On Post-Academic Writing: A Humanist Reflects on Freedom from the Academic Habitus

Intro

“Why do you write?” This question, posed by Friedrich Nietzsche in The Gay Science (1882, §93), captures the essence of a writer’s internal struggle. Nietzsche confesses that writing is not a “surrender” to his passions, but rather “is a necessity . . . . to get rid of my thoughts.” Not only does Nietzsche underscore the discomfort some feel towards writing but he also hints at the compelling need to express and expel one’s thoughts through words.

As a PhD humanist who ventured beyond the confines of academia, I’ve grappled with the challenges of writing and intellectual endeavors from the periphery. I’ve often felt as if I were navigating a maze of obstacles and barriers but never reaching the center. Now, as I offer this essay to the voluminous discourse on writing—a field saturated with confessional essays and self-help guides—I recognize the irony of being at the center of the maze. And while authors who offer such writing advice may not reflect the giants on whom they lean, they nonetheless strive to communicate the elusive magic tricks of writing, manifesting an act of creative will by producing something profound about the writing process itself. My essay embarks on a similar mission.

In particular, I want to delve into the matter of “post-academic writing,” a term that at first glance seems oxymoronic. The question is whether an academic writer is ever really outside academia after his or her academic formation. In fact, the academic writer often faces a crisis upon departure from the structured world of academia. While there’s an abundance of literature with advice on how to master academic writing for the purpose of climbing the ladder of the ivory tower, these discussions rarely explore how ex-academics can harness their scholarly training for broader intellectual engagement outside the confines of academia.

Two major issues emerge in considering the plight and potential of the post-academic writer. First, the psychological barriers erected by the process of academic training often stifle creativity and hinder writers from engaging with the intellectual discourses they love and to which they have a deep commitment. Second, despite external barriers like financial constraints, family responsibilities, and time shortages, many aspiring writers do find paths to success. If the primary obstacle to post-academic writing is indeed the internalized academic mindset, then a more liberating approach to writing awaits discovery, especially for those yearning to write for joy, thought, and contributing to the great conversation.

For myself, I admit a deep, spiritual indebtedness to academia, a complex emotion Nietzsche touches upon in The Genealogy of Morals (1887), particularly in his third essay on the scholar and the ascetic ideal. Nietzsche intriguingly connects the German word for debt (Schulden) with guilt (Schuld), a correlation that resonates with my experience. The sense of obligation to an institution’s practices and ideals is often wrapped in a feeling of guilt for having given up on being a part of it; intertwined with this guilt is the motivation of a “vocation,” as examined in works like Max Weber’s Science as a Vocation (1919). This emotional triptych of guilty indebtedness and vocation drives me and many former academics toward writing. Writing becomes our most genuine avenue for expressing the scholarly pursuits that still pulse within us. Yet an enduring challenge remains: Why is satisfying this intellectual and creative hunger so difficult, both within and outside the confines of academia?

Since leaving academia in 2017 to embrace a career in teaching and educational leadership, my journey into writing has been intermittent, punctuated by the demands of a fulfilling career and a vibrant family life. However, the urge to delve into scholarly projects remains unquenched. This essay, therefore, is more than an academic exercise; it’s a personal crusade to liberate my own writing from the shackles that have restrained it. Transitioning from academic confines to a broader intellectual and practical landscape has not quenched my thirst for knowledge—instead, it has broadened my perspective beyond Italian studies, Classics, and the social sciences that gave birth to my original curiosity. Yet, the challenge of weaving my varied interests into cohesive written expressions persists.

This essay thus represents my effort to chart the course through the complexities of post-academic writing. It aims to light the way for those navigating the uncertain terrain of post-academic life by offering insights on how to transform academic rigor into writing that is both rewarding and joyous. By attempting to bridge the gap between academic discipline and wider intellectual pursuits, I seek to inspire those struggling to find their voice in the vast expanse beyond academia’s walls.

The Writing Habit: Overcoming Impediments to Success

The blinking cursor at midnight, the looming deadline, and the paralyzing mix of writer’s block and anxiety continue to shape the endeavors of the post-academic writer years after the completion of the last article, term paper, or thesis. We struggle not only because of the creative challenges we face, but also because of life’s responsibilities. I’m not the only one who has found it difficult to dedicate time to writing amidst the demands of professional and family commitments.

Thomas More, the celebrated Renaissance humanist, eloquently addresses this universal dilemma in his introductory letter to Peter Giles in Utopia (1516). More describes his daily life as one consumed by legal work, friends, personal matters, and family time, all of which are obstacles to his writing. Amidst these responsibilities and the need for sleep and meals—which significantly consume everyone’s time—he wonders when he could possibly find a moment to write

. . . while I spend almost all the day abroad amongst others and then reside at home among mine own, I leave to my myself, I mean to my book, no time. For when I come home, I must commune with my wife, chat with my children, and talk with my servants. All the which things I reckon and account among business, forasmuch as they must of necessity be done; and done must they need be unless a man will be a stranger in his own house. And, in any wise, a man must so fashion and order his conditions, and so appoint and dispose himself, that he be merry, jocund, and pleasant among them whom either nature has provided, or chance has made, or he himself has chosen to be the fellows and companions of his life . . . . Among these things now rehearsed steal away the day, the month, the year. When do I write then? And all this while I have spoken no word of sleep, neither yet of meals, which among a great number do waste no less time than does sleep, wherein almost half the time of man creepeth away. I, therefore, do win and get only that time which I steal from sleep and meals

So, how can we deal with these challenges so aptly summarized by Thomas More? There’s a general agreement that strategies exist to overcome them and which will enable anyone to write effectively.

