A few notes on dissertation structure. I suppose this is primarily aimed at people writing up a basic five-chapter dissertation: introduction, lit. review, methods, results, discussion.
And the abstract should be included, too.
The structure of these sections is determined by a logic in which each piece is set to play a role in telling the reader of your work.
The pieces work together and in a way they all mirror each the main project and each other--but they are distorting mirrors, if you will: they exaggerate different things as they reveal the project.
The abstract is a mirror that makes the image small: the abstract tells the reader about the entire project--its motivation, context, basic premises, method, results and conclusions.
The Introduction does the same job as the abstract, but at the next order of magnitude, and with exaggerated concern with the issues the motivate and contextualize the project. Methods are briefly discussed; lengthy discussion of the methods is saved for the methods chapter. The results and discussion/conclusion are not mentioned, but obviously the issues discussed in the introduction are the ones that set up the later discussion: the research questions set up the character of the research results.
The literature review, I think, is poorly understood. It's not just a compendium of material written about your subject; it's a description of the sources that explain your position and your interests. The literature review discusses the material that helps explain why you believe or expect what you believe and expect. If you are studying some phenomenon, what material in the literature defines the phenomenon? what literature explains it? What literature sets up the expectations that drive your study? The literature review has a responsibility to attempt to show material beyond that which you are using most immediately, especially to show positions/arguments that contradict or refute the premises that you are using. But primarily its purpose is to show the reader what you are talking about. In this way it is another reflection of the same large project: it is the part where you share with the reader your background.
The methods, results and discussion chapters all also share this sense of mirroring a larger project: each has a position in which it exaggerates one part of the whole, but still keeps the whole in view so that the reader always understands how the piece under current view is still kept in relation to the larger whole.
Structure isn't as easy if you can't follow an easy formula, like that for an empirical study. However structure, whatever structure you use, is built out of a desire to share one large image with the reader. There ought to be a coherent conception to the dissertation.
I know, from my own experiences, and from speaking with people working on dissertations in the humanities that often one is encouraged to write one chapter at a time and then try to bring the work together as a whole when the chapters are much more complete. There is some justification for this, given the difficult nature of writing up research in the humanities, where the ideas cannot be so easily reduced quantities or codes, but rather interpretive and analytic subtleties are being explored.
But I believe that understanding a larger structure and having a larger vision in sight, it is easier to write the pieces of the work. Why is it easy to write a one-page essay? Partly it is because you can see, rather easily, just how the whole piece will be structured: you can see that you have to briefly introduce the subject, present your evidence and discuss the conclusion that you want the reader to take away--and that, in itself, is most of the work: writing a coherent one-page piece can be the work of fifteen minutes (granting, of course, that a brilliant one-page piece might require many revisions).
When the pieces get larger, it gets harder to see what to put where. Yes, we need to start by introducing the idea, and we need to finish by concluding something, but there's a lot more space in between the opening and closing. What to put where? Having a sense of purpose related to large structure can help with this: if you can see the overall project, and can see how different presentations of important ideas can reach the reader, then you can make choices about where to put material, and what to goal of the material is.
It may well seem that it is harder to try to impose a larger view of the project and a structure to which each little piece must respond. It may well be different for different people, but I know that for myself, if I know where the pieces are going and what I will try to accomplish, it makes it easier. For the written portion of my qualifying examinations, I was required to answer five questions from the members of my examination committee. When I was given the five questions I asked if they needed to work together; My chair said they did not and even suggested that it would make it more difficult, but I was already seeing how each question could be useful in contextualizing what I wrote for the other questions. By making one question into an introduction, another into a conclusion, two more into discussions of different aspects of theory, and a final question into a discussion of research methods, the pieces supported each other, but better, I knew what I had to put where: some material had to set context, some material had to aim the discussion into the future and so forth. By giving roles of this sort to the different questions, I had reduced the possibilities for what I could write on each question.
