For the writer, I think the expectation of a bad outcome is something of a self-fulfilling prophecy. It is, at least, if we allow the expectation of a bad outcome to keep us from working and from circulating our work.
Writing is meant to be shared. If we are unwilling to share our written work (or if we produce no written work), then we fail as writers more surely than we could possibly fail by handing in a poor draft. At least when the deadline comes, if you have turned in nothing, you have no chance of your work being accepted; if you have something written, you have a chance--however slim you may believe that chance to be.
If you believe the outcome will be bad, you almost guarantee the bad outcome. This is often true in interpersonal dynamics--whether interviewing, presenting work, or even dating--if you show a lack of confidence, the audience will expect problems; if you show confidence, you're often well received.
It is true to some extent in presenting written work: often people present the work along with a long list of the problems they still see, with no comment on the good things they have accomplished--they're so sure the reader will see the problems that they want the reader to know that they've seen the problem, too. But this can backfire, especially if you see problems that your reader wouldn't have.
The old adage "you can't win if you don't play", is kind of true and kind of annoyingly simplistic. But the outcome of not playing is often exactly like the outcome of losing, except perhaps in the expenditure of energy. But that's not really a loss, is it? What good is it to be well rested, but still have the dissertation waiting to be written?
I suppose there is the fear that if one does try, one might be ridiculed for one's efforts, whereas the person who shows nothing, is not ridiculed. Of course, if you fear ridicule, you might also fear the ridicule of never finishing. Is it really worse to be known as the person who went for it and failed than it is to be known as the person who never went for it?
Chance always plays a role; it's always possible that one will find a winning lottery ticket on the street. But barring random chance, I feel like pessimism is a self-fulfilling prophecy.
Getting things to work out right may be more difficult, but I believe that the optimistic mind also creates a self-fulfilling prophecy. Confidence helps one perform better. Optimism and confidence also make the moment more enjoyable. If you can maintain optimism during a project, even if it doesn't work out, the act of working on the project may not seem so onerous, because it is an act filled with hope.
For my part, I have to work to keep an optimistic mindset, and it often slips away. Nonetheless, I believe that work in trying to be optimistic and in practicing believing in myself, is worth the effort.
Friday, August 8, 2008
Thursday, August 7, 2008
Procrastination
I don't get many comments on the blog, so every one is kind of exciting.
I got a comment this morning (thanks!) that started me thinking.
"Hi, Dave,
I'm new to your blog and just wanted to let you know that I find your words insightful and even uplifting. Not that I'm promising to go work on my dissertation or anything...heh."
Now compliments are nice, but it's that final sentence that really struck me, just because it made me think of a book I'm currently reading: The Now Habit by Neil Fiore. I am something of a consumer of mass market psychology and self-help, which is what Fiore's book feels like to me. Fiore basically says that procrastination can often be ascribed to a sense that you're not doing a task because you want to, but rather because you feel as if someone expects you to do it. I've only read a third of the book, but as far as I can tell, the basic premise is that we get over procrastination by choosing what we will do--by feeling like we are making a choice and doing what we think we should do for our own benefit--not because someone told us to, but because we decided to.
This basic premise is one that I believe in, and one I believe I have mentioned in previous posts. We get the work done when we're doing it because we think we will make our situation better for doing it.
The kind author of the comment, of course, has no connection with me or commitment to me--no promise, and even if she/he did promise, I have no way of enforcing that promise. But that final sentence can be read as revealing the whole dynamic of procrastination as Fiore describes it: there is work that isn't getting done, and there is an author who is resisting, and who is referencing an outside authority of sorts.
Only of sorts, of course, because I am pretty much an anti-authority figure. I want everybody to work from a core of personal beliefs--including a belief that working on the project is a good thing.
It's better if one also believes that working on the project is not painful or agonizing in anyway, but that can be a slightly harder belief to come by. But it comes easier if you start thinking about the choice that you're making and the good outcomes that come out of making that choice and engaging with the project.
I'm not big on saying things like "you should be working harder; promise me you'll work harder." I'm more likely to say "do something that promotes your health--physical or mental, or better both. Do something that you think is important. Do something that helps give you better future prospects so you can live a better life." I figure if an author can't figure out how the dissertation relates to at least one of those three questions, then probably that author ought not be bothering with the dissertation anyway.
