I try to rely on principles rather than rules. To me the distinction depends on the difference between a goal I'm trying to achieve and a clearly defined prescription for behavior. This is something of a situationalist perspective: a principle guides, but does not bind, for the boundary cases where the proper path is not clear. By contrast a rule is a rule; it is to be followed.
As example we might contrast the Judeo-Christian rule: "Thou shalt not kill" with the principle (Buddhist, perhaps) of preserving life. The rule is clear cut: but what do you do in the rare (but much discussed) situation where your ability to take the life of one person will save the lives of many others? The rule is simple, clear cut. It does, however, put aside the difficult conflicting values in the problem. The principle is conflicted; judgment is left in the hands of the individual. It is more difficult to apply a principle in this kind of case than a rule--or at least the decision is more difficult.
Yesterday I was writing about structure and the structure of the Introduction. I got a question about the structure that said "...are we expected to...". I know I'm kind of misreading this, because the questioner, I think, is not looking at me as an authority figure who sets expectations that must be met (I hope). But it made me think about structure, formulas and why we use structures and formulas.
Part of what I wanted to show, in addition to suggesting a specific sort of structure, was that structure is motivated. The formula is not there simply as a formalism to be followed, but rather the formula is there because the writer has some purposes, and the formula helps the writer accomplish that purpose.
One purpose that all writers share is the desire to get the reader engaged. Hence there is an introduction of some sort. In fiction, writers introduce there work in ways that set up tension, or that address the reader; the reader of fiction has certain expectations, and the writer is going to play with those expectations. In academic writing the introduction is done differently: the academic writer wants to put all the cards on the table--or at least the most important one; he academic writer draws the academic reader in by convincing the reader that the work addresses a significant issue, and that the work is done well. What happens if the academic reader thinks the study deals with an insignificant issue, or the research was executed in a such a shoddy manner as to be worthless?
The point of structural formulas is that they help us engage the reader. The models have been used because they work, but they have also been used because they suit the writer's purpose. If you can see structure as a tool to help you reach the reader and convince the reader of the quality of your work, then you will deal with structural formulas in a different fashion: you will see them as suggestions that may help you act in accordance with a guiding principle (like the desire to engage the reader), rather than onerous prescriptions.
Friday, August 15, 2008
Thursday, August 14, 2008
Structure and Audience 2
What I just wrote in my previous blog entry put me in mind of Henry Fielding's Tom Jones, which is introduced with the following apropos passage (thanks to Project Gutenberg, a great resource for free electronic copies of many published works):
Fielding speaks metaphorically, and as a writer of fiction, of course, but what he says is true for the academic writer, too. What is the abstract, after all, except a "bill of fare" in Fielding's terms? As writers, especially as academic writers, our purpose is (or ought to be) to share our ideas, and to that end we should endeavor to reveal to our readers what they can expect, so they can decide whether to read or move on. On a more general level, what Fielding is suggesting is that structure, generally,--that is out choice of where to place elements--is one of the ways that we can reach our readers: we make structural choices so that we get the responses we want--for example, so that the reader can decide whether to move on or not.
An author ought to consider himself, not as a gentleman who gives a private or eleemosynary treat, but rather as one who keeps a public ordinary, at which all persons are welcome for their money. In the former case, it is well known that the entertainer provides what fare he pleases; and though this should be very indifferent, and utterly disagreeable to the taste of his company, they must not find any fault; nay, on the contrary, good breeding forces them outwardly to approve and to commend whatever is set before them. Now the contrary of this happens to the master of an ordinary. Men who pay for what they eat will insist on gratifying their palates, however nice and whimsical these may prove; and if everything is not agreeable to their taste, will challenge a right to censure, to abuse, and to d--n their dinner without controul.
To prevent, therefore, giving offence to their customers by any such disappointment, it hath been usual with the honest and well-meaning host to provide a bill of fare which all persons may peruse at their first entrance into the house; and having thence acquainted themselves with the entertainment which they may expect, may either stay and regale with what is provided for them, or may depart to some other ordinary better accommodated to their taste.
