Why are academic authors treated as disposably as sperm donors?

In my more than 40 years of writing books, there are very few academic publishers I have not dealt with. Cambridge University Press (CUP) published my first book, in 1981. It recently published my 95th, too. But it was Bloomsbury that fulfilled my lifetime’s ambition and published my 100th last month.

Nor do I expect my compulsive scribbling to end there. But why do I do it? Not for the scholarly kudos. In my field, books “don’t count” because they are “not peer reviewed”. That isn’t true, of course – though they are reviewed as much from a commercial as from a content perspective. And while edited books quickly disappear into oblivion, I have four monographs with more than 1,000 citations on Google Scholar. But they still don’t count.

Campus resource collection: Tips for success in academic publishing

Nor, contrary to common assumption, am I in it for the money. When I ask people how much they think I make from books, the estimates are invariably 10 times the actual amount. It is true that the twice-annual royalty cheques usually pay for a decent exotic holiday with my wife, but writing books is a very laborious way of earning a holiday. Motivational speaking or popular journalism is much easier.

No, the main reasons that I write books are, first, that I enjoy it and, second, that I am flattered by the thought that the authorial me might live on beyond my mortal term. In that sense, writing a book is not unlike donating sperm. I hasten to point out that I have not done this – but I do think the analogy is becoming ever more fertile.

I was visited twice by charming CUP staff in 1981 and I fondly recall the care they took over our text, often suggesting improvements to infelicitous phrasing. Most editors then saw their role as cultivating ongoing relationships with authors. But standards have slipped since then.

The occasional long and boozy lunch with a specialist (senior) editor ended in the 1990s. Then the annual pilgrimage of specialist editors to university departments stopped. In the last decade, the relationship has been based almost entirely on email, occasionally on Zoom.

One experience in 1995 was illustrative. Over one summer, I completed a short, popular introduction to psychology. I sent 10 three-page faxes – book outline, comparison with the market competition and CV – to various publishers, some of whom I knew and others I found in the Writers’ and Artists’ Yearbook.

Within three days, a small London publisher replied. He took me to lunch and the deal was sealed – for a book that went through three editions and, at one stage, was on the Open University’s recommended list. We became friends and, as well as publishing around a dozen books with him, I also recommended him to others.

But I was not so impressed by the very distinguished publisher that did not respond to my enquiry until six months after the book was published. They mentioned the Frankfurt book fair and the Christmas break by way of apology, but I took it as a sign of how author relations were declining.

The biggest difference I have noticed is between pre- and post-publication. One still gets the odd “chirpy” email from some editorial assistant enquiring whether you are on course to submit the manuscript or mark up the proofs on time. Once you have delivered, however, the tone seems to change – if you hear anything at all. No other professionals I deal with seem so reluctant to keep me informed about things in which I have a direct interest.

I have discovered on the web, for instance, that many of my books have been published in other languages. Was I informed or rewarded? No. Publishers are rarely even willing to send me copies; I have to buy them from Amazon. And in response to various letters about copyright of books out of print? Nothing. I am clearly a nuisance.

I repeat that I don’t know much about the fertility industry, but I imagine that much the same dynamic applies. Donors, like authors, are carefully selected and then encouraged and rewarded for their delivery. But once the product has been deemed satisfactory, they are forgotten.

In principle, you might expect fertility organisations to have an interest in keeping “good” donors on their books, just as publishers should have an interest in keeping good authors coming back. But just as there is no doubt that a vast oversupply of hard-up students all too willing to make a pittance while imprinting their image on posterity, I suppose the same goes for academics.

Of course, sperm donation is a lot faster and more pleasurable than producing a manuscript. And my sources suggest the financial reward is about the same. Further, sperm donors are almost guaranteed to “live on”, while authors always risk ashamedly seeing their books in Oxfam shops years later.

But as a book centenarian, I’m too old for sperm donation – and I still embrace labours of love. I just wish the industry would remember how to give a little love back.

Adrian Furnham is an emeritus professor at the Norwegian Business School.