Structure actually helps. If you can see structure for the way it helps organize the material, for the different roles that you can give to each part of structure, and so forth, the work as a whole makes more sense, and thereby becomes easier to write. Without a vision of overall structure, which reflects your purpose, it becomes more difficult to see what possible choices are most useful.
Monday, July 28, 2008
Sunday, July 27, 2008
Consuming ideas
It is so easy in this day and age to simply consume the ideas that others have created. It's so easy to admire the work of others, and to continually consume the ideas of others.
I think this happens to a lot of writers. It's easy to get caught saying "I need to research more," using the logic of incomplete scholarship to avoid the risk of revealing one's own ideas. But that's what academic work is really about, right? It's about finding new ideas, new truth, territory not yet discovered. I was talking today with an old acquaintance and he was telling me he was doing research on the limits of quantum computers. "It's like science fiction," I said. "Just mathematics," he replied. It is just mathematics, I understand, but it is also like science fiction: it explores possibilities for things we've not yet done. It is, in that sense classic academic research: it presents a view not before revealed. Whatever the field--mathematics, philosophy, the social sciences--whatever, the purpose of academic work is to produce something new.
The source of that something, I suggest, is only to be found in our unique perspective of the world--a perspective based on what we have studied, surely, but also based on what we make of what we study--on what we take from the data we gather (a process inevitably shaped by the choices we make individually).
It may never be that the perspective that we can develop on our own develops into anything that shakes the world. I think most of us both fear and hope for this: we all fear and hope for fame and influence. We won't find it by simply consuming the ideas of others, unless we find some novel way of seeing those ideas--and thus make them our own.
Of course searching for world-shaking ideas is not something that is always associated with research. Much search for knowledge has simply been the individual driven by personal interest in understanding some issue. But again, this is a search for something new.
Even when consuming the ideas of others, an academic has to engage in an active way: not simply seeking understanding, but seeking to see how the ideas can be used, to see where they are strong and where they are weak, where they surpass other available ideas and where they are inferior, etc.
If we are writing and actively working on a writing project, then to the extent that we remain continually engaged in that project, our consumption of ideas is much more likely to lead to our finding useful material to bolster our written project and to increase our own intellectual sophistication with respect to our project.
If, however, we are engaged in consuming ideas as a prelude to writing, we will continue to simply consume. The act of consumption alone does little to bolster our own ability to actively engage with the material, and that is an ability that we have to exercise.
In short: if you want to write a dissertation (or anything else, really) start writing now. You can always do more research while you're writing, if necessary.
I think this happens to a lot of writers. It's easy to get caught saying "I need to research more," using the logic of incomplete scholarship to avoid the risk of revealing one's own ideas. But that's what academic work is really about, right? It's about finding new ideas, new truth, territory not yet discovered. I was talking today with an old acquaintance and he was telling me he was doing research on the limits of quantum computers. "It's like science fiction," I said. "Just mathematics," he replied. It is just mathematics, I understand, but it is also like science fiction: it explores possibilities for things we've not yet done. It is, in that sense classic academic research: it presents a view not before revealed. Whatever the field--mathematics, philosophy, the social sciences--whatever, the purpose of academic work is to produce something new.
The source of that something, I suggest, is only to be found in our unique perspective of the world--a perspective based on what we have studied, surely, but also based on what we make of what we study--on what we take from the data we gather (a process inevitably shaped by the choices we make individually).
It may never be that the perspective that we can develop on our own develops into anything that shakes the world. I think most of us both fear and hope for this: we all fear and hope for fame and influence. We won't find it by simply consuming the ideas of others, unless we find some novel way of seeing those ideas--and thus make them our own.
Of course searching for world-shaking ideas is not something that is always associated with research. Much search for knowledge has simply been the individual driven by personal interest in understanding some issue. But again, this is a search for something new.
Even when consuming the ideas of others, an academic has to engage in an active way: not simply seeking understanding, but seeking to see how the ideas can be used, to see where they are strong and where they are weak, where they surpass other available ideas and where they are inferior, etc.