Many writers, especially those committed to their craft or grappling with academic projects, find solace in Anne Lamott’s advice from Bird by Bird (1994) concerning “Sh***y First Drafts,” a reliable standby for writers at every level. Lamott particularly reassures anxious writers that all writers contend with far from perfect initial drafts. Lamott encourages us to embrace these beginnings, stating, “almost all good writing starts with terrible first efforts. You need to start somewhere.” The key to overcoming perfectionism is simply to begin writing, without worrying about initial quality, and to persist in this practice.

James Clear, renowned for his book Atomic Habits (2018), emphasizes the power of incremental changes in creating significant life improvements. Drawing on principles of behaviorist and positive psychology to help individuals develop new habits in order to achieve goals, he advocates for a system-based approach. Clear suggests that success often hinges on the quality of our systems (“You do not rise to the level of your goals. You fall to the level of your systems.”) rather than on sheer willpower, and he cites his own practice of writing regularly to foster a habit of writing. He argues that establishing a routine, building an identity around the desired habit (in this case, becoming a “writer”), and finding long-term enjoyment in the process are crucial steps for habit formation. Clear also notes that much of Atomic Habits was conceived through his disciplined blogging, a routine that illustrates the practical application of his theories.

Stephen King, in On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft (2000), offers a candid exploration of the writing craft. While my interests lean towards academic nonfiction, and despite the disdain many academic critics have for his popular appeal, I find King’s insights to be universally valuable. Emphasizing authenticity, he advises writers to draw from personal knowledge and write honestly, as readers can detect insincerity. King also underscores the importance of a dedicated writing space and routine. For him, writing in his basement at a consistent time facilitated productivity and focus. He also recommends drafting with the “door closed,” both literally and figuratively, to protect one’s work from premature criticism and to ensure the integrity of the drafting process. After a cooling-off period of six weeks, King suggests revising the manuscript and then seeking feedback from trusted individuals who represent the writer’s “ideal reader.”

As someone deeply influenced by the rigors of academic training, I found King’s advice particularly helpful. The process of academic writing, with its demands for extensive research, critical engagement with dozens and even hundreds of authors, along with the synthesis of those diverse voices, can tax the reading and research phase, resulting in an uncoordinated chorus of voices in the author’s head once it is time for writing. The specter of internal and external criticism, which further contributes to writer’s block, makes things worse. King’s remarks about the necessity of a private, disciplined writing practice—free from external criticism and based on one’s authentic self—especially struck a chord with me.

All that being said, the significance of rigorous training in shaping an academic writer’s discipline and approach to his or her craft cannot be overstated. This training, often gained through the doctoral process, involves not just the consumption of vast amounts of literature but also the meticulous tasks of reading, collating, and cross-referencing a wide array of authors and complex discursive fields. This process is both arduous and exhaustive, requiring one to weave disparate voices into a coherent narrative of one’s own. It was against this backdrop of academic rigor which uniquely imbues the academic writing process that I encountered a statement by Stephen King that struck me as fundamentally true, despite initially seeming problematic. King asserts (2000, pp. 145-150):

If you want to be a writer, you must do two things above all others: read a lot and write a lot. There’s no way around these two things that I’m aware of, no shortcut . . . .Can I be blunt on this subject? If you don’t have time to read, you don’t have the time (or the tools) to write. Simple as that. Reading is the creative center of a writer’s life. . . .The sort of strenuous reading and writing program I advocate—four to six hours a day, every day—will not seem strenuous if you really enjoy doing these things and have an aptitude for them; in fact, you may be following such a program already. If you feel you need permission to do all the reading and writing your little heart desires  . . . consider it hereby granted by yours truly. The real importance of reading is that it creates an ease and intimacy with the process of writing; one comes to the country of the writer with one’s papers and identification pretty much in order. Constant reading will pull you into a place (a mind-set, if you like the phrase) where you can write eagerly and without self-consciousness. It also offers you a constantly growing knowledge of what has been done and what hasn’t, what is trite and what is fresh, what works and what just lies there dying (or dead) on the page. The more you read, the less apt you are to make a fool of yourself with your pen or word processor.

Clearly, King doesn’t address the challenges inherent to academic writing: the potential for over-specialization; the tendency to circulate within a confined sphere of authoritative and repetitive discourse; and the issues deriving from the affective filter of the academic habitus (which I will discuss below). Nonetheless, the essence of King’s argument holds true: a profound engagement with reading and writing is crucial to mastery.

Whether in the humanities, social sciences, or beyond, the ability to absorb, synthesize, and contribute to the scholarly conversation through heavy reading is indispensable. This process demands not only an understanding of primary texts and critical methodologies but also the daily discipline of writing. Only through such a committed practice can one hope to complete significant works, be they dissertations, books, or significant articles and essays. I believe that most academics would consider this regimen of four to six hours per day of reading and writing ideal, if they could achieve it.

