You must learn to promote your own work. You cannot rely on anyone to promote your work for you, nor can you expect anyone to advocate for you. As a woman of color, you might even be fighting the system from keeping you invisible. Mastering the skill of promoting your own research is not just professional development: it is survival. You must radiate confidence in the process. You must make it sound sexy and enticing, even to non-scientists. You might see others receiving many accolades from their bosses and higher ups. You might see some bosses introduce their mentees to other PIs, calling those mentees “incredibly talented” and “brilliant.” If you are lucky, you will have one of these bosses. Sing praises if this is true for you. Do not count on it. If you are not receiving even the slightest breadcrumb of an accolade for your work, do not waste time wondering why. Don’t sit there and think, “am I not incredibly talented or brilliant?” Of course you are, you’re here after all. You probably already know why you’re not hearing these accolades (if you’re not hearing it), (or let this guide help you figure out why). It helps no one if you dwell on it. Do we want to sing privilege? Sure. We can sing the privilege song, it’s real. But in the harmonies, learn the skill singing your own accolades.
But how does one do this?
If PIs introduce their mentees to their colleagues, and that immediately sparks a wonderful conversation about the intricacies of their research, shouldn’t it also apply if you just walk up to a big name Dr. Amazing and introduce yourself? Shouldn’t you also be treated with undivided attention and thoughtful discourse? In a fantasy world, yes. In reality, no. In reality, my attempts to extrovert it up with Dr. Amazings with no idea who I am have ended as quickly and awkwardly as trying lick peanut butter off a steak knife. Without your PIs introducing power, you’re nobody, according to the game. This is not a tactic for self-promotion. The science has to come first.
That means presenting a poster or giving a talk that will draw scientists in like a juicy bait on a string before all the fishes.
In giving a poster presentation, “extrovert it up” for the occasion:
(1) Make a solid poster and give a solid poster presentation.
(2) Introduce yourself to the people giving posters around you. (Hi, I’m X, I’m in such and such lab, and such and such university….where are you from? How was it getting here? Etc. etc. I’m writing this because I know how hard it is to “extrovert it up.” All you really have to do is be curious and friendly).
(3) Attend the posters of people who came to your poster, if possible.
This is how you start making friendships and building collaborations—a network, if you will. These will serve infinitely more important valuable than a nod of acknowledgement from Dr. Amazing.
Of course, these rules change depending on the size of the venue. If you’re at a smaller conference, there is every chance that if you go up to Dr. Amazing and introduce yourself, you’ll get a thoughtful conversation. The probability of this happening decreases with the size of the conference (See On Conferencing). In these conversations, “be yourself” with a “spice of professionalism.” That is, yes, you’ll have to conceal elements of your personality, but approach the conversations with as much authenticity as you’re allowed.
Never self-deprecate in a professional setting. EVER. I don’t care if you’re feeling like a crappy scientist and like all your work sucks, or any other similar feeling (we’ve all been there). Tell this to your closest allies who have your back and who can support you in the low times, but DO NOT SAY THIS IN A PROFESSIONAL SETTING. This tactic works for the white folks in your vicinity as a means of gaining off-hand validation (I don’t know why it works so well for them, but it does!) They can moan about how “all my experiments are failing, and it obviously has something to do with me, I’m so stupid, nothing of what I do is interesting, and blah blah blah,” and have it be met with, “No, no, you’re SO great! Your experiments are fantastic and the data are SO promising, it’s wonderful!”
To my warrior friends of color, I know we are trained to self-deprecate on demand. We are used to believing and admitting we are the problem, because we have been taught by culture that (1) we really are the problem, or (2) if we take too much credit for ourselves, and actually acknowledge our own awesome, it makes other people uncomfortable. To self-deprecate often makes our lives so much easier.