If we are writing and actively working on a writing project, then to the extent that we remain continually engaged in that project, our consumption of ideas is much more likely to lead to our finding useful material to bolster our written project and to increase our own intellectual sophistication with respect to our project.
If, however, we are engaged in consuming ideas as a prelude to writing, we will continue to simply consume. The act of consumption alone does little to bolster our own ability to actively engage with the material, and that is an ability that we have to exercise.
In short: if you want to write a dissertation (or anything else, really) start writing now. You can always do more research while you're writing, if necessary.
Saturday, July 26, 2008
Doubt and Uncertainty
What happens when you're told you're doing something wrong? What happens if you're already uncertain about what you're doing? And what if what you're told you should do seems wrong, too?
I've been struggling with this kind of question on a personal level recently, but it's something that I see often when working with dissertation writers.
There's no really easy answer: the thing is that we have to be able to embrace uncertainty--both our own and that of others and make good decisions moving forward from that. There's a big emotional challenge in that: admitting our own uncertainty creates self-doubt that can interfere with making judgments.
There's also a big emotional challenge in challenging the recommendations of those who give us feedback and who we (hopefully) respect.
Sometimes one person is right and another wrong. But often there are many ways to see an issue, so which perspective do you choose? This is our battle with uncertainty: we cannot logically dispel it; we can only avoid it.
And because logic cannot resolve the issue--emotion gets involved. I think that's the hardest part for me: the turmoil involved in deciding between different courses of action. I hope that if I can be better at embracing the uncertainty, I will feel less emotional turmoil and I will be better able to make decisions and then to act decisively.
I've been struggling with this kind of question on a personal level recently, but it's something that I see often when working with dissertation writers.
There's no really easy answer: the thing is that we have to be able to embrace uncertainty--both our own and that of others and make good decisions moving forward from that. There's a big emotional challenge in that: admitting our own uncertainty creates self-doubt that can interfere with making judgments.
There's also a big emotional challenge in challenging the recommendations of those who give us feedback and who we (hopefully) respect.
Sometimes one person is right and another wrong. But often there are many ways to see an issue, so which perspective do you choose? This is our battle with uncertainty: we cannot logically dispel it; we can only avoid it.
And because logic cannot resolve the issue--emotion gets involved. I think that's the hardest part for me: the turmoil involved in deciding between different courses of action. I hope that if I can be better at embracing the uncertainty, I will feel less emotional turmoil and I will be better able to make decisions and then to act decisively.
Thursday, July 24, 2008
Uncertainty
The other day my yoga teacher was talking about the importance of the ability to embrace uncertainty. She mentioned to me a book by Pema Chodron called Comfortable with Uncertainty. I've not read the book, but if you don't write down your references when you remember them, you forget them (hard to believe, I know!).
Anyway, this is a principle that I think is useful on many levels. (As, indeed, are many ideas--which was almost the subject of this post--if I hadn't written about uncertainty.)
Logically speaking, we are faced with limits to our certainty. The work of David Hume, especially his Treatise of Human Nature, clearly framed the limits of our logical certainty in many different ways. On a very basic level Hume argued "that the supposition, that the future resembles the past, is not founded on arguments of any kind, but is deriv'd entirely from habit, by which we are determin'd to expect for the future the same train of objects, to which we have been accustom'd" (Treatise, Book I, Part III, Section XII, italics are Hume's). Essentially he is saying that there is no logical argument that proves that the future will resemble the past--logical in the sense of a priori logic--something that can be proved from basic premises. Yes, he says, we expect the future to resemble the past, because we have seen patterns repeat in the past, but this expectation is not certain--it is only probable (part III of book I is titled "Of knowledge and probability"). Later in the same section he says "even after the observation of the frequent or constant conjunction of objects, we have no reason to draw any inference concerning any object beyond those of which we have experience" (the italics, again, are Hume's).
