The book I am referring to is Doctoral Supervision in Theory and Practice published in 2020. The task was to take some quotes from the text and write our reactions.

“A doctorate is an obvious starting point for anyone wishing to continue with a career in research and teaching in higher education.” (p. 25) #

But how obvious is it, really, that a PhD is a starting point rather than the end of the road? From the perspective of an undergraduate or even a master’s student, a doctorate often appears as the pinnacle of higher education, the ultimate academic qualification. In this sense, it feels more like a conclusion than a beginning. While this perception isn’t entirely mistaken, I find it important to challenge it.

Carrying this assumption into the PhD itself can become a heavy burden. If one sees the doctorate solely as the final destination, the thesis—the tangible outcome of years of research—takes on an almost mythical status, as if it must be a flawless and groundbreaking contribution to knowledge. This mindset can be paralysing. Recognising the PhD as both an ending and a beginning allows for a more balanced perspective, one that frees students from the weight of perfectionism and helps them approach their work with greater clarity and confidence.

“Publish or perish is the melody of current research.” (p. 205) #

The prevailing academic culture around publishing can be harmful in numerous ways. As researchers, we are not only subjected to an obsessive focus on the h-index and other reductive metrics—artificial benchmarks largely shaped by the interests of commercial publishers and bureaucratic evaluators rather than academic traditions—but also to a broader shift that undermines the values of different disciplines.

This pressure is particularly disruptive in the social sciences and humanities, where the nature of scholarly work does not always align with the relentless cycle of rapid publication. In fields like medicine or experimental sciences, where new data emerges frequently and incremental contributions can be valuable, publishing multiple focused papers in quick succession may be justifiable. However, in disciplines such as philosophy, history, or literature, where deep engagement with ideas, extended argumentation, and long-form scholarship are essential, this model is counterproductive. The demand to produce a steady stream of articles often leads to superficial work, fragmentation of research, and a neglect of monographs and essays—the very formats that have historically shaped these fields.

Rather than fostering meaningful intellectual contributions, the current system rewards volume over substance, often forcing scholars to tailor their research to what is easily publishable rather than what is genuinely valuable. This pressure can lead to fragmented scholarship, where ideas are broken into multiple papers for the sake of boosting publication counts rather than developing them into cohesive, impactful work. In some cases, it discourages risk-taking and originality, as scholars may prioritise producing work that aligns with journal expectations and mainstream trends rather than pursuing bold, unconventional inquiries that take longer to develop.

It is my belief that PhD students should be made aware of these structural issues early in their academic journey. Understanding the pressures of the “publish or perish” culture allows them to navigate it more consciously, making informed decisions about how they engage with the system rather than simply conforming to it. By fostering critical awareness, institutions can empower emerging researchers to take a stance—whether that means resisting the push for quantity at the expense of depth, advocating for alternative forms of scholarly communication, or strategically balancing publication demands with intellectual integrity.

“It is important for doctoral students to understand how a style of language is shaped and written in their own discipline.” (p. 211) #

Scientific work—even in the natural sciences—is, at its core, a practice of working with language. Bruno Latour and Steve Woolgar, in Laboratory Life (1979), famously demonstrated that scientific facts do not emerge in a vacuum but are constructed through discourse, negotiation, and inscription within a specific community. In their ethnographic study of a biology laboratory, they showed how scientific knowledge is shaped by how findings are written, debated, and codified in papers. What counts as a “fact” is not merely the result of an experiment but of how the experiment is described, interpreted, and legitimised through scientific writing. In this sense, the production of knowledge is inseparable from the production of text.

Bourdieu makes a similar argument in Science of Science and Reflexivity (2001), where he highlights the performative power of scientific language. He argues that mastering the language of a discipline is not just about stylistic conformity; it is about acquiring the capacity to participate in and shape the field itself. Scientific discourse carries authority not because it simply describes reality, but because it operates within a structured social space where legitimacy is conferred by peers who share a common linguistic and conceptual framework. Without recognising this, PhD students as well as researchers risk mistaking the conventions of their discipline for objective, neutral descriptions of the world, rather than what they really are: social constructs that enable (but also constrain) knowledge production.

This is why reflexivity is so crucial. The more aware we are of the constructed nature of our scientific language, the more critically we can engage with it, allowing us to push intellectual boundaries rather than merely reinforcing existing paradigms. Without this awareness, we fall into what Hugo Zemelman criticised—the tendency to mistake linguistic novelty for theoretical innovation. Zemelman warned that academic disciplines often cycle through new terminologies to describe long-standing problems, creating an illusion of progress when, in reality, the fundamental issues remain unchanged. This is particularly evident in the social sciences, where theoretical shifts are sometimes more about rebranding than genuine epistemological rupture.

Recognising that the core tenets of any discipline—its theories, concepts, and methodologies—are not absolute reflections of an objective reality but rather tools constructed through language does not mean succumbing to relativism. On the contrary, it enables a more dynamic and critical approach to knowledge production, one that resists dogmatism and remains open to transformation. Understanding this should not be an afterthought in doctoral training but a fundamental part of becoming a researcher.

“[…] doctoral students frequently experience writing to be an extremely tiring and time-consuming process […]” (p. 230) #

One of the key reasons why writing feels so exhausting—especially in a doctoral context—is the widespread belief that it depends on motivation or inspiration. In my experience, this is one of the most counterproductive myths surrounding academic work. Even poets and novelists consistently warn against the romanticised notion that writing happens in bursts of inspiration. If writers, researchers, or any knowledge producers relied solely on fleeting moments of motivation, their output would be sporadic at best—at worst, nonexistent.

Motivation and inspiration, when present, can certainly make the writing process more enjoyable. They should be welcomed, but never relied upon. They are unpredictable. Some days they appear, other days they don’t; and waiting for them is simply a recipe for procrastination. What truly sustains long-term academic work is not the excitement of an occasional “eureka” moment but the discipline of a consistent writing routine.

Routine and structured schedules are far more reliable allies. They may lack the glamour of inspiration but they don’t need it. One of the best pieces of advice I received as a PhD student was to maintain regular, low-pressure contact with my text. Even if it was only for a short period each day, the crucial part was the consistency. A daily writing habit, with breaks on weekends and holidays, ensures that research remains in motion rather than stalling due to fluctuating motivation.

During periods of frustration, when I felt as though I had accomplished nothing in an entire day, having concrete ways to measure progress was invaluable. Tracking the number of words added to my manuscript or lines of code written in my scripts provided an objective reality check. Productivity fluctuates from day to day, but the key is to measure progress over longer timeframes—weeks or months—rather than focusing on the inevitable ups and downs of individual writing sessions.

Embracing routine over inspiration is not just a practical strategy; it is a necessary mindset shift for anyone undertaking long-term research. A well-structured writing habit creates the conditions for intellectual breakthroughs, while waiting for motivation only delays them.