach to British history and the history of the British Empire: this is where my emphasis on Scotland’s relationship and contribution to imperialism and colonialism fits in. Calls such as these have been heeded in many other contexts, but there was little on Scotland, Australia, and Empire, and so my PhD also attempted to fill that gap in the literature.
What are you researching now or intending to do next?
I’m expanding my Scottish research beyond Australia to other parts of the world, and I’m focusing on Scottish commerce, trade, and enterprise in the economic, social, and political development of Britain’s colonies. Right now, specifically, I’m looking at Scottish missionaries and commercial activities in central Africa in the late-nineteenth century. I’m hoping to secure some travel funding to really get into this topic, but otherwise I’ll just plod along as usual. Next year I’m giving talks on everything from Robert Burns statues in Australia and New Zealand, to Scottish pastoralists in the Western District of Victoria, to the Enlightenment in Scotland, so I think I’ll always be doing something Scottish.
I’ve also been dabbling in environmental histories—sometimes histories that intersect with my Scotland and Empire work, but mostly separate side projects. The first of these has been some work on the history of land management and conservation in the Australian defence forces, and I’ve published a bit on the Army’s restoration of the Puckapunyal Military Training Area, for example. The second is a bit more substantial: I’m writing a new social, cultural, and environmental history of the Grampians-Gariwerd national park in Western Victoria, and that’s due to be published as a book next year. Although, in the current research funding context, there is some instrumental value in topics such as these, I am mostly motivated out of sheer curiosity.
What do you love about being a historian?
Somewhere along the way, perhaps while still at high school, I read AJP Taylor’s introduction to The Communist Manifesto, and remember feeling enthralled by the analytic power of history, as well as the two very different perspectives on how history unfolds contained within the covers of that book. I was never quite convinced by the largely ahistorical approach to philosophical ideas that I had encountered to that point, and Taylor’s introduction to the Manifesto is a good example of how to historicise a subject, not to explain it away, but to provide a more complex understanding of what’s going on, and to highlight how deeply rooted such things are in the circumstances of their time. There’s a joke that the historian’s battle cry is ‘It’s complicated!’, but it’s true, and one of the things I love about being a historian is the opportunity and responsibility to have a go at teasing out these complexities. Often this means being content with messy explanations, sometimes it means contradicting the popular or politically convenient view of things, but ultimately being able to grasp nuance—to hold more than one idea in your head at the same time, as they say—is a rare gift.
What’s the one aspect you find most challenging about being an ECR?
The issues facing early career academics are well-rehearsed, and rightly so: precarity is the lived experience of most scholars active in historical studies as teachers and researchers, and we need to keep reminding the discipline of this salient fact. Casualisation continues apace. Metrics fever has infected even our peak representative bodies. Professional success seems to rest on who you know and how competent you are at filling out paperwork. All of that. But the most challenging aspect at the moment is finding allies. Something like casualisation elicits little more than a sympathetic sigh from our more established colleagues these days, if casuals are recognised as colleagues at all. There is no apparent motivation, at an individual and material level, for full-time, permanent academics to challenge the emergent status quo that has made life difficult for early career scholars; no one is standing around staff rooms complaining that they have to do research while a casual is teaching their units.
I think what we must do as early career academics is continuing to voice our frustrations and concerns, even if that means ticking off some senior historians and organisations along the way. At the same time, we need to resist giving in and playing their game. The most interesting research in Australian history is coming from early career academics, including PhD candidates, and bending our work to suit the needs of increasingly corporatised universities and hostile governments can only lead the discipline into stagnation. If this means ‘doing history’ outside the traditional pathways of academic history, which is an option many are fruitfully exploring already, then so be it.
If you could go back to any historical period, where would you go and why?
I think the historical period I would go back to would be the eighteenth-century in Scotland sometime: The Act of Union, Jacobite rebellions, the Clearances, industrialisation and urbanisation, the Scottish Enlightenment, all of that. I wouldn’t live long enough to see it all, but these were monumental transformations, many of which we’re still dealing with. Of course, many places and many times can claim much the same, but Scotland is obviously a personal favourite of mine, and I wouldn’t mind a holiday to the Scottish Highlands right about now.
If you are a historian resident in Australia who is a member of the Australian Historical Association and received their PhD within the past two years (i.e. 2017 or 2018), you should submit for the AHA-Copyright Agency Ltd Early Career Researcher Mentor Scheme.