Fielding speaks metaphorically, and as a writer of fiction, of course, but what he says is true for the academic writer, too. What is the abstract, after all, except a "bill of fare" in Fielding's terms? As writers, especially as academic writers, our purpose is (or ought to be) to share our ideas, and to that end we should endeavor to reveal to our readers what they can expect, so they can decide whether to read or move on. On a more general level, what Fielding is suggesting is that structure, generally,--that is out choice of where to place elements--is one of the ways that we can reach our readers: we make structural choices so that we get the responses we want--for example, so that the reader can decide whether to move on or not.
Structure and Audience
I wrote the following notes to a writer who had sent an introduction that was an uninterrupted six pages long. It was a pretty good draft, but...
But the structure of this as a whole could be more articulated. Right now you basically have six pages of uninterrupted flow which try to introduce the subject of the study and to describe its motivation. But, the different tasks of the introduction could be broken up into sections that you can then mark using section headers—which helps articulate the structure, so that the reader has an even easier time of following the structure.
A basic structure suggested in my preceding sentence would have two sections:
1. Introduction
a. Introduce ideas
b. describe motivation for the study
But this structure is a little more basic than is typically used in a dissertation, where the introduction is broken into sections, perhaps in the following manner:
1. Introduction
a. what it is that you're talking about (the subject matter)
b. why the reader should care (why the subject matter is important)
c. what you hope to find out about the subject matter (what your research question or intention is)
d. How you intend to learn about the subject matter (the research methodology—in your case this might also be a description of study aims like website creation).
In general it might help to remember that the writing is there to guide the responses of the reader: so sometimes think about the chunks of writing by asking yourself “what does this chunk of writing accomplish in my plan to control the response of the reader?” Notice in the four-part outline for an introduction above, each section has a plan with respect to the reader: first you give them an overview of what you’re talking abut, then you give them a reason to care about that subject, then you tell them how you plan to respond to that motivation (in two parts).
Concluding remark for the blog: We often forget about our audience when we're busy trying to say something, and when we're struggling to get it down in words. But keeping the audience in mind can help us focus our efforts, and make decisions about how to proceed. By reminding ourselves of the audience, and of our need to communicate with the audience, we are more likely to write in the important transitional material that makes a work readable.
But the structure of this as a whole could be more articulated. Right now you basically have six pages of uninterrupted flow which try to introduce the subject of the study and to describe its motivation. But, the different tasks of the introduction could be broken up into sections that you can then mark using section headers—which helps articulate the structure, so that the reader has an even easier time of following the structure.
A basic structure suggested in my preceding sentence would have two sections:
1. Introduction
a. Introduce ideas
b. describe motivation for the study
But this structure is a little more basic than is typically used in a dissertation, where the introduction is broken into sections, perhaps in the following manner:
1. Introduction
a. what it is that you're talking about (the subject matter)
b. why the reader should care (why the subject matter is important)
c. what you hope to find out about the subject matter (what your research question or intention is)
d. How you intend to learn about the subject matter (the research methodology—in your case this might also be a description of study aims like website creation).
In general it might help to remember that the writing is there to guide the responses of the reader: so sometimes think about the chunks of writing by asking yourself “what does this chunk of writing accomplish in my plan to control the response of the reader?” Notice in the four-part outline for an introduction above, each section has a plan with respect to the reader: first you give them an overview of what you’re talking abut, then you give them a reason to care about that subject, then you tell them how you plan to respond to that motivation (in two parts).
Concluding remark for the blog: We often forget about our audience when we're busy trying to say something, and when we're struggling to get it down in words. But keeping the audience in mind can help us focus our efforts, and make decisions about how to proceed. By reminding ourselves of the audience, and of our need to communicate with the audience, we are more likely to write in the important transitional material that makes a work readable.
Wednesday, August 13, 2008
Momentum
I had a post titled momentum about a year ago, but it's been long enough that I thought I would recycle some ideas. In a way, this blog is a place where I am recycling ideas--thinking through the same concept again and again, and trying to write it out, to see it more clearly and to understand how to bring it to life. Writing and rewriting have something of the same character as trying to teach other people: we learn ideas in a completely new way when we try to share them with others--but that's beside the point.