This general logical principle, sometimes called "Hume's Problem," is also called the problem of induction. It is still debated; no response to Hume has swept away his claims. The most notable response was that of Karl Popper in The Logic of Scientific Discovery. Popper's response was to suggest that we cannot prove the truth of a claim through induction, but that we can prove the falsity of a claim, and therefore science can proceed using the hypotheses that have survived the most tests. But this too, one must note, is logically uncertain: we have certainty (perhaps) that we've rejected bad theories, but we have no certainty that the theory we have not yet rejected is actually good.
Well, the litany of sources of uncertainty in logic is long, and I don't want to go into it here. There are similar ideas outside the realm of Western Philosophy: is there not uncertainty in "The Tao that can be told of is not the absolute Tao."?
I think there are benefits in embracing uncertainty. Especially in logical debate: it's an escape hatch--if we know uncertainty exists, we can use that to justify some degree of imperfection in our argument: we simply cannot know everything; we must somewhere start with something unproven.
We embrace the uncertainty. Of course, we also need to act decisively: so we balance the uncertainty somehow. Ultimately we chose what we believe is important and act on that--if we cannot make such a choice then we're paralyzed.
Of course lots of people go through life thinking that they're certain about everything, but it's hard to get away with that as an academic--at least we're taught to question. So for the academic--or for any philosophical, thinking person--we look at the uncertainties that face us and choose among them the ones that seem best.
If we understand that we are choosing from a place of logical uncertainty, we have to embrace our beliefs for another reason. There's a certain freedom to believing in an idea and knowing that you may be wrong--there's a danger, but also a freedom.
Anyway, this is a principle that I think is useful on many levels. (As, indeed, are many ideas--which was almost the subject of this post--if I hadn't written about uncertainty.)
Logically speaking, we are faced with limits to our certainty. The work of David Hume, especially his Treatise of Human Nature, clearly framed the limits of our logical certainty in many different ways. On a very basic level Hume argued "that the supposition, that the future resembles the past, is not founded on arguments of any kind, but is deriv'd entirely from habit, by which we are determin'd to expect for the future the same train of objects, to which we have been accustom'd" (Treatise, Book I, Part III, Section XII, italics are Hume's). Essentially he is saying that there is no logical argument that proves that the future will resemble the past--logical in the sense of a priori logic--something that can be proved from basic premises. Yes, he says, we expect the future to resemble the past, because we have seen patterns repeat in the past, but this expectation is not certain--it is only probable (part III of book I is titled "Of knowledge and probability"). Later in the same section he says "even after the observation of the frequent or constant conjunction of objects, we have no reason to draw any inference concerning any object beyond those of which we have experience" (the italics, again, are Hume's).
This general logical principle, sometimes called "Hume's Problem," is also called the problem of induction. It is still debated; no response to Hume has swept away his claims. The most notable response was that of Karl Popper in The Logic of Scientific Discovery. Popper's response was to suggest that we cannot prove the truth of a claim through induction, but that we can prove the falsity of a claim, and therefore science can proceed using the hypotheses that have survived the most tests. But this too, one must note, is logically uncertain: we have certainty (perhaps) that we've rejected bad theories, but we have no certainty that the theory we have not yet rejected is actually good.
Well, the litany of sources of uncertainty in logic is long, and I don't want to go into it here. There are similar ideas outside the realm of Western Philosophy: is there not uncertainty in "The Tao that can be told of is not the absolute Tao."?
I think there are benefits in embracing uncertainty. Especially in logical debate: it's an escape hatch--if we know uncertainty exists, we can use that to justify some degree of imperfection in our argument: we simply cannot know everything; we must somewhere start with something unproven.
We embrace the uncertainty. Of course, we also need to act decisively: so we balance the uncertainty somehow. Ultimately we chose what we believe is important and act on that--if we cannot make such a choice then we're paralyzed.
