Dear Dr. Evil,
Please allow me to introduce myself - I am the Associate Reviews Editor of the journal X (that my boss was sure my paper had NO chance of getting accepted to), who prepares the In this Issue page of the journal. This page features 5 or 6 papers from each issue, and its aim is to highlight and unpackage the findings of each selected paper to make them accessible to our readers from across the different disciplines of the blah blah biology community. The In this Issue page is also sent out to other journals and press organizations to alert them to our upcoming content.
My reason for writing is that your recently accepted paper has just been selected to feature on the In this Issue page of Issue XYZ. As such, I wonder if you could read the attached Word document of the piece I have written on your paper and let me know by return if it is scientifically accurate, and if it gets across the essence and key findings of your paper.
Please note that it will only be possible to make small and essential changes to the text as these pieces are written to a strict format and word count. I also need your feedback as quickly as possible as this issue is about to go to press (within the next 24 hours would be great).
With thanks and best wishes,
Associate Editor Urkel
Thursday, March 19, 2009
Monday, March 09, 2009
The final chapter?
I made it. I found a life after the postdoc. And a fan-f*cking-tastic job at that--working for one of the top 3 science publishers. What did Dr. Evil (my boss) say? Nothing, other than "I thought you were leaving in mid-March, not in January". I'd only told him a year in advance that I wouldn't be renewing my contract ending on Jan 31st.
Thanks for the congratulations, boss.
Though I had finished writing my paper at the end of October, just before the favorite postdoc finished hers--Dr. E refused to submit the paper without what he called "critical experiments". I had already told him that I'd had a job offer at this point, so I'd imagined that he'd have a positive attitude about getting some reviewer's comments while I finished up those critical experiments. I was wrong. Instead, I was summoned into his office for that oh-so-famous, "I don't know why you can't write" talk. Right. It must be me. It can't possibly be related to the fact that you're pissed at me for "leaving you" (the lab, whatever it's the same in his mind). Or that you had to finish writing the favorite postdoc's paper because she gave birth about 3 months sooner than expected, and you're just plain exhausted.
So I get told to re-write it.
I change the abstract and about 5 sentences within the main body of the text.
Twelve revisions later--not including the versions 1.2, 2.2, 3.2 (you get the idea), he submits my paper just before Christmas. Two full months after I'd written it the first time.
I leave the lab January 27th. I'm in Egypt when I get a text message from a labmate that my paper has been accepted with practically no revisions. I'm in shock, since Dr. E was convinced that my paper would have a difficult time getting accepted at the revered Journal where we had submitted. I wait for a confirmatory email from Dr. E himself before celebrating.
His comments on Jan 30th:
Your paper for Prestigious Journal X was accepted almost with no revisions...pretty amazing. This has happened but 3 times in 100 papers so congratulations. Maybe we should have shot even higher??? Alas, I will send you the comments. I think I can handle all but one which is to provide a better photo of one of the figure panels.
If you check your mail while away, then have a drink to the paper.
~~~~~
See reviewer's comments below:
The overall evaluation is positive and we would like to publish a revised manuscript in "Famous Journal X", provided that the referees' comments can be satisfactorily addressed.
Please attend to all of the reviewers' comments, and do ensure that your manuscript falls within the journal's limit of 7000 words (3000 for Research Reports). The word count does not include the reference list but does include figure legends.
___
Pretty easy--I foolishly think to myself. Though he manages not to be able to handle the reviewer's comments after all, and waits until I've started my job in mid-march to ask me to address some things he should already know how to fix, if he'd actually read the paper, or paid any attention to my result. Recall that I'd only give 2 lab meetings during 3 years in Paris, so it' not so surprising that he has no real idea what my project is about. So I answer him point by point, and all by memory, since the paper is on my other computer at home. I also tell him that though he's insisting I send him a new figure legend-- he doesn't actually need one because I have not actually changed the figure, just made small changes in contrast and brightness. Why hadn't he compared the old and new figures to see if I'd actually addressed the reviewer's comments? I'll leave you to answer that for yourself.
He email me to say it's done. He's submitted the paper. I am content that I will soon have no reason to see emails from him in my inbox.