The scheme offers successful applicants $1,500 and the opportunity to develop new articles with the guidance of a senior mentor of their choice.
Full information about the award, eligibility, and how to enter are on the AHA’s website here.
Note that at least three awards will go to applicants based outside NSW, VIC, and the ACT, and that at least one will go to a regional applicant. Indigenous ECRs are strongly encouraged to apply.
Applications are due Friday 23 November 2018. Successful applicants will be informed in early to mid December. We suggest that in preparing timelines as part of the application, applicants should start the timeline no earlier than January 2019.
Today’s Q&A is with Tyson Retz, Associate Professor of History Education at the University of Stavanger, Norway. He completed a PhD in history with joint supervision from philosophy at the University of Melbourne in 2016.
1. How did you come to be a historian?
I didn’t set out to become a historian. I knew from my first day at university that I wanted to be a scholar. Towards the end of my degree in International Studies at the University of Adelaide, I considered my options in French studies, Asian studies and political philosophy. Though a substantial chunk of my degree had been in history (the degree in International Studies had compulsory history courses and I studied history almost exclusively during a one-year exchange at a French university), pursuing a higher degree in the discipline was not on my radar. I did in fact begin an honours degree in politics exploring theories of nationalism in the Chinese context. I returned from France thinking with the simplicity of youth that there were enough Europeans studying Europe, and that I might better be off concentrating my efforts closer to home at the beginning of the ‘Asian century’. A kind and generous lecturer, Gerry Groot, reached out and encouraged me to go to China to learn the language and combine it with my background in French. None of this happened because midway through that year, 2008, I was offered a position as research officer to a select committee of the South Australian Legislative Council. I had done a parliamentary internship the previous year, and was asked on the basis of the report I had written.
I relocated to Melbourne after that and enrolled in a Master of Teaching, judging it wise to gain a professional qualification while deciding on a topic for a research degree. Things from then developed according to their own momentum. My training as a secondary school history teacher introduced me to concepts of historical thinking, among which was empathy. This concept seized my attention as an ideal candidate for further examination, combining as it did my interests in history, philosophy and politics. Stuart Macintyre agreed to keep an eye on my progress and planted the idea that I reintegrate my natural allies in history and philosophy when I expressed an interest in taking the project to the doctoral level. I became a historian when I came to appreciate that the historical method is both the most open and exact of the human sciences. Defending history’s status as a discipline has been a concern of mine ever since.
2. Tell us about your PhD research
I investigated the concept of empathy in historical studies, beginning with the way that it became a central component of the ‘new history’ that emerged from changes to the English school system in the 1960s. The thesis (and now book) moved on to examine empathy’s origins in German historicism and the relation of that tradition to the philosophy of history of R.G. Collingwood, whose doctrine of re-enactment has long and mistakenly been described as a concept of empathy. A final part returned to the educational scene to delineate the implications of empathy’s development in different traditions of historical thought.
The project was a dual exploration of empathy’s educational and intellectual history. Given its basis in the history of ideas, I had to strike a balance between diachronic description and synchronic analysis. I have always been impressed by philosophers who write in the historical mode and historians who write with conceptual acuity. This approach (I resist the idea that it was interdisciplinary: it employed the historical method to explain the development of a concept across various fields) gave me a varied stock of material with which I was able to publish during my candidature.
3. Why does it matter?
That is for others to decide. I can point out that I identified inadequacies in empathy’s methodological formulation and, I hope, provided a matrix for practice and further research. I can also observe that, in addition to researchers in history education, my work has found an audience among intellectual historians and philosophers of history. I describe myself as an intellectual historian and philosopher of history with an expertise in history education, and I place them in this conjunction for good reason. A problem I noted in entering the field is that a large portion of research in history education operates in isolation from the history discipline that it purports to represent. This is understandable given the preponderance of psychological and economical models in educational research. I swam against this tide by rooting my investigations of empathy not in modern-day thinking about the concept, but rather in empathy’s emergence and development in the history of historical thought, defending the idea that history provides us with a tremendous resource for holding up to analysis present-day mindsets, beliefs and practices.