I'd like to suggest that every author try to have fun with their work. Explore the possibilities; look for the things that interest you and the things that you care about. See if you can rediscover the enthusiasm that directed you to the topic in the first place.
If you're only doing it because someone else expects it of you, then you're setting up a dynamic that will lead to procrastination (at least in procrastination as described by Fiore).
Thanks again for the comment! I hope that you had a good day, doing whatever you did.
I got a comment this morning (thanks!) that started me thinking.
"Hi, Dave,
I'm new to your blog and just wanted to let you know that I find your words insightful and even uplifting. Not that I'm promising to go work on my dissertation or anything...heh."
Now compliments are nice, but it's that final sentence that really struck me, just because it made me think of a book I'm currently reading: The Now Habit by Neil Fiore. I am something of a consumer of mass market psychology and self-help, which is what Fiore's book feels like to me. Fiore basically says that procrastination can often be ascribed to a sense that you're not doing a task because you want to, but rather because you feel as if someone expects you to do it. I've only read a third of the book, but as far as I can tell, the basic premise is that we get over procrastination by choosing what we will do--by feeling like we are making a choice and doing what we think we should do for our own benefit--not because someone told us to, but because we decided to.
This basic premise is one that I believe in, and one I believe I have mentioned in previous posts. We get the work done when we're doing it because we think we will make our situation better for doing it.
The kind author of the comment, of course, has no connection with me or commitment to me--no promise, and even if she/he did promise, I have no way of enforcing that promise. But that final sentence can be read as revealing the whole dynamic of procrastination as Fiore describes it: there is work that isn't getting done, and there is an author who is resisting, and who is referencing an outside authority of sorts.
Only of sorts, of course, because I am pretty much an anti-authority figure. I want everybody to work from a core of personal beliefs--including a belief that working on the project is a good thing.
It's better if one also believes that working on the project is not painful or agonizing in anyway, but that can be a slightly harder belief to come by. But it comes easier if you start thinking about the choice that you're making and the good outcomes that come out of making that choice and engaging with the project.
I'm not big on saying things like "you should be working harder; promise me you'll work harder." I'm more likely to say "do something that promotes your health--physical or mental, or better both. Do something that you think is important. Do something that helps give you better future prospects so you can live a better life." I figure if an author can't figure out how the dissertation relates to at least one of those three questions, then probably that author ought not be bothering with the dissertation anyway.
I'd like to suggest that every author try to have fun with their work. Explore the possibilities; look for the things that interest you and the things that you care about. See if you can rediscover the enthusiasm that directed you to the topic in the first place.
If you're only doing it because someone else expects it of you, then you're setting up a dynamic that will lead to procrastination (at least in procrastination as described by Fiore).
Thanks again for the comment! I hope that you had a good day, doing whatever you did.
Wednesday, August 6, 2008
Incremental writing and getting overwhelmed
Writing is detailed work. In academic writing the details can be overwhelming.
First of all there is the whole intellectual/theoretical aspect--and that is rife with details: on any particular point of theory there are probably a number of different points expressing different ideas about different aspects of the theory. Then there is the whole presentational aspect: the written work. There's punctuation; there are style rules and manuals, and so on. And all those rules have to be checked against every sentence that you write.
In short, writing requires attention to detail. The great difficulty in managing all the detail is one of the motivations for the existence of editors. If you have been looking at a written work for too long, then it is hard to see the work clearly. Editors come to a project with a fresh eye. Granting that editors may have valuable skills and insights that may assist an author, much of what the editor does can be done by the writer: it may be easier for an editor to check spelling, but the author can do that. Similarly dealing with rules, etc.
If you're not going to get an editor to help, the many details can begin to become overwhelming. Indeed, even if you do have someone edit you work, they may give you so much detailed feedback that it is hard to process.
The good thing about writing, however, is that it basically stays still. All those details that need to be attended to? They're waiting, and they will wait patiently for their chance. One need not try to figure out how to deal with all the details; it's enough to figure out what detail to work on next and how to deal with that detail. All the other details will be there later.
