Use Your Imagination!

One of a researcher’s best tools is the imagination. What do you think could happen? What could be the explanation? What are the possibilities? Imagination is a fundamental tool on which a researcher’s practice depends.

Recently, I read the book Born to Run (Christopher McDougall), about long-distance running.

It mentioned that women finish ultramarathons at a much higher rate than men and briefly speculated on this, but provided no answer.

Yesterday, I was out for my own run, and the question popped into my head with a possible answer. And at that moment, the idea of writing about the importance of imagination occurred to me. My train of thought went something like: I wonder if heat management explains the superior finishing rate; I wonder how I would research that; What other potential causes would I have to take into account; This is what research is, and I could talk about it in my blog. I was just speculating—I’m never going to do any serious study of why women finish ultramarathons at a higher rate than men. But speculation is fun—imagining possibilities—is hardly different than playing imaginary games as a child, and no more wearisome, if I’m not going to make any effort to turn speculation into real research. But real research starts with some form of speculation—some story about how the world works.

Speculation sparks research. Suppose, I were interested in researching this question of why women finish ultramarathons more frequently than their male counterparts, where would I start?

I would start by trying to imagine why women outperform men in this way.

Is there some psychological dimension, e.g., that men are more aggressive, take more chances, and therefore end up injured more often?

Is there some physiological dimension, e.g., that women are physiologically better suited to the task?

Or perhaps there is some external issue, e.g., sexist race supervisors are trying to sabotage men?

I can imagine the fantastic: maybe Artemis and Hermes had a couple of races, and Hermes won the sprint and Artemis won the marathon, and they have given similar powers to runners of their respective genders. Maybe it’s a side effect of the nefarious plot by K.A.O.S. to spike international water supplies with a mind control drug. Imagining the fantastic is not going to suggest many useful research projects, but it might help suggest something a little less fantastic that would be plausible and interesting.  

To some extent the exercise of imagination is inevitable: a researcher who said “I have no idea, so I’m just going to gather all the data I can,” would still make plans to gather a variety of data, and each plan would reveal an implicit imaginative leap that the data to be gathered were relevant. Taking biological samples would reveal an implicit assumption about a physiological dimension. A researcher gathering biological data might say “I have no idea what causes it, that’s why I’m gathering this data,” but that claim of having no idea does not take credit for thinking that there is a possibility that physiological issues matter. A researcher who was certain that the issue was not physiological, would not gather such data.

If you think there’s a possibility, try to make it explicit: what is the possibility? Is it something in the blood? in hormones? in bone structure? If you’re going to gather physiological data, what are reasons that it might matter?

In the specific case of my idea about women finishing ultramarathons more frequently, I was wondering about heat radiation and long-term performance. Another idea that Born to Run explores is the idea that humans (homo sapiens) evolved as persistence hunters—as hunters who would chase their prey until the animal died of heat exhaustion. Born to Run speaks of running for hours in temperatures of 100+ (F) as a means of bringing in prey.

What I wondered was whether heat radiation and control over internal heat is a factor in the difference in performance between men and women, and how much that specific gender difference is actually dependent on size.

Here’s why size might matter: heat radiation depends on skin area—our skin is our radiator, with the ability to sweat providing additional cooling (one that almost all mammals lack, thus causing their problems with heat exhaustion that makes it possible to run an animal to death over hours). Meanwhile, heat generation depends on metabolic function, and especially on muscular activity.

Imagine that there is a size where the body’s heat generation and heat radiation are balanced (for a given set of conditions). For abstract purposes, let’s say that size is 1 (the unit). For that size, heat generation = heat radiation and the body can perform without problem.  

What happens with a bigger body with similar proportions?  What if size increases by 20%? Now the basic measure is 1.2. Does this affect the balance between heat generation and heat radiation? Yes. Skin area is proportional to the square of the basic dimension, so skin area—the radiator—has increased to 1.44 (1.2²). Meanwhile, muscle mass is proportional to the cube of the basic dimension, so the muscle mass—the heat generator—has increased to 1.728 (1.2³). Now heat generation (1.73) is greater than heat radiation (1.44). 