What Lamott, Clear, and King suggest is that overcoming writer’s block and becoming a proficient writer involve two main strategies. First, the would-be writer must embrace the initial, imperfect drafting process without judgment, and second, he or she must establish a consistent writing routine through habit. This routine not only conditions the mind to find some enjoyment in the process but it also cultivates a writer’s identity. A writer, as King argues, must not only commit to the act of writing but also become an avid reader within his or her genre. Following this advice is akin to the comprehensive preparation that PhD candidates undergo in creating the annotated bibliographies necessary to pass their qualifying exams and write their dissertations; it also underscores the need for a constantly evolving scholarly reading program that informs one’s writing with the caveat that one must not over-read at the expense of writing.

The Frustrated Academic Writer

The next question is why such approaches, seemingly effective for many writers, frequently fail in academia. Academic writers are notorious for being plagued with writing challenges. See the widespread phenomenon of graduate students who take years to complete their dissertations, or assistant professors who come perilously close to dismissal as they endeavor (and often fail) to finish a first book under contract and/or a series of articles for tenure. Anecdotes of such failures are not limited to prestigious universities; in fact, they are typical of what Pierre Bourdieu calls the “homo academicus,” illustrated by the “All But Dissertation” (ABD) phenomenon and the proverbial advice that assistant professors must “publish or perish.”

Let’s confront the truth. Evidence of the problem with academic writing is ubiquitous. Anyone familiar with graduate programs can share stories of students who struggle to complete their dissertations. At the University of Chicago’s Committee on Social Thought, for example, it was not unusual for students to spend three or four years (or more!) on their dissertations; in addition, their advisors often burdened them with additional readings in multiple foreign languages at late, or nearly complete, stages of drafting. The phenomenon of ABD (All But Dissertation) is also widespread. After multiple years of toil, many drop out of their PhD programs. During my time at Columbia, for instance, I encountered a striking example: a man who, possibly due to personal eccentricities or mental health issues, had been working on his dissertation for twenty years. More frequently, the story is much more banal. A PhD student runs out the clock on funding, is unable to finish his or her dissertation within five to seven years, and thus committed to oblivion, disappears.

Indeed, the journey through graduate programs is fraught with understandable obstacles which contribute to such outcomes. These range from the challenges of adult life, such as marriage and conflicting career paths with a partner, and the necessity of working part- or full-time to pay for living expenses, given insufficient graduate stipends and the precarity of adult life during a long period of formation. Despite, in recent years, the increasing number of PhD students who have secured collective bargaining agreements, financial strain remains a significant issue. Also common are misunderstandings with advisers and the difficulty of fitting into one’s specialty area, or a lack of genuine interest in doing so.

Academics are an inherently intellectual and fiercely independent bunch. Not surprisingly, they frequently face disillusionment as they come to terms with the extremely delimited sphere of future participation in rarefied discourse that awaits them should they choose to continue to labor for recognition and influence in their field. When their interests naturally shift, this strain is exacerbated; they feel even more constrained and anxious as they force their performance of the discourse they imagine is necessary to remain professionally strategic and competitive. Moreover, given the dire job placement statistics for PhDs, a now permanent addition to the psychological burden of graduate and post-doc students is the fear of not securing meaningful employment. The scarcity of academic positions—apart from low-paid adjunct work—has significantly worsened over the past fifteen years, and for the majority, this translates into the inability to make a living unless one pivots to a career outside academia.

Here I’d like to apply the economic concept of the “sunk cost fallacy” to the situation of doctoral students, something that exacerbates the daunting prospect of unemployment. The realization that years of hard work, dedication, and significant intellectual investment may not lead to either material benefit, or the prospect of practicing one’s long-chosen vocation, intensifies the stress and anxiety associated with academic writing and promotional productions such as conference presentations.

The sunken cost fallacy, I believe, compels individuals to persist in their projects, leading them to (over)emphasize their specialties and niches in the hopes of standing out—despite the slim chance of securing an academic position. Such efforts to double down on discourse is usually an illusion—the lure is that it will make someone more successful in an academic market saturated with an over-supply of talented academics, but limited in demand for appointments and capacity for publishing at prestigious levels. This doubling down further amplifies stress and anxiety, which is also fed by many other factors of material and adult life. The situation becomes particularly toxic because it prevents individuals from recognizing—per the fallacy—that they might be better off changing their approach—one that would require a mere workmanlike thesis or book (as opposed to a magnum opus) or a turn to a non-academic career or some other sort of plan-B intellectual life.

Tragically, many individuals only disabuse themselves of the sunk cost fallacy at a late stage. This occurs through serial rejection or lack of tangible improvements in material conditions or opportunities. Eventually they see that the notion they somehow could be a special or unique case of success—through persistence and additional efforts (on top of what they have already invested)—has been cut down by the law of averages.

Max Weber’s discussion of the role of chance in academic success provides more texture to the psychological burden faced by the PhD academic. In Science as a Vocation (1919), Weber posits that success in academia depends not only on talent and hard work—because many appointments do not go to the most talented—but are also significantly a matter of luck and timing. This unpredictability adds another layer of frustration and underscores the bitter reality that even the most dedicated academic efforts may not lead to a successful career. The acknowledgment that external, sociological factors, beyond one’s control, can thwart career aspirations, further fuels fear, pressure, stress and, one might even say, feelings of despair and hopelessness. It is no surprise that under such conditions mental health issues proliferate with academics.

