The story of your research

The story of your research

As a storyteller, I see stories everywhere. We all do this to some extent. In fact, we only ‘exist’ in the context of our stories: who we are, how we came to be here, where we’re going and why. We ‘story’ our existence because we want to understand how things fit and what will happen.

Stories aren’t a random series of events, though; they have a pattern. Typically, a hero ventures out into the unknown, faces challenges and defeats, and invariably has to let go of a false belief or flawed thinking in order to learn something new. Even following a cake recipe is a story of sorts: you want to achieve something, you begin, you carry out challenging steps, then you entrust the cake mixture to the oven, hoping the result will satisfy your guests. Even if the recipe doesn’t work out, maybe you’ll learn something.

The principles of storytelling can be applied to academic writing, too. When students are struggling to shape their research into a dissertation or thesis, I ask them the same sort of questions I’d ask a creative-writing student about their novel:

• What was the status quo before you began?
• What are you trying to achieve? What problem are you trying to overcome?
• Why is this important? What are the stakes?
• What do people believe? Does this need to change?
• How are you going to get to where you want to go?
• What are the difficulties?
• Does your journey have a high point? A low point?
• What have you found? What do you think you’ll find?
• What’s the significance of your findings?
• How will they change things? What will happen now?

Finding the narrative of your research can help you write a powerful abstract, case study, press release or funding application. It will make the story of your research more compelling. Being able to tell this story in a few sentences can also be helpful when you’re networking at conferences or trying to explain what you do to people outside your area of expertise.

18 April 2018
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Embrace low-tech working

Embrace low-tech working

Anna Barker

Image credit: Royal Literary Fund

PhD students often tell me that one of the most intimidating aspects of writing a thesis is the sheer size of it. It’s longer than anything they’ve attempted to write before. What are they going to include? What do they leave out? What does the reader need to know and in what order do they need to know it?

As a novelist I can sympathise: I need to sustain my readers’ interest over as many as 40 chapters, or around 80,000 words. Deciding what goes where is an important part of ensuring that I’ve got a story that flows and is enjoyable to read. What techniques can you use to get to grips with the structure of a large body of work?

Planning is essential, and for me it takes place off screen. I’m surprised when students tell me their plans consist of lists saved in documents on their computer or sometimes as notes inside the draft thesis document itself. In order to ‘see’ the structure of a work as long as a novel or thesis, it can be helpful to step away from the computer and draw out the structure on paper.

I take a large roll of brown paper and, armed with sticky notes, I write summaries of the plot threads in my novel. The sticky notes are handy because I can move them around; an incident that I thought fitted in chapter two might work better in chapter nine. I might see threads I’ve introduced but not continued, as well as the spine of my novel — I see my story as it unfolds through the entire length of the book. For a thesis, this would be your argument.

Students who have tried this low-tech way of working in my sessions have had some great results. Getting off screen for a while allows them to engage with their research in a creative and illuminating way. Several have solved structural problems they’d been battling with for months, merely by taking this step back.

You can try this technique at any point in the writing process. And you can get as detailed as you like. Try it with all your chapters to see how you might improve the flow of your argument, or work on just one chapter, summarising the points and then playing around with the order. When you return to your screen, you may find you have a fresh perspective on the structure of your thesis and are able to move forward more confidently.

4 April 2018
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Get cracking, keep cracking on

Get cracking, keep cracking on

Katie Grant

Image credit: Debbie Toksvig

Is the following experience familiar to you? During the night, or while cooking or walking or working on something else, you know exactly how to continue your work-in-progress (WiP). But when you sit down, all prepared and ready, and open up the WiP, you freeze. When I admit to this problem at workshops for undergraduates, postgraduates or staff, I’m always surprised by how many participants think it’s an issue peculiar to them, and that better preparation is the answer. Clearly, it’s a shared problem, and over the years, I’ve found that it’s not better preparation but different preparation that’s the answer.

For most activities, from going on holiday to going to bed, preparation helps. Writing is different. Preparation – making the coffee, opening the laptop, angling the light, setting out materials – can do the opposite. To use a diving analogy, prep can be like slowly climbing the steps to the high board and shuffling along, pretending you’re gearing up to dive in, when actually, the only way you’ll manage the dive is to run up the steps and pitch directly over.

Writing preparation can be that slow climb up those diving-board steps. We kid ourselves that each step is necessary. We have our routine, and who hasn’t made an entire morning disappear writing emails we ‘must’ answer before we get cracking on our own writing? Well, I suggest a new way that works when I practise it myself. Firstly, don’t think about preparation, still less about ‘settling down’ to write. Don’t even sit down. At the time you’ve designated for writing, open your laptop, turn off the Wifi, bring up the WiP, then go for a brisk walk and when you return, without taking your coat off, lean over your chair and start typing.