The math assumes that an increase in one dimension is matched in the other two, and that may not be the case, but compare a 60” ultramarathoner with a 72” ultramarathoner: what would their weights be? The short one maybe 100lbs.? The tall one maybe 150lbs.? That weight is a reflection of muscle mass—so volume increased by 50% with a 20% increase in height. I don’t have a good estimate of how skin area increased for these hypothetical runners, but assuming that it roughly increased according to the square, to 1.44, or 44% increase, still the increase in heat generation has slightly outstripped the increase in radiation.

All that is just a detailed description of the thinking that supported my speculation (my actual reasoning didn’t include the actual math, just the basic geometric principle that increasing size of a solid object with fixed proportions leads to an increase in the ratio of volume to surface area).  

That is rather far afield from my main thesis, and this post is already long, so I'm not going to make much effort to wind back t my main theme of imagination. But in addition, I'd like to point out the thought processes that were spawned as I tried to explore my speculative idea (my hypothesis) in writing: one one hand, my speculation about a single cause (heat radiation) was placed into a framework of other possible causes, showing a variety of other possible causes that could be the case. On the other hand, my attempt to explain my idea, which led to a closer analysis, including the attempt to put rough numbers to my speculation to assess whether my speculation is consistent with closer inspection. 

In any event, exercise your imagination.

Halloween Costumes

It's a little early for this post, perhaps. Having been invited to a party Halloween, it is necessary to consider a costume, and I was thinking of what I might do when it occurred to me that this is something to consider as a writer.

Not what I should wear for Halloween, but the whole concept of wearing a costume. What if you were to think of your dissertation as something of a costume? It is not you and yet it is. On Halloween you go out and your friends recognize you, and yet you're also someone else. It is easier to act the fool.

The Halloween costume is a celebration, and one on which many invest a great deal of energy. But because it is a celebration it does not seem onerous. So we might wonder whether, by looking at our writing as a sort of costume, we might be able to enjoy the exploration and even enjoy making a fool of ourselves.

It's crucial for the writer to be able to try on a costume and then just as quickly throw on another if the first didn't work. If you can write and rewrite, then you will be able to produce good work.

It's also crucial to be able to see the writing as separate from you. The costume hides the identity, and in so doing turns the criticism into an attack on something that is not you. Borges writes a little parable "Borges and I" in which he discusses the distance between himself and the figure that manifests on the paper.

We need not be too tied to our writing. We can it hold it in a gap between us and the world, and this gap--this distance between us and the work allows us to see what others think of the work without worrying that it is a reflection on us.

A final note: it seems to me that the costume and the writing are both a chance to celebrate your own voice and to celebrate your own imagination. Explore the possibilities; take chances. Being repressed doesn't make a better costume or a better piece of writing.

Wouldn't it be great if...?

I was looking at the book Peak Performance: Mental Training of the World's Greatest Athletes by Charles Garfield. Garfield quotes an athlete he worked with as saying, "Excellence is never limited to the playing field. Of necessity, it becomes a way of life." With the behavior of many of the successful professional athletes in this country making constant headlines, I'm not sure that I believe the generality of this statement. But I like the attitude. Or even better, I like the idea that if one makes a way of life of excellence, it will translate into success in any arena.

As I write this, I realize that I'm heading for a potential trap. What is excellence? And, importantly, how does the search for excellence relate to perfectionism--which, as we all know, can cause problems in finishing work? And I don't want to go down this path of reasoning now, however. For the moment I would like to leave the dangers of pursuing excellence aside, while giving a nod to their deserving attention at some point.

I was talking with a writer who was having trouble getting started on his project, and I was talking with him about just looking at the possibilities. Wouldn't it be great if...? Wouldn't it be great if he got his thesis done? Wouldn't it be great if felt good about the project? Wouldn't it be great if...?

It seems to me that a living a life of excellence depends heavily on having a strong sense of "wouldn't it be great if...?". If you have a vision of what it would be great to accomplish--to win recognition, fortune, fame--that is the first step toward achieving results that might be considered excellence. If you're in the habit of having such a vision in your life, it will pervade all aspects of your life, and thus you will manifest the same quality of excellence in all dimensions of your life.