Of course lots of people go through life thinking that they're certain about everything, but it's hard to get away with that as an academic--at least we're taught to question. So for the academic--or for any philosophical, thinking person--we look at the uncertainties that face us and choose among them the ones that seem best.
If we understand that we are choosing from a place of logical uncertainty, we have to embrace our beliefs for another reason. There's a certain freedom to believing in an idea and knowing that you may be wrong--there's a danger, but also a freedom.
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
Don't feel like working?
What do you do when you don't feel like working?
I'm struggling with that a little today--in particular with respect to writing this blog.
I know it's worth it to get in there to do just a little.
When I'm resisting work and procrastinating, I often find it useful to simply tell myself that I'm going to make an absolute minimum effort. And then, being free to do as little as I wish, I often find it possible to engage in the project in a way that I couldn't if I were thinking about how much work I had to do.
Tonight, for example, I didn't feel like writing the blog. But I thought I'd just say a few words about not wanting to work, and suddenly here I am. It's no novel, but it is a handful of sentences and growing.
A sense of obligation, in and of itself, is an emotional burden. If we can enter the work space without the sense of obligation engendered by saying "I have to work on this for the next three hours," then we may actually be able to get more done than if we procrastinated due to our sense of obligation.
Often I follow the suggestion of Joan Bolker and suggest to writers to work on something for fifteen minutes, with no judgment about having done something "good enough." I was wondering tonight whether that even might be too much obligation for the writer to be able to enter the process without a sense of obligation.
Anyway, if you don't feel like working, it can often be worth it to say to yourself that you're going to sit down for just a minute on some minor task.
And that actually brings to mind another thought: if we can start with some very simple task--cleaning the desk, fixing a sentence that we didn't like, adding a reference, or checking a reference to find the page number for a quote--that can often help us to get into the flow of working and to get our focus to move to the project.
The simple little task is minor, but it shifts us to thinking about our project, and may even clear away some sort of minor administrative nuisance that was bothering your when you were concentrating on larger issues during your previous session of work.
I'm struggling with that a little today--in particular with respect to writing this blog.
I know it's worth it to get in there to do just a little.
When I'm resisting work and procrastinating, I often find it useful to simply tell myself that I'm going to make an absolute minimum effort. And then, being free to do as little as I wish, I often find it possible to engage in the project in a way that I couldn't if I were thinking about how much work I had to do.
Tonight, for example, I didn't feel like writing the blog. But I thought I'd just say a few words about not wanting to work, and suddenly here I am. It's no novel, but it is a handful of sentences and growing.
A sense of obligation, in and of itself, is an emotional burden. If we can enter the work space without the sense of obligation engendered by saying "I have to work on this for the next three hours," then we may actually be able to get more done than if we procrastinated due to our sense of obligation.
Often I follow the suggestion of Joan Bolker and suggest to writers to work on something for fifteen minutes, with no judgment about having done something "good enough." I was wondering tonight whether that even might be too much obligation for the writer to be able to enter the process without a sense of obligation.
Anyway, if you don't feel like working, it can often be worth it to say to yourself that you're going to sit down for just a minute on some minor task.
And that actually brings to mind another thought: if we can start with some very simple task--cleaning the desk, fixing a sentence that we didn't like, adding a reference, or checking a reference to find the page number for a quote--that can often help us to get into the flow of working and to get our focus to move to the project.
The simple little task is minor, but it shifts us to thinking about our project, and may even clear away some sort of minor administrative nuisance that was bothering your when you were concentrating on larger issues during your previous session of work.
Monday, July 21, 2008
Practice, Practice, Practice
How do you get to Carnegie Hall?
Practice, Practice, Practice.
All that practicing can be tiring, frustrating and unpleasant. How does one do it?
Even things that we love can be difficult. I enjoy writing, but it's hard. I enjoy playing music but it's not easy.