Just as it doesn’t matter if that first practice dive isn’t perfect, it doesn’t matter if your first typing isn’t great. The point of this typing is to break the freeze before it’s had time to solidify. If you find it hard to type without thought, try leaving sentences in the WiP unfinished so when you lean over the chair, you’ve got something to start on. Once you’ve started, you’ll be on your way. On a good day, you may find it’s an hour or so before you’ve taken off your coat, and when you finally do make coffee, you’ve earned it.

14 March 2018
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A writer as facilitator

A writer as facilitator

Cath Senker

Image credit: Fran Tegg

After a recent planning and structuring workshop, an undergraduate student commented that the most useful element was ‘Hearing other people’s ideas which I may not have thought of originally.’ I’m no egotist, and I don’t mind that sharing suggestions with peers proved more important to this student than my pearls of wisdom. In fact, this is a very positive result. Research and development by Dr Wendy Maples at the University of Sussex, who has investigated the value of peer assessment, shows that students frequently learn a lot from interacting with their peers. ‘I’ve always felt that students can learn as much if not more from each other than they can from some teachers,’ noted one participant in her study.

In my planning and structuring workshop, the students start by discussing how well they plan at the moment. Many say they create only a skeleton plan and don’t really know how to go about creating a detailed structure. My task is to facilitate a discussion about how to do this.

As the students talk in small groups, a range of techniques for planning and structuring emerge. They then share them with the whole group. We collate the ideas and I add mine. I talk about how I’ve developed a process through years of writing children’s non-fiction books and we talk about how different writers work in different ways. It’s a matter of finding an approach that suits you, whether it’s mind mapping, storyboarding with pictures, concept maps[1], using sticky notes or a more linear approach, listing bullet points. The students sometimes know of new software programs or apps that I haven’t heard of, so I learn something too.

This process indicates to the students that they are not the only ones struggling with organising their essays and reports. It also demonstrates that they know more than they think they do. Some report that having dreaded the writing process before, they now look forward to writing their assignments; for one undergraduate, the planning and structuring session ‘helped to just give me more confidence about what I need to do and how to be a writer’. When I read feedback like that, I feel I have done my job.

[1] For further information on concept maps see: http://cmap.ihmc.us/docs/theory-of-concept-maps

28 February 2018
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Persevering with your PhD

Persevering with your PhD

Lucy English

IMG_7200_Lucy_Portraits

Image credit: Simon Goldstein

As a Reader in Creative Writing, a novelist and poet, I have always been comfortable with the creative side of writing and teaching. But when it came to developing the critical component of my own PhD, I felt terrified. I had to remind myself why I was undertaking the project: enjoyment of my research into combining spoken word with film. I simply had to put my fears aside and keep going.

I found the best way to do this was to participate in my academic community. PhD students might feel they are locked in their own little world, trapped within the minutiae of their own project. But there is no need to study alone; you can reach out to the community of doctoral students and other researchers in your field. You may worry that you are not qualified to participate in academic debate, but be reassured — you do already have some expertise. As soon as you create a PhD proposal, you become a member of the academic community, with ideas to share and discuss. You can join specialist Facebook groups focusing on your topic or follow Twitter threads on the subject. If there are no Facebook groups available, why not start one up and invite people to discuss your topic?

As a doctoral student, you are also part of a broader community that will be responsive to your ideas; perhaps other researchers — or in my case, poets and film-makers. You may discover there are many more interested people than you originally thought. I recently led workshops for PhD students and early-career academics with my RLF Consultant Fellow colleague Heather Dyer that focused on how to increase the impact of their research. We advised them to create opportunities to talk about the progress of their work, joining relevant forums and social media platforms to give regular updates and looking out for conferences where they can present on their subject. It’s not necessary to have completed the research — it’s fine to present on ongoing work in a practical session, and during the Q&A you can gain helpful feedback from the audience. Taking part in debates with academics and others in the wider community helps students locate their work within the field and prove the relevance of their research. And it makes studying far more enjoyable. So my advice to PhD students is this: don’t shut yourself away — get out there and start talking! You’re more likely to persevere with your PhD in company.

14 February 2018
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Blurbing is a serious business

Blurbing is a serious business

Image credit: Soren Levy Sands

Image credit: Soren Levy Sands

One-day workshops for PhD students can be heavy-going when you are trying to pack them full of writing know-how. So I like to intersperse challenging tasks with exercises that feel like fun, but the lessons they impart are extremely valuable. A favourite exercise of mine is book blurbing.

