planning

As a writer of information books, I work with words and pictures. Sometimes, when I’m planning a book, I even plot the pictures before the words. I find that thinking in pictures can be liberating, and I believe all kinds of people can benefit from a more visual approach to their writing, especially when they’re feeling trapped in a web of words.

I recently worked with a group of social workers who were writing case studies. Some of them had stalled on their introduction. Others had run aground in a morass of detail. It was clear they all needed a fresh approach.

I suggested they could storyboard their case studies. This meant approaching each study rather like a director plans a film: creating an opening shot to set the scene, a sequence of acts in logical order, and a strong conclusion. I equipped the group with large sheets of paper and handfuls of coloured pens, and set them to work in pairs on a shared case study. Each pair worked together to select key points and to decide on the best order in which to present them. Then they went on to sketch out a series of scenes that explained their ‘story’ to the group. Somehow, thinking visually enabled the participants to master their material and freed them from anxiety over choosing the right words. Even those who claimed to be completely non-visual found they could recognise when a sequence worked, and everyone agreed that this approach to creating a synopsis had made the whole process of planning much easier and more manageable than before.

The storyboarding approach can be used successfully for planning essays and dissertations, either in a workshop or on your own. To work out the order of your points, you can also draw pictures – or write down the points – on a set of cards, then move the cards around until you find the best and most logical sequence.
Storyboarding may not turn you into the next Scorsese, but it could help you through the essay-planning blues.

Image credit: Kona Macphee / RLF

In the last year I have co-facilitated two writing immersives: a five-day retreat in the Derbyshire countryside for post-doctoral science academics and a series of one-to-one tutorials sandwiched between whole-day workshops for PhD students from all disciplines at Teesside University. As a writer of fiction and non-fiction, I know that narrative structure is key to pulling off a big piece of work — 100,000 words or so. I see theses, novels and commercial non-fiction in much the same way, despite their very evident differences in terms of audience, tone and style.

One of the most successful tools for doctoral students or, indeed, post-doctoral academics, is to envisage the role and nature of the protagonist: that is to say, the character (or discipline; or theory; or interpretive paradigm) that undergoes the most profound change during the course of the work. For humanities students this often provides them with a key insight and answers that tricky question, ‘what is this about?’ On the other hand, scientists are often sceptical — at least to begin with — about the idea that a mathematical conundrum can be turned into a protagonist or that solving a problem of measuring the performance of micro-fluids can be encompassed as a narrative with a protagonist’s journey. So, we often start talking about the movies: how screenplays work to set up a challenge, map how the protagonist overcomes those challenges and emerges wiser — and changed — at the end. I managed to convince an ultra-reductionist mathematician that the Pythagorean five-bridges problem could have a protagonist. If nothing else, it forces the writer to consider if there is a potential protagonist on whom to drape the flesh of their narrative. As for my own writing, being challenged by highly intelligent academics forces me to interrogate my own approach to story: to engineer it to the highest standards. Even in fiction — perhaps especially in fiction — the rigour of the academic approach, always questioning, always scrutinising, always testing, keeps me on the straight and narrow.

Image credit: Liz Allen

A few months ago I gave the last of a series of nine workshops on dissertation writing. This final session was for taught MA students at Sussex University but I’ve also run sessions for third years at both Brighton and Sussex universities. Dissertations seem to have become my speciality as an RLF Consultant Fellow!

In response to student feedback, I usually include a section on planning and structure. Students always seem to find this valuable, whether we focus on the macro-task of planning a dissertation or the micro-structure of paragraphs. I begin by taking a straw poll. How many of you make a detailed plan/several plans before writing? How many make no plan? There are always a surprising number who claim to create no structure at all. At some point in the ensuing discussion I ‘come out’ as a meticulous planner. I may describe my method of writing, which involves distinct thinking, reviewing and planning stages.

As a non-fiction writer I work with facts. I may present a range of views on the topic, but it’s vital to develop my own position and present the information in my own voice. I point out that these are exactly the same skills that are needed for dissertation writing. My own method is to do my research for the following day’s writing the afternoon before. As I complete it, I have a little think, and make a ‘thumbnail’ plan in the margin of my notes. This mini-structure sets out the points I will make and the order in which I will make them. I assign a word count to each point. The following morning, I compose my text.

As a careful planner I adhere to what I call the ‘constipated school’ of writing. I write quite slowly (1,500 words a day maximum) but the text flows well and is pretty much the final draft, bar a few corrections. At the other end of the spectrum is what I call the ‘splurge school’. Some students and fellow writers begin drafting as they research, and then have an extensive reshaping stage. As we discuss the pros and cons of various approaches, I stress there’s no right or wrong way to write, though I do advise developing a tight structure for a piece as long as a dissertation. Am I influenced by the counter-argument for ‘splurge writing’? Almost never, with one exception — this blog. Perhaps I’ll give it a go more often!

Image credit: Danny Hilton

One of the main similarities between academic writing and novel writing is length. Novels and dissertations are long pieces of work, requiring complex and detailed content, rigorous planning and oodles of stamina. You need to play the long game.

When I led workshops on dissertation writing for undergraduates at the University of East London this year, I included a session on time management. I have never read any hefty self-help tomes or been on any special courses on the subject, but I have realised over the years that my time-management strategy is a major tool that I use to get the job done.

Many writers and students feel defeated by the task before they’ve even begun. The project seems too big even to start, and that’s where there’s a danger of procrastination and displacement activity. My response is to break the job down into manageable segments and allocate a task to each available writing session. I put my writing slots into my diary alongside going to the dentist and remembering my nieces’ birthdays.

In my time management session, I give the students a blank calendar for the next two months. I tell them they are filling in the calendar for an imaginary friend and I decide the delivery date for the friend’s dissertation. I give them other essay deadlines and ask them to block out time for writing these essays. We add lectures, paid work, social commitments and days off. Then we get down to the nitty-gritty: time for reading, planning, first draft, editing, second draft, proofreading and so on. It quickly becomes clear that although the imaginary friend will be busy, they will be able to get the task done. This exercise isn’t rocket science but it seems to work: at the end of the session nearly all of the students ask for spare copies of the calendar. I hope it’s because they want to use them to play their own long game.