Faculty writing has never been more crucial. In an era of heightened competition for grants, promotion pressures and demands for public engagement, writing is the vehicle through which faculty share their expertise, secure funding and advance their careers. Research shows that successful academic writers aren’t necessarily better writers—they’re better-supported writers. They have systems, communities and resources that support their productivity and help sustain engagement with writing as their needs change across their roles, responsibilities and careers.
Faculty writers are seeking support for their writing. Where do they go when they need it? Many are unsure.
Support for faculty writing on campus is often decentralized or may vary from year to year, making it difficult to find or accessible only to those with the advantage of an informed mentor. Support for faculty writing might be offered in any number of campus locations: centers for teaching and learning, provosts’ offices, offices for faculty advancement, writing centers or academic support centers, research centers for grant writing, graduate student support centers, or individual departments. Writing support may be outsourced through institutional memberships to organizations such as the NCFDD or the Textbook and Academic Authors Association, which offers webinars, writing programs and templates for downloading.
Department chairs and campus administrators may want to support faculty writers but aren’t sure where to begin. Or if there is a problem, it’s considered an individual faculty problem and not one that calls for a campus response.
Perhaps there’s an underlying assumption that faculty should already know how to write and shouldn’t need support to meet basic job expectations, like publishing a certain number of articles before tenure. Establishing a faculty writing space or central resource hub might be seen as suggesting they need remedial help—much like the stigma writing centers face as places where “bad” students are sent.
Yet today’s faculty are expected to write across more genres than ever before: grant proposals, peer-reviewed articles, public-facing pieces, social media content and policy briefs. Each involves different skills and audiences. The faculty member who can craft a compelling journal article may struggle with a foundation proposal or an op-ed. Writing support isn’t remedial—it’s strategic professional development.
The current moment also presents unique challenges. Post-pandemic isolation has disrupted the informal networks that previously supported faculty writing. Budget constraints mean fewer resources for individual faculty development, making shared writing support more essential. New faculty arrive on campus without the professional development resources or mentor networks that previous generations took for granted, while midcareer faculty face mounting pressure to produce more with less support.
We can do better in our support of faculty writers. If you want to help, here are ways to do better, or to get started.
Gather resources. Even though writing support might be available, it may not be widely known, or up-to-date, and it may be dispersed across many different units or offices on campus. Create a centralized web page gathering information for all campus resources for faculty writing. The entity that hosts the site will be different for each campus. For some, it’s the provost’s office. For others, it’s a writing or teaching center. List the resources—where faculty can go for support—and help faculty navigate the resources by providing descriptions (not just links), categories (i.e., “find a writing group”) and contact information. Collaborate with faculty to curate a list of recommended books, podcasts and writing spaces they have found helpful.
Make faculty writing visible. What if faculty writing support were as central to campus as student writing support? A teaching center could include a workshop on writing about teaching; the provost’s office or campus research center could offer workshops on developing institutional review board protocols. Consider reserving dedicated spaces for faculty to gather and write (such as a faculty writing room) or schedule specific writing times/days in a university writing center or campus coffee shop. Give them a name (Writing Wednesdays, Motivating Mondays). Writers can plan for these meet-ups and write in the company of others, in public rather than isolated in individual offices.
Organize a virtual workshop watch session and follow-up discussions. Gather faculty for a workshop watch session. After the workshop, help participants continue to discuss what they learned and how they’ll apply it through group check-ins or follow-up meetings. Try NCFDD’s core curriculum webinar “Every Semester Needs a Plan,” The Professor Is In’s “Art of Productivity,” or join a London Writers’ Salon Writers’ Hour, and talk about everyone’s work after the writing session.
Identify a faculty cohort to support for a year. Supporting all faculty writers with diluted support is often ineffective. Instead, focus on associate professors one year, new faculty writers the next and clinical faculty writers the next. Help them connect and be resources for each other throughout the year through writing retreats and writing groups. Build a campus writing community one cohort at a time.
Collaborate with campus partners. Combine campus resources to support writers. Could the library offer a meeting space? Two departments co-convene a writing group? Campus units could take turns hosting a daylong writing space once a month, helping writers learn about different spaces and writers across campus.
Start a writing support library. This can be virtual or in a central location on campus. Partner with the library to keep track of which books are in circulation or in high demand. Consider developing a workshop or writing group around in-demand books.
Ask faculty what they need and listen and respond. If we don’t ask faculty what they need, we won’t know. What some faculty need now may be different than what they needed last fall.
Support connectors. Every campus has them—the person or department that is a go-to for troubleshooting faculty questions and connecting them to writing resources. Amplify their reach, and support the faculty relationships and networks they’ve already established. Support the person or people who will curate that library, update the resource list, collaborate with campus partners and serve as a faculty writer point of contact.
What’s next? Start by mapping what already exists on your campus. Create one central hub where faculty can find all writing-related resources. Make faculty writing as visible and supported as student writing. It’s OK to start small: Try one of these strategies we’ve shared and notice what happens. And remember—supporting faculty writers isn’t about fixing deficiencies. It’s about recognizing that writing is central to faculty success and deserves the same institutional attention we give to other essential job functions. Faculty are an invaluable resource in our campus ecosystems. Let’s lower the barrier to them finding the support they need to write well. When they thrive, so do our institutions.
Jennifer Ahern-Dodson is an associate professor of the practice in writing studies at Duke University, where she directs the Faculty Write Program.
Christine Tulley is a professor of English at the University of Findlay and president of Defend, Publish & Lead, a faculty development organization.
Months after beginning to enforce unwritten policies about how faculty members can and cannot teach topics related to gender, Texas Tech University system officials released a memo Monday that officially put those policies—and more—in writing.
“Effective immediately, faculty must not include or advocate in any form course content that conflicts with the following standards,” Chancellor Brandon Creighton wrote in the memo to system presidents, which was passed along to faculty members. The standards include specific rules around race and sexuality that were not previously discussed, system faculty members told Inside Higher Ed. The memo also enshrines that the Texas Tech system recognizes only two sexes—male and female.
The fuzzy anti-trans policies that were first introduced via a game of censorship telephone at Angelo State University in September have now been made clear and expanded upon across the entire five-university Texas Tech system. Course content related to race and sexuality is now also subject to heightened scrutiny. Although the memo doesn’t ban outright discussion of transgender topics or any topics that suggest there are more than two genders, policies across the country stating that there are only two sexes or genders have been used to restrict transgender rights.
Texas Tech is far from alone in its efforts; public systems across Texas have taken on varying politically motivated course reviews, leaving faculty members in the state angry and confused. For example, the University of Texas system recently completed a review of all courses on gender identity, and the Texas A&M system board approved a new policy last month mandating presidential approval for classes that “advocate race or gender ideology, sexual orientation, or gender identity.”
According to Creighton’s memo, faculty members may not “promote” or instill the belief that one race or sex is superior to another; that an individual is, consciously or unconsciously, inherently racist, sexist or “oppressive”; that any person should be discriminated against because of their race or sex; that moral character is determined by race or sex; that individuals bear responsibility or guilt because of the actions by others of the same race or sex; or that meritocracy or a strong work ethic are racist, sexist or “constructs of oppression.”
Creighton defined advocacy as “presenting these beliefs as correct or required and pressuring students to affirm them, rather than analyzing or critiquing them as one viewpoint among others. This also includes course content that promotes activism on issues related to race or sex, rather than academic instruction.”
The memo also outlines a Board of Regents–controlled review process, complete with a flowchart, for courses that include content related to gender identity and sexuality. Although race is mentioned earlier in the memo, it’s unclear whether race-related course content will also be subject to this review.
“We’ve been in this slow rollout process already. We had to go through all of the courses and essentially do the flowchart before the flowchart existed,” said a faculty member at Angelo State who wished to remain anonymous for fear of retribution. “Anything that would cover transgender [people] was flagged.”
Creighton, a former member of the Texas State Senate, justified the new rules using Senate Bill 37, a law he sponsored earlier this year that, among other things, gave the control of faculty senates to public institution governing boards and established a once-every-five-years review process for general education curricula. An earlier version of the bill that passed the Senate contained language that’s very similar to the restrictions in the Texas Tech memo, including censoring specific course topics that suggest any social, political or religious belief is superior to another and allowing administrators to unilaterally remove faculty senate members for their personal political advocacy. The existing law does not prohibit teaching about transgender identity, racial inequality, systemic racism, homosexuality or any other individual topic.
“This directive is the first step of the Board of Regents’ ongoing implementation of its statutory responsibility to review and oversee curriculum under Senate Bill 37 and related provisions of the Education Code. This curriculum review under Senate Bill 37 will, in part, ensure each university is offering degrees of value,” Creighton wrote.
Texas Tech University system spokespeople did not respond to Inside Higher Ed’s questions about the memo, including what next steps might be.
“The Board’s responsibility is to safeguard the integrity of our academic mission and maintain the trust of Texans,” Board of Regents chairman Cody Campbell said in a news release. “The Board welcomed the clarity provided by Senate Bill 37, which reaffirmed the Regents’ role in curriculum oversight. This new framework strengthens accountability, supports our faculty, and ensures that our universities remain focused on education, research, and innovation—core commitments that position the TTU System for continued national leadership.”