Composing jacket copy is an extremely useful activity, since it serves the vital function of getting to the core of the purpose of the work, while at the same time selling it to readers. The blurb has to summarise, convince, beguile, describe and entertain, all at once.

If you simply ask students to write a blurb for their own thesis, the danger is that you will paralyse them; the task of summarising their work artfully is no small one. It is far better to approach the task obliquely. I bring in a novel, with the back-cover blurb taped over. I summarise what the novel is about, who it’s aimed at, and what the writer might be trying to achieve. I pass the novel round the room, get the students to talk about their casual impressions as they flip through its pages, and allow those who might know the writer’s work to characterise it for their peers.

Then I ask the students to take their best and most creative shot at approximating the blurb that I’ve hidden. All of their attempts at writing an alluring blurb go into a hat, from which I then invite each student to pick one blurb at random. Going round the group, reading out the newly minted blurbs, usually generates great hilarity. At this point, I inform the students that I’ve sneakily added the genuine blurb to their offerings in the hat, and that I’d like them to vote on which blurb they think is the real one.

The intention behind this exercise is for students to get to the heart of how they might like their PhDs to be read. What is the best ‘sell’ they can imagine composing for their own work? And what will someone gain by reading it? If a student comes away from this exercise feeling that they’ve learnt what is really at stake in their work, the exercise will have succeeded.

31 January 2018
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How is academic writing like writing for children?

How is academic writing like writing for children?

I am an academic writer and a children’s author. On the face of it, these two forms of writing are at opposite ends of the spectrum. But actually, they have a lot in common.

• They’re both about communicating ideas.
• They need to make complex ideas accessible.
• They tell a story.
• They aspire to effect change.
When I teach academic writing skills, I tell workshop participants that their writing will be more effective when it adheres to some of the constraints required in writing for children.

Audience awareness
What’s the point of writing if not to communicate? Communicating requires you to empathise with your audience. How much does your audience already understand? Why are they reading? What’s in it for them? Keeping both the aspirations and the experience of your audience in mind will make your writing accessible and engaging. It will make your readers feel ‘seen’. Your readers will return this favour by paying more attention. This is particularly important if you want to share your ideas beyond the tight circle of your own research community.

Clarity
Explaining something clearly requires you to think harder and dig deeper. The struggle to articulate a complex idea in simple terms forces us to make previously abstract thoughts concrete. It can reveal gaps in our own knowledge, or foggy thinking. Albert Einstein once said: ‘If you can’t explain it simply, you don’t understand it well enough.’ In workshops, I ask participants to explain their research to a child they know, or a family member who knows nothing about their subject.

Brevity
They say children have short attention spans. But don’t we all? Good writing – like any good design – has no redundant parts. Every word should be indispensable to the whole. Getting to the point is another way of empathising with your readers. As an exercise in brevity, I ask workshop participants to describe their projects in 50 words or fewer.

Story
I once heard a child say of a book he couldn’t put down that it had ‘an urging flow.’ What a wonderful description of narrative! Narrative drive is what keeps a reader hooked. If you can recognise a narrative in your research, you’ll be able to describe it in a more engaging way. Interrogate your work in the same way a children’s author does. What was the situation before you started out? What was the ‘inciting incident’ that began your quest? Why is this important? How did you reach where you are now? Were there difficulties and setbacks? Finally, what did you learn and how might it change the world? A story – like research – recounts a process through which new knowledge is attained. We describe a journey, not just a destination.

17 January 2018
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Active and passive voices

Active and passive voices

The eyebrows of students often buckle when I mention active and passive voices. The issue might be confusing, but it’s also worth untangling, especially for those who worry that their written pieces might sound dull.
Journalists, copywriters and many others who make a living from their writing favour the active voice — and for good reason.

Take a look at these two sentences:

  1. Many researchers believe that oversubscribing antibiotics has created the problem.
  2. It is believed by many researchers that the problem has been created by the oversubscription of antibiotics.

The active sentence A is, I hope you’ll agree, clear and concise. In comparison, the passive sentence B seems rather stodgy. This is partly because it uses almost double the number of words to say exactly the same thing. When repeated over dozens of sentences, the passive voice makes for a very laborious read. Writing in the active voice results in sentences that are lively, direct and concise. Unfortunately, many students continually use the passive, often because they feel it seems ‘academic’. But their writing may become long-winded and woolly as a result.

