How writing starts to happen
Image credit: Sophie Kandaouroff
I was recently working with a group of registered nurses who were starting a one-year Master’s degree in specialist public health nursing. I had been briefed that they were academically able but tended to be anxious about writing critically. ‘The minute critical writing is mentioned, they write a nice descriptive account,’ said their tutor.
What did they most need? Solid practical advice, certainly, plus an understanding of how critical writing – about theory, policy and their own practice – could be useful to them. But I felt neither of those things would be much use if we didn’t try to deal with their anxiety. I sensed from experience, both the students’ and mine as a writer, that anxiety started with a dearth of confidence about beginning to write. What do your tutors want? Where do you start? How does composing a piece of writing start to happen?
I called the session ‘Critical, But Not Life-Threatening’. They saw the joke, and I can vouch for the pleasure you’ll get when you make 50 nurses laugh. I told them about two kinds of criticism: the critical evaluation of ideas that’s central to academic writing, and the self-criticism that can sap your confidence.
To succeed at one you have to overcome the other. As Peter Elbow brilliantly said, ‘Writing calls on two skills that are so different they usually conflict with each other: creating and criticising’. If we let our conscious critical mind judge us, it can stop us getting started with the composing process. We become prone to telling ourselves that we, in the form of our sentences, are inadequate or useless.
We do better if we save the criticism for later by writing a first draft relatively quickly and not trying to solve every problem as we go. We can help to feed our unconscious creative mind by doing something associated with writing every day — a short activity such as re-reading our notes.
The session became lively. Hands went up; students admitted their anxiety. One volunteered that she felt more relaxed at the thought of writing like this, and another, an experienced nurse, summed up very well how this sort of composing can become a sequence of activities we can all learn.
‘I really didn’t know you could break down the process of writing into steps like that,’ she said. I like to think I could hear her confidence growing.
Building a framework for writing
As a non-fiction writer, I’ve taught myself never to start writing until I have a comprehensive plan in place. This approach is partly dictated by the publishing industry — a commissioning editor has to approve my plan before giving me the go-ahead to write the book. But I’ve also found it saves enormously on time and effort.
Over the course of delivering more than 100 books, I’ve developed a method that works well for me. I start big and then fill in the detail, stage by stage.
After some initial research, my first step is to draft the chapter headings for a book. Then I test my basic framework for strength. Does the order work logically and are there any gaps? Do some chapters cover too little or too much? When I’m happy with the structure, I move on.
The second stage is to decide the main headings within each chapter. Once again, I test how well they flow before moving on. Finally, I write the subheadings.
As the framework fills out, I make adjustments; some chapters may need to be divided into two, or I may need to rethink the overall structure. While I’m planning, I do more research to fill any gaps in my structure.
Building a sturdy framework takes time and effort, but it’s the most important part of the writing process. Once I’ve come up with a plan that I’m happy with, for me, the hardest task is over. To stretch the building metaphor a little further, filling in the words feels like pouring concrete into a mould.
I’ve also used this approach in writing workshops to help others get to grips with structuring their text. How can my planning method be applied to undergraduate essays, doctoral theses and academic papers? As in my work, it’s a step-by-step process:
1. Create the main framework: the section headings of an essay or report, or the chapter headings of a dissertation.
2. Fill in the next level: the point for each paragraph in an essay or headings within dissertation chapters.
3. Add more levels if needed: subheadings within chapters of a dissertation, then the point for each paragraph.
Keep your plan simple and always hold your overall structure in mind. Once you have a clear framework for your ideas, much of the stress can be taken out of writing, and you may even find yourself enjoying the process.
Pictures make words
Image credit: Kona Macphee / RLF
During workshops with undergraduate, graduate or doctoral students, I use images – anything from films to works of art – to help them to develop their sense of story and visualise its shape.
In great art, as in good writing, there is always tension. Take a look at Joseph Wright of Derby’s marvellous allegory of the Age of Enlightenment, An Experiment on a Bird in the Air Pump of 1768.
The ten figures, portrayed in a room lit only by the light of a pale moon through the window and a candle behind a glass of liquid, are in a state of maximum tension; they are wondering if the scientist will let the bird die, each trying to process their own reactions. It is a moment of great drama. One figure is the protagonist — the character who will make the most profound emotional journey in the unfolding drama. But who is it? By exploring the web of tensions within and between the actors on stage, we are working out what is important to the story. How did this scene come about; what drives the action and characters; how is the narrative structured; what happens next?
The viewer must be emotionally or intellectually engaged in order to care. Will the bird survive? Will the tearful girl be traumatised for life? Above all – and this is the point of view of the protagonist – where will it all end, this toying with nature?
The drama is carefully structured, so that we know there is a past, present and future. For the academic writer, that past might be a literature review or introduction — and it’s vital that writers load these elements with sufficient tension that readers care about what happens next. Each character might represent a structural element (a theory or point of view) in a thesis or journal article. The experimental core of this painting’s story maps particularly well on to academic writing.
Good writers find a source of tension and raise the stakes (like the painter using techniques such as dramatic lighting) by suggesting a conflict or problem that must, somehow, find resolution. The props (for the painter, the costumes, furniture and landscape) are your data, which you need to manipulate to sustain the tension until you resolve them and satisfy the reader. In occasional instances, the tension is unresolved; this is a prompt for thinking or taking action.
All good academic writing needs these elements, and using art or film to visualise them can be extremely helpful in finding and structuring a narrative.