I titled the post "momentum" because I was thinking of the importance of getting moving, and using the momentum of the project to help you in the writing. I was talking with two writers this afternoon--one who is closing in on completion, and for whom the project has a lot of momentum: she finds it easy to write; easier and less painful. The other is just starting to get going after being completely stuck; he is making progress, but feeling a good deal of frustration with a project that is still not well-defined. The first has a lot more momentum than the second, and each has more momentum than they did three months ago. I enjoy seeing the momentum build and the relationship with the work change, and these two cases very strongly reminded me of the importance of gaining momentum. I have also been thinking about momentum because I have lost momentum on one project I was working on earlier this spring, while I've kept it on another.
Yesterday I wrote about being over-committed and choosing what to work on--I chose to work on my blog, and I've beenmaking that choice pretty regularly. Not every day, but most days. Because I'm in the habit of doing it, I have momentum that keeps me working on it. The other project, on the other hand, I've lost touch with, making it harder to get moving into it again.
The momentum of the writer is something psychological--it's a familiarity with a project and a sense of purpose and direction. When we're working on a project regularly, it's fresh in our brains--indeed, our brains are working hard to integrate new ideas, so new things will come to us as we continue to work. The familiarity derived from regular, consistent concentration on the project also helps us work more efficiently: we don't have to spend time "getting up to speed", in the same way we do if we have lost familiarity with something.
When we have momentum working we seem to get a lot more from the same amount of effort. When we don't have momentum, every little bit of progress comes with much greater effort. This is just the same as trying to push a car: it's hard to start it rolling, but once it is rolling it takes much less effort to move at a given speed.
If we are writers who have lost our momentum, getting that momentum back is difficult, and perhaps more frustrating because we can sense that we're not being as productive as we once were.
But if a writer who has lost momentum remembers the metaphor or momentum he or she will not be surprised that getting started seems to take a lot of effort for seemingly little return; it is only what one would expect for a project that doesn't have much momentum.
I titled the post "momentum" because I was thinking of the importance of getting moving, and using the momentum of the project to help you in the writing. I was talking with two writers this afternoon--one who is closing in on completion, and for whom the project has a lot of momentum: she finds it easy to write; easier and less painful. The other is just starting to get going after being completely stuck; he is making progress, but feeling a good deal of frustration with a project that is still not well-defined. The first has a lot more momentum than the second, and each has more momentum than they did three months ago. I enjoy seeing the momentum build and the relationship with the work change, and these two cases very strongly reminded me of the importance of gaining momentum. I have also been thinking about momentum because I have lost momentum on one project I was working on earlier this spring, while I've kept it on another.
Yesterday I wrote about being over-committed and choosing what to work on--I chose to work on my blog, and I've beenmaking that choice pretty regularly. Not every day, but most days. Because I'm in the habit of doing it, I have momentum that keeps me working on it. The other project, on the other hand, I've lost touch with, making it harder to get moving into it again.
The momentum of the writer is something psychological--it's a familiarity with a project and a sense of purpose and direction. When we're working on a project regularly, it's fresh in our brains--indeed, our brains are working hard to integrate new ideas, so new things will come to us as we continue to work. The familiarity derived from regular, consistent concentration on the project also helps us work more efficiently: we don't have to spend time "getting up to speed", in the same way we do if we have lost familiarity with something.
When we have momentum working we seem to get a lot more from the same amount of effort. When we don't have momentum, every little bit of progress comes with much greater effort. This is just the same as trying to push a car: it's hard to start it rolling, but once it is rolling it takes much less effort to move at a given speed.
If we are writers who have lost our momentum, getting that momentum back is difficult, and perhaps more frustrating because we can sense that we're not being as productive as we once were.
But if a writer who has lost momentum remembers the metaphor or momentum he or she will not be surprised that getting started seems to take a lot of effort for seemingly little return; it is only what one would expect for a project that doesn't have much momentum.
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
Over-committed
I think it is endemic to be over-committed in our society. There are so many things to do; so many opportunities; so many responsibilities.
It's important to make choices and good choices in how we meet our conflicting commitments.
I'm a bit over-committed tonight, but spending a few minutes to write in this blog is sufficiently important to me that I chose to spend the time, even though it made me late for other things.
When we have multiple commitments, we have to choose which to honor. It's easy to let the commitment to a long-term writing project slide--there's always tomorrow in which to work on it. But if you don't make the choice to fit in the time for the dissertation, it doesn't get done.