For those who do make their milestones, such as completing a dissertation or securing a postdoctoral position, their initial sense of accomplishment is short-lived and often overshadowed by the return of familiar challenges, but now with heightened stakes and expectations. Go ask any new PhD, postdoc, or assistant professor. This cyclical encounter with the same issues, despite advancing to higher academic echelons, highlights a systemic flaw in academia that imposes an unsustainable cognitive and psychological burden on scholars. The relentless pressure to publish, combined with the constant threat of unemployment and the capricious nature of academic success, fosters an environment ripe for returning to the sunk cost fallacy; as a consequence, academics find it increasingly challenging to remain productive and progress in their careers. This intricate mix of psychological factors, systemic issues, and the inherent uncertainties of the academic profession can overwhelm even the most committed scholars at every level, hampering their capacity to flourish. That this is true can be seen in every university, where there are always some tenured professors who have failed to publish a single new paper, let alone book, since the date of their tenure; who have neither revised nor innovated their lectures after twenty or thirty years. No wonder writer’s block is a widespread and lamentable phenomenon and problem in academia, one that, I argue, has multiple causes and which persists throughout a career and life unless directly confronted and overcome. The question then becomes How? How can one overcome the writer’s block caused by academia?

The Academic Habitus

Despite acknowledging the profound impact of anxiety, stress, distractions, and the myriad real-life obstacles that aspiring academics face, we haven’t yet pinpointed the core issue. While these external factors are undeniably significant and warrant serious consideration, they don’t fully account for the challenges of becoming a successful academic writer. Upon further reflection, I’ve realized that the true barrier isn’t solely the obstacles I initially thought significant.

Sir Thomas More’s observations—and the countless anecdotes about the brutal and unfair external realities that thwart the scholarly writing ambitions of many—accurately reflect the challenges faced by individuals who are juggling familial and professional responsibilities. However, they don’t entirely explain the plight of an academic striving for success. Nor do they explain why, many years after departure from academia, post-academic writers find themselves in the same blocked condition as their institutional cousins.

Once I moved beyond the classical aporia between leisure (otium) and business (negotium) that strained the minds of classical statesmen and philosophers like Cicero and humanists like More, it became apparent that the root of my stagnation and despondency was connected to something that Pierre Bourdieu describes as the “habitus” of scholars. I’d like to discuss the implications of this idea without claiming any special (mis)understanding of Bourdieu’s works, specifically Homo Academicus (1988) and Outline of a Theory of Practice (1977), or the debates in his field; what I write here is based on my impressions of Bourdieu as a heuristic for thinking about our problem of academic writing as a habitus, with my own experience, impressions, and disciplinary formation as the measure of the same.

In Outline of a Theory of Practice, Bourdieu (1977, p. 72) asserts that

the structures constitutive of a particular type of environment (e.g., the material conditions of existence characteristic of a class condition) produce habitus, systems of durable, transposable dispositions, structured structures predisposed to function as structuring structures, that is, as principles of the generation and structure of practices and representations which can be objectively ‘regulated’ and ‘regular’ without in any way being the product of obedience to rules, objectively adapted to their goals without presupposing a conscious aiming at ends or an express mastery of the operations necessary to attain them and being all this, collectively orchestrated without being the product of the orchestrating action of a conductor

In Bourdieu’s view, our deeply embedded practices, perceptions, and dispositions—shaped through ongoing interactions within the academic field—significantly influence our behavior as academic actors and writers. The habitus emerges not solely from individual experiences but is also profoundly shaped by broader social and institutional structures. These structures condition our potential for subjective actions and thoughts without directly causing them.

Building on the truth of his insight by delving deeper into how the internalized norms and practices instilled by academic institutions sculpt our scholarly identity and pursuits, a more nuanced understanding of the challenges academics face emerges. Additionally, Bourdieu’s insight into the phenomenon of academic habitus offers a glimmer of hope—even a way out—of the fatalistic view that we are trapped by our circumstances. Armed with a new understanding of our pervasive, if unwitting, capture within the habitus, we might choose to reject it. 

In the academic realm, Bourdieu’s theory of habitus takes on particular significance. The environment of universities and the demands of PhD programs mold the habitus of individuals towards certain scholarly practices and dispositions. The academic habitus is more than just a set of dispositions; it is a cultivated identity that flourishes through the creation and sharing of knowledge. This identity is deeply embedded in the traditions and structures of academia, where scholarly articles and books are not merely intellectual exercises but also elements of academic capital. These products, emblematic of the academic habitus, represent the tangible results of the scholarly endeavor, tailored to the specific norms and expectations of the academic field.

In this analysis, the irony of the historical evolution of academia becomes strikingly clear. By shifting the emphasis towards the production of writings as a form of scholarly capital, the modern academic unwittingly exhibits a specific habitus particular to the age of the bourgeois spirit. This change reflects not just a transformation of the means of acquiring status but also a replication of the very patterns of power and prestige that academia once sought to transcend. Historically, as universities emerged, the clerical class shifted cultural authority away from medieval monarchs, nobility, and knights by forming the first scholastic universities in Oxford and Paris, and thereby elevated the forms of knowledge production that expressed their own image of themselves and that became a new cultural force.

