Athletes are encouraged to visualise success. They picture the race, the movement, the crossing of the line. The mind rehearses what the body will later execute. In research, I find myself doing something similar — though less dramatically.
Before I begin writing a paper, I often ask: what does the finished version look like? Not the applause. Not the citation count and certainly not the glory of publication. What does the thing itself look like?
What is the central figure?
What is the core message?
What sentence carries the argument?
What would I want someone to say after reading it?
Sometimes I can see it clearly — a diagram that crystallises the data, a map that tells the story, a sequence of images that makes the argument undeniable. Sometimes it is more abstract: the clarity of a claim, the elegance of a structure. This form of end visualisation is not motivational theatre. It is a route to time-effective delivery.
If I can see the finished work — even imperfectly — I can judge whether today’s tasks move me towards it. Does this paragraph serve the argument? Is this figure clarifying or cluttering? Is this project congruent with the researcher I am becoming? At its best, visualisation is strategy in action. It clarifies direction. But there is a complication.
Often, I do not know where a paper is heading until I begin writing it. Sometimes all I know is this: I have data. It needs writing up. The significance is not fully formed. The argument is not obvious. The shape of the contribution is uncertain. In those moments, writing is not execution — it is exploration.
This is where the metaphor of excavation works for me. I may suspect there is a skeleton beneath the sediment, but I do not yet know its full shape. The act of brushing away material — drafting paragraphs, arranging figures, testing interpretations — reveals structure gradually.
Stephen King [1]describes writing fiction as uncovering something that already exists. You do not impose the story; you discover it. Academic writing is not fiction, but the process is often similar. We begin with data and provisional interpretations. Through writing, the significance emerges. It sharpens slowly and may shift, in an almost wilful way. Sometimes one paper becomes two. Sometimes two collapse into one. Sometimes what seemed central becomes peripheral. And more often than nor the central argument or interpretation may seem flimsy when written in black and white.
If we visualise too rigidly, we risk locking in a premature narrative. We may miss what the data is actually telling us. So there is a tension. On the one hand, end visualisation reduces drift. It gives coherence and prevents reactive accumulation. On the other hand, research is an act of discovery. Over-determining the destination can prevent surprise. Perhaps the balance lies in distinguishing between direction and destination.
Visualise direction, but allow the destination to evolve.
Direction might mean:
The intellectual territory you wish to inhabit.
The kinds of questions that matter to you.
The methodological standards you want to uphold.
The contribution you aim to make.
Destination, however, is more fluid:
The exact argument.
The framing.
The number of papers.
The interpretation of findings.
And there is a further layer. If we hold our direction too tightly, we risk pigeonholing ourselves. We risk becoming trapped by our own vision of the paper and perhaps of our own career.
Some of the most consequential developments in my career came from stepping slightly left of field. When I said yes to investigating closed landfill sites — well outside my main research trajectory — I did not see that it would pump-prime fieldwork in Africa, which would lead to a Science paper and substantial grant income. At the time, it was simply an interesting stretch, driven by the need to generate income for my department. That kind of serendipity does not fit neatly into a five-year strategy plan. And yes we are no longer talking about envisaging a single paper, but envisaging your future. We are scaling the concept.
Change matters. A personal vision should orient you, not confine you. It should help you filter distractions, but not prevent you from recognising opportunity when it appears in unfamiliar clothing. Boldness is required here. To say yes occasionally to something slightly uncomfortable. To stretch into new methods, or learn from cognate fields. All of which allows the sediment to shift.
Visualisation, then, is not about drawing a rigid map at whatever scale we chose. It is about holding a compass.
When I begin writing, I hold a provisional image of what the finished piece might look like. But I treat it lightly. The writing process tests it. If the structure fractures, that is not failure, but information. This visualisation helps me start. It helps me use the time I have and it helps create the mood to write and keeps momentum alive.
And the wider point here is that it scales.
At the micro level, I visualise figures and arguments.
At the project level, I imagine intellectual clarity and impact.
At the career level, I ask: what version of myself am I becoming?
That is strategy. Understanding your personal direction — broader than the institution you work for and bigger than the next promotion — helps you make time-consequent choices. It helps you decide what to prioritise and what to let go. But that direction must remain permeable.
Research is iterative. New data reshapes interpretation. Interpretation shapes structure and in turn structure shapes significance. Writing does not merely communicate thought — it creates it. And looking at a range of future versions of yourself helps you find career direction.
So I oscillate between two modes:
Seeing the paper (and my career) before it exists.
Discovering the paper as it unfolds and finding new directions for myself.
Both are necessary. Visualisation without exploration risks rigidity, while exploration without orientation risks drift. The craft lies in holding a vision firmly enough to guide effort, but lightly enough to allow discovery — and change.
And the message here is what works for papers works for careers. What is the version of yourself you are moving toward — broader and bigger than your current institutional role? What intellectual territory are you claiming? What contribution feels coherent? What impact on the world do hope to make?
That vision will help you shape time. But it must never become a cage.
Without direction, time fills itself.
With direction, time can be shaped.
With flexibility, direction can evolve.
And that evolution — often unexpected, occasionally uncomfortable — is where growth happens.
[1] S. King (200), On Writing, Charles Scribner’s Sons
(C) Matthew Bennett, 2026.
