In May of 1665, an English gentleman by the name of Thomas Henshaw set out several tubs of dew that he or his servants had collected in the previous weeks. He observed what happened to the water in these tubs, and conducted a few desultory experiments with their contents; he wrote up the results and soon published them in the leading scientific journal of the day, the Philosophical Transactions of the Royal Society of London.
Oh, those were the days. While the Philosophical Transactions published some of the most important articles in the history of science, including Issac Newton’s controversial claim that white light contained all the colors of the spectrum and the pioneering works of the chemist Robert Boyle and the microbiologist Robert Hooke, Henshaw’s article was not among them. “[The article’s] general purpose is nowhere stated; it must be inferred from a series of loosely connected experiments narrated in no discernible order,” comments Gross et al. in their description of the article’s general flaws (Communicating Science, Oxford University Press, 2002, p. 55).
It’s tempting to try to explain the publication as an aberration. Surely it came about because of the author’s connections and pedigree? Or, possibly professional standards of 17th-century science were more lax; such shoddy writing would never be published today.
The following three-paragraph article from 1692, reprinted in its entirety, seems to confirm that assessment:
The 27th of July, at about nine in the evening, the moon being on the horizon at the same height it would be on the next day at the time of the eclipse, Monsieur de la Hire observed its diameter with a micrometer, and he found it two seconds less than he found it through calculation. He observed again the position of several principal features in order to fix their shape in his mind and to depict the moon in the situation that it would be in during the eclipse.
But the 28th of July, the day of the eclipse, the sky being almost always overcast, it was only possible to observe the moon during the eclipse three times; even then, as the moon only appeared very briefly from among the clouds, he was obliged to make his observations so quickly that nothing certain could be concluded. He observed only the number of the degrees that were eclipsed, not being able to distinguish the features. The shadow of the earth on the body of the moon appeared clearly and sharply contrasted.
At 2 hours, 48 minutes, the moon was eclipsed by 9 doigts, 58 minutes
At 2 hours, 55 minutes, by 10 doigts, 24 minutes.
At 3 hours, 35 minutes, by 10 doigts, 28 minutes
These observations have been made with the micrometer.
(reprinted from Journal Des Scavans, in Gross et al., 2002, p. 45)
To summarize, an illustrious scholar set out to make important measurements of a lunar eclipse with a new invention, but conditions were poor so he could only make three measurements total. Today, most journals would say, “that’s nice, but come back when you have more data.” In 1692, they published it. What a long way we’ve come, right?
Not so fast.
Such articles get sent to journals all the time. And they very frequently slip by overworked and hasty reviewers and make it into print. I’m talking about those papers – you’ve read them – that present a lot of data but never quite connect that data to an actual purpose. I’m talking about papers that may (or may not) present useful information, but never quite state why this information is useful or to whom. I’m talking about papers that forget about the forest in their eagerness to describe the trees, or papers where the central purpose for writing appears to be “well, I did this work, so someone might want to hear about it.”
“But we have expanded human knowledge!” some scientists argue, when pressed. It’s a nice sentiment: this faith that for every piece of information, however minute, there is a waiting ear, someone hoping to receive it. However, in 2009, by some estimates, scientists published over half a million articles that expanded human knowledge. That number is beyond the ability of most humans to assimilate in a single lifetime, let alone in a single year. Even in my own relatively circumscribed world of mining literature, I would argue that more papers are published a year than can be profitably read.
When I taught composition to undergraduates, our in-class writing workshops had a question that was supposed to be addressed by every assignment: why should we care? The question seems callous, even flippant, the bored utterance of a teenager checking her phone while she talks to you. But the fact is, given the volume of material published every year, every paper in every journal must make a case for the necessity of its publication. Every paper competes for our time and mental energy and publication space. Every paper. And it’s the author’s job to write a paper worth reading and then to include within that paper a clear, compelling and concise argument about why it should be read.
Emily Wortman-Wunder is editor of technical papers at the Society for Mining, Metallurgy and Exploration, Inc.