That makes it important to have a good relationship with your work, so that you don't feel bad fitting in fifteen minutes of work here or there. It's the regular choice to work on the project that gets it done. With regular work, we get used to working on the project. If that regular work is done in a way that helps develop a positive relationship with your work, then you'll gain momentum; the work will become easier and the amount accomplished will grow.
When you're over-committed, the choice usually isn't mutually exclusive; while I don't advocate being late for appointments, one can choose to make the time for the writing at the expense of some other commitment. And that habit of choosing your work--even a little--is the habit that will get the project done.
It's important to make choices and good choices in how we meet our conflicting commitments.
I'm a bit over-committed tonight, but spending a few minutes to write in this blog is sufficiently important to me that I chose to spend the time, even though it made me late for other things.
When we have multiple commitments, we have to choose which to honor. It's easy to let the commitment to a long-term writing project slide--there's always tomorrow in which to work on it. But if you don't make the choice to fit in the time for the dissertation, it doesn't get done.
That makes it important to have a good relationship with your work, so that you don't feel bad fitting in fifteen minutes of work here or there. It's the regular choice to work on the project that gets it done. With regular work, we get used to working on the project. If that regular work is done in a way that helps develop a positive relationship with your work, then you'll gain momentum; the work will become easier and the amount accomplished will grow.
When you're over-committed, the choice usually isn't mutually exclusive; while I don't advocate being late for appointments, one can choose to make the time for the writing at the expense of some other commitment. And that habit of choosing your work--even a little--is the habit that will get the project done.
Monday, August 11, 2008
A Matter of Choice
While reading The Now Habit: A Strategic Program for Overcoming Procrastination and Enjoying Guilt-Free Play, by Neil Fiore, I find the following recommendation:
"Replace 'I have to' with 'I choose to'."
This is an idea that I ascribe to, and a notion that has appeared in my blog in the past. It's always interesting to find another expression of an idea that you harbor yourself. I can't necessarily trace my source of the idea: have I read it elsewhere before? I probably have, but don't know where. Maybe something by Anthony Robbins. The premise is very much a cognitive-behavioral one: by changing the stories we tell ourselves, we change our emotional reality.
It's all about the practice, to me. CBT is often seen as being behaviorist in the extreme form, where it may be believed that behavior is the psychological totality. But it seems to me that even if we ascribe to psychodynamic theories, there is a place for behaviorist principles.
If we want to remember someone's phone number and we have nothing to write it down, what do we do? We repeat it to ourselves. If we want to remember a poem, what do we do? We repeat it? If we want to master and remember a musical piece? We practice; we repeat. The behavior reinforces the pattern.
And so, it seems to me that we can benefit from practicing the stories that we tell ourselves. We can benefit from telling ourselves "I choose to," rather than "I have to." It reminds us that we have a choice in the matter--that we have a choice with what we do with our lives. Especially when it comes to things like working on our dissertation. Some things we have to do: we have to eat; we have to drink water; we have to breathe. But do we "have to" write a dissertation? Certainly the imperative to do the dissertation is not of the same character as the imperative to breathe.
So try to remember to choose the things that will serve you.
"Replace 'I have to' with 'I choose to'."
This is an idea that I ascribe to, and a notion that has appeared in my blog in the past. It's always interesting to find another expression of an idea that you harbor yourself. I can't necessarily trace my source of the idea: have I read it elsewhere before? I probably have, but don't know where. Maybe something by Anthony Robbins. The premise is very much a cognitive-behavioral one: by changing the stories we tell ourselves, we change our emotional reality.
It's all about the practice, to me. CBT is often seen as being behaviorist in the extreme form, where it may be believed that behavior is the psychological totality. But it seems to me that even if we ascribe to psychodynamic theories, there is a place for behaviorist principles.
If we want to remember someone's phone number and we have nothing to write it down, what do we do? We repeat it to ourselves. If we want to remember a poem, what do we do? We repeat it? If we want to master and remember a musical piece? We practice; we repeat. The behavior reinforces the pattern.
And so, it seems to me that we can benefit from practicing the stories that we tell ourselves. We can benefit from telling ourselves "I choose to," rather than "I have to." It reminds us that we have a choice in the matter--that we have a choice with what we do with our lives. Especially when it comes to things like working on our dissertation. Some things we have to do: we have to eat; we have to drink water; we have to breathe. But do we "have to" write a dissertation? Certainly the imperative to do the dissertation is not of the same character as the imperative to breathe.
