** Part II of Behind the Bench: A series about researchers and their rituals, by Anestis Tsakiridis **

I hear the Chair of the session, one of the greatest developmental biologists, introducing me: “...and our next speaker today is...”. Increased heart rate and a suspicion of stress-induced migraine accompany me while I reluctantly start walking the endless 2m distance to the podium trying simultaneously to employ self-calming, breathing exercises I thought I learned in a one-off meditation class I attended 10 years ago.

I finally reach the stage. Now, I’m next to a laptop and in front of a mighty microphone, which seems to amplify even my panicky perspiration. And my eyes, half-shut from the bright lights pointing to the stage, are meeting 50 other pairs of eyes, some of them sleepy, some of them curious, some of them bored, but most of them belonging to the finest stem cell biologists in the world. I nervously sip some water, I clear my throat loudly and then, after thanking the organisers for “giving me the opportunity to present my work”, I start. My stress progressively disappears, I become a fact-stating automaton as I flick through introductory powerpoint slides, direct the laser pointer to key results and details of graphs and images, draw attention to conclusions. After 15 minutes I finish. I acknowledge bosses and collaborators and invite questions. The Chair thanks me. I walk back the 2m distance, this time faster and I sit down breathing again normally while I embrace a comforting sensation of relief.  Dear reader, that was my baptism of fire in the arena of data-communicating public speaking, which took place a few weeks ago. No red carpets or paparazzi here, just a few technical questions and requests for reagents.

Scientific storytelling in the 1350s: Painting by Laurentius de Voltolina (Source: Wikipedia Commons)

Although a big part of the practical aspect of academic research involves a certain degree of social isolation, lonely esoteric heavy-thinking trips and long hours of manual work which often disconnect the laboratory-based scientist from his surroundings, this is only half of our job description. The other, equally important half consists of reversing the introverted nature of experimental design and data generation and morphing it into a coherent story that demands to be externalised and communicated. This occurs via two principal routes: the publication of one’s findings in the form of articles in scientific journals that should be preferably as respected as possible; and the presentation of these results through talks in conferences and research institutes. The target audience in both cases is other researchers, mainly the ones who work in the same field.  This communication process is the oil that lubricates the cogs of a career in academia. It is the mechanism that ensures the addition of the little pieces into the grand puzzle of shared scientific knowledge as well as the recognition and acceptance from your peers in a competitive battlefield of ideas and politics. Importantly, the publicised output of a researcher’s work usually correlates with grant money and hence survival in a funding environment badly hit by the current financial crisis.

However, transforming an amorphous mix of personally-derived data and concepts into a coherent story is a tricky business. It requires the experimenter to become a storyteller. Not a transmitter of fictional tales (although cases of data fabrication are reported every now and then) but rather an accurate describer of evidence and facts composing the answer to a question. In the case of research articles, the success of this type of storytelling depends heavily on the ability to distill years of collective lab work into a succinctly written report, which must reflect the author’s interpretation of an array of empirical findings. A difficult task that requires disciplined use of the English language (the lingua franca of academic research) and clarity in the presentation of the ideas hidden behind the results shown. In the case of scientific talks, these elements must also be accompanied by appropriate time management since the storytelling must normally take place within an average of 20-30 minutes. A natural talent in verbal communication also helps to keep the audience awake and interested but is not necessary to convey beautiful ideas to a careful listener; I’ve seen some really amazing talks by speakers who did not strike me as charismatic but were more than capable to present powerful stories.

I will finish by touching on another dimension of “scientific storytelling”.  The one directed to a non-specialist audience. This is an equally important communication process aiming to educate, inform and eradicate misconceptions especially in a field such as stem cell research, which is haunted by financial exploitation of artificially-created false hopes and hype. Our findings affect society as a whole, due to their potential therapeutic applications as well as their ethical repercussions. Moreover, non-profit academic research is supported financially by the tax-payer’s money and charity donations and thus stem cell researchers ought to be able to explain their work to their sponsors i.e. any member of the public. In this case, telling your “scientific story” to your mum, a school kid, an ethics specialist or a professional policy maker requires converting the jargon and the data into metaphors and paradigms that will be understood by your target audience. This sounds obvious but from my personal experience it is not a trivial task as it relies both on the radical rethinking of favourite research concepts in the context of their social “special weight” and the employment of novel, even alien, linguistic tools not normally used in a laboratory-based everyday life. This life revolves around the introverted, practical component of the researcher’s routines and it will be the subject of my next blog…