Have you spotted the protagonist in the painting yet?
Image credit: National Gallery and Wikimedia Commons
Inspiration plus perspiration
Image credit: Chris Scott
Think in points
Image credit: Anna Barker
Managing feelings about feedback
Feedback – on writing and in general – can arouse strong emotions, from relief, to delight, to incandescent rage. To enjoy praise and to feel defensive when criticised are both very human responses. Our reactions to feedback, including comments on our writing, can tap into childhood experiences of approval and disapproval. Every professional writer knows what it’s like to have their prose picked apart, but they also know the satisfaction of improving their writing through constructive criticism. So how can we clamber over the hurdle of our feelings and use feedback to improve the way we write? Here are some tips that I share with postgraduate students in my workshops on feedback.
The first step is to acknowledge how you feel and give it space. Are you furious that your supervisor hates your chapter? That’s understandable, so punch a pillow, have a rant, work it out at the gym. Maybe think about what exactly is upsetting you. Is it about your relationship with that person? Are you taking the comments personally? Do you feel particularly fragile at the moment? Identifying the source of your feelings helps to separate the personal from the professional, the emotional from the intellectual. When you’ve cooled down, take another look at the chapter. The chances are that your supervisor doesn’t hate it entirely, but has singled out certain aspects for criticism. In the cold light of day, you may think some of the criticisms are fair. But there may be other points on which you completely disagree.
Start with the points you think are fair and consider how to edit to accommodate them. Then, consciously choose which points are worth defending and develop a cogent counter-argument about why they should stay in. How you manage this depends, of course, on your relationship with the person giving you feedback and on the power differential between you. But even if, in the end, you edit your work to please them, you will feel better having stated your case.
If you are passionately involved in your topic and believe in your own arguments, it’s natural to feel disappointed by negative feedback. But if you can name your feelings and articulate their source, you are less likely to let them swamp your intellect. Improving your writing by using feedback will make your writing stronger and give you the tools to keep improving.
Communicate and collaborate
Image credit: Simon Goldstein
As PhD students and researchers, communicating with people outside our discipline can open our minds, expand our horizons and help to develop our thinking. It can also lead to fruitful collaboration.
In a session for PhD researchers about communicating research, I put the participants into pairs with someone from another discipline and asked them to describe their work to each other. They had to avoid jargon and were encouraged to listen carefully to the questions they were asked. Somebody from a Science, Technology, Engineering and Mathematics (STEM) subject might ask an artist, ‘Why are you doing this?’ — just as an arts student might ask a scientist, ‘Please explain it simply’. The researchers found it instructive to communicate the vision of their project to a non-specialist.
Communicating with others outside my own specialism led to a collaborative project for my practice-based PhD. I am making short films with film-makers for an online poetry film project. Previously, I hadn’t thought about how my ideas would translate to the moving image, but I’ve learnt a lot by collaborating with people from the visual arts. Interpreting a poem in a film is not how I thought it would be. For example, for my poem ‘Daisy Chain’, where I link daisies in the grass with the nature of transience, my film-maker used images of a snowy landscape. The words of the poem, about summer meadows and blossom, are in stark contrast to the snow and frost, but capture beautifully the essence of the poem, where daisies and youth will eventually fade.
Why not see if you can communicate your research to people outside your field and find a collaborator from another discipline? Funding opportunities exist for collaborative bids from PhD students and researchers for inter-disciplinary work, particularly between the arts and sciences or social sciences. PhD forums within universities are a good place to start looking. Working with someone with a different perspective can be a humbling experience as you accept your ignorance about their field and adopt an open mind, prepared to learn. Removing the blinkers of your discipline can spark off ideas and take your research in a fresh direction.
Think around your research question
Image credit: Anna Barker
Where’s the conflict?
Image credit: Kona Macphee
Reading as a writer
Image credit: Brodie Leven
Sometimes when I run a workshop, I ask participants to bring along a sample of some writing they like. I don’t make this compulsory, but the response is usually an indicator of how they read. Around half will contribute something, and of these just a few will articulate why they like it.
In her book, Stylish Academic Writing, Helen Sword says that ‘A carefully crafted sentence welcomes its reader like a comfortable rocking chair, bears its reader across chasms like a suspension bridge, and helps its reader navigate tricky terrain like a well-hewn walking stick.’ I tell participants that in order to achieve this in their own work, they need to learn to read as writers. Those who can identify work they admire – and explain why – are already beginning to engage in this process. It’s a vital step that a lot of students seem to bypass. They read to harvest ideas, theories and evidence, and to deepen their knowledge. But not to develop their writing.
At one workshop, a participant contributed an abstract from a scientific journal. When I asked what he liked about the writing, he answered that he found it clear and logical. It flowed, and he felt it spoke to him. To such a response, my next question is always, how? Identify how it flows, and what makes it clear. Concrete images? Strong verbs? What makes that voice assertive, or remarkable? Sentences can function like music, using rhythm and balance to build and sustain pace; taking them apart can reveal how this is achieved. Conversely, if the writing seems deficient in some way, I’d suggest identifying why — it’s not enough to simply declare that a piece is poorly written.
I’d like to develop this aspect of my workshops further. Engaging physically – with pen and paper, with highlighters, reading aloud – can help us to understand how text is composed. I plan to distribute samples of writing and have participants work together in groups to identify the strengths in each piece, copying sentences down, highlighting phrases that demonstrate well-crafted prose, reading sections out loud. Such practices are central to the discipline of reading as a writer.