The ability to imagine what you would like--the ability to day dream, basically--is of fundamental value. Charles Garfield talks about an experience in his own life of using visualization exercises to assist him to perform beyond his athletic expectations--there may have been more structure to Garfield's visualization exercises than in loose day-dreaming, but the basic process is the same.

We want to be able to go beyond "wouldn't it be great if...?" to ask what we can do to bring it about, but still, everything depends on the vision--the sense that something is what we want. But bringing the vision into reality is another thing altogether.

There is yet another benefit of the "wouldn't it be great if...?" exercise: it focuses attention on the positive possible outcomes. I talk to lots of writers who are stuck because they are thinking about the negative reaction that they might receive. The fear of rejection is great in most of us (I'd say all of us, but every now and then one meets a person who appears utterly without such fear). When we start worrying about the negative feedback, it makes it harder to do more work--it drains our energy to battle the negative visions and to move in despite of them. It may be difficult focus on the positive outcomes (for example, getting our writing accepted), but when we are focused on them, it is much easier to maintain energy and motivation.

Construction of Meaning and Imagination

I was just thinking about phlogiston and the aether and vacuum..among other ideas.
The imagination that was required to come up with these ideas is, to me, stunning.

If what we do is make up stories as a natural part of how we understand the world, then coming up with ideas like these seems to me beyond the imaginative efforts of a Tolkein or an Asimov.

Some ideas seem like they would come up logically eventually: I can see how an idea like infinity would arise through some logical debate.

Or evolution: that seems not too impossible: one sees groups of similar creatures and tells a story of how they all came from a similar source--it is especially plausible if you already know of breeding of animals and how traits can be strengthened from generation to generation (and I think we can say safely that 19th century England knew about animal breeding). It would take some imagination to come up with the idea of evolution, but the elements are there in experience.

But what about vacuum or the aether? These are ideas that I can hardly even attempt to explain. They both play key roles in various stories about the very nature of existence. But they are so far abstracted from experience that my imagination does not take me to such places easily.

Phlogiston is another one: the substance that is contained in elements that burned. Somehow this works with the four classical elements--earth, air, water, and fire--but how is phlogiston different from fire? I don't know. I haven't tried to explain it. I have a story that explains combustion--something about release of energy from carbon bonds and recombination with oxygen--I don't think about combustion much, so I don't need a very detailed story. But think about how the mind is stretching when it tries to explain fire by adding a new element to a list of elements that already has "fire" as one of the elements.

Hopefully we don't need to use quite so much imagination in the construction of our meaning for our own work. Much easier to imagine a complete world filled with creatures that resemble humans, and also other mythical creatures, than to imagine a completely new element. Hopefully it's easier still to imagine significance for your own work.

I think perhaps one of the greatest battles that I fought was with the internal voice that said to me "no one is going to care about this abstruse philosophical question you're studying, even if it is important." Partly I battled the voice by telling myself that the idea mattered even if it didn't reach anyone else (an odd position for one who believes that knowledge is fundamentally instrumental, but who ever said I was consistent?). The sense that your own work is important is crucial. A great shame is that so many people start out on dissertations (or at least start graduate programs) with a sense that they are in school to help the world, and they somehow get out of touch with that initial sense of purpose. If you can reconnect with the things that are meaningful for you, and you can imagine a path by which your research can tie into the initial passion that drove you, then you can work from a place of emotional strength--one where your emotions are not conflicted (or at least not as conflicted).

I also gained a measure of strength by reframing the project and finding meaning in my ability to overcome obstacles and successfully complete a project that--by the end--had swelled into a work of over 300 pages. No one may ever read that book again (and given that I needed a proofreader, I'm not sure that bothers me), but that matters not at all because I finished it.

I've been thinking a lot about how the stories we tell about our lives can help or hinder us. Those stories are construction of meaning. On the simplest level this may be just a matter of what we focus on: do we focus on the good things or the bad? On what we have or what we want? This may also be a matter of the difference between constructing a story in which things are connected and a story in which things are disconnected.