What is it that can allow us to struggle through the difficult moments to keep working on a lengthy project? What if we are beset by immediate distractions and demands on our time--such as family responsibility or the need to earn money? How do we keep working on the difficult, frustrating project whose payoff seems far down the line?
What sets the virtuoso apart from the hack? Edison said genius was 99% perspiration. There's the other one percent--that's needed, too, but practice, practice, practice.
I'm currently working on a cover letter that's on its 10th revision.
Hemingway was asked "How much rewriting do you do?"
He answered "It depends. I rewrote the ending of Farewell to Arms, the last page of it, thirty-nine times before I was satisfied." (excerpt from interview taken from The Writer's home Companion, Bolker, editor)
And none of that answers where the motivation to continue in the frustrating moment comes from.
Practice, Practice, Practice.
All that practicing can be tiring, frustrating and unpleasant. How does one do it?
Even things that we love can be difficult. I enjoy writing, but it's hard. I enjoy playing music but it's not easy.
What is it that can allow us to struggle through the difficult moments to keep working on a lengthy project? What if we are beset by immediate distractions and demands on our time--such as family responsibility or the need to earn money? How do we keep working on the difficult, frustrating project whose payoff seems far down the line?
What sets the virtuoso apart from the hack? Edison said genius was 99% perspiration. There's the other one percent--that's needed, too, but practice, practice, practice.
I'm currently working on a cover letter that's on its 10th revision.
Hemingway was asked "How much rewriting do you do?"
He answered "It depends. I rewrote the ending of Farewell to Arms, the last page of it, thirty-nine times before I was satisfied." (excerpt from interview taken from The Writer's home Companion, Bolker, editor)
And none of that answers where the motivation to continue in the frustrating moment comes from.
Sunday, July 20, 2008
What's the point?
What is the point that you're trying to make?
It seems that this is the place to start. Without this there is no focus to the work.
A writer said to me: "I want to say all sorts of things, but I have been told I have to show them, not state them." Well, my response is to say that the place to start is still to understand what it is that you believe and what it is that you want to say. If you know that, then you can ask yourself why you believe that, and what evidence you could present to help others see why you believe it.
I speak of belief due to my skeptical heritage: following Hume, I don't believe that we really "know" things--that is know them with certainty. But even so, I think the responsibility of a philosopher--which is what those who aspire to the Ph.D. ought to all be--is to explore ideas with care: the philosopher explores and examines ideas and challenges them; the philosopher does not just accept whatever idea is suggested by others.
If we believe that something exists, then, as philosophers, we want to have reasons for believing; we want to understand why we have chosen that idea over other alternatives. If we believe that something exists: then we should be able to share with others the specific reasons that we believe the idea. And as philosophers, those reasons are usually developed by the "love of wisdom" (the etymological root of "philosophy"): our willingness to examine ideas because we are interested in understanding.
If we know the point we want to make, then we can begin to set up our communication of that point to others.
It seems that this is the place to start. Without this there is no focus to the work.
A writer said to me: "I want to say all sorts of things, but I have been told I have to show them, not state them." Well, my response is to say that the place to start is still to understand what it is that you believe and what it is that you want to say. If you know that, then you can ask yourself why you believe that, and what evidence you could present to help others see why you believe it.
I speak of belief due to my skeptical heritage: following Hume, I don't believe that we really "know" things--that is know them with certainty. But even so, I think the responsibility of a philosopher--which is what those who aspire to the Ph.D. ought to all be--is to explore ideas with care: the philosopher explores and examines ideas and challenges them; the philosopher does not just accept whatever idea is suggested by others.
If we believe that something exists, then, as philosophers, we want to have reasons for believing; we want to understand why we have chosen that idea over other alternatives. If we believe that something exists: then we should be able to share with others the specific reasons that we believe the idea. And as philosophers, those reasons are usually developed by the "love of wisdom" (the etymological root of "philosophy"): our willingness to examine ideas because we are interested in understanding.
If we know the point we want to make, then we can begin to set up our communication of that point to others.
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