In a research environment where ‘impact’ can count for more than insight, I take empathy to denote a historical comportment truly open and ready to learn from the past. What is empathy, after all, if it is not suspending one’s own thoughts and feelings in order to capture and enter into those of another person? I’ll be satisfied if I have said something useful about how this applies to people who lived in the past.
4. What are you researching now or intending to do next?
I have a background in French that empathy’s German pedigree consigned to disuse. My next project examines how France’s religious and philosophical traditions shaped the country’s historical culture from 1750 to 1850. There is a long-held view that the Enlightenment displaced religion as a way of understanding the past. I begin with and critically evaluate the idea that the secularisation of historical thought should be understood as a transposition of beliefs and patterns of behaviour from the religious to the secular sphere, rather than a transition from a religious to a secular worldview. The period saw the attempt to obliterate the national religion, its rehabilitation alongside the furthering of republican principles in Napoleonic rule, a Catholic revival and Restoration, and finally the triumph of the republican ideal. All the while, a form of historical consciousness was being developed that codified the disciplinary procedures of a strictly scientific approach to investigating the past. As with my work on empathy, this concept of ‘historical consciousness’ will be isolated and placed under particular scrutiny as perhaps the most indiscriminately used concept in present-day historical discourse.
A second topic that I am soon to explore comes under the auspices of a European Research Council project based at Tallinn University, where a group of intellectual historians are investigating the way in which changing attitudes towards progress in interwar Europe affected the political imagination. I have proposed a study of how British liberals influenced by different forms of idealism reimagined the relationship between past and present in putting forward their visions of politics.
Smaller projects include a biographical sketch of a Melbourne French teacher who did much to promote French language and culture in Australia, an analysis of historical thinking concepts needed for studying different scales of time in history, and the methodology of historical reenactment.
5. What do you love about being a historian?
Being paid to read and write. Even on the slim PhD stipend, and after having earned a decent wage as a secondary school teacher, the feeling was never lost on me that I was enjoying a tremendous privilege. Part of this feeling was knowing that I belonged to a long line of thinkers who had wrestled with the same problems that I was discovering in my books, which I borrowed en masse and consulted daily for inspiration and enlightenment. I have met scholars who say that they rarely visit the library. To me this is unfathomable. Libraries are the physical expression of the life of the mind and to be protected at any cost.
Historians are masters in delineating continuity and change as well as in attributing significance to things past and present, though I must appeal that this comment not be taken to suggest that historians know any better what the future might hold (I am always perplexed at history talks how seamlessly the questions shift from historical explainer to crystal ballist). That feeling of belonging to something much larger continues to mark my days. This is my favourite part of being a historian: the connection with great thinkers and great ideas. Historians study people and their complex relations with the natural and social world. They pave ways between freedom and necessity, showing how human beings change their circumstances but also how their actions are constrained by circumstances. The best draw a relevance from a seeming irrelevance, a significance from an apparent insignificance. By reading them, the world in which I live is greatly enriched. Even better, I earn a crust by adding to that stock of human knowledge when I teach and write myself.
6. What’s the one aspect you find most challenging about being an ECR?
There is merit in the argument that I am no longer an ECR. I now enjoy the benefits of ongoing employment and can take a long-range approach to planning my various research projects, knowing that I will have the time and resources to complete them. Those dreadful nouns associated with ECR status—impecunity, insecurity, uncertainty, precarity, casualisation—have been replaced with their antonyms.
This is not to say that I no longer face challenges as a young scholar. There are the usual demands of having to maintain research productivity, win grants and form networks. But these professional pressures part and parcel of the job pale in comparison with the life pressures of being on the hunt for ongoing or at least medium-term positions that are all too few and far between.
Like most, I had to search high and low for a position and be willing and ready to uproot myself in the event that an application were successful. This took its toll. Every application was an emotional investment. One moment I would be imagining myself in northern Sweden pounding snow-clad running tracks, and the next surveying Brisbane’s property market and wondering how I would go lecturing in sandals. Exciting, yes. Destabilising at the same time, without a doubt.
I cannot say that I took to the long months of waiting for application outcomes particularly well. The focus and clarity of mind that saw me through my PhD seemed unobtainable. The feeling was that of floating, doing time, or being in no man’s land. With my energies directed outwards towards every possibility in all four corners of the globe, it became difficult to invest in the present and there was a looming sensation that I was waiting for life to begin, or perhaps recommence. With job applications under assessment everywhere from the Arctic Circle to Perth, relationships suffered. Am I too single-minded and uncompromising? How will I maintain my competiveness in the academic job market if I am not?