Today’s academics are likewise engaged in knowlege production, but paradoxically it’s a repudiation of the classical and traditional intellectual. Aspiration for recognition, or even fame, is a perennial motivation of many intellectuals and artists. For us, however, the product of publication is the necessary capital and strategy for navigating the terrain of academia, with its hierarchies and laws of validation and prestige. As such, it reveals the habitus of modern academics to be a bizarre blend of ambition, intellectual endeavor, and the unconscious replication of historical patterns of cultural force and class-making.

The modern academic habitus, therefore, is a product of the structured environment of universities and the rigorous training of PhD programs, which predispose scholars to generate works that adhere to the specific conventions and expectations of academia. This habitus not only influences their intellectual pursuits but also shapes their career trajectories, guiding the way they engage with the broader academic community and contributing to the perpetuation of its structures and norms. In this way, academia exemplifies Bourdieu’s theory by demonstrating how environment and social background foster a system of dispositions that governs practices and productions. This university-bred system is distinctly set apart from the motivations that historically fueled literary and artistic creation in the classical, medieval, and pre-modern ages.

In Bourdieu’s view, which echoes similar observations by Robert Nozick in his essay “Why Do Intellectuals Oppose Capitalism” (1998), the academic habitus also explains the peculiar hostility of the professoriate to industry and business on the one hand, and independent writers and artists on the other (1988, p. 36):

As authorities, whose position in social space depends principally on the possession of cultural capital, a subordinate form of capital, university professors are situated rather on the side of the subordinate pole of the field of power and are clearly opposed in this respect to the managers of industry and business. But, as holders of an institutionalized form of cultural capital, which guarantees them a bureaucratic career and a regular income, they are opposed to writers and artists: occupying a temporally dominant position in the field of cultural production, they are distinguished by this fact, to differing degrees according to the faculties, from the occupants of the less institutionalized and more heretical sectors of the field (and expressly from the “independent” or “freelance” writers and artists, as opposed to those who belong to the university).

The Academic Habitus as Writer’s Block

I think it’s clear: Academia often promotes a scholarly “habitus”—a deep-seated approach to thinking and writing—that, while not inherently harmful, frequently stifles genuine thought and creativity, which in turn leads to writer’s block. In scholars, this habitus creates a psychological barrier, caused not so much by a lack of knowledge or skill or even an array of external factors, but rather by ingrained mental patterns and the pressures of institutional expectations. It’s striking how academia can effectively brainwash individuals into adopting a mode of thinking and writing that is largely adverse to true creativity and thought. Despite its numerous flaws, this rejection of creative thought is perhaps the most refined manifestation of the academic writing habitus, and scholars voluntarily adopt it, because it is regarded as an essential for winning the competitive game of academia.

For anyone to move beyond this notion of habitus so as to accomplish writing goals in the mode of King, Lamott, and Clear, however, they must undertake a profound shift in mindset, something that requires significant mental effort and a focus on well-being.

Many recovering academic writers cling to their former ideals and practices without realizing the extent to which their creativity has been stifled by their academic conditioning. They face numerous fears: fear of failure, of their advisor, of criticism within their field, of rejection of their ideas, and of being ostracized. Furthermore, writing is associated with stress, or an “anxiety of influence,” to invoke Harold Bloom, which is marked by the need to preemptively address every potential critique; accompanying all this is the perceived distress that being outside the academic institution will necessarily incur the loss of their creative and intellectual capabilities.

This resistance to writing stems from the fact that academic writing is predominantly oriented towards critique, a process inherently fraught with anxiety. Academics often find themselves lost in a labyrinth of sources, arguments, footnotes, and responses, trapped in a scholastic mode of endless citation and rebuttal. It’s noteworthy, however, that the most successful independent freelance writers and rogue academics often disregard the prevailing opinions of academia, where critical analysis is fixated on what has been said before, and as such, it embodies a form of rarefied scholasticism. (It is surprising how the reign of clerical, academic scholasticism has been extended in its transmutation of forms within institutions.) The proto-scholasticism inherent in the habitus paralyzes many graduate students and professors, preventing them from publishing and, consequently, leads to their professional and creative demise. The academic environment itself, though it may be problematic, is not the sole issue; it is also the overwhelming requirements of scholarly writing and knowledge production, which many find too daunting to navigate under pressure.

The rarity of successful academic publications exemplifies this struggle. Despite many years of authorial effort, many books and dissertations attract a limited audience or none at all; only a select few are recognized for their contributions to critical discussions within their fields. This reality is starkly reflected by the minimal sales of first editions from academic presses, where even the commended best books struggle to find readers beyond institutional libraries. While it’s important to acknowledge the contributions many scholars in fact make to their fields, clearly we should  distinguish between traditional scholarly output and the necessity of writers to shed debilitating scholarly habits, especially for those aspiring to engage in broader discussions and idea sharing.

