Achieving the rank of professor signifies an elevation in academic status, access to more resources, and an escape from the "up or out" predicament... so much so that few ponder its possible "side effects."
A brave hydrology professor from Canada has ventured into self-analysis. He states, "Becoming a professor led my scientific creativity to a near drought." "In the early stages of my teaching career, I was overly arrogant, which runs counter to the mindset needed for creativity." It took him over two decades to rediscover the "spring" of creativity.
This professor, named Jeffrey McDonnell, is a Fellow of the Royal Society of Canada and the Associate Director of the Global Institute for Water Security at the University of Saskatchewan. In 2019, he penned his academic insights into a book titled "Navigating an Academic Career: A Brief Guide for PhD Students, Postdocs, and New Faculty." The book encompasses his observations on the traits of successful scholars, guidance on interviews, negotiations, outreach, and other essential soft skills, techniques for time management and paper writing, as well as leadership development.
Recently, he shared his experiences again in Science magazine, presented in his own words:
Jeffrey McDonnell: From Scientist to Research Manager
Back when I was a doctoral student, I spent countless hours conducting scientific experiments. Whether I was standing on steep forest slopes, measuring how water droplets permeated into the soil, or delving into the intricate workings of nature, it all felt more like play than work to me.
I relished my time in the field, brimming with curiosity at every turn. Connecting what I saw with the theories I'd learned filled me with excitement, and inspiration flowed through me like a stream, often manifesting in vivid dreams about my research.
However, everything changed when I became a professor. The torrents of inspiration and creativity I once experienced slowed to a trickle, a casualty of the myriad administrative duties that came with academia.
It all began when I first joined the faculty at the State University of New York, where the demands of teaching, journal reviews, and grant proposals overshadowed the freedom to immerse myself in research. I found myself juggling responsibilities more akin to a research manager than a researcher, constantly chasing funding opportunities and overseeing projects rather than delving into the scientific questions that captivated me.
The shift persisted for a decade until I made a change by moving to a new university, where I could reclaim some of that academic freedom. At Oregon State University, I could dedicate more time to the research questions that had intrigued me during my doctoral studies.
With a focus on mentoring graduate students and postdocs who shared my research interests, I found myself gradually rediscovering my role as a facilitator of creative thinking. Working alongside students, undistracted by the administrative burdens that had once consumed me, I began to play a more active role in their creative processes.
Yet, despite this newfound sense of purpose, I still felt like more of a creative facilitator than a true innovator. It wasn't until I joined the University of Saskatchewan in Canada that I experienced a renaissance of scientific creativity.
During a hiatus before starting my new position, while accompanying my wife on a work trip to South Carolina, inspiration struck once more. As I leisurely walked on the treadmill at the gym, watching raindrops form puddles on the grass outside, I had a sudden epiphany about the formation of groundwater processes, a puzzle I'd been grappling with for decades.
This momentary spark reignited my passion for scientific inquiry, reminding me that creativity could flourish even after years of dormancy. Recognizing the need to slow down and immerse myself in the world around me, I made a conscious effort to foster curiosity and creativity in my daily life.
Now, as I approach retirement, I reflect on the ebb and flow of my scientific creativity, determined to help early-career scientists navigate the pitfalls I encountered. While I may not be a master of creativity, I've learned valuable lessons about the importance of balancing busyness with moments of contemplation and play.
I now encourage my students to carve out time for reflection and exploration, even if it's just a few minutes each day, fostering habits that nurture their passion for research. By seeking out environments and experiences that spark curiosity and deep thinking, they can safeguard their creativity and ensure its enduring presence in their scientific endeavors.
Creativity is the lifeblood of scientific inquiry, and by openly discussing my experiences, I hope to empower the next generation of scientists to preserve and nurture their own creative spark.
