Earlier this year I uploaded a little over one hundred book summaries onto my website. The short summaries were in many ways the culmination of hundreds and hundreds of hours of reading, note-taking, and studying that I had done in preparation for my qualifying exams. At the end of the process I thought about all of that work that had gone into them and realized that it would be a shame to simply file them away for my own personal use. I might post them to Stanford’s internal history graduate archive, I might forward a few to colleagues or students, but that’s about it.
Book summaries of this kind represent an odd gray zone in the humanities. They’re a slightly more refined version of the scribbled notes that all of us take during classes, workshops, conferences, and colloquia. They aren’t critical reviews meant to stimulate evaluation and debate. They aren’t scholarship. They are certainly not anything I would put in a tenure file. Instead they’re the boring, nuts-and-bolts side of being an historian – ingesting several hundred pages of material and condensing it into a short, schematic summary. But this gray zone is also an important part of our profession. It’s what quals are all about: establishing a command (however tenuous) over the literature in the field. I hear laments all the time about how difficult it is to maintain that command, to keep all of the books in your field crammed into your head. My aim in making these summaries available is to try and aid that process on a superficial level. Nobody is going to be able to write a paper or teach a lecture using these summaries. But they do serve as a quick-and-dirty reference tool: “I keep seeing Kathy Peiss’s Cheap Amusements cited by urban historians. What exactly was it about?” Reading a short, four-hundred word schematic can be a lot faster and easier to digest than searching JSTOR for scholarly reviews, many of which offer only a brief summary of arguments before launching into historiographic debates or evaluative criticism.
I had some minor hesitation about putting the book summaries online. These were written for my own use and, I’m certain, contain the types of inevitable errors that originate from trying to churn out two books a day during the crunch-time of studying for quals. What if I had mischaracterized someone’s argument? What if I missed their point entirely? What if colleagues or job committees or (shudder) the actual author stumbled across those errors? All of these concerns are, of course, patently absurd. The idea of Amy Dru Stanley actually finding, reading, and taking offense at how I summarized her concept of postbellum contract ideology is laughable. More philosophical concerns involve a broader critique of the superficiality of the internet: when you can find everything at the click of a button, what incentive is there to actually learn things on your own? Despite my obvious embrace of technology, I have some sympathy for this viewpoint. The countless hours of reading and synthesizing that went into studying for quals was as valuable (if not more so) for developing the skill of reading books as it was for the content of the books themselves. Yes, a college freshman might take the lazy route and write a (poor) final paper based largely off of these summaries, thereby cheating themselves out of a valuable experience of learning to read and write effectively. But ultimately I had the same reaction to this concern as I did for related critiques of the digital “culture of distraction”: closing off content is not the answer to the problem.
Which brings me to the title of my post: “giving it away.” Like many in the digital humanities, I advocate for openness: open access, open data, open source. This commitment to openness is one of the hallmarks of a field dedicated to collaborative research and expanding the definition of scholarship. But I’m less concerned with humanists who know how to code or are self-professed THATCamp junkies than I am with people who will never attach the “digital” label to their title. While proselytizing digital humanists sometimes exaggerate the closed-off nature of “traditional” humanities into a straw-man, the fact remains: there isn’t a clear non-technical-humanities avenue for, say, uploading KML files onto GeoCommons or releasing a Ruby script on Sourceforge. A journal article or a monograph represents hundreds and hundreds of hours of work. Yet in the end, all of those notes and documents and transcripts and photographs usually end up just sitting on someone’s hard drive. We don’t have an established model for making them available.
For example, when I was doing research on free blacks in colonial New England, I photographed and transcribed dozens of property deeds from town vaults. I reference many of these in the endnotes of an article, but this is only useful to someone who is able to travel to the local archives of Haddam, Connecticut, pull out a volume of property deeds, and laboriously pore over the hand-written pages. What about a genealogist tracing family roots to central Connecticut? Or a researcher looking into colonial rural debtor patterns? Being able to see and read the documents on their computer is a lot more useful than trying to follow the breadcrumb trail of scholarly endnotes. And that doesn’t even touch on all of the transcriptions and sources that I didn’t end up using in the article. I see this kind of material in the same light as my book summaries: they aren’t original scholarship, but they are a crucial component of my work as an historian that should be shared.