By keeping it simple, it's easier to deal with the task at hand. By breaking the work down into the natural increments demanded by the details, you can get in a habit of making progress.
First of all there is the whole intellectual/theoretical aspect--and that is rife with details: on any particular point of theory there are probably a number of different points expressing different ideas about different aspects of the theory. Then there is the whole presentational aspect: the written work. There's punctuation; there are style rules and manuals, and so on. And all those rules have to be checked against every sentence that you write.
In short, writing requires attention to detail. The great difficulty in managing all the detail is one of the motivations for the existence of editors. If you have been looking at a written work for too long, then it is hard to see the work clearly. Editors come to a project with a fresh eye. Granting that editors may have valuable skills and insights that may assist an author, much of what the editor does can be done by the writer: it may be easier for an editor to check spelling, but the author can do that. Similarly dealing with rules, etc.
If you're not going to get an editor to help, the many details can begin to become overwhelming. Indeed, even if you do have someone edit you work, they may give you so much detailed feedback that it is hard to process.
The good thing about writing, however, is that it basically stays still. All those details that need to be attended to? They're waiting, and they will wait patiently for their chance. One need not try to figure out how to deal with all the details; it's enough to figure out what detail to work on next and how to deal with that detail. All the other details will be there later.
By keeping it simple, it's easier to deal with the task at hand. By breaking the work down into the natural increments demanded by the details, you can get in a habit of making progress.
Monday, August 4, 2008
Literature Review
The Literature Review is a chapter common to dissertations that report the results of an empirical study. I find that it is a chapter a lot of writers get stuck on. And it seems to me that perhaps they get stuck because they don't have a clear idea of what they're trying to accomplish in the literature review.
It seems to me that there is a common way of looking at a literature review: a report on relevant studies. But this common way of looking at it is not very useful. It doesn't help you find structure, or focus. How is the relevant distinguished from the irrelevant?
There is another way of looking at it: the literature review is a discussion of the sources in the literature that have shaped your study and have led to its current form, and a discussion of the major issues that those sources discuss and debate (including representation of salient opposing voices). I strongly believe that this is a more productive way of looking at the literature review. I also believe that it leads to a better written work--one that is more focused and less prone to getting lost in tangential details.
The literature is not meant to cover everything ever said about the general topic that you are using. It is not even necessary to cover everything ever said about a specific theory that you are using. It is necessary to cover the voices on which you rely, as well as the voices that provide a foil for the ones you wish to use: you want to use other sources that allow you to reflect on the sources you rely on the most. It is worthwhile to show opinions that disagree with the theories you are using: it provides an opportunity to discuss what is particularly salient about the ideas that you are using.
Start the literature with what you know and with the sources that you already have in hand. If you've only read three articles and your textbook, you can still write up a rudimentary literature review that will help you outline the ideas that you are using. If you have set up a good structure for the literature review, one based on the ideas that you are using, not one based on an attempt to describe all the different literature on the subject, then adding new sources to the literature review is pretty easy.
It seems like the literature review should be about reviewing what has been published, and therefore should somehow be structured by what has been published. But it's more productive to think about the literature review as discussing the ideas that provide a background for your work. What ideas led into your choice of method and focus within the topic? These are the questions that you have to answer in the literature review; that way the literature review follows up on the introduction--which gives the reader an overview of the whole scope of the project--by giving detail that the introduction couldn't accommodate, and then it sets up the methodology chapter that follows. The literature should be structured by your reasoning: what are the ideas that shape the study and how are these ideas debated in the discourse of your field?
I labeled this post under the "your voice" category, because ultimately the literature review is about revealing your voice, and showing how your voice reflects the larger discourse.
It seems to me that there is a common way of looking at a literature review: a report on relevant studies. But this common way of looking at it is not very useful. It doesn't help you find structure, or focus. How is the relevant distinguished from the irrelevant?
There is another way of looking at it: the literature review is a discussion of the sources in the literature that have shaped your study and have led to its current form, and a discussion of the major issues that those sources discuss and debate (including representation of salient opposing voices). I strongly believe that this is a more productive way of looking at the literature review. I also believe that it leads to a better written work--one that is more focused and less prone to getting lost in tangential details.