That is not the case in the sciences. If you use the self-deprecation tactic, as society has taught us to do, I will tell you, you will not receive a smidge of validation. What you will receive is: “Hm. You’re right. You could be working much harder.” Or any other microaggression. You will be left feeling far worse than if you’d just been silent. So, here’s the bitter truth for the world: it is time for them to feel a bit uncomfortable. If your experiments are failing, say, “Those experiments are failing. Working on it.” Period. Nothing more to say, done. Don’t apologize, don’t explain, don’t engage. If you explain your own result as “fucking amazing,” it’s true: you might get some squirmy-ness out of your colleagues, but the discomfort is their problem and they’re going to have to fess up to it someday.
Honestly, which sounds better?
Are we clear? Good. Never want to hear that random self-deprecating phrase thrown out in a meeting again.
The Scientific Talk
One of the best ways of promoting your work to a large audience is by giving a kickass scientific talk. Posters are good, too, and because of their more casual, conversational nature, you’re more likely to make friends or form collaborations with them. But in terms of self-promotion, nothing beats having a lot people paying attention to your amazing self and your riveting slides. Never turn down invitations to give a talk at any venue outside your university or department.
Giving a good science talk is an art. It’s not the same as public speaking. You must be able to convey incredibly complex information in sometimes as little as three minutes. Contrary to what seems to be the popular technique of confusing the hell out of people to make you seem smart, you do not want people staring at your slides like deers in headlights. You want them to be excited—what you have shown them is going to linger with them into tomorrow. You’ve changed their lives with your work! They have some new appreciation for the universe they didn’t have, and wow, is it such a good thing they decided to attend your talk today. That is what will make them remember you. And being remembered is your secret weapon.
Prepping the slides themselves can take a long time. If you’re making a talk from scratch, give yourself at least a week. If you have pre-made slides, a couple of days should be enough.
On the slides, text is your sworn enemy. Avoid it. Use pictures instead, especially if they are your data. A slide should contain a title and then pictures demonstrating one key idea per slide. As I am making the slides, I generally keep the story line in my head as I put together my key ideas. I want the flow of the talk to have a plot. I want it to sound like a parent reading The Lord of the Rings to their kids.
Everyone will have their own presentation style—for instance, in my most comfortable zone, I’m a pacer. I hate standing behind a podium. Instead, I like to walk around and gesture with great enthusiasm; somehow this feels more engaging. But, I don’t always get to do that—especially if it’s a Zoom talk. I understand not everyone is a pacer. Some people love the podium. That’s all fine. There are, however, some presentation basics that should be shared between all talks:
Make eye contact. You are not presenting to the ceiling, the far wall, or your computer keyboard, if it’s a zoom talk. You’re talking to real, live people. Finding that one member of the audience who is nodding along is a great person to reference—you don’t need to stare at them, but let your eyes flicker back now and then to see, “did that make sense? Oh yes, you’re nodding. Excellent.” If it’s a zoom talk, hopefully at least one person will leave their camera on. Otherwise, it’s just sad.
Speak slowly. A rule I heard in college was “5 words per second.” That’s actually super slow, far below the speed of normal conversation. Unfortunately, when we get nervous, our first habit is not to slow down from conversation speed, but to accelerate. This is a guaranteed way to lose most of your audience. The brain needs time to process complex information. If you practice your talk slowly, even excessively slowly, it is more likely you will train your muscles to reign in the speed demons when it comes to the talk.
Practice. Seriously. Do it. For me, the key to giving a good science talk is rehearsal. I have a phrase: rehearse, not memorize. Memorize means putting every word of a script into the brain and reciting those words one by one. Rehearse means just giving the talk over and over again. The rehearse result is more flexible than memorization. As you repeat the talk, you will find words that you like, either because they are pithy, or correct, or whatever the reason, and you’ll memorize those as a result. But in your brain will be a much more fluid overall structure, with points of memorized emphasis and transitions. Then, say something happens during the actual talk—someone interrupts with a question, your time is running out and the moderator is trying to pull you off stage, there is a drastic collision in the hallway, a window shatters and sirens wail out not too far off. With a memorized talk, it can become difficult to find the script and that can lead to panic. A rehearsed talk, you’ll flexibly slide into a different sentence with ease and it will look like you planned it that way—because you did. Of course, different types of talks will merit different ratios of “memorize” and “rehearsal.” A 3-minute flash talk, for example, you’ll probably straight up memorize, while for an hour seminar, it is a waste of mental power to try and memorize every word. For a seminar, prioritize memorizing smooth transitions to tie concepts together. Know that the introduction slides will always be the hardest and will take the most memorization. Once you get to the data, you’re really just reading the graphs and giving a conclusion.