The works of highly acclaimed academics like Gayatri Spivak highlight the disconnect between the pursuit of critical acclaim and clarity of communication. Academic writing under the guise of the standard academic habitus produces a complex and verbose style, often rendered inscrutable in proportion to an author’s commitment to various forms of post-modern thought; though their ideas are inaccessible, one finds an inverse relationship between inscrutable style and the perception that the criticism therein is all the more valuable as a scholarly commodity. This gap between content and genuine communication underscores the broader issue within academia: the production of knowledge and writing, driven by a quest for prestige and recognition within a constrained and exclusive domain, often stifles creativity rather than fostering it. Those capable of participating in such discourse frequently strain to find new innovations and schools of thought in which to participate, repeating the cycle over and over again.

Breaking Out

I want to conclude by revisiting the topic of writerly advice, but now specifically tailored to the academic writer who still inhabits the institution—the one who is making the complex transition out of the confines of academia’s psychological constraints and institutional indoctrination, or the one who is contemplating doing so. For all those who want to become “post-academic” writers, I must emphasize the necessity of recognizing and disentangling oneself from the pervasive Kool-aid of academic pursuit driven by a collective habitus.

Wherever you find yourself in the quest for financial stability and a fulfilling career—whether you’re in the midst of a doctoral program or beyond—it’s crucial to critically assess the underlying motivations of your academic endeavors. I advocate for a separation between the pursuit of institutional success and the practice of writing as a genuine form of self-expression. This distinction, albeit challenging, is vital. Approach your writing as an authentic act of expressing yourself; value it as an endeavor primarily for you, rather than as an effort to impress an imaginary cohort of academic peers. The genuine mindset validates your intellect and creativity within an academic sphere that is self-absorbed and often narcissistic.

Stephen King’s advice, that writing must be a pursuit for oneself, grounded in personal knowledge and insight, is wise and doable. While having an ideal reader in mind is beneficial, this reader should not embody the omnipresent and panoptic gaze of academic evaluation, critique, and promotion. Reflecting on my own doctoral journey, I wish I had understood this insight much earlier. Once you acknowledge that you are ensnared by the habitus, you can strategically withdraw from non-essential projects—those undertaken in the hopes of enhancing your CV through conference presentations, book proposals, and journal articles—all aimed at boosting academic standing and recognition.

By distancing yourself from this mentality to focus instead on projects of genuine interest, the quality of your work can significantly improve. The academic habitus often leads people to undervalue genuine talent and passion for teaching and research on meaningful topics; these should be sufficient for recognition in principle, even if only to yourself and a small number of kindred spirits.

It’s important to not become an unwilling puppet of academic performances you do not like nor care for. Academia is competitive but often unrewarding, with conferences, journal papers, and book proposals undertaken and listed in a performative CV—and inauthentic interests and topics feigned or pursued.

And there’s a personal cost for all of that. Academics are internally conflicted by the dilemma of whether to leave academia, and admit that there has been a sunk cost that is no longer worth the required performative marginal commitments, or to adapt to its demands for practical reasons. If the latter, you find yourself living by a low-stakes, clownish Machiavellian calculus. By embracing the game and living by its sword of production, academics risk alienating themselves from their most valuable assets: creativity and intellectual passion. Abandoning these core assets can in turn lead to a cynical, diminished, and dispirited engagement with what should be true intellectual pursuits.

For PhDs navigating the transition into alternative careers and post-academic life and those who have admitted that the jig is up but not yet exited their institution, I offer more nuanced advice. Drawing from psychoanalytic theory, notably Freud’s Lectures on Psychoanalysis (1910), we now understand that unprocessed and repressed trauma is a key driver behind symptomatic neurosis. The challenge for individuals suffering from such symptoms lies in their often-vague or missing recollection of the events that triggered their distress. Freud found that our minds employ mechanisms of repression and resistance to prevent examination of these traumatic experiences, leading sufferers to unconsciously repeat their trauma in new forms, a concept he later termed “repetition compulsion.”

It’s important here to highlight the reality that immersion into academic culture and striving to meet its norms, only to face profound failure, can be a deeply traumatic experience for many. Mental health issues afflict many graduate students, not solely because of the external pressures and challenges of academic life but also because the pursuit of academic ideals can inflict significant psychological harm on individuals who initially were motivated by a passion for knowledge, teaching, and engagement in intellectual discourse.

How repressed trauma manifests itself among individuals varies greatly. It’s likely, therefore, that after leaving the academic institution, a person’s approach to writing and independent scholarship might be marred by the habitus and linked with symptoms of trauma. These could manifest as overwhelming anxiety about publication prospects, the translation of work into social capital, or doubts about one’s credibility and ability to engage with authoritative sources outside of an institutional setting. Such concerns may also present as seemingly unrelated maladies, self-destructive personal behaviors, or neurotic complexes. Individuals may unconsciously sabotage their ability to connect to their passion for writing or intellectual life as part of traumatic neurosis. Therapy is thus highly recommended for those in need.

The path to healing involves confronting and reconciling with your academic experiences. Do not let them dominate your life. Move beyond those experiences, acknowledge the wounds inflicted by the academic habitus, and work towards healing. You deserve to express yourself authentically. Freed from the demands of academia, you now have the option to engage in writing as a form of therapy that allows you to embrace the freedom to be true to yourself.