Faculty across the system are largely upset about the changes but unsure about how to push back, a faculty member told Inside Higher Ed. One Texas Tech professor emeritus, Kelli Cargile Cook, told The Texas Tribuneshe began drafting a resignation letter.
“I’ve been teaching since 1981 and this was going to be my last class. I was so looking forward to working with the seniors in our major, but I can’t stomach what’s going on at Texas Tech,” she told the Tribune. “I think the memo is cunning in that the beliefs that it lists are, at face value, something you could agree with. But when you think about how this would be put into practice, where a Board of Regents approves a curriculum—people who are politically appointed, not educated, not researchers—that move is a slippery slope.”
Brian Evans, president of the Texas chapter of the American Association of University Professors, criticized the memo Tuesday.
“Empowering administrators to censor faculty experts’ teaching decisions does a disservice to the university, its students and the state,” Evans said. “Such a system is inconsistent with long-standing principles of academic freedom, university policy and the First Amendment.”
Graham Piro, faculty legal defense fund fellow for campus advocacy at the Foundation for Individual Rights and Expression, decried the memo in a statement Tuesday.
“The Texas Tech memo unconstitutionally singles out specific viewpoints on these topics, implying that faculty members must adhere to the state’s line on these issues—and that dissenters face punishment. The memo is also so broadly worded that an overzealous administration could easily punish a professor who seeks to provoke arguments in class or advocates outside the classroom for changes to curricula that reflect developments in teaching,” Piro said.
“Decades ago, the Supreme Court recognized that the First Amendment ‘does not tolerate laws that cast a pall of orthodoxy over the classroom.’ It instead wrote that ‘truth’ is discovered not by ‘authoritative selection,’ but ‘out of a multitude of tongues.’ These principles are timeless, and Texas Tech should not compromise them, no matter the political winds of the day.”
He also likened the memo to Florida’s Stop WOKE Act, currently blocked by a federal court, which severely limited how Florida faculty members could talk and teach about race, gender and sexuality.
Understanding the Topic: Even before starting to write a student should be having a full clarity about the research title, the objective of the study and the research problems.
Searching for Relevant Literature: Students should search the academic libraries like Google Scholars, Research Gate, JSTOR or Scopus.
Evaluating Sources: Once relevant sources are collected students should analyze, evaluate the objective, findings and limitation of those studies.
Grouping of Literature: Collected literature should be grouped as per the subheading of the required studies.
Write Critically: Literature review should be written critically and analytically relevant to the study .
Identify the Research Gap: Students should analyze and find the research gap and specify where his study will add value to those gaps.
Cite & Reference: Students should use formats like APA (7th edition) or Havard Referencing style while using in text citing.
A single sentence from a faculty mentor cut deeper than I expected—because it wasn’t the first time my voice had been questioned. I spent decades believing I was not good enough to become a writer. Not because I lacked skill or insight, but because I was writing through a deep wound I didn’t yet understand.
That statement was a flashpoint, but the wound began long before:
When I, as a shy Guatemalan immigrant child, felt I was lacking academically and learned to shrink my voice.
When I was told that my ways of knowing—grounded in culture, emotion, embodiment—didn’t belong in academic writing.
When I absorbed the perfectionism and shame that academia breeds.
For years, I edited myself into invisibility—performing an academic voice that was praised for its polish and precision but stripped of everything that made it mine.
And I am not alone.
The Invisible Wounds We Carry
In my work as a writing consultant and developmental editor, I hear the same story over and over: Brilliant scholars—often from historically excluded communities—are convinced they are bad writers when, in reality, they are carrying unprocessed writing trauma.
We rarely name it as such. But that is what it is:
The trauma of repeatedly being told your voice is wrong or not “rigorous.”
The trauma of navigating academic culture that rewards conformity over authenticity.
The trauma of absorbing deficit narratives about your language, identity or intellectual worth.
Academic spaces can be punishing, performative and isolating. Add in past wounds—whether from classrooms, reviewers, supervisors or broader systems—and writing becomes more than putting words on a page. It becomes a battleground.
I once had a client who burst into tears during a one-on-one session with me. She opened the document she had avoided for weeks. The moment her fingers hovered over the keyboard, she said, her chest tightened. She felt dizzy, like the room was closing in.
“I can’t do this,” she whispered.
What was she working on? A simple literature review. But there was nothing simple about it.
Her body remembered: her first-year doctoral seminar, where she was told her writing wasn’t academic enough. Being cut off in class. Watching her white male peer echo her words and be praised for his “insight.”
Writing didn’t feel liberating. It felt like re-enactment.
Her tears weren’t a breakdown. They were a breakthrough. Her nervous system was doing exactly what it was designed to do: keep her safe.
I’ve experienced that spiral, too. Sitting in front of a blank screen, begging my brain to write something!—only to be met with my inner chorus:
I teach people how to write—what’s my problem?
I’m not going to say anything that hasn’t already been said.
This is going to take forever—and I’d rather not disappoint myself.
I’m not really a good writer. I’m just faking it.
Even after years of writing—journals, academic papers, dissertation, books—it still doesn’t feel easy. I have to work at it each day. Writing, for me, is like a relationship. At first, it’s exciting. Words flow; ideas spark. But eventually, the doubts creep in. You start to ghost your own document.
But real relationships, and real writing, require showing up. Even when you’re tired. Even when it’s hard. Even when it feels like your worst critic lives inside your own head.
This Isn’t All in Your Head—It’s All in Your Body
These blocks that haunt you as you imagine writing aren’t signs that you shouldn’t write the thing. These are survival strategies your nervous system uses to protect you. And yes—they show up at your desk.
This is all to say that, in my experience, writing blocks tend to be trauma responses—not character flaws or technical writing issues. Now, are there times when folks are challenged by things like time management? Of course. But to me, that is just a symptom of something deep-seated.
We’re told to “just sit down and write,” as if our struggle is solely or partly a matter of discipline, time management or motivation. But often, it’s not that we don’t want to write. We actually really want to write. It’s that our body—our entire nervous system—is sounding an alarm.
Not safe. Not ready. Not now.
The response varies. It’s not one-size-fits-all. But it’s always trying to protect us.
Let’s break these responses down.
Fight: You argue with your work. Nothing sounds good enough. Every sentence feels off. You rewrite the same paragraph 10 times and still hate it. You pick fights with your draft like it owes you money. You hover over the “delete” key like a weapon. You get lost in perfectionist loops, convinced that your argument is weak, your evidence lacking, your phrasing too soft, too bold, too elementary, too you.
This is the part of you that learned, somewhere along the way, that the best defense is a good offense. If you criticize your writing first, no one else can beat you to it.
It’s a form of protection dressed as hypervigilance.
It’s exhausting. And it’s not your fault.
Flight: You avoid it completely. The minute you open the document, your chest tightens. So instead, you check your email, clean the kitchen, research grants for a project you haven’t even started, reformat your CV for the fifth time or suddenly become very concerned about the state of your inbox folders. Every task feels urgent—except the one you actually need to do.
It doesn’t mean you don’t care. It means your system is trying to escape danger. And in academia, writing often is danger, because of what it represents—exposure, judgment, potential rejection—and what it can lead to: excommunication, cancellation, even deportation.
Flight says, “If I don’t go near the source of pain, I won’t have to feel it.” But avoidance doesn’t erase fear. It buries it. And that buried fear just grows heavier.
Freeze: You stare at the screen, paralyzed. You’ve carved out time, made the tea, lit the candle—and still, nothing happens. The cursor blinks like it’s mocking you. You reread the same sentence 30 times. You open a new tab, then another. You scroll, refresh, skim, click—but you’re not absorbing anything.
Your body might go still, but inside, it’s chaos: looping thoughts, spiraling doubts, blankness that feels like suffocation.
This is shutdown. Your brain says, “Too much.” So it hits pause.
It might look like laziness, but it’s actually self-preservation.
Fawn: You overfocus on pleasing others.
This one’s sneaky. You’re writing. You’re producing. But you’re doing it in someone else’s voice. You try to imagine what your adviser would say. You filter every word through Reviewer 2’s past critiques. You write with a white, cis-hetero-masculine ghost looking over your shoulder.
You say what you think you should say. You cite whom you think you have to cite. You mute your own voice to keep the peace.
You’re not writing to be heard. You’re writing to be accepted.
Fawning isn’t about submission. It’s about safety. It’s about staying small so you don’t become a target. But in doing so, you slowly disappear from your own work.
What if your block isn’t failure?
What if it’s your body’s way of saying:
“This way of writing doesn’t feel safe.”
“These expectations aren’t sustainable.”
“You are not a machine. You are a whole human.”
Writing as a Site of Healing, Not Harm
If we understand writing blocks as trauma responses, then the answer isn’t more pressure or productivity hacks.
The answer is care.