And then there are the different levels of meaning that we construct. What if we are seeking the thread that ties a whole work together--a thread that we sense is there, but can't quite tease out--and while we seek that thread we are telling ourselves a story like "I'll never find the thread"? If that story about our inadequacy is dragging us down emotionally, will it cut into the hours we would have worked if we were telling ourselves some other story--like "I'm sure I'll find it if I keep working," or even "I'll keep trying to find this thread, but if I can't find it, I'll go and work on another project because I'm not letting one setback stop me"? I don't know whether it's true, but here's the story I construct: being depressed takes away energy, and so if you tell yourself you're going to fail, you'll have less energy, ergo, you'll work less and therefore have less likelihood of success.

Somehow I slipped into full self-help/power-of-positive-thinking mode. I didn't really mean to--but the power of our imaginations and our construction of meaning led me into it.

The Everyday and the Unusual

When I say that we can find, on an everyday basis, deep significance in our work--as I did yesterday--it would seem like the argument would be better built on a foundation of everyday experience rather than exceptional circumstance.

But the question is whether that moment was specially good. Yes, it is easier to ride a bike on a balmy night than a cold, windy night with the fog starting to roll in, but there is beauty there, too, if one is inclined to look for it. I think the difference is that it is easier to see the beauty when there are no problems clouding the view. When the night is warm, it is comfortable to sit and admire the night sky. When it's cold and windy, it's not comfortable. But in the right circumstances I think everyone has had the opportunity to enjoy the beauty of a rain storm or a foggy night.

It's easier to appreciate the importance of your thesis when you are looking at the strongest points of the thesis, and everything is comfortable. But when the cold winds of doubt start to blow--whether from within yourself or from your professors or others--it's not so easy to sit and appreciate the beauty of your idea--you need, instead, to take action to support the idea, and to test it to make sure that it is really worthy of the effort you are investing in it.

It's easier, too, to appreciate beauty when it is new to us. We can become used to things. If we were forced to eat our favorite food for every meal, we would soon be sick of it. Our thesis might have seemed that much more exciting at first. Is that because, as we live with that thesis we come to see its blemishes more clearly? I think that's only part of it: we don't get sick of a food because the food has a problem, but only because we are forced to repeat the meal over and over. In a way, it may be the case that the only real difference between the everyday and the unusual, is just that: one is everyday, the other is unusual. And we respond differently to the everyday than we do to the unusual.

And if we can remember that, we can look again for the beauty that we saw before we had become jaded.

It's so easy to forget

I have, perhaps, had too much to drink this night. It's 1:42am and I have a 9:15am appointment. That would be no problem, as I frequently sleep only about 6 hours, except that I have no desire to sleep.

The night is balmy. It is not the sort of night that is common in Berkeley. I was outside and comfortable wearing only a t-shirt and shorts at one in the morning. I rode my bike home--almost 4 miles in a straight line, about 7 miles by the crooked route I rode, according to Google maps. A yellow half moon was hanging low over over the Bay.

I didn't want to get home--which accounts for the extra three miles. The moment was beautiful; I can't imagine much better. During the night I had been asked how I had come to Berkeley and why I had stayed. "The weather is always perfect," I said. But not usually perfect in this way.

I actually have a purpose in writing this--not just to talk about my night. There was nothing particularly special about my night. I got to spend some time with friends; I had, as I said, too much to drink, but the moment is essentially simple. This is not the moment for which the phase "in vino veritas" is usually applied, but there is a truth here. There is a simple beauty in the world, and, if we take a moment to step back and appreciate it, it can be a rejuvenating experience. And it is not so much that there is anything particularly special, so much as it is that you have taken the moment to appreciate it.

I was thinking of this, in particular, with respect to academic work and the way that we can lose sight of a deep appreciation and love that might have once motivated us.

I was, for a time, in a graduate program in literature. I had a great time, and was happy with a great deal of the work that I did. But I didn't fit into the culture. Partially hat was because it wasn't really appropriate in that culture to say "I am studying this work because I love it." For my master's thesis I chose a literary work that explicitly addressed philosophical questions that interested me, but still I was largely driven by my enjoyment of the work. But, as I said, it's not appropriate to say simply "this work is worthy of note because I love it." In that sort of context, it can be easy to be driven to lose sight of one level of appreciation of work.

