Telling Tells and Other Tales

So . . . as usual, I'm in the midst of sending out some of my research for review.  Regardless of acceptance or rejection (hah! any academic knows that's the only difference that counts), reviews range from useful, usually from journals, to the useless ones that I sometimes get from conferences.  Though I'm happy that you liked my paper, putting simply "Interesting, well-executed work" doesn't give me much to go on.  But reviews are just the context for what I'm writing about today, which is a bias in our perspective and attention.

The reason that reviews come to mind is because I am both a giver and receiver of them.  And when I write a review (or grade a paper, for that matter), I tend to follow a tried-and-tested format.  Write something positive at the outset (I read your paper with great interest, and I liked how you came up with an innovative experiment), then go into criticisms (however, your experiment does not test what you think it does, and by the way, learn to spell), and conclude with an encouraging remark (there is a lot of intriguing material here, and this could be made into a very strong paper).  This way any harsh comments you have are framed in positivity, though to be honest, sometimes its a stretch with some student papers where there is not a lot to be positive about (you fulfilled the basic format requirements of the essay?).

But here's the rub: when I read a review sent back to me of my own work, it never occurs to me that the reviewer is using the same format.  I read it as though I had no idea that a review could be written this way.  Then I think that this was an awfully nice review - sure, there are some negative points in the middle, but overall they liked it.  Writing this right now, I feel profoundly stupid for my selective application of knowledge, because I know that in the reviews I write, the only stuff I'm really trying to communicate is that middle critical section.  But when I read it, I gloss over that part.

We don't only do this in some circumstances, but many.  I used to play poker fairly regularly, and had read books about tells.  I could tell you dozens of tells that most people have.  Can I notice them while playing?  Not really.  Like you, there are acquaintances that I'm not really that interested in talking to, but I'll be polite and pretend to listen when I find myself in conversation with them.  But it rarely occurs to me that someone I'm talking to is just being polite and pretending to listen to me.  And consider this: most people know that if someone is touching their face while talking, they're likely lying. But most people also don't apply this knowledge.



I don't think this is a case of us thinking that we're different from others, that we do things that others don't.  I just think it's a case of situational thinking.  When I'm writing a review, I think this way; when reading one, I think this way. 

And this blog is another case of that.  It mildly irritates me (akin to the feeling on your eyes after using Tilex on a shower) that I get so few comments on the blog.  My sister recently wrote an article on the Huffington Post promoting her new book (article here and amazon.com book page here - buy it, I'm reading it now and so far so good, review may come in a few weeks) and in less than a week it has over 1500 comments (yes, I know that traffic on this site a smidge lower than that of HuffPost).  But as much as my low comment count pains me, I could count the number of times I've commented on someone else's blog on one hand. 

And the thing is, we'd probably be happier and/or better off if we could overcome this bias.  My papers would be better if I could cut through the niceties and get to the heart of a review.  I'd be a better poker player if I could bring my knowledge of tells into the game.  And I wouldn't agonize over be mildly irritated by low comment counts if I remember that I don't comment.