Free Spirits

To embrace the ethos of a free spirit, as exemplified by Friedrich Nietzsche’s life and career, entails moving beyond the traditional metrics of value; you must take a stance of “I willed it thus” over “it was thus.” This transition is particularly relevant for the academic writer who has navigated the internalized trauma and conditioning of the academic habitus and now seeks an authentic revaluation of the creative act.

Nietzsche’s publication of Human, All Too Human (1878) marked a pivotal shift from his earlier scholarly pursuits and signaled his break with academic and philological conventions in favor of philosophical innovation. His quest for a more direct and accessible form of expression, free from academic constraints, reflected an evolving philosophical stance that championed individualism, questioned traditional moral values, and delved into the complexities of the human condition. Nietzsche’s pivot is all the more striking, given that his departure from his professorship in Basel and his embrace of a new mentality and style coincided with sudden deteriorations of his health, vision, and physical stamina so severe that he often had to dictate his works to his disciple Peter Gast, who then physically wrote them out. By stepping away from the academic mold, and his appreciation of recovery from near states of death, Nietzsche freed himself to express his philosophy in a manner that was both innovative and direct.

Despite initial indifference from the academic community to works like The Gay Science (1882), Thus Spoke Zarathustra (1883-1885), and On the Genealogy of Morality (1887), and a lack of any serious number of academic devotees in his lifetime, Nietzsche’s commitment to his vision never wavered. He recognized that his contributions might be ahead of their time, intended for future generations to appreciate. His approach, which challenged conventional thought to explore new philosophical landscapes, solidified his status as a transformative figure in modern philosophy. In particular, his turn away from the traditional scholarly method—by eschewing repetitive citations, conventional style, and obeisance to authorities—serves as a model for re-imagining the role of the scholar.

During my PhD journey, I encountered the overwhelming influence of authority and the academic apparatus, factors that, while exaggerated in my field, are universally present in the realm of academic writing, as it is the intuitional child of scholasticism, as I noted above. A great examination of this topic, written by Alisdair Minnis, is Medieval Theory of Authorship: Scholastic Literary Attitudes in the Later Middle Ages (1984). According to Minnis, the scholastic tradition venerated past scholars and their works and established a framework that expected new generations to operate within the confines of established intellectual boundaries (1984, pp. 11-15):

The writings of an auctor contained, or possessed, auctoritas in the abstract sense of the term, with its strong connotations of veracity and sagacity. In the specific sense, an auctoritas was a quotation or an extract from the work of an auctor. Writing around 1200, Hugutio of Pisa defined an auctoritas as a sententia digna imitatione, a profound saying worthy of imitation or implementation. In his Catholicon (finished 1286), the Dominican Giovanni de’Balbi of Genoa amplified this with the statement that an auctoritas is also worthy of belief: as Aristotle says, an auctoritas is a judgment of the wise man in his chosen discipline. De’Balbi used an auctoritas of Plato’s as an example. Plato says that the heavens are in motion; therefore, we should accept that this is indeed the case, because the man who is proficient and expert in his science must be believed. . . Two criteria for the award of this accolade were tacitly applied: ‘intrinsic worth’ and ‘authenticity’. . . To have ‘intrinsic worth,’ a literary work had to conform, in one way or another, with Christian truth; an auctor had to say the right things . . . To be ‘authentic’, a saying or a piece of writing had to be the genuine production of a named auctor. Works of unknown or uncertain authorship were regarded as ‘apocryphal’ and believed to possess an auctoritas far inferior to that of works which circulated under the names of auctores . . . But no matter what the subject, the scholar did not compete (he did not even pretend to do so) either with his auctores or with the great works which they had left. One’s whole ambition was directed to understanding the authoritative texts, ‘penetrating their depths, assimilating them and, in the fields of grammar and rhetoric, imitating them . . .

Such deep-seated respect for authoritative figures and texts, which originated in the academy of the Middle Ages and became a fetishism of modern scholars, created a lineage of knowledge that was both respected and replicated, shaping the scholarly pursuits and intellectual horizons of Nietzsche’s field of Classical Philology and further permeating the modern academy down to our day. Nietzsche’s counter-example, however, underscores a significant element of my academic growth and demonstrates the importance of questioning and transcending these very boundaries.

Harold Bloom’s notion of the “anxiety of influence” further elaborates this concept of obeisance to authorities, and suggests that the pressure to adhere to and extend the legacies of past authorities can significantly hinder the creative process. For someone who traversed the academic landscape with a dedication to the great books, classical languages and literatures, and then delved into the intricacies of Nietzsche, morality, stoicism, and self-honesty, I discovered that this anxiety of influence became even more pronounced when I entered the professional realms of Medieval and Renaissance studies. The mimetic impulse to not only worship but also perpetuate and elaborate the analyses of historical authorities in a pedantic, philological manner mirrors the practices of the Renaissance humanists. These scholars, in their zeal to glorify every aspect of Cicero’s Latin and ideas, inadvertently confined themselves to a cycle of repetitive homage, a pattern also evident in the field of professional Dante studies, which differs from the proto-scholastic habitus only in its shift to more secular and worldly themes.

