Mark Carrigan<p><strong>Finding joy in academic writing: understanding the role of the tools we use</strong></p><p>Boise (1990: 46) argues that “being able to share imperfect writing with others is a critical step in making the writing truly effortless.” My experience as a blogger over many years is that a willingness to share provisional thoughts becomes easier with practice. Once you realize that people respond to the thought as much as the expression of it, moving through anxiety that your writing is unfinished comes increasingly easily. Furthermore, as Boise (1990: 46) notes, “I suspect that, despite claims to the contrary, authors of finished drafts do not welcome major revisions.” If your feedback comes late in the process, it can be difficult to know what to do with it, as any recipient of a ‘major revisions’ from a journal will undoubtedly recognize. Feedback will often be most useful at the stage where you are still metabolizing your ideas, giving shape to them and discovering a structure which works for your argument. But it can be difficult to share at that stage if you are concerned that you will be judged for the incompletely formed character of your ideas.</p><p>This is where conversational agents like ChatGPT and Claude can offer a unique advantage. Their engineered propensity to see the best in what you’ve done, while still offering advice for improvement, can help you move through this anxiety. You can be certain that a conversational agent will never respond by telling you “this is terrible” before querying your credentials. But there’s a deeper question here about what gives us satisfaction in writing beyond these supportive interactions. The tools we use fundamentally shape our experience, yet they aren’t the ultimate source of our joy.</p><p>The tools we use in the writing process deeply shape our experience of writing. The pleasures of writing are constrained and enabled by the tools we use for it. The once satisfying keyboard of my MacBook Air has become increasingly spongy in a way which increasingly feels like it soaks up a little of the joy of being immersed in writing. I just can’t enjoy writing in Microsoft Word in spite of its many capacities because the interface is too cluttered and the associations are too negative. The place I enjoy writing most is my blog, largely because the (otherwise limited) editing interface on wordpress.com has been such a reliable venue for joyful writing over the last twenty years.</p><p>There is a similar inventory of appreciation and frustration of tools which any academic author could likely offer if they were asked to do so. My intention is to explore how writing depends upon tools, with a view to analyzing how those tools enable or constrain the satisfactions which can be found in writing. The tools themselves are not a source of satisfaction: I might aesthetically appreciate an ornate pen, but until I’m doing something with it I am only taking joy in the pen, rather than with the pen. I take an intellectual delight in software like Anthropic’s Claude because of the remarkable natural language capabilities which would have seemed like science fiction until recently, but until I’m actually using them towards some purpose which matters to me, I’m only taking joy in Claude, rather than with Claude.</p><p>In fact joy is a misleading term here for what might better be described as appreciation. I appreciate the characteristics of these objects, whether the ornate fountain pen or the large language model. I recognize them for what they are and find value in what I recognize. I felt a deep appreciation for the MacBook Air I’m writing this on when I first took possession of it. It was pristine in its appearance and reliably rapid in its response. Now I’ve been using it on a daily basis for three and a half years, particularly as someone who writes thousands of words every day, the features which I appreciated have started to lapse. I struggle to keep the screen clean no matter how often I wipe it. The finely calibrated keyboard feels increasingly springy, producing a clicking sound which is even more irritating for being inconsistent across the keys. I often now feel it groaning under the weight of the apps I’ve installed and the physical degradation of its memory over time, not to mention the ever more onerous updates which Apple enforces on it.</p><p>The appreciation I once felt for the MacBook Air hasn’t been replaced by hostility or anything close to it. But it’s now a far less appreciable device than it once was. This is the point at which I begin to feel that I want a new laptop in order that I once more appreciate the tools I rely upon for my writing. It might be a while until I act on this feeling, until it converts itself into a practical plan to procure what is still a relatively expensive device. But the appreciation we feel for the artefacts we use is contingent on characteristics which, as with all material properties, inevitably degrade with time.