Have I answered the question? The most challenging aspect of being an ECR, if I am using the past tense, was living my life with one foot out the door.
The time that went into applications and searching for opportunities also nurtured a sense that I was falling behind on my research, making no real progress in my project beyond what was needed for a project proposal. The oppressive longue durée of the application process intensified the tick of the clock of postdoctoral eligibility.
But here I must acknowledge the huge benefit that I received from being employed after completion by my PhD supervisors Stuart Macintyre and Marnie Hughes-Warrington. I had started a full-time secondary teaching post several weeks before submitting my thesis, worried about where my money would come from at the cessation of the Australian Postgraduate Award stipend, which in a manner peculiar to itself ceases the moment the work is completed (whereas timely delivery in other fields often means a bonus). It would have been difficult to get done what I did had I not been able to leave this and work on projects with Stuart and Marnie. In addition to paying my living costs, these contracts gave me a foothold in new areas and led to the publication of a joint article. Kate Darian-Smith and Volker Prott also softened the transition by hiring me as a tutor and course coordinator.
7. If you could go back to any historical period, where would you go and why?
To the Athens of Socrates, playing the acolyte and beating Plato to the task of transcribing his teachings.
8. As a previous interviewer asked your supervisor: Sam Mitchell or Luke Hodge?
That is a mischievous question. Many scholars turn up their noses to sport and in some ways I sympathise with their scruples. There is no denying the vulgarity of commercialisation, the widespread culture of affected masculinity and the bad behaviour that goes with it. But I think sport is fundamentally good. In today’s disenchanted world, I delight in sport’s rituals and the almost religious experience of giving in to its symbolic codes. Separately, I know that whatever qualities I have as a scholar I earned through being a sportsman. The word university did not feature in my upbringing—I doubt I knew what universities were. But I knew through limitless hours pursuing my sporting dreams how to set goals and take steps towards achieving them, and there are a good many athletes whose mottos have served me as precepts.
I’ll do as a politician does and suggest that Ben Stratton has been that team’s most underrated player.
My name is Chelsea Barnett and I completed my PhD in modern history at Macquarie University in 2016. I am a gender and culturalhistorian; I’m primarily interested in how culture articulates and circulates gendered meanings, particularly masculinity. Since completing my PhD I’ve been living the glamorous Early Career Researcher (ECR) life of juggling multiple short-term, casual positions: I’m currently a research assistant at Macquarie University and the University of Melbourne, while doing sessional teaching work at Macquarie as well.
1. How did you come to be a historian?
I had absolutely no intention of ever being an historian, or even doing study beyond a three-year degree. I always wanted to go to university but as one of the first to do so in my large family, I had no idea what opportunities it could produce. I studied modern history at high school and did relatively well, but I always preferred English. During high school I always thought I’d end up in law, but when I got to university my career aspirations changed constantly: from law, to diplomacy, publishing, and then teaching. I did one first-year modern history unit which I hated (I genuinely can’t remember what it was but my attitude was thanks more to my obnoxious eighteen-year-old self than the actual unit, I’m sure) and then a second-year unit which I really enjoyed. I did quite well in that subject and my tutor encouraged me to consider pursuing Honours—I dutifully looked it up, was instantly intimidated by the thought of designing my own research project, thought “there’s no way I’m smart enough to do that”, and dropped the idea.
Two years later, a friend and I had decided that once finishing our undergraduate degrees, we’d enrol together to study a Masters of Education to each become high school teachers. But in the first semester of my final undergraduate year, I needed to complete a second-year history unit to fulfil some degree requirement. From memory there were two units I could pick from: one I don’t remember, the other a unit on Australian gender history. I picked the latter (somewhat begrudgingly, I’m ashamed to say now) and fell into a subject that opened my eyes and changed my life. I fell in love with history and with gender history and everything it offered; this time when my tutor suggested I consider Honours, I took it much more seriously and was excited about the prospect of pursuing my own research. (My tutor was Robert Reynolds, who would go on to supervise me in Honours and then PhD. Thanks, Robert!) I completed Honours, fell in love with research, went on to a PhD, and here we are!