I’m not calling for a robust online repository where people like me can upload humanistic material. I know juuuuust enough about digital archiving to know that this kind of proposal is far, far more complex anyone (myself included) might imagine. Instead, I’m simply calling for humanities scholars to give more things away. I’m less concerned with the particulars of how it’s done than the broader culture that accompanies it. I don’t expect busy professors with limited technical expertise to spend hours and hours formatting their material, meticulously attaching metadata, or publicizing its availability. Archivists and open-access champions might shudder at the thought of individual people tossing poorly-documented material into isolated, worryingly ephemeral online silos. But I think the very process of making things available on an individual level, however ad-hoc or clumsily executed, is an important step for a discipline without a strong culture of openness. The broader humanities (not just the digital humanities) need to develop a stronger disciplinary habit of giving things away.
10 thoughts on “Giving It Away”
Thanks for this. A great example of how much useful stuff we all produce that couldn’t be published in any traditional forms.
A single online repository is probably impractical. (Although really, if it only included text, something could probably get thrown together at a THATcamp).
I do wonder if the archivists would be right to shudder at the ‘poorly formatted’ nature; putting stuff online to be indexed just by Google is a little weird. Probably we should be changing citation patterns to include some sort of unique identifier (LCCN, I guess) with each of those books–then they could get spun back into the body of scholarship in all sorts of ways.
Great points. I agree that archivists are absolutely right to shudder at formatting concerns and I think the ephemerality of this kind of indexing is particularly worrying – for instance, what happens if I let my domain registration lapse in a couple of years? Unfortunately, I just can’t see too many academics putting in the time to get it right unless there is some centralized, incredibly low-barrier repository to dump things into (equally problematic). From a pragmatic standpoint I would rather see people getting into the habit of making things available than not, even if it’s done poorly.
For sure, and the cultural barriers to sharing are I think much greater than the technical ones to making shared content accessible. So it’s definitely OK–and probably necessary–that we go a few years before figuring out just how to make things discoverable/preservable.
Hi, Cameron. Great post – I really love this call for sharing. In the spirit of “great minds think alike,” I offer you a paper I gave at the MLA in January, a version of which is forthcoming in the Journal of Scholarly Publishing: Giving It Away: The Future of Scholarly Communication.
Thanks Kathleen! I really enjoyed your paper and think I must have sub-consciously internalized its title at some point…
I really do hope that the humanities develops more of a culture of sharing, but I think progress is likely to vary quite a bit, especially with respect to the type of work that gets shared. Book summaries and notes aren’t just technically easier to put online – being just text, for the most part – they also have a couple of other advantages.
First, books are more or less standard, discrete units, and you can standardize how you cite and refer to them – perhaps using Ben’s suggestion of the LCCN, or for articles a DOI (though I think these are less common in the humanities). I imagine it would be possible for people to individually post their reviews on their own sites and then someone could come up with a way to crawl those pages and aggregate links to reviews in some more central location. Or people could post links back to their own reviews on a site set up to make it easy to link books with reviews. I’m sure there are other relatively simple alternative ways of doing this.
Second, book reviews, while not original in the scholarship sense, are original to the review author. You have the right to post your own content. I suspect the only way there would be a real potential problem is if you posted excerpts that were way beyond fair use.
The situation is different, and more difficult, when you get to posting images and transcriptions of sources. I suspect archivists would worry as much, possibly more, about the rights issue than the formatting/documentation issue in this case. Generally, copies you make in an archive – photocopies, photos, etc. – are supposed to be for your own research use. If they’re public domain, it may be ok to post them anyway. But a lot of stuff isn’t public domain and in many cases the archives are not the rightsholders and would not be able to grant you permission to post your copies online. Arguably, people are overly cautious about this kind of thing, but it’s a real concern.
That said, I do think there is potential for sharing information about collections even in the absence of being able to post images/transcriptions. Researchers could write up summaries of their individual source collections and refer back to the archives where the originals can be found. These could be like finding aids, but simplified and individualized to an extent. I think it is much less common for researchers to do that as a routine part of their workflow, but I think it would be a very useful thing to have.
Thanks for the thoughtful comment! Great point about the problems related to archival material with regards to public domain and copyright, something that gets quite tricky quite fast. This also reinforces my comment regarding that I know just enough about these issues to know just how little I know about them. Of course it does remind me of Roy Rosenzweig and Dan Cohen’s calls in Digital History for academics to not be so overly cautious about copyright and fair use.
Anyone know of a similar list for European history?