Welcome to the latest issue of the Journal of Integrated Studies. This editorial will pose one question—why should a graduate student consider writing for our journal? I remember my years as a graduate student, where much of everyday life consisted of ... writing! At first glance, it might seem a big ask to add to the writing which already takes up much of your time. Let me—in my role as faculty advisor to the journal—make the case for adding to your workload.

First, the journal is peer-reviewed. Crafting a curriculum vitae is an important part of life during and after graduate studies. Developing a section of your c.v. with articles published in peer-reviewed journals is quite relevant to that task. Further, a submission to the journal may not compete with the writing you do for courses but rather complement it. Many of our submissions begin their life as essays in a graduate class.

There are more transcendent reasons. Put simply—“writers write”. All writing is personal. Some writing quite rightly remains personal. Journaling for yourself can be a hugely beneficial activity. But much writing, while personally driven, is ultimately writing in search of a readership. When we have an idea, a question, or an issue that we are compelled to research, wrestle with and write about—at a certain, point the results of that labour start to demand that we “go public”. A deeply felt idea that both educates the author and engages an audience—that is the very reason for any and all writing for publication.

However, the space between creation and submission is a space of risk—the risk of “going public”. It can be intimidating to take something quite personal—an article, poem or essay into which you have put your ideas, effort and passion—and send it out for “others” to read, analyze and comment on.

As an undergraduate, I “went public” as a student journalist, first in a college newspaper, later in the campus-wide paper—sports editor, news editor, and finally editor-in-chief. That student journalism has a value of its own—a high-pressured environment, where young students try to grapple with the issues of the day, either on or off campus.

The Journal of Integrated Studies is something different, a scholarly not a journalistic enterprise—and I say that from a place of deep and abiding respect for the importance of serious journalism. However, scholarly publishing operates at a different register—slower and more reflective. It involves thinking through the contours of the question being addressed, engaging with the existing research on the topic, developing a research methodology to tackle that question, and then putting pen to paper and writing the analysis.

Which doesn’t negate the “risk”. From the point of submission, there is understandable anxiety as to the response of the peer reviewers and the journal editors. It would be disingenuous to maintain that this anxiety is misplaced and that there is no risk in going public. There will be disagreements. There will be critique. There will (usually) be suggestions for revision. But often risk can be accompanied by reward. Sometimes critique of a submission might “miss the point” the author was trying to say—but if so, then the author has the challenge of making that point in a clearer, more persuasive fashion.

And sometimes, critique of a submission might actually identify something important and substantial missing from the submission—and if that is addressed, the submission will be vastly improved.

That is not a painless experience. The first step in “going public” is going semi-public—submitting a manuscript for review by editors. I remember a difficult “semi-public” moment—submitting a book manuscript to a university press, where one of the reviewers suggested that I had ignored an important subset of the relevant literature and that the manuscript was weaker as a result. Truth be told—I was furious. I thought they were off the mark. I knew of that subset of literature but did not consider it relevant to my topic, or important to the manuscript. Driven by that righteous anger, I gathered together all the necessary books and articles to address the reviewers’ concerns, intending to systematically demonstrate the manner in which the literature was either weak or not helpful to my case.

A few days into this task, I put down my pen, made a coffee, and changed my mind. The sub-set of literature was important. Addressing it was absolutely necessary. It made me rethink the underlying architecture of the manuscript’s analysis. I removed one chapter, wrote a new one based on the suggested subset of literature—and put away my anger. The reviewer had been correct, I had been wrong. That “semi-public” experience meant that when the book eventually made the leap and went fully public—it was much improved. I use the term “leap” consciously—taken from the concept “leap of faith”, associated with the Danish writer Søren Kierkegaard. Writing for publication always involves a “leap of faith”.

When one uses such an expression, good scholarly writing practice is to provide a citation. In preparing just this one citation, I uncovered heated debates about what Kierkegaard actually meant by the phrase. I decided to sidestep that debate, and simply direct your attention to Kierkegaard’s most famous writing, Concluding Unscientific Postcript (Kierkegaard, 1846/2009). This did not solve the problem. The editor and translator of the edition I use most often claimed that “leap of faith” is “an expression nowhere to be found in Kierkegaard’s work” (Hannay, 2009, p. xxvii). This was shocking and unsettling. A term—“leap of faith”—which has become embedded in the lexicon of modern scholarship, as a term coined by Kierkegaard, was apparently not an embedded part of this, his most famous work!

So—let us simply use it in its common sense version. At a certain point, all planning, preparation, application and editing has to be set aside, and a provisionally finished product sent out for others’ eyes—whether those others are editors, friends or the public at large. All writing is provisional. There are always changes that can be made. No one work of writing can anticipate all the criticisms and challenges that an “other” might have upon reading it. In that sense, the step of going public always demands a “leap of faith”—a leap into an unknown, with the faith (or hope) that at the very least a productive discussion will ensue.

That such a productive discussion often does ensue, is why working on this journal is such a pleasure. Since 2010, this student-run journal has published dozens of articles, poems and works of art reflecting the incredible diversity of life and work at our university. Instrumental in this, has been the inspirational leadership of Dr. Reinekke Lengelle, who for most of those years acted as faculty advisor to the journal. I am doing my best to continue in those shoes—but honestly, it is students who shape and guide this journal in all its aspects, including editing and preparing it for publication. The co-editors shepherd this work. Last issue we said goodbye to Priscilla McGreer, whose role as co-editor was indispensable in orienting me to the ins and outs of journal production. With this issue, Cara Violini has joined Karolina Stecyk as co-editor—and they have done all the heavy lifting.

I encourage you to consider joining us. Perhaps you will begin by providing us a piece of philosophy, engaging with the notion “leap of faith”? Or you are a poet, and think you might deal with this topic in iambic pentameter. Or you are a visual artist, with an illustration you would like to see published. Consider our journal as a place to submit these or other kinds of scholarly, creative works.

One last point—Kierkegaard is now one of the world’s most famous philosophers. According to Hannay, the first edition of the work I am citing here, Concluding Unscientific Postcript, sold ... 119 copies (Hannay, 2009, p. xxvii)! From 119 copies to an international reputation ... for Kierkegaard at least, the “leap” had a quite positive outcome.

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