2. Tell us about your PhD research.
My thesis focused on representations of masculinity in Australian films released between 1949 to 1962. It made three arguments. First, that there were multiple masculinities in circulation in this era, in an unresolved (and perhaps unresolvable) tension for legitimacy. Second, that the fifties were a period of cultural flux, and third, that the fifties were a period of activity for Australian filmmaking.
3. Why does it matter?
It matters for a few reasons, I think! I understand the project of historicising masculinity as one driven by feminist politics; if we leave masculinity unquestioned or uninterrogated then we ultimately allow it to function as the norm, as “natural”. So it’s important to understand how and why masculinity works the way it does, especially in the Australian national context where our national political, social, and cultural lives are built upon and sustained by particular masculinist ideals. At the same time, we also need to recognise that differences of race, class, sexuality, etc produce different masculinities—so the idea of there being only one way of being an Australian man isn’t necessarily true. Exploring that in the context of the fifties, where Menzies’ prime ministerial shadow continues to loom large, complicates our understanding of postwar Australia. I also think my research has helped to shed new light on the fifties, an era that continues to function in metaphorical terms (as either the “repressive” or the “stable” fifties), particularly in our national political and public conversations. Other scholars had done lots of important work in showing the social tensions and uncertainties that dotted the period, but the cultural world had been left largely untouched, so it was exciting to jump in and explore that space. And finally, there is a very dominant historiographical narrative that renders the Australian fifties as a “dead” period for filmmaking (and this narrative is of course strengthened by the idea that Gough Whitlam in the 1970s came along and produced the “rebirth” of Australian film production). Despite these claims, though, Australian films were being made in the fifties, and Australian audiences were going to see them. And important films too! Like Jedda, the first Australian film with Indigenous actors in the leading roles, and The Back of Beyond, which won the Grand Prix at the 1954 Venice Film Festival.
4. What are you researching now or intending to do next?
Like most other ECRs, my big post-PhD project was to publish my thesis. I was lucky enough to secure a contract with Melbourne University Press pretty soon after I completed my PhD; I’ve spent the last eighteen months editing my thesis for this purpose. It’s in now and should be published next February.
I’ve also spent the last two years or so developing a new project—a cultural history of single men in Australia. In one of the films I wrote about in my thesis, one of the characters ends up alone, while his mate finally decides to commit to a relationship with his on-again, off-again love. I was intrigued by this single fellow: what happens to him? Actually, what happens to single men not just in the fifties, but across the twentieth century? I tried to do this research to include it in the thesis but alas, there’s very little written on single men in Australia. At the time I filed it away in my brain, but since completing I’ve been able to think about it more and more, and it’s since formed the basis of my postdoctoral fellowship applications. (I’m still in that process, so fingers crossed!)
5. What do you love about being a historian?
I probably shouldn’t admit this because it likely means I’m a bad historian, but I don’t love archival research. I do it dutifully, of course, but for me it’s a stressful process where I’m constantly worried that I won’t find what I need/want. Obviously, whatever you do/don’t find leads to new and interesting questions (and the moments when you strike gold are wonderful), but I find the process quite fraught and anxiety-inducing. (I should clarify that this really only applies to research for my own projects.) I much prefer what comes after archival research: when I’m going through what I’ve found, what I’ve read, and trying to answer whatever questions are there to be answered. It’s hard and exhausting intellectual work, but trying to put all the pieces of the puzzle together is such fun. I often undertake this process through writing, so sitting at my computer looking at the blank screen (or laying down on my study floor with a blank notebook and a pencil) is scary and frustrating and exciting all at once. When it clicks, and makes sense, and you understand what’s happening… it’s one of the best feelings in the world.
The other lovely thing about being part of this community is that it is, indeed, a community. I’ve benefitted from the guidance and mentorship of overwhelmingly generous people who are far too kind to me (there are many, but at the top of the list are of course my supervisors, Robert Reynolds and Leigh Boucher). Academic life can be a tough road, and I have found post-PhD life to be harder than the process of doing a thesis (for reasons I outline below), but life would have been far, far more difficult without these wonderful people.