The literature is not meant to cover everything ever said about the general topic that you are using. It is not even necessary to cover everything ever said about a specific theory that you are using. It is necessary to cover the voices on which you rely, as well as the voices that provide a foil for the ones you wish to use: you want to use other sources that allow you to reflect on the sources you rely on the most. It is worthwhile to show opinions that disagree with the theories you are using: it provides an opportunity to discuss what is particularly salient about the ideas that you are using.
Start the literature with what you know and with the sources that you already have in hand. If you've only read three articles and your textbook, you can still write up a rudimentary literature review that will help you outline the ideas that you are using. If you have set up a good structure for the literature review, one based on the ideas that you are using, not one based on an attempt to describe all the different literature on the subject, then adding new sources to the literature review is pretty easy.
It seems like the literature review should be about reviewing what has been published, and therefore should somehow be structured by what has been published. But it's more productive to think about the literature review as discussing the ideas that provide a background for your work. What ideas led into your choice of method and focus within the topic? These are the questions that you have to answer in the literature review; that way the literature review follows up on the introduction--which gives the reader an overview of the whole scope of the project--by giving detail that the introduction couldn't accommodate, and then it sets up the methodology chapter that follows. The literature should be structured by your reasoning: what are the ideas that shape the study and how are these ideas debated in the discourse of your field?
I labeled this post under the "your voice" category, because ultimately the literature review is about revealing your voice, and showing how your voice reflects the larger discourse.
Sunday, August 3, 2008
A Sense of Futility
At some moments, in some projects, and in some lives, there are moments where we are faced with a sense of futility.
I was talking today with a friend whose work ethic has always impressed me, and whose passion for many projects has led him to many creative works. He had recently finished a project--a book that he had been working on in relation to his work as a teacher (and vendor) of a software package. The book had met with a cold reception and he was struggling with a sense of futility: it makes no difference if I try, he exclaimed.
I've had something of the same sense recently with this blog. There are moments when I look at the hundreds of posts and for all the effort, I've only ever heard from a handful of readers--four, or five. I wonder about the value of the effort. On the other hand, those who did contact me were appreciative. And maybe it's worth it just to have helped even one person.
One way to look at the issue of futility is to consider whether the activity is itself inherently worthwhile. I can find rewards for the efforts on my blog on a number of different levels. Some of those rewards of writing would be found in positive response from readers--which, as I noted above, is not overwhelming. But I can also find rewards in learning to write better, in practicing my writing, and in practicing a practice, and in struggling to refine and improve ideas that come into play in the work that I do.
When we're struggling with a sense of futility, I think that it comes from an overly narrow focus on the potential aspects of a situation. To follow on the example of this blog, I feel the futility when I think about the value of the blog to others. But when I think of the value of the blog to myself, then I have a more positive view: working on the blog has helped me learn.
Hypothetically a dissertation writer might find a sense of futility attached to a work--perhaps because some critique they received was harsh and belittling. Actually that's not so hypothetical: I know it happens all the time. But the work may be valuable to other people. And of greatest importance, you can ask whether the work has value for you. Chances are that you, as writer, started out with a sense of a question that interested you, or a cause that motivated you, is there some way to re-connect your work with that sense of interest or motivation?
By focusing on aspects of the work that do feel important, one can get around the sense of futility. With a dissertation or thesis, it can always help to remember that completing the work will lead to a degree, so the project is not inherently futile and meaningless if you can compete the work. Usually, though, knowledge of the degree is not sufficient to overcome any writer's block that arises from feeling a sense of futility. That's why it's so valuable to be able to connect with a sense of purpose that is internal: a desire to grow, a desire to face challenges, and a desire to share ideas that are personally important.
I was talking today with a friend whose work ethic has always impressed me, and whose passion for many projects has led him to many creative works. He had recently finished a project--a book that he had been working on in relation to his work as a teacher (and vendor) of a software package. The book had met with a cold reception and he was struggling with a sense of futility: it makes no difference if I try, he exclaimed.