Two days later I get an automatic email from famed journal X. The paper is 700 words over the 7000 word limit. Oh my god. He was too lazy to a) read the editor's letter, b) click 2 things in MS word to obtain a word count, or c) he's got Alzheimer's. I figure if he needs me, he'll email me, since I got an automatic absence response when I tried to contact him.
One week later Dr. E. tells me that the paper has been accepted. He doesn't realize that I know he's been asked to reduce the word count, by a whopping 10%, btw. I offer to help him edit it, because I'm so panicked I don't even read his email. He says, "to work on what? It is done..." like he hadn't edited my first-author paper without asking me to review his changes.
Thanks for the congratulations, boss.
Though I had finished writing my paper at the end of October, just before the favorite postdoc finished hers--Dr. E refused to submit the paper without what he called "critical experiments". I had already told him that I'd had a job offer at this point, so I'd imagined that he'd have a positive attitude about getting some reviewer's comments while I finished up those critical experiments. I was wrong. Instead, I was summoned into his office for that oh-so-famous, "I don't know why you can't write" talk. Right. It must be me. It can't possibly be related to the fact that you're pissed at me for "leaving you" (the lab, whatever it's the same in his mind). Or that you had to finish writing the favorite postdoc's paper because she gave birth about 3 months sooner than expected, and you're just plain exhausted.
So I get told to re-write it.
I change the abstract and about 5 sentences within the main body of the text.
Twelve revisions later--not including the versions 1.2, 2.2, 3.2 (you get the idea), he submits my paper just before Christmas. Two full months after I'd written it the first time.
I leave the lab January 27th. I'm in Egypt when I get a text message from a labmate that my paper has been accepted with practically no revisions. I'm in shock, since Dr. E was convinced that my paper would have a difficult time getting accepted at the revered Journal where we had submitted. I wait for a confirmatory email from Dr. E himself before celebrating.
His comments on Jan 30th:
Your paper for Prestigious Journal X was accepted almost with no revisions...pretty amazing. This has happened but 3 times in 100 papers so congratulations. Maybe we should have shot even higher??? Alas, I will send you the comments. I think I can handle all but one which is to provide a better photo of one of the figure panels.
If you check your mail while away, then have a drink to the paper.
~~~~~
See reviewer's comments below:
The overall evaluation is positive and we would like to publish a revised manuscript in "Famous Journal X", provided that the referees' comments can be satisfactorily addressed.
Please attend to all of the reviewers' comments, and do ensure that your manuscript falls within the journal's limit of 7000 words (3000 for Research Reports). The word count does not include the reference list but does include figure legends.
___
Pretty easy--I foolishly think to myself. Though he manages not to be able to handle the reviewer's comments after all, and waits until I've started my job in mid-march to ask me to address some things he should already know how to fix, if he'd actually read the paper, or paid any attention to my result. Recall that I'd only give 2 lab meetings during 3 years in Paris, so it' not so surprising that he has no real idea what my project is about. So I answer him point by point, and all by memory, since the paper is on my other computer at home. I also tell him that though he's insisting I send him a new figure legend-- he doesn't actually need one because I have not actually changed the figure, just made small changes in contrast and brightness. Why hadn't he compared the old and new figures to see if I'd actually addressed the reviewer's comments? I'll leave you to answer that for yourself.
He email me to say it's done. He's submitted the paper. I am content that I will soon have no reason to see emails from him in my inbox.
Two days later I get an automatic email from famed journal X. The paper is 700 words over the 7000 word limit. Oh my god. He was too lazy to a) read the editor's letter, b) click 2 things in MS word to obtain a word count, or c) he's got Alzheimer's. I figure if he needs me, he'll email me, since I got an automatic absence response when I tried to contact him.
One week later Dr. E. tells me that the paper has been accepted. He doesn't realize that I know he's been asked to reduce the word count, by a whopping 10%, btw. I offer to help him edit it, because I'm so panicked I don't even read his email. He says, "to work on what? It is done..." like he hadn't edited my first-author paper without asking me to review his changes.
He continues, "The editor had contacted me outside of this last week to let me know the intro was highly repetitive and to get rid of the conversational style (I thought I had done so but she was right). Anyhow, it is all fixed and you will see the proofs of course". What an asshole. Note how he manages to insult me in his response. He edited 10% of the paper and didn't even run it by me. But I let it go because I though, it's the end. Ha ha. Right.