A trauma-informed writing practice prompts us to shift our questions:
Instead of “Why am I procrastinating?” ask, “What am I protecting myself from?”
Instead of “How can I write more?” ask, “What would make this feel safer?”
Instead of “Why can’t I just get it done?” ask, “What do I need to feel supported right now?”
This practice is about making room for your whole self at the writing table.
It includes:
Slowing down to listen to your resistance. What is it trying to tell you? What stories or fears are surfacing?
Creating emotional safety before expecting output. That might mean grounding rituals, community check-ins or simply naming your fear out loud.
Reframing writing as healing, not harm. What if writing wasn’t about proving your worth but about reclaiming your voice? What if it became a place to process, reflect, resist—and even rest?
Because here’s the truth: You can’t punish yourself into productivity.
You can’t shame your voice into clarity.
But you can write your way into wholeness—slowly, gently, in your own time.
Resistance Is Wisdom
Let’s stop treating our writing resistance as evidence of failure. What if it’s an invitation to listen? A clue to your next move? A doorway into a new way of knowing? Let’s not avoid resistance but lean into it, face it and treat it with compassion.
Ask yourself,
What if my block isn’t a wall, but a mirror?
What if my voice needs tenderness, not toughness?
What if my writing can be a place where I feel more like myself, not less?
Maybe the goal isn’t to “push through” your writing block.
Maybe it’s to create the conditions where it feels safe enough to speak your voice.
You don’t need to force yourself to write like someone you’re not.
You don’t need to perform brilliance to be taken seriously.
You don’t need to sacrifice your health on the altar of productivity.
You need practices that restore your voice, not erase it.
You need writing that nourishes, not punishes.
A trauma-informed writing practice invites your whole self to the page. It makes room for and challenges you to lean into the imperfection, reflection and vulnerability. It reframes writing not as punishment but as possibility.
Toward a More Human Academy
In this political moment—where academic freedom is under attack, DEI initiatives are being dismantled and scholars are being silenced for telling the truth—we can’t afford to ignore how trauma shapes whose voices get heard, cited or erased.
Trauma-informed writing is a form of resistance.
It’s how we push back against systems that demand performance over presence, conformity over courage.
It’s how we cultivate an academy where all voices—especially those long excluded—can write with power, truth and unapologetic authenticity.
I’m still healing my own writing wounds. Maybe you are, too.
But here’s what I know now: Writing wounds don’t heal overnight.
They heal when we meet them with compassion—every time we dare to put words on a page.
Aurora Chang is the founder of Aurora Chang Consulting LLC, where she provides developmental editing, holistic faculty support and writing consulting rooted in compassion and authenticity. A former professor and faculty developer, she now partners with academics to reclaim their voices, sustain their careers and write with purpose.
I will never forget the student who—upon being given 15 minutes at the end of class to get rolling on the writing assignment I’d just given—whipped out their phone and starting furiously typing away.
At first, I thought this was an act of defiance, a deliberate wasting of time I’d been generous enough to provide following a carefully constructed discussion activity that was meant to give students sufficient kindling to get the flames of the first draft flickering to life.
I said something about maybe texting people later and the student said that they were working on their draft, that they, in fact, first wrote everything on their phone. Not wanting to make a fuss in the moment, I shut up about it, but a week or so later in an individual conference I asked the student about their method, and they showed me the reams and reams of text in their phone’s Notes app.
The phone itself was a fright, the screen cracked, a particularly dense web of fractures at the bottom, but when I asked the student to show me how they used the app for writing, it became clear that they could type at a speed comparable or better to the average student on a computer keyboard.
I’d been teaching the writing process for my entire career, talking students through the steps and sequence to producing a satisfactory piece of work—prewriting, drafting, revision, editing, proofreading—with more detailed dives into each of those stages, but until that incident I didn’t fully appreciate that I shouldn’t be teaching the writing process per se, I should be giving students the kinds of challenges that allowed them to develop their own writing processes.
As I considered this distinction, I realized how truly idiosyncratic my own process is and how different it can be depending on the occasion and situation. An outside observer looking at how I put together a column or book or proposal would see all manner of inefficiency and declare my method … madness.
But the key thing about my method is that it’s mine, and I think I have sufficient proof that it works. It may continue to evolve over time, which I suppose we could equate with improvement, but it’s really just different.
My student’s strategy was rooted in resource constraints, both time and money. Typing on the phone had started as a way to get stuff done during brief in-between times when working as a bicycle delivery person for one of the downtown-Charleston sandwich shops. They’d capture a draft on the phone on the fly and then transfer it to a computer for further development. The phone text had notes like “put thing from that thing here” as place markers for sources or evidence.
I realized that this method required the student to fundamentally work from a place of their own thoughts and ideas, something that was actually at odds with some of their first-year writing classmates who had been conditioned to defer to their readings, seeing their job as students to prove that they’d read and (generally) understood the content, rather than building on that content with ideas of their own, as I’d been asking them to do.
At the time of the conference, the student didn’t even have a computer, having had theirs stolen and not having sufficient funds at the time to immediately replace it. The student had been using the terminals in the library computer lab for the nonphone work.
This conference also revealed the reason for the rather up-and-down nature of this student’s work that semester. This was a clearly curious and driven person who had a number of extra challenges at simply completing the work of college. The assignment we were working on at the time, an alternate history analysis where students had to take a past event, change some aspect of it and imagine a different future, was probably the most challenging experience of the semester, but according to my archives at least, it proved to be this student’s best work.
Writing the initial draft untethered from any sources or even being able to easily move between information online and the text on the screen required the student to think creatively and analytically in ways that unlocked interesting insights into their choice of subject. Because of fate and circumstance, and without me really planning it, this student was getting a high-level experience in how to harness their own mind.
I started thinking more deeply about the intersection between the affordances of the tools and the writing process. One of the biggest shifts in my method over the years was when I acquired an external monitor that allowed me to see two full pages of text simultaneously on screen. This was something I’d longed for for years but resisted because I’m cheap. I now have a hard time working without it.
This incident happened as I was also experimenting with approaches to alternative grading, so it became a natural fit to start asking students to reflect more purposefully on the literal mechanics of their writing process so they could identify missing needs that they might be able to fulfill.
At the time I hadn’t yet come up with my framework of the writer’s practice, but now I can see how integral asking students to be this mindful about their own process can be to the development of a practice.
It’s also a good route for introducing mindfulness into the choices they may make when it comes to using generative AI tools. If they understand their labor and its meaning, they will have the capacity to assess how using the tool may enhance or—what I think is more likely—distort their process. It is also a reminder to us to design challenges that encourage the kind of labor we want students to be doing.
Before we retreat to old technology that dodges these challenges, like blue books, I think we could do a lot of good by really leaning in to helping students see writing as an experience that will differ based on their unique intelligences, and that if they pay attention, if what they are doing matters, they can come to know themselves a bit better.
The Higher Education Inquirer is calling on student journalists, college students, faculty, and independent writers to speak truth to power about the ongoing genocide in Palestine. At a time when universities, governments, and media outlets are complicit through silence, distortion, or outright propaganda, it is urgent that we create space for honest accounts, rigorous investigations, and unapologetic solidarity.
We are seeking pieces that uncover how campuses are responding—or refusing to respond—to the atrocities, that expose academic and financial ties between U.S. higher education and Israel, that highlight student and faculty resistance, and that reflect on the risks of teaching and speaking openly in an environment of censorship and fear. We are especially interested in writing that challenges media narratives, including the BBC’s deeply biased coverage of Gaza, which research shows privileges Israeli voices and humanizes Israeli deaths while erasing Palestinian suffering.
This is not a moment for neutrality. Higher education is entangled in global systems of power, and its students and workers bear both the weight of silence and the responsibility to resist. We welcome investigative reporting, personal testimony, analytical essays, and critical reflections. Because safety is a real concern, we will publish pieces anonymously if needed.
If you are ready to contribute, send a 2–3 sentence pitch to [email protected]. The Higher Education Inquirer stands in the muckraking tradition: fearless, uncompromising, and committed to amplifying voices that others try to silence.
Paul T. Corrigan teaches at The University of Tampa. He is currently writing a book on teaching literature. He has published on teaching and learning in TheAtlantic.com, The Chronicle of Higher Education, Inside Higher Ed, College Teaching, Pedagogy, Reader, The Teaching Professor, International Journal for the Scholarship of Teaching and Learning, and other venues. He has a PhD from the University of South Florida and a MA from North Carolina State University. More at paultcorrigan.com. Follow on Twitter at @teachingcollege.
A few weeks ago, MIT’s Media Lab put out a study on how AI affects the brain. The study ignited a firestorm of posts and comments on social media, given its provocative finding that students who relied on ChatGPT for writing tasks showed lower brain engagement on EEG scans, hinting that offloading thinking to AI can literally dull our neural activity. For anyone who has used AI, it’s not hard to see how AI systems can become learning crutches that encourage mental laziness.
