Our October book, The History Manifesto, reached broad audiences. It was a first for academic
history to follow in the trails long ago paved by Radiohead: we put the book
online for free; we started a twitter hashtag; we invited the public in, and
when they tweeted at us, we read, and sometimes tweeted back. But open
access has new rules, and the rules keep one busy. Somewhere in the
midst of watching the commentary and making revisions, we fell afoul of some of
our readers, when we accepted their suggestions and updated our text
accordingly. >
I believe that we (and the Press) made a
mistake in February by releasing a new edition of The History
Manifesto without announcing that a revised manuscript was
available. There was a new edition of The History Manifesto,
in two parts. A revised version of Figure 2 came out on November 20,
2014. Ten lines of tightened prose and five revised footnotes came
out on February 5, 2015. Some
readers took this failure to announce a revised edition as evidence of the
intent to deceive.
It's important to differentiate, however,
between an intentional conspiracy to sabotage one's critics and the active,
ongoing, evolving task of experimenting with a new format of publishing. We had no desire to lead our readers astray, nor to cover up the ongoing debate, when we issued a revised edition. Far from it, we believed that
we were living into a commitment to bringing new, online, open-access forms of
publishing into the heart of scholarship. Publishing on the internet opens up the possibility of an ongoing process of revision that is new to publishers, writers, and readers in the academy. I believe that our
experience is an exemplary moment for the institution as a whole to learn from,
and to benefit from, the lively public engagement that the new frontier of
open-access publishing makes possible.
The concession that we should have announced the
"revised manuscript" has been backed up by action, a
collective action undertaken not only by us the authors but also by the whole
host of staff at Cambridge University Press. On Monday March 30, a
revised website came out that went go beyond merely remarking a “manuscript of
record” in the way suggested to us in private correspondence by Peter Mandler –
that Cambridge University Press should announce that there has been a revision
posted. On March 30, we listed all of the revisions in detail – the
tightened lines of prose, the footnotes, and the altered illustration will are
available on the front page, where a document describes them exactly as they
were given to the typesetter. Those who select “download” on the
History Manifesto website now have the opportunity to choose between an
“original edition” or a “revised edition.” The process is meant to
be as transparent as we, the Cambridge University Press editors and designers,
could possibly make it.
Charges of an “ethical breach” highlight
larger questions of publishing process that we, as scholars, will have to
reckon with in an era of new technology -- questions all of us must grapple
with. The dynamics of open-access publishing are new, and there is
great utility in establishing a “manuscript of record” to which subsequent
criticism can refer in detail. Some of them have participated in publishing
discussions in higher education that have underscored the importance to the
scholarly record of having a publication of record, noting when particular
parts of the text have been changed. We, and the leadership of the Press,
were persuaded. Revision should not be an unlimited process; there
should be an official “revised manuscript” available to readers alongside an
original version.
Dealing with these issues is new not only for
us but also for Cambridge University Press, a point that was driven home
abundantly in our conversations with senior editors and staff. In
book form, "revised editions" are rarely issued with this level of
detailed annotation. Standard practice for a traditional print book, our
editors quickly pointed out, would be summed up by one quick line on the
copyright page of a standard print book: “revised edition: some text has been
altered from the original.” Even when there have been meetings with
positions drafted and recognized, activities such as these are still new to
Cambridge University Press.
It is also important that scholars understand
that an institutional delay does not signal unethical intention, but is part of
a necessary ingredient of rethinking how texts are released when publishing
experiments are underway and many individuals are involved. Delay makes room for a minor public
relations crisis in publishing and digital humanities. From the
outside, the two-month delay in clarifying the process of revision smacks of
conspiracy. In reality, there was a two-week-long turn-around between the
time that our critics directly contacted us and the issue of a new statement
online clarifying what had been changed. That two weeks was an
incredibly efficient process, given the number of editors, lawyers, and
in-house web-designers who had to be consulted to make such a change
happen. There was immense good will on behalf of all parties,
scrambling to get the changes clarified as quickly as possible.
Actually effecting the updates to the website
required both time and the work of an entire staff – including a series of
Cambridge editors with book and journal experience, and the Cambridge New York
staff who are responsible for the website. We, the authors, were
happy to post a detailed list of the ten lines of tightened prose and five footnotes
revised in February. The press saw the wisdom of all of this, and
recommitted themselves to clarifying what had been done. But even
when everyone is on board – consensus is formed, the will is good, and everyone
has signed off – it can take a minute to coordinate a dozen people, including
various editors, website curators, coders, and even legal counsels – to make
sure that the act happens.