On another level, we can find that anything that we enjoy can become work, if it is positioned that way. I play music for enjoyment, and I know, from a brief period where I was trying to earn money playing music, that it takes on a different character when you have to do it because you need the money. I have a cousin who is a fabulous guitarist, but it is his work, which sometimes interferes with his love for the music. At what point does it become annoying to teach yet another kid how to play "Smoke on the Water"? I have a friend with a 10-year old son who just started guitar lessons (not with my cousin), and his first song: "Smoke on the Water." I don't know how my cousin feels about "Smoke on the Water" today, but I know that he loved it once.

It is easy to forget the simple significance of things and their profound importance, and often their beauty as well. We can get lost in the academic trappings of the situation, and lose sight of the issues that we really cared about in our search for scholarly ways of speaking.

I was talking about simple motivations on Monday; we often can look at a simple statement of purpose or hypothesis and see it is something overly simple or something too obvious or too insignificant. But simplicity is not in-and-of-itself a problem; often it masks a subtle complexity. When dealing with such simplicity, however, it is easy to forget the fabulous significance that is often implicated.

The simplest things are often incredibly significant--air, water, love--but how easy it is to lose sight of these beauties! The better that we can reconnect our work with simple issues, the better, perhaps, that we can keep in sight, or at least catch glimpses of, the great beauty and significance that lies behind the simple statements. Many scholars enter their field out of some sense of love or some sense of purpose; How often does that sense get forgotten?

The Placebo Effect

How is it that a placebo effect exists?
In writing about What the Bleep Do We Know?, I got an e-mailed comment about the part of that movie that talks about the effect of the mind on water--there are a series of pictures of water molecules showing how each had been affected by being labeled in different ways (presumably through the action of the mind). What if we had a bottle of "confident" water? or "peaceful" water? What would happen if we drank that water?

Now I don't know how to evaluate the accuracy of the science of the shaping of the water molecules, but I do feel pretty darn confident that the placebo effect exists, and, though I haven't actually studied the placebo effect, that there is plenty of research out there to support the notion of the placebo effect.

How is it that it operates? One possible explanation that we might imagine would be to link the water molecules of What the Bleep with the placebo notion: in the process of taking the placebo, our believing mind alters the molecules in some way. Another possible explanation (and the one I imagine most people would favor over the What the Bleep explanation) would be that our mind acts directly on our body--by believing that changes will occur, we may create those chances purely through the power of the mind. To explain the placebo effect--an observable phenomenon--somehow requires physiological change through action of the mind, whether that causal path is direct or indirect. I have come up with two possible explanations, but I daresay more could be imagined--both variations on the two basic themes I laid out, or development of some other theme (e.g., supernatural entities?).

If the placebo effect exists, is it possible that it can be consciously exerted--for example by repeating "I am confident", one grows in confidence? That would seem to be the rankest version of pop psychology and using affirmations. But does the logic of the placebo suggest that possibility?
We might argue that the placebo effect can only be unconsciously activated, but that requires a Freudian view of the mind, and one wonders whether we really want to believe that there is some entity called the "unconscious" or whether Freud's theory, which characterizes the unconscious as a sort of independent agent, relies on human conceptualization and thus creates a division that is not accurate with respect to the placebo effect. (I daresay someone has studied whether the placebo effect is only unconscious or not; I haven't researched that.)

If we acknowledge that there is a possibility (not a certainty) that we can consciously invoke the placebo principle through such behaviors as repeated affirmations, at what level does the possibility become great enough to try such actions? And though I dismiss affirmations as pop psychology, there is no doubt that there are therapeutic with significant empirical research to support them that suggest that we can improve our moods through behavioral modifications (like affirmations).

For me, especially at those moments when things seem the most difficult, the level of possibility doesn't have to be very high. It seems to be worth the chance, because the cost of changing my behaviors to promote is so low. The effort doesn't contradict other efforts to change my situation, and costs nothing but a little effort.

Following this logic, then, it seems that to the extent that we can imagine a possibility, and we can imagine the steps to get there, we can then use our minds to help us move there by focusing on that goal ("I am confident!").