But I don’t think a simple “AI harms learning” conclusion tells the whole story. In this blog post (adapted from a recent series of posts I shared on LinkedIn), I want to add to the conversation by tackling the potential impact of AI in education from four angles. I’ll explore how AI’s unique adaptability can reshape rigid systems, how it both fights and fuels misinformation, how AI can be both good and bad depending on how it is used, and why its funding model may ultimately determine whether AI serves learners or short-circuits their growth.
What if the most transformative aspect of AI for schools isn’t its intelligence, but its adaptability?
Most technologies make us adjust to them. We have to learn how they work and adapt our behavior. Industrial machines, enterprise software, even a basic thermostat—they all come with instructions and patterns we need to learn and follow.
Education highlights this dynamic in a different way. How does education’s “factory model” work when students don’t come to school as standardized raw inputs? In many ways, schools expect students to conform to the requirements of the system—show up on time, sharpen your pencil before class, sit quietly while the teacher is talking, raise your hand if you want to speak. Those social norms are expectations we place on students so that standardized education can work. But as anyone who has tried to manage a group of six-year-olds knows, a class of students is full of complicated humans who never fully conform to what the system expects. So, teachers serve as the malleable middle layer. They adapt standardized systems to make them work for real students. Without that human adaptability, the system would collapse.
Same thing in manufacturing. Edgar Schein notes that engineers aim to design systems that run themselves. But operators know systems never work perfectly. Their job—and often their sense of professional identity—is about having the expertise to adapt and adjust when things inevitably go off-script. Human adaptability in the face of rigid systems keeps everything running.
So, how does this relate to AI? AI breaks the mold of most machines and systems humans have designed and dealt with throughout history. It doesn’t just follow its algorithm and expect us to learn how to use it. It adapts to us, like how teachers or factory operators adapt to the realities of the world to compensate for the rigidity of standardized systems.
You don’t need a coding background or a manual. You just speak to it. (I literally hit the voice-to-text button and talk to it like I’m explaining something to a person.) Messy, natural human language—the age-old human-to-human interface that our brains are wired to pick up on as infants—has become the interface for large language models. In other words, what makes today’s AI models amazing is their ability to use our interface, rather than asking us to learn theirs.
For me, the early hype about “prompt engineering” never really made sense. It assumed that success with AI required becoming an AI whisperer who knew how to speak AI’s language. But in my experience, working well with AI is less about learning special ways to talk to AI and more about just being a clear communicator, just like a good teacher or a good manager.
Now imagine this: what if AI becomes the new malleable middle layer across all kinds of systems? Not just a tool, but an adaptive bridge that makes other rigid, standardized systems work well together. If AI can make interoperability nearly frictionless—adapting to each system and context, rather than forcing people to adapt to it—that could be transformative. It’s not hard to see how this shift might ripple far beyond technology into how we organize institutions, deliver services, and design learning experiences.
Consider two concrete examples of how this might transform schools. First, our current system heavily relies on the written word as the medium for assessing students’ learning. To be clear, writing is an important skill that students need to develop to help them navigate the world beyond school. Yet at the same time, schools’ heavy reliance on writing as the medium for demonstrating learning creates barriers for students with learning disabilities, neurodivergent learners, or English language learners—all of whom may have a deep understanding but struggle to express it through writing in English. AI could serve as that adaptive layer, allowing students to demonstrate their knowledge and receive feedback through speech, visual representations, or even their native language, while still ensuring rigorous assessment of their actual understanding.
Second, it’s obvious that students don’t all learn at the same pace—yet we’ve forced learning to happen at a uniform timeline because individualized pacing quickly becomes completely unmanageable when teachers are on their own to cover material and provide feedback to their students. So instead, everyone spends the same number of weeks on each unit of content and then moves to the next course or grade level together, regardless of individual readiness. Here again, AI could serve as that adaptive layer for keeping track of students’ individual learning progressions and then serving up customized feedback, explanations, and practice opportunities based on students’ individual needs.
Third, success in school isn’t just about academics—it’s about knowing how to navigate the system itself. Students need to know how to approach teachers for help, track announcements for tryouts and auditions, fill out paperwork for course selections, and advocate for themselves to get into the classes they want. These navigation skills become even more critical for college applications and financial aid. But there are huge inequities here because much of this knowledge comes from social capital—having parents or peers who already understand how the system works. AI could help level the playing field by serving as that adaptive coaching layer, guiding any student through the bureaucratic maze rather than expecting them to figure it out on their own or rely on family connections to decode the system.
Can AI help solve the problem of misinformation?
Most people I talk to are skeptical of the idea in this subhead—and understandably so.
We’ve all seen the headlines: deep fakes, hallucinated facts, bots that churn out clickbait. AI, many argue, will supercharge misinformation, not solve it. Others worry that overreliance on AI could make people less critical and more passive, outsourcing their thinking instead of sharpening it.
But what if that’s not the whole story?
Here’s what gives me hope: AI’s ability to spot falsehoods and surface truth at scale might be one of its most powerful—and underappreciated—capabilities.
First, consider what makes misinformation so destructive. It’s not just that people believe wrong facts. It’s that people build vastly different mental models of what’s true and real. They lose any shared basis for reasoning through disagreements. Once that happens, dialogue breaks down. Facts don’t matter because facts aren’t shared.
Traditionally, countering misinformation has required human judgment and painstaking research, both time-consuming and limited in scale. But AI changes the equation.
Unlike any single person, a large language model (LLM) can draw from an enormous base of facts, concepts, and contextual knowledge. LLMs know far more facts from their training data than any person can learn in a lifetime. And when paired with tools like a web browser or citation database, they can investigate claims, check sources, and explain discrepancies.
Imagine reading a social media post and getting a sidebar summary—courtesy of AI—that flags misleading statistics, offers missing context, and links to credible sources. Not months later, not buried in the comments—instantly, as the content appears. The technology to do this already exists.
Of course, AI is not perfect as a fact-checker. When large language models generate text, they aren’t producing precise queries of facts; they’re making probabilistic guesses at what the right response should be based on their training, and sometimes those guesses are wrong. (Just like human experts, they also generate answers by drawing on their expertise, and they sometimes get things wrong.) AI also has its own blind spots and biases based on the biases it inherits from its training data.
But in many ways, both hallucinations and biases in AI are easier to detect and address than the false statements and biases that come from millions of human minds across the internet. AI’s decision rules can be audited. Its output can be tested. Its propensity to hallucinate can be curtailed. That makes it a promising foundation for improving trust, at least compared to the murky, decentralized mess of misinformation we’re living in now.
This doesn’t mean AI will eliminate misinformation. But it could dramatically increase the accessibility of accurate information, and reduce the friction it takes to verify what’s true. Of course, most platforms don’t yet include built-in AI fact-checking, and even if they did, that approach would raise important concerns. Do we trust the sources that those companies prioritize? The rules their systems follow? The incentives that guide how their tools are designed? But beyond questions of trust, there’s a deeper concern: when AI passively flags errors or supplies corrections, it risks turning users into passive recipients of “answers” rather than active seekers of truth. Learning requires effort. It’s not just about having the right information—it’s about asking good questions, thinking critically, and grappling with ideas. That’s why I think one of the most important things to teach young people about how to use AI is to treat it as a tool for interrogating the information and ideas they encounter, both online and from AI itself. Just like we teach students to proofread their writing or double-check their math, we should help them develop habits of mind that use AI to spark their own inquiry—to question claims, explore perspectives, and dig deeper into the truth.
Still, this focuses on just one side of the story. As powerful as AI may be for fact-checking, it will inevitably be used to generate deepfakes and spin persuasive falsehoods.
AI isn’t just good or bad—it’s both. The future of education depends on how we use it.
Much of the commentary around AI takes a strong stance: either it’s an incredible force for progress or it’s a terrifying threat to humanity. These bold perspectives make for compelling headlines and persuasive arguments. But in reality, the world is messy. And most transformative innovations—AI included—cut both ways.
History is full of examples of technologies that have advanced society in profound ways while also creating new risks and challenges. The Industrial Revolution made it possible to mass-produce goods that have dramatically improved the quality of life for billions. It has also fueled pollution and environmental degradation. The internet connects communities, opens access to knowledge, and accelerates scientific progress—but it also fuels misinformation, addiction, and division. Nuclear energy can power cities—or obliterate them.
AI is no different. It will do amazing things. It will do terrible things. The question isn’t whether AI will be good or bad for humanity—it’s how the choices of its users and developers will determine the directions it takes.
Because I work in education, I’ve been especially focused on the impact of AI on learning. AI can make learning more engaging, more personalized, and more accessible. It can explain concepts in multiple ways, adapt to your level, provide feedback, generate practice exercises, or summarize key points. It’s like having a teaching assistant on demand to accelerate your learning.
But it can also short-circuit the learning process. Why wrestle with a hard problem when AI will just give you the answer? Why wrestle with an idea when you can ask AI to write the essay for you? And even when students have every intention of learning, AI can create the illusion of learning while leaving understanding shallow.