Despite the profound insights and contributions of talented traditional scholars like Teodolinda Barolini, who brought fresh perspectives in historicism and interdisciplinary inquiry  to the discipline of Medieval Italian Studies and Dante Studies through a combination of selective indifference and determined independence, I found that the overarching weight of tradition and the compulsion to pay homage to the intellectual giants of the past could stifle the creativity of newcomers. This reverence erects a daunting barrier and makes it challenging for emerging scholars to carve out a distinct path and future within the field. To this day, the field of Dante studies, in particular, epitomizes to me the vices and sclerosis of the traditional, stultifying academic habitus which is institutionally and intellectually unable to move beyond the past, with its worship of genius and repetition of authorized discourse. 

Despite the pride I took in my doctoral project and the invaluable insights I gained in my academic journey, the struggle to navigate the dense terrain of established authority and the mimetic desire to replicate have constituted significant hurdles in my post-academic growth. My doctoral training at Columbia, though rich and formative, at an early stage brought to the surface the first feelings of a discord between my interdisciplinary and philosophical inclinations and the conventional disciplinary thought processes to which I had to conform. My ability to complete my doctorate though the interdisciplinary Comparative Literature and Society program allowed me to draw on serious historical, philosophical, and economic works; doing that became an intellectual lifeline in the context of the other challenges I faced.

Reflecting on my own academic journey, I now see such adherence to tradition as found in the fields of Classics, Medieval/Renaissance Italian Studies, and Dante Studies, in particular, not as the future but as a chapter of the past. No one should allow the weight of authority and the mimetic impulse, coupled with their own academic habitus, to constrain their creativity. In fact, my love of great books first as a student, then as a teacher arose from the experience that reading them always inspired fresh discussion and relevant insights on a wide array of contemporary and historical issues, rather than a ritualistic series of genuflections to literary or intellectual canons. To others in a similar position, in fields they feel are particularly traditional, closed, and repetitive, I offer this advice: Remain open to new ideas, challenge the confines of tradition, and pursue your intellectual passions with both independence and a critical mind. By doing so, you will ensure that the legacy of great works enriches rather than restricts your creative potential.

The new life begins

Let’s get real and ask, Can you detach yourself from external pressures and write solely for yourself? If you’re writing from genuine desire, you might consider yourself a free spirit in the realm of writing, unconcerned with the value of academic commodities or anxious about playing into the expected roles of the academic habitus.

Suppose you’ve undergone some form of therapy, akin to a journey of self-exploration through psychoanalysis. In that case, you might identify the academic habitus as a gremlin within your soul—something that blocks your writing flow and thus needs in need of exorcism. Doing this will allow you to embrace the advice of Stephen King, Anne Lamott, and James Clear.

Here are three practices that have helped my recovery as a post-academic writer:

• Keep a log of ideas and topics that spark your interest, the ones you find yourself contemplating and would like to explore through writing.
• Find a consistent place and time to cultivate your writing habit. Wake early and write one to two hours before the rest of the day begins. Then go about your day. Later, after work and home responsibilities are squared away, dedicate another hour or two for reading before sleep. This routine—write daily for an hour, then read in the evening—will free you from the academic shackles.
• On weekends, find a few hours for writing, or dedicate longer blocks of time to read through articles or books you want to in form your views. This is also a time to revise or push forward on penning longer blocks of written text.

Protecting your writing and reading time is crucial, even if it’s a less committed version of Stephen King’s advice to read and write four to six hours daily. Realistically, most people with jobs can’t commit to that. Still, defend your daily writing time and your weekend reading sessions zealously.

Another crucial lesson I’ve learned is to avoid sitting down to write in a workspace cluttered with books with the intention of mixing reading with writing. Why? Because your writing space is no longer a library carrell laden with guilty reminders of your failure to consult every known authority on a topic. Failure to clear your writing space of books and articles will reintroduce the academic writer’s block you’re trying to shed. Following King’s advice, in my opinion, means being a serious reader separate from being a serious writer. Combining these activities, especially during the drafting phase, reintroduces the anxiety of influence, and can overwhelm you with thoughts about the sheer amount of reading and connections needed to write something valuable. Instead, such thoughts and feelings should be regarded as the vapors of old academic constraints.

Also, consider re-imagining your approach to reading as a deep dive into a sea of ideas, where you not only draw inspiration but also pay tribute (or homage) to the thinkers and writers who resonate with you most deeply. Recognize that you, too, are an authority with unique and valuable perspectives to contribute. Encourage your distinctive voice to emerge, free from the rigid chains of exhaustive citation that academic writing often demands.

Finally, upon completing your work, seek out online platforms for publication. Share what you write with your circle, and broaden its reach through social media. Don’t allow the narrow confines of academic publishing restrict the spread of your voice. If you want to write a book, consider the liberating path of self-publishing on venues like Amazon. Here, take a pause and ask yourself whether a limited-edition release through a prestigious university press, costing $100 per copy, truly enriches your life more than the sheer joy derived from widespread sharing. If the prestige of a publishing venue concerns you, you’re still stuck in the habitus.

The post-academic writing voyage is about genuine self-expression and the communal joy of sharing insights—not about conforming to the entrenched norms of academia or the pursuit of academic prestige. Embrace the liberating journey ahead! Be free!

Francis Hittinger

© 2024