Workflows
I am at my desk in Ann Arbor, Michigan. Though some claim summer has begun, I’ve resisted those whispers, holding on to the focus I need to finish seminar papers, tackle language courses, conduct research, and prepare for the third year of my Ph.D. program in history at the University of Michigan. Two years in, I face a vast array of books, articles, conference papers, dissertations, and lectures—all waiting to be read and analyzed before my comprehensive exams at the end of the 2021 academic year. To my left, a disorderly stack of carefully annotated book notes nudges against my 2014 laptop—ancient by Apple’s standards. The yellow legal pads beside it, their fraying corners and worn, sometimes tattered, pages, are testimony to heavy use.
On my right lies a book filled with check marks, circles, and marginal notes, competing for my attention. It’s Benjamin Claude Brower’s 2009 monograph A Desert Named Peace: The Violence of France’s Empire in the Algerian Sahara, 1844–1902. This volume, along with others, will form part of a review article synthesizing recent scholarship on French colonial violence in the 19th and 20th centuries. Nearby, an empty, condensation-swept glass leaves a water mark on a protruding sheet, blurring ink like an impressionistic take on the chaos of graduate school. At the far right of my desk, a candle flickers, its scent a nostalgic reminder of the jasmine that grew in the modest garden of my parents’ apartment.
This semester has been one of considerable reflection. As a historian—a historicist historian—I’m trained to question fixed identities and essential properties, to scrutinize the very assumptions underlying any social or historical dynamic. Why, then, is it so hard for me (for us?) to reflect openly on our own research practices? We treat our methods as carefully guarded secrets, yet often share them freely when prompted. Ask us about our archival adventures, manuscript preparation process, or the motivations that keep us going, and we’ll often respond enthusiastically.
A quick search on how to succeed in graduate school yields an avalanche of blog posts, YouTube videos, and guides that echo familiar, surface-level advice: don’t rely too heavily on highlighting; reading is writing; organize your notes diligently; always record bibliographic details. Meanwhile, endless note-taking and organization tools tempt us with promises of productivity for a fee, though they rarely deliver the life-changing experience advertised. Over the next few years, I hope to share my journey through historical research at a top U.S. graduate program. Although I’m only 24 and still learning, the tools I’ve used—and misused—have been crucial to my progress. I aim to reflect on these methods in the hope of creating a research practice that might one day aid another scholar—a more insightful mind who lacks the tendency to obsessively document every passing thought or critique.
My realization that a reimagined approach to organizing and internalizing information is crucial dates back to conversations with friends and colleagues in Los Angeles, continuing to this day. NPR highlighted the issue of information overload years ago, reporting on the mental strain it imposes. If you, like me, struggle with the immense scale of research and daily obligations, this series may be of use.
Intellectual Foundations
My journey started with my now well-worn copy of Diana Hacker and Nancy Sommers’ A Writer’s Reference (7th ed.). I then turned to What Smart Students Know by Adam Robinson, which I found far more useful than Cal Newport’s How to Win at College, which I found overly simplistic. I learned the Chicago Manual of Style, invested time with Booth et al.’s The Craft of Research (4th ed.), and read Rosenwasser and Stephen’s Writing Analytically (6th ed.), Roy Peter Clark’s Writing Tools, Turabian et al.’s A Manual for Writers (9th ed.), and Umberto Eco’s How to Write a Thesis, among others.
At some point, I succumbed to YouTube productivity content—attractive people with seemingly endless time explaining their routines. Isn’t it ironic that we often delve into productivity content when procrastinating? Pierce J. Howard’s The Owner’s Manual for the Brain (4th ed.) provided insight into how thinking actually works, particularly in parts four and five. I began to understand that, as scholars in the humanities and social sciences, handling text and textuality is at the core of our work. Without mastering texts, we’re left with a mind clouded by misquotations and indistinct ideas. Silvia’s How to Write a Lot and McPherson’s Effective Notetaking (3rd ed.) helped me refine my engagement with source material, while Anne Lamott’s Bird by Bird reminded me to approach writing with humor but with utmost seriousness.
Among all these resources, Sönke Ahrens’ How to Take Smart Notes has been the most transformative, introducing me to the Zettelkasten method of note-taking pioneered by German sociologist Niklas Luhmann. This method has profoundly influenced my approach, and I look forward to exploring it further in my research.