</p><p>The point I’m making is not that there’s anything wrong with appreciating the artefacts we use in writing. To feel an urge to ensure we appreciate them can be an expression of the joy we find in writing, as well as our commitment to the practice. However, the joy itself is something which comes in some sense prior to the pleasure we find in the artefacts. In fact the artefacts can be a distraction from our engagement with the practice, as anyone who has optimistically bought an ornate notebook in the expectation it will immediately catalyze creative writing can attest to. The artefact is enrolled in the writing process with the satisfaction it brings being reliant on the contours of that writing process.</p><p>This leaves us with the question of where does joy come from beyond the fleeting, though far from trivial, pleasure that can be taken in the material artefacts we use as part of the process. Sword (2019: loc 1520) helps us get started on defining what is going on here when considering what underlies the experience of ‘writing with pleasure’:</p><p>“Sometimes we write with pleasure because we care deeply about what we’re writing – that is, because we give a damn. Psychologists have put many different labels on this kind of intense emotion: purpose, meaning, mission, intrinsic motivation, drive. In this chapter, I’ll go with passion, which social psychologist Robert Vallerand defines as a ‘strong inclination toward a specific object, activity, concept, or person that one loves (or at least strongly likes) and highly values’.”</p><p>It’s easier to write with pleasure if we care about what we are writing. It’s certainly difficult to write with pleasure if we don’t care about what we are writing. It’s far from impossible though. The writing we’re engaged in might bring us closer to a goal which we’ve long been striving for. It might bring us a reward of remuneration or profile which energizes us, even if the writing project itself does not. It could be the missing piece in our CV which precedes the successful application for promotion. It could be the work which establishes us in our field after an early career spent unnoticed and unrecognized. There are many hopes we can invest in writing, expectations as to how a particular output will impact on our lives, without this meaning we necessarily care about what we are writing in the sense described by Sword (2019). These motivations can be pressing and urgent, even rising to the level of obsession in someone desperate to ‘play the game’ more effectively in order to bring about a particular kind of effect in the world.</p><p>There is a tendency for academics to pour scorn on such extrinsic motivations despite the fact we all feel them to a certain extent. In framing certain impulses as ‘careerist’ or instrumental, indeed in writing off whole categories of people in the process, there is an abstraction from one’s own complicity in the system being denounced. It is seen as being ‘out there’, corrupting other people, rather than being a continuous series of compromises which all academics grapple with as a necessary condition of their hoped for or continued professional employment. The reality is that such extrinsic motivations will always be there, to the extent that an academic is writing within a system which distributes rewards (promotion, status, remuneration etc) on the basis of what it is they write.</p><p>The real substance of moral practice consists in how these extrinsic motivations co-exist with the intrinsic ones or fail to. Do they squeeze out the purpose, meaning and mission described by Sword (2019) or merely give shape to it? Are writing projects driven by intrinsic motivation even while being developed in ways shaped by extrinsic factors? Or is writing being driven by a sense of what is expected and what will be rewarded? If that’s the case then what is likely to happen to that intrinsic motivation over time? If you undertake your work in order to bring about an effect, what happens if your expectations fail to be met? In fact what happens if they are met? If you get what you want will it really bring you satisfaction? Or is there a risk that a working life spent pursuing the expectations of others will eventually come to feel hollow? That you will look back on years spent furiously laboring over articles, chapters and books in relation to which you feel nothing?</p><p><a rel="nofollow noopener noreferrer" class="hashtag u-tag u-category" href="https://markcarrigan.net/tag/creativity/" target="_blank">#creativity</a> <a rel="nofollow noopener noreferrer" class="hashtag u-tag u-category" href="https://markcarrigan.net/tag/objects/" target="_blank">#objects</a> <a rel="nofollow noopener noreferrer" class="hashtag u-tag u-category" href="https://markcarrigan.net/tag/scholarship/" target="_blank">#scholarship</a> <a rel="nofollow noopener noreferrer" class="hashtag u-tag u-category" href="https://markcarrigan.net/tag/tools/" target="_blank">#tools</a> <a rel="nofollow noopener noreferrer" class="hashtag u-tag u-category" href="https://markcarrigan.net/tag/writing/" target="_blank">#writing</a></p>