This post is a little of a hodge podge, because I was also thinking about the role of imagination in work as academics or philosophers: when faced with an observed phenomenon, we can use our imagination to generate different hypotheses about the causal factors of interest (as I did with the placebo effect).

We can also use our imagination to hypothesize connections of significance: if there is such a thing as the placebo effect: how can that be significant to the individual? What can be done with the placebo effect? Maybe you could institute a whole program based on it (which might be a health pogrom, not a health program)? Or maybe you would want to limit attempts to apply the placebo effect as treatment to only some cases (say ones with low risk, or ones that are not treatable by other means).

Our imaginations are keys to a whole realm of possibilities in academic work. Judicious use of imagination, along with careful qualification (e.g., the conscious placebo effect is possible, not certain) can lead to fruitful lines of discussion.

Confusion and Clarity

Yesterday in my yoga class the teacher was talking about confusion and clarity. I was a little confused by her take on it, but clarity is definitely what I'm interested in.

I should start by saying that my confusion is not necessarily a reflection of her confusion, but rather of my attempt to integrate what she had to say into what I'm interested in.

What follows is my take on what she was saying--very heavily filtered by the fact that the subject of confusion and clarity (clarity especially) is so near to my heart that I could not listen without my internal dialogue running away with things. (This in itself is a lesson, but not my subject for the moment.)

I don't believe in logical certainty, and I say that with a great deal of confidence, though not with certainty. At the boundaries of our knowledge everywhere, and in the spaces beneath--the very foundations by which we understand the world--there are gaps and questions that logic cannot answer. To me then, the struggle of the academic writer is to make valuable knowledge crystallize out of the background of uncertainty. And yet the academic must not push to far towards towards the crystalline clarity of certainty, because the work then becomes fragile--by overstepping we lose credibility.

The writer has another problem related to the interplay between confusion and clarity. We don't usually know what it is we're going to write when we first sit down. We are seeking that understanding. The writing process is a learning process during which we come to understand our subject matter more deeply. As we write, then, we face problems of what our project should look like. And each time we come up with an answer, that answer will raise new questions. In other words, each time we reach clarity on one question, that answer is likely to create new questions.

Within the writing process this cycling from confusion to clarity and back is almost continuous. Sometimes the confusion moves to smaller and smaller scale, while, for example, you move a draft towards completion. But sometimes the confusion moves to a larger scale--as, e.g., when a completed draft receives feedback requesting changes.

I was also thinking about how clarity is often related to a closed mind, while confusion is related to the open mind. To the mind that sees something as clear, it is hard to get that mind to see things differently. The "confused mind" on the other hand, is open to different answers--if only because no answer seems good enough.

I was also thinking how confusion can often be related to the most profound of learning experiences. If we experience a major shift in how we look at the world, there will likely be a period of confusion where we start to see problems with our old way of looking at the world, but are not yet fully convinced of a new way of looking at the world.

Confusion is not always bad. It is part of the process of seeing the world and it is intimately intertwined with our ability to see clarity in the world as well. If we can embrace the confusion, we can try to explore it and see the possibilities it has to offer, which may prove to be a quick way out of the confusion: listing available options always helps in making a choice. What we don't want to do is complain about confusion without looking for what we can learn in the moment of confusion. Epiphanies don't arise when we're already crystal clear; epiphanies arise when we're still seeking understanding--in other words epiphany can only enter the space where there is room for a new way of seeing the world.

Confusion is not a reason to stop working. And it is not something to feared. It is something to engage (ok, well, there may be circumstances in which confusion is to be feared--you don't want to lose your sense of direction walking on the edge of a cliff in heavy fog, for example--but the academic's confusion is usually not life-threatening).

Mental Activity

Yesterday's post about imagination was centered on the crucial role that imagination can play. It was about the activity of mind: it is not just a mind that is receiving information and passing it on. Now, of course, we don't "just" receive information and pass it on, because everything is filtered through our own perceptions, thus it can be observed that different people remember the same event in different ways.