This double-edged dynamic isn’t limited to learning. It’s also apparent in the world of work. AI is already making it easier for individuals to take on entrepreneurial projects that would have previously required whole teams. A startup no longer needs to hire a designer to create its logo, a marketer to build its brand assets, or an editor to write its press releases. In the near future, you may not even need to know how to code to build a software product. AI can help individuals turn ideas into action with far fewer barriers. And for those who feel overwhelmed by the idea of starting something new, AI can coach them through it, step by step. We may be on the front end of a boom in entrepreneurship unlocked by AI.
At the same time, however, AI is displacing many of the entry-level knowledge jobs that people have historically relied on to get their careers started. Tasks like drafting memos, doing basic research, or managing spreadsheets—once done by junior staff—can increasingly be handled by AI. That shift is making it harder for new graduates to break into the workforce and develop their skills on the job.
One way to mitigate these challenges is to build AI tools that are designed to support learning, not circumvent it. For example, Khan Academy’s Khanmigo helps students think critically about the material they’re learning rather than just giving them answers. It encourages ideation, offers feedback, and prompts deeper understanding—serving as a thoughtful coach, not a shortcut. But the deeper issue AI brings into focus is that our education system often treats learning as a means to an end—a set of hoops to jump through on the way to a diploma. To truly prepare students for a world shaped by AI, we need to rethink that approach. First, we should focus less on teaching only the skills AI can already do well. And second, we should make learning more about pursuing goals students care about—goals that require curiosity, critical thinking, and perseverance. Rather than training students to follow a prescribed path, we should be helping them learn how to chart their own. That’s especially important in a world where career paths are becoming less predictable, and opportunities often require the kind of initiative and adaptability we associate with entrepreneurs.
In short, AI is just the latest technological double-edged sword. It can support learning, or short-circuit it. Boost entrepreneurship—or displace entry-level jobs. The key isn’t to declare AI good or bad, but to recognize that it’s both, and then to be intentional about how we shape its trajectory.
That trajectory won’t be determined by technical capabilities alone. Who pays for AI, and what they pay it to do, will influence whether it evolves to support human learning, expertise, and connection, or to exploit our attention, take our jobs, and replace our relationships.
What actually determines whether AI helps or harms?
When people talk about the opportunities and risks of artificial intelligence, the conversation tends to focus on the technology’s capabilities—what it might be able to do, what it might replace, what breakthroughs lie ahead. But just focusing on what the technology does—both good and bad—doesn’t tell the whole story. The business model behind a technology influences how it evolves.
For example, when advertisers are the paying customer, as they are for many social media platforms, products tend to evolve to maximize user engagement and time-on-platform. That’s how we ended up with doomscrolling—endless content feeds optimized to occupy our attention so companies can show us more ads, often at the expense of our well-being.
That incentive could be particularly dangerous with AI. If you combine superhuman persuasion tools with an incentive to monopolize users’ attention, the results will be deeply manipulative. And this gets at a concern my colleague Julia Freeland Fisher has been raising: What happens if AI systems start to displace human connection? If AI becomes your go-to for friendship or emotional support, it risks crowding out the real relationships in your life.
Whether or not AI ends up undermining human relationships depends a lot on how it’s paid for. An AI built to hold your attention and keep you coming back might try to be your best friend. But an AI built to help you solve problems in the real world will behave differently. That kind of AI might say, “Hey, we’ve been talking for a while—why not go try out some of the things we’ve discussed?” or “Sounds like it’s time to take a break and connect with someone you care about.”
Some decisions made by the major AI companies seem encouraging. Sam Altman, OpenAI’s CEO, has said that adopting ads would be a last resort. “I’m not saying OpenAI would never consider ads, but I don’t like them in general, and I think that ads-plus-AI is sort of uniquely unsettling to me.” Instead, most AI developers like OpenAI and Anthropic have turned to user subscriptions, an incentive structure that doesn’t steer as hard toward addictiveness. OpenAI is also exploring AI-centric hardware as a business model—another experiment that seems more promising for user wellbeing.
So far, we’ve been talking about the directions AI will take as companies develop their technologies for individual consumers, but there’s another angle worth considering: how AI gets adopted into the workplace. One of the big concerns is that AI will be used to replace people, not necessarily because it does the job better, but because it’s cheaper. That decision often comes down to incentives. Right now, businesses pay a lot in payroll taxes and benefits for every employee, but they get tax breaks when they invest in software and machines. So, from a purely financial standpoint, replacing people with technology can look like a smart move. In the book, The Once and Future Worker, Oren Cass discusses this problem and suggests flipping that script—taxing capital more and labor less—so companies aren’t nudged toward cutting jobs just to save money. That change wouldn’t stop companies from using AI, but it would encourage them to deploy it in ways that complement, rather than replace, human workers.
Currently, while AI companies operate without sustainable business models, they’re buoyed by investor funding. Investors are willing to bankroll companies with little or no revenue today because they see the potential for massive profits in the future. But that investor model creates pressure to grow rapidly and acquire as many users as possible, since scale is often a key metric of success in venture-backed tech. That drive for rapid growth can push companies to prioritize user acquisition over thoughtful product development, potentially at the expense of safety, ethics, or long-term consequences.
Given these realities, what can parents and educators do? First, they can be discerning customers. There are many AI tools available, and the choices they make matter. Rather than simply opting for what’s most entertaining or immediately useful, they can support companies whose business models and design choices reflect a concern for users’ well-being and societal impact.
Second, they can be vocal. Journalists, educators, and parents all have platforms—whether formal or informal—to raise questions, share concerns, and express what they hope to see from AI companies. Public dialogue helps shape media narratives, which in turn shape both market forces and policy decisions.
Third, they can advocate for smart, balanced regulation. As I noted above, AI shouldn’t be regulated as if it’s either all good or all bad. But reasonable guardrails can ensure that AI is developed and used in ways that serve the public good. Just as the customers and investors in a company’s value network influence its priorities, so too can policymakers play a constructive role as value network actors by creating smart policies that promote general welfare when market incentives fall short.
In sum, a company’s value network—who its investors are, who pays for its products, and what they hire those products to do—determines what companies optimize for. And in AI, that choice might shape not just how the technology evolves, but how it impacts our lives, our relationships, and our society.
Thomas Arnett, The Clayton Christensen Institute
Thomas Arnett is a senior research fellow for the Clayton Christensen Institute. His work focuses on using the Theory of Disruptive Innovation to study innovative instructional models and their potential to scale student-centered learning in K–12 education. He also studies demand for innovative resources and practices across the K–12 education system using the Jobs to Be Done Theory.
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Are you thinking about starting a podcast? I invited Dr. Anna Clemens to share her podcasting journey. We talk about how social media and online presence has changed for researchers in 2025. And, how storytelling can help people connect with your research in meaningful ways.
Dr. Anna Clemens is an academic writing coach who specializes in scientific research papers. She runs the Researchers’ Writing Academy, an online course where she helps researchers to get published in high-ranking journals without lacking structure in the writing process.
Jennifer van Alstyne: Hi everyone, this is Jennifer Van Alstyne. Welcome to the Social Academic Podcast. I’m here with Dr. Anna Clemens of the Researchers’ Writing Academy. Anna, I’m so happy to have you here today. First, because you’re my friend and we’ve been trying to do this for multiple years now. I’m so happy! And second because I want to share the program that you’ve created for scientists to help them write better. It’s actually something I’ve recommended to clients of mine, something clients of mine have participated in. So I wanted to share you with everyone who listens to the podcast. Would you please introduce yourself?
Dr. Anna Clemens: Yeah, of course. Thank you so much for having me. And I’m super excited. And it’s been such a joy having some of your clients in the program.
I run a program called the Researchers’ Writing Academy, where we help researchers, well, kind of develop a really structured writing process so they can get published in the journals they want to get published in. We kind of look a bit more toward top-tier journals, high-impact journals. But honestly, what we teach kind of helps you wherever you want to go.
I have a background in chemistry. So my PhD’s in chemistry and I transitioned into writing after that. So it’s a really fun way to be able to combine kind of my scientific knowledge with writing and helping folks to get published and make that all really time efficient.
Jennifer: Gosh, that’s amazing. I think that I did not have a lot of writing support when I was in grad school. And I really felt like even though I’m an excellent writer, like I’m a creative writer, like that’s what I went to school for.
Anna: You write poetry.
Jennifer: I write poetry and I think I’m a good academic writer, but I feel like I had to teach myself all of that. And it was a lot of correction after something was already submitted in order to bring it closer to what was actually publishable.
Anna: Right.
Jennifer: I lost so much time by not knowing things. So I love that you created a program to support people who maybe aren’t getting the training that they need to publish in those high impact journals.
Anna: Yeah, because that’s so common. Like, honestly, who gets good academic writing training? That’s really almost nobody.
I often see even people who do go on, do some kind of course of their university if they offer some kind of course. They’re often not really so focused on the things that I’m teaching, which is like a lot of storytelling and a lot like being efficient with your writing, like kind of the step by step. You kind of often know just like academic English, how do I sound good? And I think honestly, this is less important than knowing how to really tell a story in your paper and having that story be consistent and not losing time by all the like edits and rewrites, etc., that are so frustrating to do.
