Sh!t Bad Historians Say

Real talk from a real Texas historian.

“The only requirement of academic history is that it be solid.”

My immediate supervisor at the Texas State Historical Association really said this to me. At the time—the late-80s —I was toiling away as a “Senior Research Fellow” for that august organization. Sounds impressive doesn’t it?

It wasn’t.

I was, in fact, a hack writer grinding out entries for the New Handbook of Texas. Problem was, I wasn’t grinding them out fast enough to suit my superiors. My boss was “encouraging” me to increase my output.

I thought it might be helpful if I explained my writing process. “Look,” I told him, “I like to get all my facts into the first draft, let it cook for about a week, then come back and polish the style.”

To which he replied, “Completely unnecessary.” Then he said it:

“The only requirement of academic history is that it be solid.”

For those unfamiliar with the jargon of the history profession, “solid” means factually accurate. My boss had his Ph.D. from The University of North Texas.

“Is that what they taught you at North Texas?” I inquired. He seemed to be taken aback, shocked that I would even ask such a question.

“Well, yeah,” he replied.

We were products of two distinctly different academic cultures. I had done my Ph.D. work at Texas Christian University, where my professors had valued—and taught—good writing. (Sadly, that is no longer the case at TCU.) My boss, a perfectly pleasant fellow, had studied at UNT where, well, they hadn’t.

His answer explained a lot. If you’ve ever wondered why academic history often reads like the instructions to your microwave oven, that’s the reason. Most history graduate professors do not appreciate, or even recognize, style in writing. Indeed, they find it dubious. You see, it smacks of the “popular.” The books and articles they produce may not be readable but, by God, they’re solid.

I didn’t last long at the Texas State Historical Association. Those who aspire to become writers ought to write as well as they can—all the time. You see, good writing is a habit.

Sadly, so is bad writing.

“Professional historians write for other professional historians, not the general public.”

I teach at a small undergraduate university. I don’t have many students that aspire to go on to graduate school, but I strive to prepare them if they should choose to. I teach my students, as my mentor Professor Grady McWhiney taught me, that even academic writing should be accessible to a non-academic audience. Oh sure, you include all the scholarly methodology —Introduction, notes, bibliography, and the like—but the style (there’s that word again) should be comprehensible to general readers. At least, that’s what I believe—and teach.

Whenever possible, I try to monitor the progress of former student who have entered grad school. I want to make sure that I’m teaching, not only what they need to know to get into a decent graduate program, but to thrive once they arrive there.

A few years back, I had the opportunity to visit with a former student, an exceptionally gifted young man, who was pursuing an MA in History from Texas State University (my alma mater, by the way). A native of Abilene, he was home for Christmas vacation and I was eager to question him about his experiences. He had just finished the Historiography course and I asked him to tell me about it. “Well,” he said with a twinkle in his eye, “I asked the prof if our writing should be accessible to a general audience.” Then he said it:

“Absolutely not,” the instructor snapped. “Professional historians write for other professional historians, not the general public.”

I felt bad. Was I hopelessly out of touch with my discipline? Was I crippling my students’ chances of success in the big leagues? My former student let me know that he agreed with my approach.

Still, I told him, “For God’s sake, don’t argue the point with your instructor.” He smiled knowingly, and assured me he didn’t. He had already learned how to play the game.

Nowadays, graduate school isn’t so much about intellectual inquiry and scholarly converse. It’s become a place where young people nod agreeably and bite their tongues, lest they antagonize an individual who can torpedo their careers before they start. And don’t think that doesn’t happen; it does.

That instructor, and others of his ilk, are wrong. Dead wrong. And I’ll tell you why. People from all walks of life have a hunger for history. There was a time when people came home from a hard day at work and spent the evening pouring over a volume such as Francis Parkman’s The Oregon Trail. No one then thought less of Parkman because his books were popular.

The career of the late David McCullough provides ample proof that there remains a large audience for popular history, book that are “solid,” yes, but written with verve and style that make the past come alive for the reader. McCullough himself expressed it as well as I’ve ever heard it:

“No harm’s done to history by making it something one would wish to read.”

I once had a perfect stranger approach me at an annual meeting of the Texas State Historical Association, shake my hand, and say, “Dr. Hardin, thank you! Thank you for writing books that I can understand.” I informed him that it was no accident, that I spend weeks crafting my prose so that he might enjoy it. Hell, any damn fool can write a book that’s merely “solid.”

Look, I know these guys. I was once at a convention of academic historians. Not unusually, I was in the bar. Sitting next to me was a fellow who had just published a book. I congratulated him on his achievement and added that I hoped that it sold well.

“Oh, no,” he drawled in a studied East Coat patois, “it’s not that kind of book at all. I doubt that there are a dozen people in the entire country who can even understand my book.”

“Well, dumbass,” thought I, “why would you want to write a book like that?” I know that writing a book is a heck of a lot of hard work. And after doing all that work (and this is just me) I want people to read the damn thing. As many people as possible. And, I gotta tell you, I’ve never minded getting a fat royalty check. But, again, that’s just my personal preference.

Listen, I don’t want to get all high and mighty, but when trained historians write for twelve of their colleagues they are shirking a sacred duty to share what they’ve learned with the reading public. I truly believe that. It doesn’t have to be Dick and Jane—wow, I just dated myself there—but the material should be available to a lay readership. Otherwise, historians are marginalizing themselves—and the entire profession. Which is exactly what most of them have done.

That’s why so many best-selling works like, say, Empire of the Summer Moon: Quanah Parker and the Rise and Fall of the Comanches, the Most Powerful Indian Tribe in American History, are written by non-historians. S. C. Gwynne is an award-winning journalist. He may not have the funny letters behind his name, but he possesses something more important. He knows how to tell a good story.

And that is something the human spirit will always yearn for.