We are living through a frontier moment of
online publishing. It should be remembered that of the five university
presses who we spoke to initially about releasing the manuscript, none had
released an open-access book in the humanities before; the sole precedents were
works from MIT press like Peter Suber’s Open Access not issued
in the field of history. There are scant precedents for appropriate
habits of keeping readers updated with what version they are
reading. Critique and revision in an online world come bogglingly
fast – indeed they can be consuming for editors and authors who have other obligations. Remember
that these November to February revisions came atop a book that had only been
published on October 2, 2014; in the traditional world of academic publishing,
we would count ourselves lucky to be receiving the first published book reviews
so early.
Other scholars who study digital media have
nevertheless been optimistic about the opportunities that this new form of
publishing holds for revision as a process. In her 2011 book Planned
Obsolescence, media scholar Kathleen Fitzpatrick delivered a positive
verdict on her experience circulating a manuscript for “open review” on the
internet where all readers could comment, instantaneously, on her text.
Because we were persuaded by arguments such as these, we
published The History Manifesto open access (a first for Cambridge
University Press). David Armitage and I
had been part of a world of digital humanities conversations in Cambridge, MA
from 2010 to 2014, one where open-access advocates like Margy Avery, Martin
Eve, and Caroline Edwards were in meetings with the History Department, Harvard
Press, the Metalab, and the Harvard Libraries about how and whether Harvard
would move from a digital open repository to more daring attempts at open
access, for example releasing its back catalogue of academic books to a public
readership.
Advocating for open access was, for us, a moral issue of how scholars should negotiate when working with publishers. We believed that we should work with the institutions around us to bridge the gap between the academy and a broader public readership, indeed
global readership, at present barred from much scholarship by the obstacle of
the pay wall. It also felt like an
important issue for institution-building, for helping our departments and
universities to adapt to the opportunities of a digital age, and for modeling a form of scholarship that thinks critically about the organs of publishing and dissemination at a moment of technological change. When we took the manuscript for our new book
around to various university presses, we thought of the book negotiations as an
important opportunity for faculty to engage publishers about the ethical and
pragmatic questions of how scholars engage the public. We were pressing for open access because we
wanted there to be a path for engaged scholars to reach a broader audience and to learn from them,
still paired with the credentials offered by a university press.
Like Fitzpatrick, we too have profited from
the particular demands for clarification voiced by Danny Loss and others.
In contrast, how many footnotes in traditional monographs go unread for want of
a twitterverse or blogosphere filled with active, commenting readers?
Most academic monographs are reviewed by three readers, a process that
sometimes extends from months into years and conflicts with timelines for
hiring, tenure, and promotion. Blind peer review for journals is likewise
slow. Our lightening-quick reviews from the public pushed our manuscript
towards even greater standards of perfection than those to which most
manuscripts are held.
One of the ways that open access invites new
frontiers in publishing is that it opens up a wide window to feedback from the
public, whether scholars or members of the public at large. For the first
four months of the book's life, we were closely watching twitter and the blogs,
reading the praise and blame alike, and noting for ourselves opportunities to
improve the text. It seemed to us that this process might be one of
ongoing receptivity and revision. Thus, at the time, it made sense to
talk about a process of revision rather than to announce a revised edition.
We had already released a general statement about revision as a
process in a blog entry of November 20, 2014 (link: http://historymanifesto.cambridge.org/blog/2014/11/updating-visualizations-and-power-open-access-review/)
.
In the process of engaging with our readers,
we closely examined the substance of the critiques, some of which were valid
inquiries into what we meant in a footnote; others of which simply evidenced
that readers on the internet were unfamiliar with the conventions of writing in
the historical profession. For instance, an anonymous twitter
personality whose critique was cited by senior colleagues in their footnotes as
evidence of sloppy scholarship appeared, upon deeper inspection, to be
unfamiliar with historians’ convention of using a footnote to allude to a body
of historical writing that may be useful for further reading, rather than
exactly matching the content of a sentence or paragraph to the conclusions of
the works in the footnote, as is the convention in disciplines like economics.
This is an important moment in terms of
setting a model for engagement by academics with the
public. It is our hope that the model of engagement that we
choose, individually and collaboratively, can remain one that is open to
critique from without, one that bears out the idealism of sharing and long-term
thinking that we talked about in The History Manifesto in
terms of a practice of sharing manuscripts designed to circulate for the long
term.
What Cambridge University Press, as
publishers, and we, as authors, are modeling is a new form of engagement with
open access publishing -- new for the press and new for scholars. We
hope that our commitment to establishing a manuscript of record, and our
ongoing commitment to open-access publishing, will be read in the light that we
intend it: as a positive example of engagement by scholars with scholars, by
scholars with the public, and by institutions with the longue duree and the
collective good.