I think there is always an active element in this filtering, but it can be more or less active. I was talking with a writer who assured me that the way she worked was just to use what other people said. I was completely unable to convince her that she wasn't just passively receiving ideas, but was also making active choices among them. If it is your conviction that your mind has no active facility, then certainly you won't be able to put it to use.

But more importantly, as writers, we are trying to exercise the activity of our minds--this is how our own voice gets to manifest in what we write. The more that we can exercise our active mind, the better our opportunity to work on developing our own voice.

In this desire to move towards an active consciousness, towards a mind that generates ideas, it can help to write. Writing forces our minds to be active, while reading and researching allow a much greater passivity (though activity while reading is certainly possible, if that is already your habit).

Ideally we are mentally active. Ideally our work is motivated by some curiosity. Ideally we think it's kind of cool to try and figure out how things work and to try to come up with different stories that might explain a situation.

These ideals, however, do not always prevail. And in that case, the need to write become greater because writing obliges mental activity.

I didn't work in any quotes, but part of the influence for this posting is Gail Sher's book One Continuous Mistake: Four Noble Truths for Writers, in particular her chapter titled "Reading Supports Writing -- But Watch Out!" Overall, Sher's book, though possessing a certain elegance, is not my favorite book on writing. It's got some good points, but... It is highly comparable to Cameron's Right to Write, but with a less friendly attitude. I tend to be put off by people who complain about how others are destroying the language. Language is a tool to be used to communicate with others; we each do the best we can with it. It is not some fragile heirloom that can only be used by those in the know.

Imagination

Imagination gets a bad rap in academia--at least most of the time. It certainly has not been revered like rationality is, at least not in the past few centuries. But it plays a crucial role.

As academics we work with theories, and we work with data, and we're supposed to be objective. But where do hypotheses come from? How do we expand on the theories we do have? Imagination plays a crucial role.

And yet, because it gets a bad rap, it gets ignored. "I can't listen to my imagination! It's not rational!"

I'm here to say to throw that idea out the window. Imagination plays a crucial role in good academic work, and it's got a venerable history in the world of philosophy (a field of study that, sadly, is less well studied than it ought).

Thought experiments, a valuable tool to any researcher, are a tool that use the imagination. What is a thought experiment? Basically any sort of speculation about how things could work, that then tests the logic of the hypotheses of the speculation.

For example, in the world of cognitive science and artificial intelligence research, there are two very famous thought experiments. The first, and the better known is the "Turing test", named for Alan Turing. The Turing test explores the idea of computer intelligence through a thought experiment the asks whether intelligence is equivalent to a computer that can have a conversation with a person. The second thought experiment, John Searle's "Chinese room," is a well-known and much discussed Follow up to the Turing test. Searle, in attempting to argue against artificial "understanding" postulated a room in which a person who does not understand Chinese is given a rule book that says how to respond to written Chinese messages. Searle argues that despite rules producing correct linguistic responses, "understanding" is not present.

What I'd like these examples to show is that imagination, sometimes in the form of thought experiments, plays a valuable role in academic work.

Today I spoke with two writers both of whom are getting stuck: "I can't write, because I don't know for certain; I can't write because I don't know enough." In both cases, they're looking for knowledge, when they should be trying their own imagination.

What's research about if not explaining how the world works? Historians try to explain what happened in the past and why--why did Rome fall? Physicists explain the natural world--what interactions occur and why? And so on and so forth. The point of knowledge is to explain the world--not just to document it, but to understand how it works. In whatever field you work, it can be useful to sit back and speculate and let your imagination wander in search of useful explanations and hypotheses.

Say you're studying psychology and you're interested in a certain condition. Use your imagination to try to come up with explanations for behavior: he did it because of confidence; he did it because of fear; he did it because of high attachment with his mother; he did it because he really likes chocolate cake. Come up with possible explanations. Some will seem better than others--and those explanations are routes to explore. But you can't explore those routes until you start to try to imagine what the important dynamics could be.

It can be hard to use a faculty you've avoided for a long time. So give it a little practice. Conduct thought experiments; use your imagination to explore the possibilities. It is in this space, where you open up possibilities for good research through use of the imagination, that you can find your own voice, your own explanations and analyses.