30 minutes later I get a message saying that the resolution of the figures is too low. You have got to be KIDDING me. I'm sorry, is this the first paper he's submitted? Of course you have to send hi-res images for the final draft. And he can't find them. He's lost the figures, and I'm now 3000 miles away. He resolves the issue by giving me his login to the journal and I upload them myself. No thank you. Somehow, I'm not surprised.
Is it over yet? Perhaps not, I still haven't seen the proofs.
30 minutes later I get a message saying that the resolution of the figures is too low. You have got to be KIDDING me. I'm sorry, is this the first paper he's submitted? Of course you have to send hi-res images for the final draft. And he can't find them. He's lost the figures, and I'm now 3000 miles away. He resolves the issue by giving me his login to the journal and I upload them myself. No thank you. Somehow, I'm not surprised.
Is it over yet? Perhaps not, I still haven't seen the proofs.
Thursday, October 23, 2008
An ant sailing towards that distant horizon
I walk out of his office. I am an ant, no--smaller than that--a flea, a tiny thing that no one would notice they’d squished inadvertently.
It starts. He interrupts the lunch I’m eating in front of my computer screen. “Flea (I’m not using my real name here, of course), I need to talk to you,” he says in a fear-inspiring voice that only be mimicked by a man who has scolded his own children after breaking mom’s crystal vase.
I gave him my draft of the paper we’re going to submit. Though that was a week ago, so perhaps this means that he’s finally read the thing. I am #4 in the line for papers being published. I guess he’s pretty tired of editing at this point.
I sit down in his office, trying to stop my heart from exploding out of my chest and my hands from trembling. It can’t be that bad, I think.
“I just don’t understand why it is that you can’t write?”
Me: “Excuse me?”
“I expect this from others who I’ve written papers with whose second language is English, but I expect better from you”.
I retreat into my safety zone in my head. I have had 4 job offers that involve scientific writing, and published an article online last year. It’s ok, I say to myself—you know better than that. Just ignore him.
“What is the problem? You’re always rolling your eyes at me! What have I done to offend you?” He takes off his glasses.
I stop the mental image of me smashing his head into the computer screen. I look at him. Perhaps he’s serious. Maybe he’s ready to listen, I’ve only been telling him for a year now, but yes—this could be the moment.
Me: “Well, I’ve been miserable for over a year now, and you only pay attention to 2 postdoc in the lab, and I’m working all alone on this project.” (Not to mention that I’ve only presented my data 3 times after 3 years of working here)
“Why do you say that I only pay attention to 2 postdocs?”
This favoritism is so obvious, in fact, that I openly joke about it with everyone in the lab, including THE Favorite. I’m not the only one who jokes about it, either.
I tell him why, and then he goes on the attack. First with the excuses. Then it gets personal.
“You know, I’ve done everything for you…. blah blah. And it’s not true that I play favorites… blah blah. That super famous researcher that you wanted to meet with—she’s a shark. And well, she only had time to speak with me and (“Favorite #2”). I already apologized for that.
An aside-- I spoke with Super famous researcher twice, after 2 different seminars she gave in Paris, and she was very interested in speaking with me. The last time we spoke, she offered me the mutant mice that they’ve bred onto a special GFP background for watching movement of stuff in real-time. The lab is already collaborating with her, through Favorite #2, so I don’t know what her being a shark has to do with the argument, except that I guess I’m supposed to be grateful to him for protecting me from her.
I can’t argue with him any more, I won’t win. I can’t win. I never win. Why does it even matter? I’m going to a new job and I don’t have to deal with this any more. I relax, my face muscles go loose and I assume the role of the passive employee.
He waxes prosaic. “You know, when I started in science -“Dr. A.” (a famous researcher back in NY) asked me if they still required students to take English class at Berkley, because my grant proposals were so badly written. And Dr. A helped me out…. I really have tried to find other people to work on this project, you believe me don’t you? I have suffered too, there have been a lot more adjustments and problems and difficulties setting up this department than I anticipated…. I need you to realize that I am working for you too. I support you. We can’t work together like this.”
At this point, my conditioning kicks in (it’s been about a year to a year and a half that I’ve experienced these recurrent episodes in his office) and I say something like, “Well, I’m here in your office trying to write this paper with you aren’t I? After 4 years this story (my research project) deserves to be told.”