I've had something of the same sense recently with this blog. There are moments when I look at the hundreds of posts and for all the effort, I've only ever heard from a handful of readers--four, or five. I wonder about the value of the effort. On the other hand, those who did contact me were appreciative. And maybe it's worth it just to have helped even one person.
One way to look at the issue of futility is to consider whether the activity is itself inherently worthwhile. I can find rewards for the efforts on my blog on a number of different levels. Some of those rewards of writing would be found in positive response from readers--which, as I noted above, is not overwhelming. But I can also find rewards in learning to write better, in practicing my writing, and in practicing a practice, and in struggling to refine and improve ideas that come into play in the work that I do.
When we're struggling with a sense of futility, I think that it comes from an overly narrow focus on the potential aspects of a situation. To follow on the example of this blog, I feel the futility when I think about the value of the blog to others. But when I think of the value of the blog to myself, then I have a more positive view: working on the blog has helped me learn.
Hypothetically a dissertation writer might find a sense of futility attached to a work--perhaps because some critique they received was harsh and belittling. Actually that's not so hypothetical: I know it happens all the time. But the work may be valuable to other people. And of greatest importance, you can ask whether the work has value for you. Chances are that you, as writer, started out with a sense of a question that interested you, or a cause that motivated you, is there some way to re-connect your work with that sense of interest or motivation?
By focusing on aspects of the work that do feel important, one can get around the sense of futility. With a dissertation or thesis, it can always help to remember that completing the work will lead to a degree, so the project is not inherently futile and meaningless if you can compete the work. Usually, though, knowledge of the degree is not sufficient to overcome any writer's block that arises from feeling a sense of futility. That's why it's so valuable to be able to connect with a sense of purpose that is internal: a desire to grow, a desire to face challenges, and a desire to share ideas that are personally important.
Friday, August 1, 2008
Just to have written something...
A common theme in my blog, and in books on writing, is to just write something.
Laurence Sterne, the author of The Life and Opinions of Tristram Shandy, Gentleman, once wrote that it is better to send a bad letter in good time than a good letter in bad time (or something to that effect; I can't find the citation anymore.)
I missed posting last night and neither my head nor my heart are really in it tonight, but, just to have written something...
Laurence Sterne, the author of The Life and Opinions of Tristram Shandy, Gentleman, once wrote that it is better to send a bad letter in good time than a good letter in bad time (or something to that effect; I can't find the citation anymore.)
I missed posting last night and neither my head nor my heart are really in it tonight, but, just to have written something...
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
Sucked In
How easy is it to get sucked in?
How does it happen that one gets sucked in?
We usually think of getting sucked in to things that we don't want to do, but that are tempting. How does it happen? We get sucked in to watching TV and we get up an hour or four later feeling worse for it, usually. We get sucked into one too many drinks, perhaps, or one too many hands at the blackjack table, or too many bon bons, or books or whatever kind of temptation we fall into.
But do we only get sucked in to things that are bad for us? My experience is that I can be sucked into many activities. Some days it's hard to get started writing or to get started on an editing project, but I find that once I'm involved in the work, it's not nearly as difficult as I anticipate. The interest inherent in the work will take over if only I give it enough chance.
Part of making it happen, I think, is having low expectations (which is very different, of course, from having low standards) for the moment. I don't expect to solve all my problems, or even to solve one big problem; I expect only that I will give it an honest effort for a little while. Often I can get started on writing something by saying "I'll just jot down quick notes." That, indeed, is the case with today's blog: I was resisting writing it--telling myself I would do it later--after all, writing a whole blog entry might take thirty minutes, or an hour even, if I get caught up in it. But "I'll just jot some quick notes so I won't forget what I was thinking about," and here I am, a couple of paragraphs in.
I read an article recently (sadly, I have no link and no citation) that described a recent study that showed that people were poor at anticipating how much they would enjoy things, finding both that people often enjoyed things they anticipated disliking, and that they disliked things they anticipated enjoying. I think work is something that we often anticipate disliking, and so we avoid it. But we often enjoy it, once we start.