So try to remember to choose the things that will serve you.
Sunday, August 10, 2008
Working Patterns and Working Habits
Yesterday I met a professor from a junior college at a barbeque. We were each talking about our own work, and he asked me whether I advised people with respect to setting up a dedicated working space, and on how to get people to work six hours a day.
And I don't know if those are just things that I don't believe in, or whether I just don't think those are things that one teaches. Or at least they're not things that I would teach.
I won't dispute the importance of being able to put in a good six hours (or more) of writing and working. If you can't put in such days, your chances of finishing are greatly reduced. But I would not to choose to emphasize the importance of that in my teaching. I would think the six hour days should arise out of good working habits and a good relationship with work. If you have a good working pattern and a good relationship with work, then the six hour working sessions will come of their own accord.
As for the dedicated working space: well, I think it certainly helps to have a good place to work, but I don't know that a dedicated working space is necessarily an answer. Personally, I do a lot of good work in cafes, and I've met others who do even more. I know one professor at Berkeley who often puts in solid five or six hour stints in the cafe that I frequent.
I guess, as I write this, I think I'm more in line with what Julia Cameron says in The Right to Write about grabbing your writing whenever and where ever you can, without making excuses. There's a part of me that says if you have a good working habit, a good relationship to your work, then you will work enough. I don't like to tell people they need a dedicated space on the principle that not having the dedicated space can then become an excuse for not working.
But there's also a part of me that says "we're all different." What works for one person may not work as well for another. I truly and deeply believe that developing a good relationship with work will help all of us. But I'm open to the possibility that having a dedicated space for work is part of helping some people develop a good relationship with work. It's not what I wold choose to emphasize, but what works for me is not what works for everyone. Cameron does discuss having a nice place to write at length. It's not as if she is saying the place is unimportant.
In any event, the conversation with this professor (who happens to also be working on a dissertation-- Ed.D.) reminded me that what works for each of us is different. And yet, each of us must develop a habit and a pattern of working consistently.
Whether one develops a good relationship with work through working on changing ideas about work, or whether one develops that relationship by dedicating space and time to it--I don't know which of those factors to prioritize. It's quite possible that dedicating space and time to the project is a key to developing a good relationship with your work.
And I don't know if those are just things that I don't believe in, or whether I just don't think those are things that one teaches. Or at least they're not things that I would teach.
I won't dispute the importance of being able to put in a good six hours (or more) of writing and working. If you can't put in such days, your chances of finishing are greatly reduced. But I would not to choose to emphasize the importance of that in my teaching. I would think the six hour days should arise out of good working habits and a good relationship with work. If you have a good working pattern and a good relationship with work, then the six hour working sessions will come of their own accord.
As for the dedicated working space: well, I think it certainly helps to have a good place to work, but I don't know that a dedicated working space is necessarily an answer. Personally, I do a lot of good work in cafes, and I've met others who do even more. I know one professor at Berkeley who often puts in solid five or six hour stints in the cafe that I frequent.
I guess, as I write this, I think I'm more in line with what Julia Cameron says in The Right to Write about grabbing your writing whenever and where ever you can, without making excuses. There's a part of me that says if you have a good working habit, a good relationship to your work, then you will work enough. I don't like to tell people they need a dedicated space on the principle that not having the dedicated space can then become an excuse for not working.
But there's also a part of me that says "we're all different." What works for one person may not work as well for another. I truly and deeply believe that developing a good relationship with work will help all of us. But I'm open to the possibility that having a dedicated space for work is part of helping some people develop a good relationship with work. It's not what I wold choose to emphasize, but what works for me is not what works for everyone. Cameron does discuss having a nice place to write at length. It's not as if she is saying the place is unimportant.
In any event, the conversation with this professor (who happens to also be working on a dissertation-- Ed.D.) reminded me that what works for each of us is different. And yet, each of us must develop a habit and a pattern of working consistently.
Whether one develops a good relationship with work through working on changing ideas about work, or whether one develops that relationship by dedicating space and time to it--I don't know which of those factors to prioritize. It's quite possible that dedicating space and time to the project is a key to developing a good relationship with your work.
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