Storytelling for Researchers and Scientists
Jennifer: Hmm, you brought up storytelling. That’s really insightful.
As a creative writer, story is so important to the words that we create and how people can connect with them. Why is storytelling important for researchers?
Anna: Well, I think it’s because we’re all humans, right? So we just as humans, really need storytelling to be able to access information in the best way and to connect to that information and to kind of put it into the kind of frameworks that we have already in our minds.
This is what a lot of researchers really overestimate is like, your research is so incredibly specific, right? It’s so much, like that thing to you, it’s all like when you’re doing it, you’re like, of course you know every detail about it. And you just forget how little other people know. It’s even if they’re in the same field because we always think, “Oh, no, everyone knows what I know.” Also a bit this feeling of like, not quite realizing like, it’s also called like the experts curse I think, when you are an expert in something, and you don’t realize how little other people know. And you kind of undervalue what you know.
So anyway, if you really want your papers to be read, if you want to get published, you need to be able to, to make it accessible to like the journal editor, right? The peer reviewers, but also the readers later, they need to be able to understand the data in a way that makes sense to them. And I think that’s where storytelling comes in. Also, it really helps with structuring the writing process. Like honestly, if you think about storytelling first, the really nice side effect is your writing process will be a lot easier because you don’t have to go back and edit quite so many times.
Jennifer: Oh, that’s fascinating. So not only does it improve how the research is being communicated It improves the process of writing it too.
Anna: I think so. Yeah, because when you’re clear on the story, everything is clear in your head from the start. And you don’t need to kind of . . . I mean, when you write a paper for the first time, or even people who’ve written a few papers, they still sometimes start writing with the introduction. And it’s such a waste of time. Like they just start at the start, right? And then they end up like deleting all those paragraphs and all those words after when they actually have written so much that they then after a while understand the story that they want to tell. And instead, what I’m suggesting is like, define the story first. And I like guide people through how to do that.
Because I think the problem is you don’t really know how to do it when you don’t have like a framework for it. You have kind of the framework there from the start. So you know what the story is and you don’t have to kind of figure out the story while you’re writing. Instead, you know what the story is and the way I’m teaching it, I’m like giving people prompts so that it’s really easy to define the story because also story is really elusive, I think. Or we use it in this elusive way often when we like we kind of use it as like a throwaway term. Oh, yeah, you you should tell a story in your paper. And you go like, “Yeah, I guess. But what does that mean?” I’m trying to like give a definition for that. So that is like really clear. Okay?
Jennifer: I appreciate that. I think so many people aren’t sure what it means. And even if they think they know what it means, they don’t necessarily know how it applies to their scientific writing. So that’s really interesting.
Researchers’ Writing Academy
Jennifer: I want to talk about podcasts, but actually, since we’re already talking about program stuff right now, I’m curious about the format of your program because people who are listening to this may not be familiar with your work. And I want to make sure that they get to hear about all the cool things that they get if they join.
Anna: Yeah, the Researchers’ Writing Academy is very comprehensive.
Jennifer: Yeah, in a good way.
Anna: It’s almost hard to tell people about it because there’s so much in there. So, what people get is like, there’s an online course, we call it the journal publication formula, that’s like the step-by-step system, walks you through online lessons that you can watch, super short digestible lessons that walk you through step-by-step. So you can just write your paper alongside the lessons.
And then because we noticed that you really may want some help actually writing in your day to day work, right? Because we’re also incredibly busy. And then it’s just helpful to have some kind of accountability, some community, and that’s what we offer as well. So we do a lot of things around accountability and we have like, cowriting sessions, for example, where we meet, we have six now, six per week across time zones.
Jennifer: Wow, that’s amazing! So if you’re anywhere in the world, there’s a chance that one of those six times during the day will work for you. Oh my gosh, that’s so cool.
Anna: Yeah. I mean, they should work. I mean for Europe and the US, most of them will work. Or not, but it depends where in the US you are, etc. But even like a few in Australia, there’s at least one per week that will work for you depending on how long you want to stay up. Some people do, we have one client who comes, he likes to do writing after his kids are in bed. So he loves nine to 10pm, you know, like, yeah. So yeah, there’s a lot. And we do like, writing retreats every now and again, and writing sprints. So we like offer a lot of support around that. And we have like a really lovely community that are so supportive. Actually, I just talked to one member today, and she just got promoted to full professor.
Jennifer: Exciting
Anna: And she was like, “I couldn’t have done it without this community.” This was so like, valuable, not only getting the feedback on her article, but also, just knowing that like, there’s the support. And that’s really, I mean, that’s so lovely for me to hear, because this is honestly what I dreamed of. This is what I wanted to build. And it’s really nice knowing that people do, you know, really, not only reach career goals, but have a supportive community because academia can be a little toxic.
Jennifer: Yeah, yeah, there’s so many reports that have come out and said, mental health struggles, toxicity, it’s consistent. Yeah.
Anna: And honestly, writing plays a big part in that, because like, kind of the way we are normally not talking about writing. I think writing like, it’s, you sometimes see like, more seasoned academics. They sometimes are really good at writing and then act as if they have it all figured out, but not share their process. So you as like a novice writer think, “Shit, I should have figured it out. Like, why do I not know how this works?”
Jennifer: This is easy for them.
Anna: Yeah, exactly. The other day, someone said to me, “Yeah, I know this professor and he just writes his paper while I’m talking to him at a conference.” And I’m like, “Oh, okay, this is an interesting process.”
Jennifer: Wow. Like, it’s so clear in his brain that he can focus on that and a conversation at the same time. Fascinating.
Anna: Fascinating. And honestly, you don’t have to do that. But she kind of thought like, “This is who I have to be. This is how I have to do it.” That creates so much pressure. And yeah, writing just hits like, emotionally, it’s really hard, right? When we feel like we are procrastinating, when we have really low confidence in our writing and just feel really disappointed in ourselves because we’re like overly perfectionistic, can’t send stuff off, keep like, you know, refining sentences. It’s just really, really hard.
This is really why a community is so beautiful when we can all just open up about how hard it is and also give each other tips. Like, I just love when people, you know, share also what’s working for them. And like, down to little techniques. Like the other day, someone was sharing in the community about how they started having like their Friday afternoons as like a margin in their calendar. So, if they didn’t get, you know, to all the things they had done, if there was any derailing event, they still had like time on a Friday. A little hack like that, right?
That just like makes you more productive, makes you just honestly feel better about your work. Because we’re really tough on ourselves often. Like we’re really harsh and just, you know, having like a community that has this kind of spirit of being kind to yourself and working with your brain and not against it. Yeah, that’s really, really . . . that’s a really lovely place. Really supportive.
Jennifer: That sounds amazing. I’m curious about who should join your program because it sounds like it’s so supportive. It sounds like there’s community and accountability and training. So, I love all of that, but there’s probably some people who the program’s not right for. So, like, maybe who shouldn’t join and who should definitely join?
Anna: Yeah, that’s a good question. I mean, it is in terms of like career stage, it’s pretty open from PhD student up to professor. And we have all of those kind of career stages in the program. The biggest group is assistant professors, just so you know, like who you can expect to be in the program. And also the PhD students who are in there are often older. It’s really interesting. They’re often like second kind of career type students who maybe have, you know, chosen that path a little later in life. Just a little side note. It’s kind of interesting.
Jennifer: I think that makes so much sense because if I’m going back for like a PhD later on, I’m like, “I’m going to get all the support that I can to make the most of this time.” And joining a program like yours would make so much sense to me.
Anna: Yeah, they’re probably also busier most of the time because their parents or other stuff going on in their lives already.
Jennifer: Yeah, that’s what makes it easier to have time for like the life and the people that you care about because you already have these processes in place.
Anna: Yeah, yeah. So as to who shouldn’t join or who this wouldn’t be a good fit for, we don’t actually serve researchers in the humanities. So there’s this really science-based, social sciences included. And you know, physical sciences, life science, earth science, all the sciences we are super happy to have inside the program just because the general publication formula is super focused on just that type of research and really honestly quite focused on like original research papers, even though we have members who write review papers using it because honestly, the process isn’t very different. But we are like, just the examples, everything is from like original research papers. So just FYI.
Otherwise, I would say like we’re really super supportive and we don’t have like a lot of this like hustle culture, you know. This is all about, we don’t believe in like, having to wake up at 4am to have your whole three hour morning routine, including writing done, because a lot of us like have kids or have other kinds of commitments. So there is a lot of like kind of understanding that, you know, all of this has to work for real life. And not just for, I don’t know, people who have, yeah, men I guess who have a lot of support in the background traditionally, right? This is how research has been done. And yeah, even though we do have really lovely men in the program as well. So it’s not just women, but I guess this is kind of the approach that, yeah, we have in the community, in the academy.
Jennifer: I love that. So not hustle culture. More let’s learn these processes and have accountability together so that we can move towards this goal of publishing with kindness.