6. What’s the one aspect you find most challenging about being an ECR?
It’s probably no surprise that I agree with pretty much all the former contributors to this series—the precarity and instability of post-PhD/ECR life is an incredibly difficult terrain to navigate. It can be difficult to keep your head up and motivation high when your job applications are constantly getting rejected, you have no real idea what you’ll be doing in the next six months, let alone the next five years, and your bank account is deplorably low. I know other contributors have identified travel bursaries, fellowships, small grants etc that do exist for ECRs, yet I’ve found that in most of these cases you need to be employed by a university on a contract, rather than a casual basis (and thus have a “proper” institutional affiliation) to even be eligible. And although I understand their intentions, I get frustrated by senior academics who were able to secure permanent employment before submitting their PhDs telling the current crop of ECRs to hang on, be patient, keep on going etc. Such advice should only be given with a heavy dose of self-awareness.
7. If you could go back to any historical period, where would you go and why?
Is it terrible to only go back a few decades? I’ll justify it by clinging to my intellectual attachment to the twentieth century! But in the process of beginning research for my new project I’ve learned even more about the 1970s and, by extension, the efforts of second-wave feminists. I’m very aware that the opportunities I’ve enjoyed as a young woman in academia are only possible because of the tireless efforts of the women who came before me. I think I’d like to go back and see that fight.
At this time of year many ECRs begin their Discovery Early Career Researcher Award (DECRA) journey, scoping out suitable institutions, refining their research projects, and drafting Expressions of Interest. Today we conclude our Dissecting the DECRA series with Carolyn Holbrook’s interview of Professor Mark Edele. He is the inaugural Hansen Chair in History at the University of Melbourne, and an Australian Research Counil (ARC) Future Fellow. In this interview, Mark provides insights as a member of the ARC College of Experts. He talks about what happens to DECRA applications after submission, and how to handle the rejoinder process. Catch up on part one, with Benjamin T. Jones, here, and part two, with Elizabeth Roberts-Pedersen, here. For all ECRs applying in the next round of ARC grants and for those awaiting results for this round, we wish you the best of luck!
Mark is a historian of the Soviet Union and its successor states, especially Russia. He trained at the Universities of Erlangen, Tübingen, Moscow, and Chicago, and before taking up the inaugural Hansen Chair in History at the University of Melbourne he was based at the University of Western Australia. His Future Fellowship studies the history of Soviet war experiences from 1937 to 1950. Among many credits, he is the author of Soviet Veterans of the Second World War (Oxford University Press 2008), Stalinist Society (Oxford University Press, 2011), and Stalin’s Defectors (Oxford University Press, 2017).
Carolyn Holbrook: Tell me about your background, where you grew up, where you studied history and where you have worked prior to Melbourne University.
Mark Edele: I’m from a little town in Southern Bavaria in Germany. I began studying at the University of Erlangen, which is very close to Nuremberg. The one academic in my family warned me that I had made a bad choice and I should choose my university more carefully, according to what professors were there and not where I wanted to live. I disregarded this completely and by mistake, I ended up in a first-year Russian history seminar, and I have basically never left. I went to St Petersburg in 1994 to learn Russian, which was the beginning of a completely unplanned life in Russian history.
In the German system at the time there was sort of a mid-degree exam, which allowed you to go into more advanced courses. I decided that I wasn’t as excited by the people teaching in the advanced courses as I was by the people who taught in the less advanced, undergraduate courses. So I left for the University of Tübingen, which is close to Stuttgart, and had the biggest institute for eastern European history in Germany, where I got my MA. Then I left for the University of Chicago, which at the time had the biggest Soviet history graduate program in the world, outside of the former Soviet Union itself.
In the last year of my PhD (I graduated in 2004) I started looking for a job, as one does. I sent out seventy or eighty job letters to anywhere in the English-speaking world and I got two interviews. One went extremely badly and the other was at the University of Western Australia. That must have gone better because they offered me a job and then I was there for the next thirteen years.
Carolyn: What was that like, growing up in Germany, going to the United States and then moving to Perth?
Mark: It was very nice actually, in many ways. Life is much easier in Perth than it is in Chicago. I remember asking people where the no-go areas in the city were and I was told there was no such thing in Australia and nobody would rob me at gun point. It was, in a certain way, intellectually liberating to go, at the risk of insulting my friends in Western Australia, to the provinces because I came from this hothouse atmosphere at the University of Chicago, where ten people could sit around the table and talk about the same archival file in a provincial archive somewhere in Russia.