He interrupts—“and it WILL be told. Don’t forget that there are other people out there who are following this story. THEY want to know what happens. Even if I were to be hit by a bus tomorrow, the story would continue. It’s bigger than me, even.
You know what you can do? You can read the sentences out aloud to see if they sound good….”
I go back to my happy place, but it’s on a sailboat now, sheets of paper with my figure legends on them are floating by, edited in bold red pen strokes, but I don’t stop to pick them up. I keep on sailing into the sunset.
It starts. He interrupts the lunch I’m eating in front of my computer screen. “Flea (I’m not using my real name here, of course), I need to talk to you,” he says in a fear-inspiring voice that only be mimicked by a man who has scolded his own children after breaking mom’s crystal vase.
I gave him my draft of the paper we’re going to submit. Though that was a week ago, so perhaps this means that he’s finally read the thing. I am #4 in the line for papers being published. I guess he’s pretty tired of editing at this point.
I sit down in his office, trying to stop my heart from exploding out of my chest and my hands from trembling. It can’t be that bad, I think.
“I just don’t understand why it is that you can’t write?”
Me: “Excuse me?”
“I expect this from others who I’ve written papers with whose second language is English, but I expect better from you”.
I retreat into my safety zone in my head. I have had 4 job offers that involve scientific writing, and published an article online last year. It’s ok, I say to myself—you know better than that. Just ignore him.
“What is the problem? You’re always rolling your eyes at me! What have I done to offend you?” He takes off his glasses.
I stop the mental image of me smashing his head into the computer screen. I look at him. Perhaps he’s serious. Maybe he’s ready to listen, I’ve only been telling him for a year now, but yes—this could be the moment.
Me: “Well, I’ve been miserable for over a year now, and you only pay attention to 2 postdoc in the lab, and I’m working all alone on this project.” (Not to mention that I’ve only presented my data 3 times after 3 years of working here)
“Why do you say that I only pay attention to 2 postdocs?”
This favoritism is so obvious, in fact, that I openly joke about it with everyone in the lab, including THE Favorite. I’m not the only one who jokes about it, either.
I tell him why, and then he goes on the attack. First with the excuses. Then it gets personal.
“You know, I’ve done everything for you…. blah blah. And it’s not true that I play favorites… blah blah. That super famous researcher that you wanted to meet with—she’s a shark. And well, she only had time to speak with me and (“Favorite #2”). I already apologized for that.
An aside-- I spoke with Super famous researcher twice, after 2 different seminars she gave in Paris, and she was very interested in speaking with me. The last time we spoke, she offered me the mutant mice that they’ve bred onto a special GFP background for watching movement of stuff in real-time. The lab is already collaborating with her, through Favorite #2, so I don’t know what her being a shark has to do with the argument, except that I guess I’m supposed to be grateful to him for protecting me from her.
I can’t argue with him any more, I won’t win. I can’t win. I never win. Why does it even matter? I’m going to a new job and I don’t have to deal with this any more. I relax, my face muscles go loose and I assume the role of the passive employee.
He waxes prosaic. “You know, when I started in science -“Dr. A.” (a famous researcher back in NY) asked me if they still required students to take English class at Berkley, because my grant proposals were so badly written. And Dr. A helped me out…. I really have tried to find other people to work on this project, you believe me don’t you? I have suffered too, there have been a lot more adjustments and problems and difficulties setting up this department than I anticipated…. I need you to realize that I am working for you too. I support you. We can’t work together like this.”
At this point, my conditioning kicks in (it’s been about a year to a year and a half that I’ve experienced these recurrent episodes in his office) and I say something like, “Well, I’m here in your office trying to write this paper with you aren’t I? After 4 years this story (my research project) deserves to be told.”
He interrupts—“and it WILL be told. Don’t forget that there are other people out there who are following this story. THEY want to know what happens. Even if I were to be hit by a bus tomorrow, the story would continue. It’s bigger than me, even.
You know what you can do? You can read the sentences out aloud to see if they sound good….”
I go back to my happy place, but it’s on a sailboat now, sheets of paper with my figure legends on them are floating by, edited in bold red pen strokes, but I don’t stop to pick them up. I keep on sailing into the sunset.
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