Anna: Yeah. It’s so funny, like this being kind. I mean, we often say like, “Be kind to yourself,” because sometimes we don’t achieve the goals we set, often we don’t achieve the goals we set ourselves, right? And what I always say is it’s a data point. Like, this was a really good data point this week, because just reflect on what happened. Oh, did your child get sick? Oh, there you go. So maybe you now need to have a process, what happens if my child gets sick? Because then, you can’t plan that, right? So you have to have, or it’s good to have in your kind of system, in your writing system, in your writing practice, that you account for that. Some kind of strategy, what you do when that happens. Or like, this took me a lot longer to complete, like, I thought I would get my introduction section done this week, but actually, I didn’t. Well, really good data point. Actually, maybe it takes you longer.
Look at how where you spend the time doing this section. This is really good to know for next time. Actually, maybe schedule one or two days more for this. So that’s kind of like the approach, the vibe that like is in there. So it’s not so, it’s not harsh.
Jennifer: Yeah, I like that vibe. That’s my kind of vibe.
Anna: Mine too. Yeah, mine too. And it really crystallized for me because I once was in a business coaching program where the vibe was really different. You probably remember me talking about this because I did tell you at the time, and it was so awful for me. And I really. . . but until then, it was really a bummer because I spent a lot of money on it.
Jennifer: And you’re like, “My community needs kindness and support for each other.
Anna: This was my big learning. Apparently, I needed to spend a lot of money to really have this like so, so clear that this is not for me. Like the bro-y culture is not for me. I need the kindness. Because otherwise, it doesn’t work. I don’t work like that if someone tells me I have to, I don’t know, have all these non-negotiables everyday.
Jennifer: Yeah, like change who you are.
Anna: Yeah, like you just have to do it. Like it’s just about the discipline. You know, I don’t think that works. I honestly don’t think it works in the long term. Like maybe you can force yourself for like a few months or years and then you’re burning out or something. Like, I just don’t see how this is a sensible approach.
Jennifer: No. And I remember at the time you mentioned that you felt burned out. Like you were being affected by the culture that you were experiencing. So creating a warm culture for people inside your program, the Researchers’ Writing Academy is wonderful. Everyone gets to benefit from your research.
Anna: Right? Yea!
Anna’s podcasting journey
Jennifer: So I want to chat a little bit about online presence because I mean, we met online, we mostly communicate online, but also like you have taken some actions this year in particular to have a stronger online presence through a new avenue, which is podcasting. I’m curious because when I started my podcast, it was like not very intentional. It was like, “Oh, I just better record this thing and like, it’s going to make it like a little more accessible than if it was just in writing.” And the podcast kind of evolved into a regular series after I had already decided to start it. Whereas you came in more with a plan, you had purpose, you had drive to do more episodes than I could imagine. And so what was it like to kind of get that spark of an idea that like, I want a podcast?
Anna: Yeah, I’ve had this, I mean, I had this desire for a long time. Many, many years. I always wanted to have a podcast.
Jennifer: Really?
Anna: Really because I listen to podcasts a lot. Like I’m really into them. And years ago, someone told me you would have such a good voice for podcasts. I was like, really? I don’t, because when you listen to your own voice, you’re like, “No, I don’t think so.” And I still don’t know whether this is really true, but I wanted to be more online. Like kind of, I wanted to have an online presence that wasn’t just social media.
Because honestly, I have such a weird relationship to social media, myself. It does like cognitively do something to my brain that isn’t always good, you know. Like hanging out there too much or getting sucked in, especially back on Twitter, now on Bluesky it’s a little bit like that too. There’s sometimes a lot of negativity. And I feel like people are too harsh, coming back to the being too harsh. I just can’t take it. Like, it’s not for me, but also just the fact that there’s just a lot going on there.
I wanted to be available to people somewhere else. And a podcast and I did actually simultaneously, like launch my podcast on YouTube as well. So it’s like a video podcast. That just made sense to me. Like, that just felt really aligned with what I like to consume, what I think my ideal clients like to consume. And where I also felt like I can like express myself, I guess, in a really good way. I mean, I do love writing, I do actually have a blog too. But it’s almost like when you have a blog, unless you’re like really, really good at SEO, which is a little hard in my niche, to be honest. Like nobody reads it, right? Unless you like amplify it through social media.
Jennifer: Actively sharing it. It’s its own marketing.
Anna: Yeah, yeah. So it’s still like social media connected. And I kind of wanted to have another avenue. Anyway, yeah. Talking also, I also like talking. So podcast made sense.
Jennifer: That’s amazing. When I started my podcast, it was kind of just like, you know, going on zoom and hitting record. What is your process like? Are there other people involved? What is the kind of behind the scenes for your podcast?
Anna: Yes, I have solo episodes. And I also have episodes with former clients or current clients actually, like members of the research as writing academy or alumni. And I also had one with one of my team members, our kind of client experience manager, Yvonne, where we talked about community. And I also had you on, right, as a guest expert. I think you’re the only guest expert actually we’ve had so far.
Jennifer: I feel so special. That’s amazing.
Anna: So yeah. The process for interviews, I would think of questions ahead of time. And we, for example, then chatted about the questions. This is also what I did with Yvonne. Just have a quick chat. I think both times it was written, like through Slack, just like, “Hey, does this make sense? Where do we want to go with this? Okay, maybe this should be a different discussion. Let’s focus on that.” And similar, actually, with the clients I interviewed. I would just send them a list of questions and be like,” Hey, you don’t need to prepare anything, but if you want to do” and then basically hop on and have a conversation and it’d be quite natural. And like this one where, you know, you don’t necessarily have to follow a script, you just go where it takes you.
For my solo episodes, it’s a little bit different where I do write an outline. And honestly, like, what surprised me was this took a lot of time. Even when I knew what I wanted to say, and maybe this is me being too perfect, too much of a perfectionist, because I would go back. So I’d write the outline, I would go back the next day or the day after I read it again and have more ideas. I’d be like, “No, no, this should be like this.” So, it took me a lot of time. But then also, I think the outlines got better and better and better. And then I was really, you know, proud of the episodes. I was like, “Yeah, I really expressed this, I think, in a good way.” Because what I did afterwards then is I took this transcript from that episode and turned those into a blog post.
Then with the blog post, I’m like, “Yeah, they’re really meaty. There’s so much in there.” Like, there’s so much longer than my other blog posts that were just blog posts without podcast episodes. So that was really interesting to me. Just like, you know, understanding I guess a little bit more about the process of writing or synthesizing ideas and concepts. And yeah, after the outline, I would record on my own, I would record the episodes with that outline like in front of me. So kind of a bullet point outline.
Jennifer: It sounds like your brain really likes the outlining process. And when you come back the second time, you have ideas to flush it out and tell the story even better. That’s really cool.
Anna: Yeah, it was honestly really fun writing those outlines. Because recording sometimes, especially in the beginning, was a little more stressful than I expected. It was shockingly stressful because I’m on video a lot. I thought it would be rather easy to record cause of my experience. And I think it would have been pretty easy if I just had done audio, but because I was also doing video, it felt a lot harder because it’s really hard to read an outline and look in the camera at the same time.
Jennifer: Oh yeah.
Anna: Like really, really hard. And I also couldn’t spend even more time like rehearsing the outline to the point where I didn’t need to look at it anymore. Like I didn’t feel like that made sense. And I was really struggling with that. And I was just like, being a little unhappy about it. Because when I talk, like when I’m like, I’m on a lot of calls, you know, inside the Academy, for example, or like interviews like this. And I find, for me it’s quite natural already to look at the camera. Like, I look at the camera a lot. But when I have an outline, you know, it’s like you do look at it. It was so hard. And actually, you helped me a lot with that.
Yeah, because I was sharing this, that I was really unhappy with my recordings because of, I wasn’t looking at the camera. And you said, “Well, look, so many people aren’t even recording video for that exact reason. And you’re putting something out that is less perfect than you hope will still be so useful to the people, to people watching it. Honestly, that doesn’t matter.” And then I was like, “Yeah, this is like perfectionism.” It was all right. I just wanted to have it perfect. And I had a different standard for myself. But I didn’t need to be there. Like I was just not there. And that was totally fine. It didn’t need to be quite as polished as I thought maybe it should be.
Jennifer: Yeah, and I think that we don’t give ourselves enough grace for like our first things, right? Like the first episodes, like the first launch of something new. Like, we want it to be really great because it’s new and because it represents us. But sometimes like, we’re just not there in terms of our own practice or our own skills, like something may need to build or improve for us to get to where we dream about being. And that’s okay. I really didn’t think, I didn’t have those negative feelings when I started my podcast, but so many of my clients and so many of the people that I’ve met along the way have talked about the first maybe five or six episodes being just such a struggle.
Looking at themselves on video, listening to themselves speak, doing the editing themselves. It brought up all of those feelings about like watching themselves and what it would be like for other people to watch them. But the truth is that like you are watching yourself and doing all of those things more than anyone else is. Like, if someone else is watching it, they may not even listen to or watch the entire thing. And if they are, maybe they’re doing something else, like cleaning up their room. You know, if it’s a podcast, it’s not something that people will always sit there and like stare at your face and look at everything you did that was wrong. That’s what we’re doing.
