The Twelve Days of Scholarly Peer Review

(a revised version of a series of tweets that I originally posted on Twitter (X) December 2019)

Reviewing papers for scholarly journals is an essential, unpaid service that many academics perform. But the process often raises lots of frustrations and unanswered questions. Meanwhile, unless they still have exams to evaluate and final grades to submit, the Christmas break is when many university instructors and professors attempt to fulfill their promises to review papers—or find themselves pressed into service to do so.

In the spirit of the famous Christmas carol, I bring you, “The Twelve Days of Scholarly Peer Review.”

On the 1st day of Christmas, a highly respected scholar-editor from a top-ranked journal invites you to peer review a paper perfectly aligned with your hyper-specialized expertise—but without specifying a due date.

On the 2nd day of Christmas, after you agree to review the paper, the editor informs you that the review is due in two weeks.

On the 3rd day of Christmas, you open the manuscript, only to discover that it’s riddled with track changes edits.

On the 4th day of Christmas, as you continue reviewing the paper, you realize not only is the manuscript filled with track changes, but the author(s)’ names are still visible—violating the blind review component of the process.

On the 5th day of Christmas, frustrated by the lack of response from the editor to your concerns, you e-mail the journal’s editorial office again. You then spend an hour tracking down the editor’s university contact information, only to get an out-of-office reply. A phone call to the office yields no answer, so you leave a voicemail and add “find better things to do with my life” to your New Year’s resolutions.

On the 6th day of Christmas, you realize the author(s) have lifted significant portions from your seminal article, “The Mating Behavior of the Tsetse Fly in Africa During the 17th Century.” You spend the next 24 hours mentally rehearsing how to frame your indignation (but with a professional tone). You briefly consider writing a strongly worded letter to the editor about academic malfeasance.

On the 7th day of Christmas, despite ignoring your previous e-mails and voicemail, you receive an e-mail from the editor remindering you that the review is due in one week. You stare at the e-mail and wonder if they’ve mistaken you for an unpaid intern.

On the 8th day of Christmas, after the kids, your spouse, and the dog are finally asleep, and despite being exhausted, you spend two hours drafting the review—motivated by guilt, professional integrity, and a misguided belief that this will somehow benefit your career. You add “start a blog about academic labor” to your to-do list.

On the 9th day of Christmas, you re-open the manuscript to double-check your critique before submission. To your dismay, you discover three additional flaws. You spend an extra hour revising your review, muttering a stream of academic-appropriate curses like, “This methodology is untenable,” and “Not clear if this study was approved by an IRB?” Finally, you submit it.

On the 10th day of Christmas, you notice that you didn’t receive an automatic confirmation for your submission. You begin to wonder if there’s an issue with the journal’s software. Reluctantly, you send yet another e-mail to the editor and the journal’s office.

On the 11th day of Christmas, the highly respected scholar-editor finally replies, informing you that the paper has been desk-rejected and your review is no longer needed.

On the 12th day of Christmas, the same editor asks if you’d review another manuscript in your hyper-specialized field. You briefly consider it before realizing you’ve spent far too little time with your family and assorted loved ones.