I just finished reviewing a manuscript that was submitted to UNC Press (the evaluation is secret, so I can’t tell you about the book itself, unfortunately). Manuscript reviews are one of those hidden responsibilities that come with being a historian. It’s a service to the field, really. Sure, you get a small honorarium, which works out to less than minimum wage. But you do it because reviewing each other’s work is part of how historians hold ourselves accountable and maintain the standards of our profession.

Here is how the process works: A historian interested in turning their research into a book submits their manuscript to a publisher. (Some authors submit book proposals; others send entire manuscripts.) Any academic press such as UNC or Oxford University Press, as well as reputable trade presses such as W.W. Norton, will require a blind review process to determine whether the manuscript is worth publishing.

The publisher sends the manuscript to two or three readers with expertise in the subject matter. The readers then offer anonymous evaluations and make recommendations about publication. The anonymity gives reviewers license to be completely honest in their assessments.

Though they are time-consuming, I enjoy reviewing manuscripts. They help me keep abreast of new research, and they offer an opportunity to shape a work in progress. If I have problems with a manuscript, I can encourage the author to revise and rethink things. Once it is published as a book, it’s too late. Over the years, I’ve reviewed many manuscripts that have turned into wonderful books, including Tamika Nunley’s prize-winning At the Threshold of Freedom.

As with anything else, manuscript reviews can run the gamut in terms of quality and usefulness. They often can be brutally honest and painful for authors to read. When Derek Musgrove and I began writing Chocolate City, Oxford rejected our proposal because the anonymous readers were skeptical that we could pull it off. They basically thought we were out of our league and told us as much. I still keep their reports on my computer. Even 15 years later, their comments still sting!

But the reviews pushed us to reshape and strengthen the book. UNC Press later picked it up, and Chocolate City is now a standard book in the field of D.C. History. (And yes, I do hope that those #$@#!% Oxford reviewers regret having rejected us!)

Some authors avoid peer reviews by seeking out publishers without a review process or choosing to self-publish. These authors often talk about self-publication in principled terms, framing the review process as a form of “gatekeeping” that excludes outsiders, stifles creativity, and enforces ideological conformity.

It’s true. By doing a manuscript review, I am indeed a “gatekeeper.” The publisher looks to me as an expert in my field, and I assume the responsibility of helping determine what should or should not qualify as publishable research. That is the essence of gatekeeping.

But I don’t see “gatekeeper” as a three-syllable four-letter word. Gatekeepers play an essential role in keeping scholars honest. We know the field, so ideally our BS detectors are finely honed and we recognize the slipshod research that can pass for erudition online. We can help our colleagues revise and improve their work so that our field grows smarter and better over time.

Without gatekeepers reviewing research and holding researchers accountable, then what do you have? An unfiltered, unchecked barrage of information that may or may not have any connection whatsoever to the historical record. A world of caveat lector (reader, beware) is exhausting and frustrating. Most readers want to trust that what they are reading has been vetted, fact-checked, and recommended by people who actually know what they’re talking about. When “anything goes,” what usually goes first is rigorous scholarship.

So call me a “gatekeeper” if you like. I’ll still happily look at your manuscript.