Anna: Yeah, yeah. Yeah. You’re so right.
Jennifer: For me, this year I have Sir Nic who does all of this kind of sound editing for me and he’s here in the virtual studio with us making sound levels all good. And then my husband Matthew does the video editing. So I don’t have to look at myself anymore or listen to myself. And it is so nice! It’s, oh my goodness, it’s such a relief for me to have those things off my plate. Do you have support on your team for podcast things or is it just the people who are working on, you know, the different kind of accountability coaching and things that are in the program?
Anna: Yeah, I did have support. So I outsource the editing, video and audio editing.
Jennifer: Love that.
Anna: I couldn’t have done it myself, honestly, like not so much. I mean, it takes a lot of time. I think people often underestimate just how much time this takes. And especially if you want the audio to be kind of good, you do want someone, an audio engineer I think. This was important to me to have like a decent microphone, decent audio. So I actually invested quite a lot in this space. I started recording in my former office. I’m not in there now anymore, but it had really high ceilings. So I put all these sound panels up, these like boards and I bought curtains that I now brought into this room as well to like reduce the echo. And that was just worth it to me. But yeah, I did have support. And then in-house, like on my team, my operations manager, she also helped me with the podcast. Like she would do a lot of like even reviewing episodes and suggesting maybe further edits. So I didn’t have to watch myself very much.
Jennifer: Oh, that’s great.
Anna: She would also take out little like clips from the episode that we then put on social media. Like as YouTube shorts, for example.
Jennifer: Yeah.
Anna: Yeah, so it was a really, really smooth process with a lot of support.
Jennifer: Yeah, getting support was something that I didn’t think my podcast deserved in the beginning, but now I feel like my listeners do. My listeners deserve that. If I can keep doing it for them, I’m going to. So I’m glad we got to chat about that because a lot of people are like, “Oh, I’m just going to go on Zoom and record.” And then maybe they’re surprised when the editing process is a lot longer. But also the first few episodes, if you’re starting something new like editing, like audio stuff, like even just being on video, it’s going to be hard. And it might not be as good as you want it to be at first, but it’s going to get better. It’s going to get better. Oh, before we… Oh, sorry. Go ahead.
Anna: No, no, no. I just said so true.
Social media for academics post-Elon
Jennifer: Well, I wanted to chat about the social media landscape and how things have been changing since Elon took over Twitter. I know you are on Bluesky now. I would love to hear a little bit about your experience of that platform.
Anna: Yeah, I’m on Bluesky now and I’m not on X or Twitter anymore. I mean, I do still have the account, but I don’t check it anymore. Some people are still finding me through there, though. That’s kind of interesting. I see it in my data, but I haven’t logged in in like months. Bluesky is very similar to Twitter, honestly, in the sense of the type of conversations that are happening there. But at least for me, there’s a lot less engagement than there was. And I’m actually wondering whether a lot of academics gave up on social media after Twitter went downhill, because there was this like really great academic community on Twitter through which I guess we met.
Jennifer: Yeah.
Anna: Back in the day. And I don’t see that happening on Bluesky. Bluesky does have a few other features, like additional features though that I really like. Like the way you can customize your feed a lot better. You can create those lists. So if you’re new to Bluesky, you can just like, there’s probably a list for researchers in your field.
“I struggle with writing a compelling story that is interesting outside of my field, yet doesn’t oversell my data.” ✍️
Jennifer: Yeah, like the starter packs and the different lists you could put together.
Anna: Exactly, starter packs. That’s what it’s called. Yeah. So you can just like hit follow all and you already have a feed full of people you want to have in your feed. And getting started is kind of really cool on Bluesky. I do think, I don’t know, something is different about the algorithm over there, but I’m not an expert. I don’t really know, but it feels like not as much things are like going viral per se.
Jennifer: Yeah.
Anna: Maybe a little more one to one.
Jennifer: Yeah. Oh, that’s really interesting. When I when I first joined Bluesky, which was much later than everyone else. It was really just last month. I found that it was very quiet. I connected with the people that were like the most talkative on Twitter. I hadn’t run Sky Follower Bridge or any of the tools to help me get connected yet because I wanted to see what the platform was like naturally. Like if someone was just signing up for the first time without having been on Twitter. And I was able to find people pretty easily. Like the people that I most often talked to or connected with, guests on The Social Academic, those kinds of things. But I wasn’t finding conversations. Like the people who I knew from social media weren’t talking all that much. They weren’t posting original content the way that they had on other platforms.
And when I did run Sky Follower Bridge and found all of the people from Threads, from X, etc. I realized that like so many people had accounts that they just hadn’t connected with people yet. Like they, you know, maybe started their account during the big X exodus and then they connected with 12 people because that’s who they found when they first got there. And when they didn’t find their community, it’s like maybe they stopped logging in. And I think that’s really normal for people. Like you’re going to look for the warmth in the conversations or just like the people talking and watching it, being able to see it without even participating in it. Like if you don’t see when you get there, it’s kind of like, “Well, why am I going to spend time in this space?” I had to do a lot more work than I expected in order to find the conversations. And I had to connect with a lot more people without knowing that they were going to follow me back. Like without that anticipation in order for me to feel connected. But once I did that, once I was following, like I follow like over a thousand people now, once I did that, it started to feel like old Twitter to me. Like the community and conversation. Yeah, there’s a lot of people who aren’t talking there, but I was just surprised how much effort it took to get to that feeling. More than other platforms for me.
Anna: Do you enjoy it now? Like the way you liked Twitter?
Jennifer: You know, I don’t think I really enjoy any one social media platform over another anymore. I feel like my relationship with creating content has changed a lot in that I found more ease and I found less pressure and I found like good processes that work for me. And because of that, I don’t spend a lot of time on social media. Like I’m not on there browsing for conversations the way that I think I did when I was on X. Like old Twitter, I liked spending time there and jumping into conversations. And now social media is more, I don’t intentionally put in my day as much anymore. That’s what it is. And I like that. I like how my relationship with social media has changed. But no, I haven’t gone back to how I engaged in old Twitter, I think. What about you?
Anna: That makes sense. Yeah, it’s similar for me, actually. I have to say I go through phases with it. So I do put out like content on several platforms like Threads, Bluesky and LinkedIn and then like YouTube as shorts. And I do go in and kind of check, does anyone comment? Like is anyone starting a conversation? I do this several times a week. But I don’t get sucked in as much anymore, if ever. Yeah, and I’m like super intentional about the time I spend there, I guess.
Jennifer: How are you intentional?
Anna: Well, I kind of set myself a timer as well.
Jennifer: Oh, like a literal timer.
Anna: So I don’t let myself like do more than, I don’t know, five minutes per platform.
Jennifer: Really?!
Anna: If there is like, of course, if there is comments, like actual, interesting conversations to join, I will, you know, override, but I’m really trying not to, not to get sucked in because it’s so easy for me. I don’t know. My brain is really-
Jennifer: That is really smart. I’ve never set a timer for that short amount of time. I’ll be like 30 minutes, you know, 30 minutes a day. Like if I’m going to have a timer maybe that’s what I would set it for. But five minutes is so much more specific, direct. That would wake my brain up. I should try something like that if I get sucked in again.
Anna: Yeah, I like it. I do like it. And because now I feel like the social media landscape for academics has changed in a way. They’re used to be, or for me they’re used to be just Twitter. I was basically just on Twitter and I didn’t really do anything on any other platform whereas now it’s a lot more spread out. And, I don’t know, there’s good and bad things about that. But now I feel like, “Okay, I need to spend time on LinkedIn. I need to spend on Blue Sky and on Threads.” So, you know, I just can’t spend like that much time anymore on just one platform. So it has to be kind of a bit more time efficient.
Jennifer: Okay, so you’re on Bluesky, Mastodon, YouTube, LinkedIn-
Anna: I’m not on Mastodon. Threads.
Jennifer: Not on Mastodon. Threads, LinkedIn and YouTube.
Where can people find your blog and your podcast? I want people to be able to get connected with you after this.
Anna: Thank you so much for that lovely conversation. And it was so fun finally being a guest on your show.
Jennifer: I’m so happy. Anna, I am so happy to have shared the Researchers’ Writing Academy with people because I really believe in your program. I believe in the process. And I know that you’re someone who goes in and updates things and improves them. And so I’ve always recommended the Researchers’ Writing Academy to professors. And I really encourage you if you’re listening to this to check it out.
Jennifer receives no monies or gift when you sign up for the Researchers’ Writing Academy or any of the other recommendations she shares on The Social Academic.
Dr Anna Clemens is an academic writing coach who specializes in scientific research papers. She runs the Researchers’ Writing Academy, an online course where she helps researchers to get published in high-ranking journals without lacking structure in the writing process.
Sign up for Anna’s free training on how to develop a structured writing process to get published in top-tier journals efficiently.
