The Art of the Rebuttal

A hefty chunk of this job involves receiving - and responding to - feedback, aka criticism, aka an assault on your very soul. Even after all these years, it’s very hard not to take critical comments on your work as a personal attack. I think this is even more true of grant applications than of manuscripts - a manuscript is something you’ve done, finished, and you can be confident that it will find a home somewhere. In funding applications you are laying yourself bare: this is my next big idea, my vision, my future; if you don’t like it I may never get to do it.


Given this huge personal investment, the temptation is to hit back hard at any and all criticism. I don’t necessarily think this is a bad idea - it can be cathartic to write the response you want to write. But probably best to then delete it and make a start on the response you ought to write.


I have just spent two days in grant panel deliberations, a typically brutal process where the pot of money available is dwarfed by the pile of excellent proposals in front of us. In this context, not only the content of the rebuttal, but also its tone, can tip the balance between ‘it’s good, but…’ and ‘fund this!’. As a rule of thumb, if you respond to your reviewers as if they simply needed to read your proposal properly, your chances of progressing from the first to the second reaction decrease.


The art of the rebuttal includes at its heart an assumption of good faith. Your reviewers may well have misunderstood parts of your proposal, but they will have read it carefully and will have tried their hardest to make sense of it. If they have not quite grasped a particular concept or detail, the onus is on you to explain it better. Simply pointing them back to the original proposal is not usually the best strategy. (Caveat: sometimes it really is, but there are ways of doing this that steer clear of defensiveness and condescension.)


A little empathy in considering the constraints under which the review has been produced is also useful. Often reviews of grant proposals are required to be highly structured, and also to fit within a strict character limit. In some schemes the review itself is already a consensus, with text pieced together from several independent reviews. Space for nuance is limited, so a review might state something like “links between work package 1 and work package 2 outputs are not sufficiently clear” rather than “although a diagram of linkages between work packages is provided, the specific ways in which the outputs from WP1 will feed into WP2, including alignment of timings in the deliverables, is unclear.” Obviously the second statement would be more useful but you should assume that the reviewers considered what you originally presented and go beyond a cursory “We refer to our original figure which fully explains this” in your response.


And of course you’re allowed to disagree. I prefer the term ‘response’ to ‘rebuttal’ as it is less antagonistic, but sometimes you really do need to rebut. The key here is to evidence your counterclaims. And tone is always important. Your reviewers may be mistaken, but they have not willfully misunderstood you. Here is your chance to provide some additional context and explanation to make your point more clearly and forcefully. We are willing - indeed, often actively hoping! - to be convinced. Successfully pushing an application you really like to the top of the pile brings its own glow of satisfaction.


This, ultimately, is the art of the rebuttal. It is to turn enthusiasm for your idea into excitement; to turn a general feeling that you know what you’re doing into a conviction that you are the best team in the world to deliver your vision; to turn a broadly sympathetic ally into a champion for your cause. Don’t forget that all reviewers today will have been reviewees themselves, and will share in some of the pleasure of success.

Paying for peer review

I’ve been writing about various challenges and crises in scientific publishing since the origins of this blog back in the distant days of the Nature Science Network. Several million papers have been submitted, reviewed (with varying degrees of rigour), and published (at varying costs) in the years since, but I think it’s fair to say that the whole system is still not quite perfect. As workloads of practising scientists continue to spiral, one persistent challenge is finding qualified people to review the torrent of submissions at any one journal. And one potential (and probably partial) solution to this, which appeared in my feed most recently in this post from Trevor Branch, is for the publishing giants to divert some of their profits into actually paying reviewers for their time.

Now as I’ve written before, I am in general an advocate for paying people for the work they do, and given a Truss-related 40% hike in my mortgage repayments I’m not going to sniff at the opportunity to supplement my income, especially if it is just doing things I do anyway. But I have a few questions about how a system of payment for reviewing would work, in practice. (All of this assumes good actors all round, committed to thorough and conscientious reviews, which seems reasonable as I can’t imagine anybody playing the scientific publishing system for personal gain…)

First things first: how much? If you start to pay people for their time, you need to pay enough for it not to be insulting. Funding agencies are increasingly paying reviewers or panel members, and in my experience rates for this come in between about £200 and £500 a day. So that might be a reasonable benchmark - considerably less than one might get for private consultancy as a PhD-qualified scientist, but not insultingly low. The next job is to scale that to how long it takes to review a manuscript, where I will throw out a figure of 2-3 hours (this is broadly in line with what people have self-reported, although there is a lot of variation and quite a long right hand tail). So let’s call it somewhere around ⅓ to ½ a day - suggesting that something in the region of £100-£200 might be a reasonable fee for a single review. (Of course, people may favour some kind of an increasing scale from non-profits through society journals to the big glamour mags.)

My second thought was how would this be administered, practically? Although publishing is concentrated into a few massive publishers, there are still quite a number of players in the game - would you be contracted to everyone you reviewed for? And how would it be taxed? This might be obvious for those in jurisdictions where tax returns are an integral part of everyone’s working life, but for those of us in PAYE systems where tax on our primary income is deducted at source, little bits of extra income coming in from multiple ‘employers’ could cause a massive headache, out of proportion to the few hundred pounds extra per year it brings in.

Ultimately, would I be more likely to agree to a review if I were getting paid for it? At this relatively comfortable stage in my career - mortgage notwithstanding, I’m doing OK, and I do have ‘scholarship’ hours baked into my workload - probably not. But there have been times when it would have made a significant difference, for instance between post-doc contracts when things were very tight. So I’d be interested in seeing more concrete plans for how this could work, and to reassure me that publishers would not respond by simply increasing fees, effectively directing even more public money into private hands.

Taking responsibility for shit

It’s interesting, the questions people ask on finding out you’re a marine biologist. Recently I’ve noticed a theme: what people (in the UK anyway) want to know is what do I think about all the sewage going into the sea? Now I’m as prone as anyone to taking the ‘actually it’s a bit more complicated than you may have heard’ stance on many issues, but here I am pretty happy to stick with a simple ‘yep, it’s pretty bad isn’t it?’ 

Of course, it is a bit more complicated than this - for instance, my local river, the Don, is far cleaner now than it was 50 years ago when it was “…grossly polluted and fishless throughout almost its entire catchment”. And for a few weeks back in the late 1990s I worked on a campaign to try to stop South West Water from polluting the coast around Portsmouth with raw sewage. So none of this is new, but, due no doubt to recent coverage of the low performance and high profits of the privatised water companies, this is certainly an issue that has ‘cut through’.

However. The other morning in a taxi to the station to catch an early train, when my driver raised this, what he was specifically disgusted about was ‘nappies and condoms and sanitary towels on the beaches’. Now I’m not about to leap to the defence of the water companies, but - those kinds of things should be nowhere near the sewage system. They should be going in the bin, not down the loo. And if they are flushed away, that’s on us. Time to take some responsibility.

[Naturally I didn’t actually say any of this to the cabbie. He was quite a forceful personality, it was 6.30am, and I’m English - I settled for an ambiguous tut.]

I have a similar feeling when I see headlines like this one in The Guardian yesterday: “Survey finds that 60 firms are responsible for half of world’s plastic pollution”. I mean yes, these firms are producing the plastic. But we’re consuming it. To be fair - the article itself does touch on this tension between individual and corporate responsibility. But even if these multinationals follow through on their pledges to switch to recycled plastic or bioplastics or some other material - all of these have environmental impacts, sometimes really significant ones. Ultimately: as long as we keep buying shit, they’ll keep selling it.