I was not only the only Soviet historian in Perth, but I was also in charge of German history, and for a while I was in charge of the French Revolution. I realised that most people didn’t actually know when Stalin died, for example, or what the acronym GARF means, which is the State Archive of the Russian Federation. It made me think about history and Soviet history quite differently because I got to talk to a broader audience. My wife noted that the dinner conversations got more interesting.
Carolyn: Can you tell us about your area of research and about the questions that inspire your research?
Mark: I have moved from cultural history via social history, to some version of political and at times, military history. My earliest work was about poster propaganda in the Second World War; the imagery used to mobilise Soviet soldiers and what it might tell us about the war. I then did an essay, which I think is still my most cited article, on a strange, tiny little group of cultural people in late Stalinist Moscow called the Stiliagi, who thought they were adopting Western fashions. Because their information was very fragmentary, however, they actually made up their own little thing.
I then looked at the role of veterans after the Second World War because some of the earliest pieces of Western fashion were brought from Germany by veterans. I ended up doing a social history of veterans in the decade before there was a veterans’ movement in the Soviet Union. That became part of a larger study of the Soviet Union veterans’ movement which went all the way to 1991 – my first book. My second book then was a broad history of Stalinism, which brought together the new social, cultural, and political histories which emerged since the opening of the Soviet archives.
My ARC-funded research has moved into the Second World War itself. I’ve just published a book about Red Army defectors called Stalin’s Defectors. I’m particularly interested in war-related dislocations of people and I’m planning to write a broader history of the multifaceted experience of the Second World War in the Soviet Union, which goes beyond the state-centred story about the victory over fascism. In between, I have written a short history of the Soviet Union, which will be published later this year. Currently, I am working on a historiographical book on the history of Stalinism. It is trying to tell a transnational history of my field.
Carolyn: Moving onto the DECRA, can you tell us what happens to a DECRA application once it is submitted to the ARC?
Mark: I am not privy to all of the processes but I can tell you how it looks from the perspective of a member of the College of Experts. Each application has two people from the College assigned to it; one is in overall charge and the other one is in an assistant position.
Carolyn: How is that worked out? Who gets what?
Mark: I don’t know. The ARC does that. What needs to be very clear to applicants is that unless you’re very, very lucky, you will not have an expert, in the narrow sense of the word, as the college member in charge of your application. If you’re a historian, you might have an archaeologist, or you might have somebody who is a medievalist, though you do modern history. You should really try to craft your application so that an intelligent non-specialist can read it. One of the most basic mistakes you can make is to imagine that you’ll have your PhD supervisor reading your application.
The first thing that happens is that the person who is in charge of your application, the ‘carriage one’ person, will assign readers. The assessors whose reports you will read are assigned by the College of Expert member, with the help of a computer program, which gives suggested readers.
A very basic mistake one can make is to either put in too many or irrelevant FoR codes. If you’re doing a history project, which also uses anthropological methods, don’t put both FoR codes; just put a history FoR code because you’re more likely to get a historian assigned. And make sure that the title and short description, together, have all the key words that are most likely to bring up the right assessors. These are also the most likely sections of the application College members will go back to when trying to match assessors to proposals. They are often undervalued parts of the proposal. It is worth spending time and thought on them.
Carolyn: So, the application then gets sent out using those keywords to the assessors?
Mark: The assessors are assigned by the carriage one, then the assessors read the application and write reports. Next, the college members rank the proposals. This is a competitive process. As a teacher, if you have two students who are absolutely brilliant, you can give them both 90 per cent. You cannot do that as an ARC college member; you need to rank your applications. So it’s really a competitive process in the hard sense of the term. Your application can be absolutely brilliant, but if there are twenty people who are even more brilliant, you will be in position twenty-one in the rankings.
There’s this idea out there, which I used to share, that the ARC assessment process is a lottery. I no longer think that is actually true. It might look like a lottery from the outside, because you cannot predict the outcome. But the processes are very robust, so the reason you might be in the top ten per cent one year and then the next year, after you’ve improved the application, fall down the rankings, is because the competition was harder that year.
Carolyn: Does a great project stand out? Can you distill some of the characteristics of those projects?