I memorized all my rotation talks in early graduate school. They were fairly short talks, so it wasn’t difficult to memorize them—and I usually rehearsed the hell out of them anyway. But I was getting tired of memorizing by my last rotation talk, and I skimped on the rehearsal to binge watch Princess Tutu instead—It’s fine, I have the script memorized cold! Although the presentation started off nice and smooth, in the middle of the introduction, the seminar room clock let out this ferocious, echoing click, and I lost my place in the script. In a panic, I totally forgot whatever the transition was supposed to be, and advanced to the next slide. It ultimately didn’t matter, but I learned from the experience.
Over the course of graduate school, I leaned more on the “rehearse” method. Sometimes I wrote a script just to get the flow of the talk on paper, and then “weaned” myself off the script for rehearsal. I practice my talks as close as possible to the way I actually give them. If I’m going to be standing, I stand. I time it. I practice with the exact laser pointer I’m going to use, and if I can get myself into the place where I’ll be giving the talk, I do. If I’m going to be sitting and zooming, I will sit and start my own zoom meeting to give the talk to myself over zoom. I try to give the talk at least once or twice a day leading to the actual talk. If it’s a shorter talk, I’ll rehearse it it about 3 times the night before, fine-tuning the language until the last. If you can arrange them, give practice talks. Accept the feedback with grace, but probably the most valuable part is getting used to giving this script to an audience. Rehearsing a talk is not fun. No one enjoys it. The payoff is worth it. To make myself do it, sometimes I give myself a time (I will practice the talk from 5:30 to 6:00, this leaves time for 2 complete rehearsals, whatever happens). If you have your talk well-rehearsed, you can adjust on the fly to whatever comes at you. At my thesis defense, my friend’s cell phone went off in a blaring chorus to the entire seminar room. I watched her freaking out, smiled to myself—and did not miss a beat.
After your talk, there is usually time for people to ask questions. If you do get questions, congrats! That means you did something right, and peaked someone’s curiosity. If you don’t get questions, don’t fret. It might just not be your best audience. Instead, celebrate that you don’t have to answer any questions. Because there’s a range of questions for sure; some are great questions that show someone has been thinking about your project and how it relates to the greater field. Some are annoying questions, where someone is trying to show off. And some are dumb questions, where the person is obviously just trying to take you down. It would be wrong of me to try to deny that this happens. There is no shame in answering “I don’t know, that’s a really good question.” In general, if you add “That’s a really good question,” even if you’re thinking the person is crazy, it can lift the mood of the room (still trying to learn this). Do not be afraid to take a moment to think about things; sit in the silence and be comfortable with it.
Do I get nervous before a talk? Oh yes, yes I do. I think everyone does, even the most seasoned PIs. The scientific talk is just daunting, and being at the top of one’s intellectual game in front of a room of people doesn’t come naturally to anyone (that I know, anyway). There might be people who appear more at ease than others, but who knows if that’s actually true. I have never heard any accomplished scientist say, “Oh. Giving a talk? That’s so easy.” Eventually, you just get used to feeling nervous.
I cannot say “Just don’t worry about, it’ll be fine,” because honestly, that phrase has done shit for me. I do usually tell myself, “Once you’re past the introduction slides, you’ll be fine,” because I know introduction slides can really suck. Probably the most effective means of managing the nerves is my hallmark thought for any big event : “Whatever happens, the sun will still set in the west, and it will still rise in the east, and this is all just another day on the journey, whatever it looks like in the end.” That way of thinking removes the idea of success vs. failure, and emphasizes the long term truth: that you’re a scientist, carving out your own story, and nothing, no measly presentation, whether it’s a flop or a riveting success, can take that away from you.
Andrea L McQuate 