What's in an authorship?
Who the fuck wrote this anyway
A name sits below a title on the first page of a manuscript. More often, there are many names. But why are they there? They denote authorship, of course. But I wonder, is it imperative that I, the reader, know who wrote this piece? Must we know who stands behind words in order for them to be valid? And if so, for what reasons? Is it accountability? Is it pride? Is it a matter of public record? Knowing which human these thoughts and ideas came from is often acknowledged as the right of the reader. But is it? Should the author have a right to withhold their identity? With authorship comes power, standing, and recognition (among other things). These can be wielded for good, but they can also be used maliciously. And perhaps, quite often, with unconscious privilege. Here, the currency of scientific literature – publication – is revealed. And it is an ugly beast.
The history of my written works exists without my name appearing on each component of the full transcript, or even at all. An anonymous publication is instantly questioned. “Why not stand behind your work?” “Why not let the reader know who to contact if they have a question or concern?” “What do you fear that prevents you from sharing your identity?” But what if anonymous publishing were the norm? What if this was one solution for many of our systemic problems associated with bias and discrimination, both explicit and implicit? What if I no longer cared if someone knew it is me who put words to screen? What if there were no more public celebration of journal acceptance or gawking at Google Scholar pages or calculating faulty metrics on which to compare humans? We will not all be sitting in leather chairs in smoky rooms getting clapped on the back by men in suit jackets. The currency of authorship has perhaps run its course.
And what of controversial work? Would you be more willing to be truly honest about your conclusions surrounding hot topics if your name were not broadcast across social media and list serv echo chambers? What do we lose when the ownership of ideas disappears? Can we read, think, and draw conclusions without knowing authorship? The acceptance of science should not be based on identity and yet it is. Every day a name is read and a head nods or shakes in response, with or without our awareness. Professional networks and relationships should emerge within fields of study, but these can be created outside of published literature. Scientific conferences, both in person and remote, would hold more value as a means to personally share work and findings. We would see so much more clearly who seeks acclaim for their work, who thrives on the discovery, who is team-focused, and who deserves our admiration.
If we are indeed objective in our thinking, then the context of our identities should be irrelevant. We can admit that authorship does matter or we can eliminate public authorship as a byproduct of the patriarchal foundations of the scientific process. How much of why we publish comes from our need for recognition for deeds accomplished or to convey personal context? Recognition stems from pride, which has good and bad connotations. Personal context easily evokes bias toward authors and their work. I believe that accountability should come from within, trained into emerging academics by their mentors. We are measured by our ability to produce a track record of seemingly objective work that is nonetheless tied to our identities and output. This is a catch 22 and should at least be recognized as such.
An object remains in existence even if no one knows who made it. My work will still be still present even if my name is not. We are blinks of effort in a long story of scientific discovery that has extended well before words were put to paper. Science is so much bigger than us and yet we hold so tightly to our ownership of our relatively meager pieces.
What’s in an authorship? A manuscript is a manuscript, by any other name.