Mark: Great projects do stand out, but my overall impression is how high the quality is, in particular with the DECRAs. The competition is really, really very strong. My most basic piece of advice is that, if you don’t have the track record, it might not be worth your while spending two months writing a good application, because the competition is such that even if this is a fantastic project, if you have two articles to your name, you’re not going to be competitive. It might be better to make sure that your book comes out, or maybe the second book comes out, in some cases, because the competition is really very, very fierce.
But I think a good project is one that a non-specialist can see the point of. You need to think about why the ARC should spend a lot of money on your project. You need to convince the College members that this is outstanding work that will change something in the field, or sometimes even in the real world. It can’t just be research as usual.
Carolyn: The ARC seems to be putting increasing emphasis on projects that address problems in the real world. And also, the sense of urgency: why does this project need to be done now? That is quite hard for history projects isn’t it?
Mark: I think there’s a danger in trying to make up things because everybody who’s on the College has written applications themselves, have gotten some funded and others not, and have made crazy claims. So mostly, you know a crazy claim when you see it.
The methodology is often a problem too, because historians basically say, ‘Well, I read, I think, I write. That’s my method’. And then there is the danger that one over-stresses methodological innovation, but then the experts see that immediately, and say, ‘Well, actually, that’s just normal’.
Carolyn: But do you think there’s a need to be explicit about what the method is and link the methodology to the research questions?
Mark: Yes, you need to be able to describe what you will actually do to get from the question to the answer. That is quite important. But there are only so many methodological innovations one can make, and more history projects are funded than actually do methodological innovation.
Carolyn: One thing I think that DECRA applicants have trouble with is making the transition from general article writing, and perhaps book writing, to grant writing. How discursive do you think we need to be as opposed to being concise, and getting to the point? What weight do you put on a narrative as opposed to just stating the arguments?
Mark: I think stating the arguments is much more important. Also, in terms of titles, a grant title is not the same as a book title, or a journal title. It can be, and actually probably should be, much more descriptive because that will get you the keywords you need, and it will make it understandable for the reader. Remember that College members and some assessors are reading an awful lot of these applications and, of course, they’re all busy people doing other things.
Clarity is crucial, as is saying the most important thing at the beginning, and following the guidelines, and answering the questions the guidelines ask you to answer. Some applicants simply ignore the guidelines, which is not very helpful because we look for certain information in certain places and if you can’t find it because the applicant has done something much more literate and literary, that can waste a lot of time.
Carolyn: Can we talk about the rejoinder process? If someone gets fairly poor assessments, are they doomed? What about if someone gets average assessment? How seriously we should take the rejoinder process and how we should approach it?
Mark: Well, first of all, you actually don’t know what you got because you only get the text, and not the numerical assessment. And the numerical assessment is much more important for where the application lands in the overall rankings. It can go both ways. You can have fairly critical assessments in the text, and then very high scores or quite friendly assessments, and then very damning scores, so you shouldn’t second guess that process too much.
The rejoinder can make a difference, in particular when a criticism is made of the application, and you can say, ‘Assessor B says I’m not doing this’, but, in fact, on page seven of the application I outline that in quite some detail. This is especially important in the band where it’s uncertain whether the projects will be funded or not. There are some projects that will very clearly be funded. There are some projects that clearly have no chance, but there is a band in between. If you can answer critical comments without anger, that can be very important.
Remember that these terrible people who wrote these terrible critiques of your work never read your rejoinder. So, letting off steam doesn’t actually help; you’re not getting at the target who has slighted you. Your rejoinder goes back to the people who are making the final decisions and unfair criticism by assessors is often taken with a grain of salt by College members. The rejoinder needs to be as calm as possible. Try to answer the criticisms by pointing back to where the application is actually dealing with the issue, saying, ‘Well, this criticism is missing the point because this is not actually what I’m proposing to do’.
Carolyn: What emphasis do you think the ARC puts on the so-called ‘research narrative’, the extent to which the proposed project fits with a person’s previous research, and extends it?
Mark: For DECRAs, in particular, there is a sense that you have more chance of getting funded if one can see a clear progression from your earlier research. If you’ve done seventeenth century Britain, and then you propose to work on twentieth century Poland because you happen to also be Polish, there will probably be some questions about that. But neither should it look as if the applicant is just writing the same book again or simply turning the PhD thesis into a book. It should be something new, but if there is a clear sense that it builds on what you’ve done before, that probably helps because it will make it seem to the College members that it’s more likely that this is will succeed than something which is completely in a new field.