“It is often thought that philosophical excellence is the sole province of the genius. I by contrast believe that it can be achieved through countless small techniques that can be taught and learned.”
So writes Neil Mehta, professor of philosophy at National University of Singapore, in his, “A Guide to Professional Philosophy.”
In this post, I’ll share some excerpts from the introduction and conclusion of Mehta’s guide, which explain the why and how of its existence, as well as a link to the whole thing.
From the introduction:
It is often thought that philosophical excellence is the sole province of the genius. I by contrast believe that it can be achieved through countless small techniques that can be taught and learned; in any case, if there is some special talent here, then I do not have it. When, near the end of my graduate career, I began submitting my work to journals, I received 18 consecutive rejections distributed across 5 different manuscripts, with not even an invitation to revise-and-resubmit to cushion the blows. At last, on the 19th try, I secured my first publication in Philosophical Studies, and even that was merely a reply piece. I then undertook a disciplined program to improve my writing, and over the next several years my work climbed steadily in quality. I have now published a book with MIT Press and 17 articles in venues including Noûs, Journal of Philosophy, and Philosophy and Phenomenological Research. That does not make me a great philosopher: plenty of my colleagues have better records than this. It does, however, make me someone who has improved enormously, and here I will share precisely how that happened.
From the final section, “Cultivating Yourself as a Philosopher”:
This writing guide began with an autobiography, and it is time to finish the tale. After my miserable first outings in the world of publishing, I realized that I lacked crucial writing skills, and I resolved to fill in the gaps. I began by requesting all the feedback that I could get.
I met an obstacle straightaway. I would learn that I should include a particular citation, trim a particular section, and provide more evidence for a particular claim. But, although I could follow these pieces of advice, I had no idea what general principles were in operation. Thus I just repeated my mistakes elsewhere.
It was here that my lack of talent was made manifest, for talent, I conjecture, consists largely in the ability to pick up general principles from mere hints and examples. Like a talented dancer who sees a dramatic performance of the tango and just knows how to dance like that, a talented philosopher sees the ambitiousness of Plato and the systematicity of Kant and just knows how to write like that. The rest of us need to be told to lengthen our strides, square our hips, lift our chins.
Without the benefit of talent, I had to try to discover the precise but general principles of philosophical excellence. When advised to include a citation, trim a section, and provide more evidence for a claim, I attempted to articulate the precise general principles that warranted including that citation, trimming that section, and providing that evidence. Similarly, I sought exemplars of philosophical writing—for instance, I dug into the work of several philosophers who were consistently publishing in top journals—and attempted to articulate the precise general principles at play there. I also asked successful philosophers to tell me what works they regarded as best and why, what they saw as the best features of their own work, and what their processes of reading and writing were like.
I recorded what that I found in a document intended for personal use. That eventually expanded into this writing guide.
In these attempts to improve my writing, I was engaging in reflection at three levels. I was reflecting, first, on what makes for excellent philosophical work; second, on what makes for an excellent process of producing philosophical work; and third, on how a person can, without relying on talent, identify and learn those processes. I think of these levels as corresponding to goods, rules, and virtues that are distinctive to philosophy. My most basic advice on self-cultivation, then, is to carry out your own reflections across all three levels.
One practical method for doing that is to make your own guide to doing philosophy. (If you have internalized my previous advice about ambition and authority, then you will surely doubt much of what you find here.) Start small: whenever you read a great work of philosophy, write down what makes it great in precise but general terms. There’s no need to go it alone; discuss your ideas with friends and mentors. You can reserve your guide for personal use, but articulating your conception of philosophical excellence as precisely as you can will give you much more control over your work.
Cultivate yourself not only as a writer, but also as a thinker. Read broadly as well as deeply, taking time to appreciate great historical works. And be fearless about developing new skills at every stage of your career. It is never too late to acquaint yourself with Sanskrit, modal logic, or vision science.
Make sure to have a life beyond the profession, too. For us, philosophy is a part of the good life, but it is only a proper part. I rarely put in more than 40 hours per week of research, teaching, and service, and I make it my personal ideal to have satisfying personal relationships, practice hobbies, eat well, exercise regularly, meditate occasionally, and sleep plenty.
Do I manage all of that? Never! But I come close enough (and that is not particularly close) to be content.
In between the opening and the closing are 12 pages of advice on reading, writing, thinking, and publishing. Professor Mehta understands that his advice will at times be “contentious,” and he welcomes criticisms and suggestions, which can be raised in the comments and/or by email to him. Discussion welcome.
The full guide is below, and is also available here.