Recently I decided that I wanted to work on reading music (which I do a very poorly and slowly), and decided to spend fifteen minutes a day practicing reading music with a metronome. I do have a trouble starting, but when I do start, I often find myself working for longer than I planned, just because the challenge of working on it sucks me in: I want to master it, or at least get better at it--mastery, I think, would take several hours of practice a day--a friend who was a professional musician told me once that he had to practice six hours a day to be able to play what he needed for his gigs. This is a worthy comparison: the writer can productively spend fifteen minutes writing--especially with practice. But to master a project, it will take the writer hours every day, for weeks or months.
Another important factor in getting sucked in is to feel that the process in which you engage is one that serves a purpose for you. And is not one that you feel you are doing out of some externally imposed obligation. If you feel that a task is worthy, then engaging in that ask will actually have a self-reinforcing factor: you'll feel good for having accomplished something, and that will be conducive to working more. On the other hand, if you are feeling that a task is only an external obligation, there is a constant resistance due to your sense that the task is not meaningful, but is only being done for someone else.
Anger at having to do the task probably isn't helpful in getting sucked in; anger is draining. In the long run it would be nice for the writer to have the experience of getting sucked in and of having the task of writing and research be so fascinating that you do not only get sucked in on the small scale (where you start working for a short moment and that stretches to several minutes or hours) but you can get sucked in on the large scale (where you start to view the opportunity to work as an actual temptation).
How does it happen that one gets sucked in?
We usually think of getting sucked in to things that we don't want to do, but that are tempting. How does it happen? We get sucked in to watching TV and we get up an hour or four later feeling worse for it, usually. We get sucked into one too many drinks, perhaps, or one too many hands at the blackjack table, or too many bon bons, or books or whatever kind of temptation we fall into.
But do we only get sucked in to things that are bad for us? My experience is that I can be sucked into many activities. Some days it's hard to get started writing or to get started on an editing project, but I find that once I'm involved in the work, it's not nearly as difficult as I anticipate. The interest inherent in the work will take over if only I give it enough chance.
Part of making it happen, I think, is having low expectations (which is very different, of course, from having low standards) for the moment. I don't expect to solve all my problems, or even to solve one big problem; I expect only that I will give it an honest effort for a little while. Often I can get started on writing something by saying "I'll just jot down quick notes." That, indeed, is the case with today's blog: I was resisting writing it--telling myself I would do it later--after all, writing a whole blog entry might take thirty minutes, or an hour even, if I get caught up in it. But "I'll just jot some quick notes so I won't forget what I was thinking about," and here I am, a couple of paragraphs in.
I read an article recently (sadly, I have no link and no citation) that described a recent study that showed that people were poor at anticipating how much they would enjoy things, finding both that people often enjoyed things they anticipated disliking, and that they disliked things they anticipated enjoying. I think work is something that we often anticipate disliking, and so we avoid it. But we often enjoy it, once we start.
Recently I decided that I wanted to work on reading music (which I do a very poorly and slowly), and decided to spend fifteen minutes a day practicing reading music with a metronome. I do have a trouble starting, but when I do start, I often find myself working for longer than I planned, just because the challenge of working on it sucks me in: I want to master it, or at least get better at it--mastery, I think, would take several hours of practice a day--a friend who was a professional musician told me once that he had to practice six hours a day to be able to play what he needed for his gigs. This is a worthy comparison: the writer can productively spend fifteen minutes writing--especially with practice. But to master a project, it will take the writer hours every day, for weeks or months.
Another important factor in getting sucked in is to feel that the process in which you engage is one that serves a purpose for you. And is not one that you feel you are doing out of some externally imposed obligation. If you feel that a task is worthy, then engaging in that ask will actually have a self-reinforcing factor: you'll feel good for having accomplished something, and that will be conducive to working more. On the other hand, if you are feeling that a task is only an external obligation, there is a constant resistance due to your sense that the task is not meaningful, but is only being done for someone else.
Anger at having to do the task probably isn't helpful in getting sucked in; anger is draining. In the long run it would be nice for the writer to have the experience of getting sucked in and of having the task of writing and research be so fascinating that you do not only get sucked in on the small scale (where you start working for a short moment and that stretches to several minutes or hours) but you can get sucked in on the large scale (where you start to view the opportunity to work as an actual temptation).
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