The passive voice has its uses: it allows you to do away with the subject of a sentence. This is essential in scientific writing; for example, the method section of science reports is normally written in the passive voice and in my role as a freelance copywriter, I choose to use the passive when I’m deliberately seeking vagueness. Next time you receive notification from a service provider that your bill is increasing, chances are it will include the line ‘your bill will be increased’ to keep the responsibility vague. If the provider used the active voice – ‘we are increasing your bill’ – you might think, nasty company! Time to switch.

Songwriters, on the other hand, steer well clear of the passive, which can make discussing the issue fun. After all, who signs up to a writing-skills workshop only to sit through a sterile lesson in grammar? I like to challenge students to untangle the real song title from a passive version I’ve constructed. There’s a prize for whoever shouts out the correct title first. Here are some favourites:

No satisfaction can be got by me.
That lovin’ feelin has been lost by you.
A dollar is needed by me.

So, if you feel your written work lacks impact, get proactive with the active.

20 December 2017

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Writing Coaching Groups

Writing Coaching Groups

Image credit: Soren Levy Sands

Image credit: Soren Levy Sands

One of the frustrations that writing consultants and PhD students alike share at the end of a high-energy workshop, when everyone is feeling thrilled with the progress made and insights gained, is how to keep the momentum going. Specifically, how do you embed best practice when the writing consultant disappears back into their own world and the students are alone again, faced with having to write tens of thousands of words? They will have plenty in the way of critique to guide them, but perhaps little writing support.

Over the past two years, alongside Dr Sarabajaya Kumar, who until recently was head of PhD development at the London School of Economics (LSE), I have been pioneering lunchtime workshops designed to create Writing Coaching Groups among the research student population. Ideally, each group should number four to five students, preferably from different disciplines (so as to minimise departmental griping and maximise communication across disciplines), and run for the course of an academic year. We encourage students to meet monthly, creating a peer-supported space in which they can review each other’s work.

I have come to think of launching these writing groups as rather like setting boats off over the calm blue sea from the shore. I give them life-rafts and provisions in the form of writer’s group etiquette; writing guides; tips about how often to meet; how large a writing sample to exchange, and so on.

In terms of etiquette, the key message is that students providing feedback should not approach the task as if they were undertaking a critique of each other’s work. Instead, I recommend a three-step process. First, they need to express empathy. After all, they are all in the same boat, trying to convey a logical argument in an engaging manner: they need to say, ‘I understand what you’re trying to do here’. Then I task them to come up with an appreciation. This involves celebrating how well the writer has achieved what they set out to do. It helps a student enormously to understand where their own strengths lie. Finally, I encourage the feedback group to articulate the struggles they had in understanding the writing sample. The aim is to alert the writer to the need to express themselves more effectively.

One of the groups we launched in this way at the LSE bonded so well and finished their PhDs in so timely a manner that we decided to interview them in detail about how and why it worked for them. We then invited them to promote the Writing Coaching idea to a fresh intake of third-year PhD students.

6 December 2017
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The elevator pitch

The elevator pitch

Jen Green

As an RLF Consultant Fellow, I specialise in giving workshops on dissertation writing to third-year undergraduates and to postgraduates. These sessions pull together and help embed the skills needed to write what is the most ambitious assignment of a student’s career.

For students who are well advanced in the writing process, my favourite exercise is the ‘elevator pitch’. This is designed to help students refine their argument and also write the abstract. I introduce the scenario, asking students to imagine they find themselves alone in a lift with their head of department. It has recently been announced that a highly lucrative grant is available for just one student from their year to continue their studies as a doctorate. As the elevator doors close, they have one minute with the tutor to introduce themselves and their research topic with a view to winning the grant.

I give students four minutes to prepare their ‘sales pitch’, with key questions as a prompt. What is their research topic and why is it important? What does it add to the knowledge/debate within their field? The students work in pairs. I then time them as one student delivers his/her pitch to their partner in exactly one minute. The partner is asked to listen carefully and has time afterwards to question the speaker if anything was unclear, and jot down notes. The listener then has 30 seconds to précis the pitch back to the original speaker. Did the speaker manage to put their key points across? Can they give any tips on making the pitch more persuasive? Then it’s the second student’s turn.

From the hubbub that rises as the minute starts each time, it’s clear the students find this exercise energising. The response is overwhelmingly positive, with some students relishing the chance to shine while others enjoy the challenge of martialling their argument. Feedback suggests that the elevator pitch helps students summarise what’s important about their thesis, while some report using their scribbled notes to write their abstract.

22 November 2017
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