Do you need an academic coach?

This week we feature a guest post by PhD student and Whisperer reader @cuteangel. Here she reflects on whether or not an academic coach is the answer to PhD woes.

Being a PhD student and a mother made realise there can be certain similarities between being a child and a student. My kids are young and are still in the needy years. They are always seeking attention; wanting me to do things for them, or at least wanting me to tell them what to do.

At the same time attention is what I crave most from my supervisors. I know I am post grad who is supposed to be in control of my project, but the overwhelming size of the project, and the length of time it takes, makes me long for a mother figure. Someone to nurture me through the various stages of self-doubt, loneliness, and writing dilemmas.

This yearning is fierce when I am stuck. During this state of mind I find myself starting the morning by typing into Google terms like ‘PhD help’ or ‘PhD support’. One of the interesting (at least for me) approaches I discovered through this searching was people who act as a thesis or dissertation coach. I was fascinated to read about the various issues that coaches claim they deal with including: time management, procrastination, practical ideas on dealing with writer’s block and so on.

When I discovered these services they seemed unreal – exactly what I’d been looking for. Could it be that someone with a magic wand would be able to help me and take me through this journey? Could an academic coach really tell me what to do and when to do it? I was happy enough to pay someone – so long as they could be there for me in this way!!

So I got in contact with some very interesting people and ended up working with one for a while. The first few sessions were alright I guess. But there was nothing new to me. I have already read dozens of ‘How to’ books which detailed the experiences of other PhD students. Sadly, in the end I have to say the academic coaching ended up being a complete waste of time and money. Most importantly, my progress, especially in terms of writing, was not positively affected.

The coach I worked with was patient and supportive, but she was not right for me. So I ended the coaching relationship and went back, determined to work things on my own and be more assertive about writing everyday in the morning before anything else. But my difficulties were not at an end. I got into the same cycle of self-doubt and began a second journey of seeking help.

I tried university counseling. Not a very good experience. The first thing the counselor said to me was: “what makes you think you are the only one going through this?” which made feel very bad, almost like a whining child. Then I looked for another thesis coach, thinking “maybe my first choice was not very good”. I still had the idea in my head that I could invest in a coach who could help be finish quicker, hence move on and find a job with a decent salary. But after sending few emails and talking to some great people, I realised the advice is the same everywhere.

The problem is that advice is not always easy to translate into action.

It’s funny how I can pay strangers to tell things and then get angry with my husband, when he actually says the exact same thing! I get angry with him when he tells me; “just write it. You can do it”. I reply most of the time: “what do you know about a PhD?!!”  I will make it up for him once I finish – one day As for my supervisor, he is great – once I actually submit something for him to comment on. Otherwise he waits for me to make the first move. He is appreciative of my being a mother so does not pressure me into regularly producing written work.

I am sure there are students out there who may benefit from a coach, or who actually need one, but it doesn’t work for me. I think the problem is I am looking for help everywhere, but not looking at myself.

I know all about the ‘Awakening the Giant within’ self empowerment stuff. I know I can do this, I have enough faith in my abilities. I have attended conferences, I presented papers, I even organised a an international conference last year. I passed (though not very smoothly) my two milestones (confirmation and mid-candidature review). So why am I not able to keep up? Why do I act like a child seeking attention? Do I really need someone to mother me through this journey? Someone to hold my hand every step of the way so as not to get lost?

I honestly don’t know how to answer these questions. At least for me, these tendencies to act like a child seeking motherly attention creep up when I am under pressure. I can say with certainty that support is important and I find reading blogs or forums on PhD related issues very helpful to me. And at least they have no financial cost.

I am nearing my submission date and feeling the pressure. I wake up every morning determined to work harder. Sometimes it is o.k; sometimes it is not. But I at least I am trying, and I know no amount of help, coaching or mothering will help me unless I have the determination to finish. I need to repeat that to myself, or engrave it on my desk, to avoid searching again for a coach who will tell me things I already know.

5 classic research presentation mistakes

Presentations  for a faculty or disciplinary audience are subtly different to those you give at a conference, but not talked about as frequently. These ‘internal’ presentations are important because they tell your colleagues what kind of researcher you are; it helps you socially and academically to perform well to your peers.

This topic occurred to me as I sat in on a couple of examinations (vivas), completion seminars and a confirmation or two in recent weeks. I have sat through literally hundreds of assessment presentations if you count my years in purgatory architecture school. So here’s my top five classic research presentation mistakes, but I’m going to stick with the verbal problems here because there are many great presentations about graphics, such as ‘how not to suck at powerpoint’ and ‘how to make you presentation boring’.

1) TMI

Too much information (TMI) is the most common mistake I see and one I have indulged in a few times myself. I see it most often in completion seminars where the student has a full draft and can no longer see the forest for the trees. You know that you are heading for TMI when you start to feel like you are drowning in facts and figures which don’t seem to relate to each other. The presentation can seem full of tangents, where the student veers off course to explain, often in painful detail, definitions, counter arguments, collection problems and the like. It’s frustrating to listen to because you feel like the student is never going to get to the point. By the time they actually do, you have lost interest and started thinking earnestly about lunch. A presentation like this is unlikely to make you look like a lightweight, but it can make you look more confused than you are.

2) All theory, no action

It’s a difficult line to walk with theory sometimes. Not enough can make your project look lightweight; too much can make it look like you spent 4 years gazing at your navel and not *doing* anything. Recently I watched a creative research viva, which involved some design work along with a theoretical ‘exegesis’. The student spent the majority of her presentation explaining the theory behind practice based research in exquisite detail; in fact she did rather a good job of this, but she didn’t leave enough time to talk about her project work.

It must have seemed like a good strategy because her examiners were not from the design research field, unfortunately these people had already read her text, which went through much of the same explanation, and the rest of the audience were designers – who already knew the arguments. Instead of reassuring the examiners that her research approach was legitimate, the second lengthy exposition gave the perverse impression that the student was defensive and unsure of herself. I think it’s best to keep explanations of theory short and precise, but tell the audience you are happy to address it during question time. It makes you look smarter if you can answer theoretical questions on your feet anyway.

3) Why are we here?

Sometimes students race through an explanation of data without enough lead in for me to understand what the problem was in the first place. Without an explanation – however cursory – of the bigger world in which the research is situated I cannot understand fully why the research matters. A more troubling manifestation of the ‘why are we here?’ problem is when the student that doesn’t tell us what the research means at the end of it – data and interpretations are offered but there’s no sense of what might come next, what use the research could be or how it changes anything in that bigger world beyond the thesis.

Maybe it’s just me, but I like to see that the researcher has some questions remaining, or that there were questions which are raised by doing the research in the first place. Perhaps people leave these out in an effort to make the research seem ‘finished’ or ‘under control’? I’m not sure – but please tell me why I am here because otherwise I could be doing my own work and I will come away from your presentation feeling cranky.

4) Undigested text

Oh boy – where do I start with this one? Reading straight from your paper or thesis is almost always a mistake. Most academic text is not, as they say in the music industry a ‘radio friendly unit shifter’. We all know that what sounds delightfully erudite on the page can come across as pompous out loud… but it’s a trap which so many of us fall into again and again. I’m as guilty as the next person of reading out chunks of written text rather than working on removing the ‘clutter’ for a clearer verbal explanation. Earlier in my career I did it because I was afraid of looking dumb, now it happens when I haven’t taken enough time to prepare my presentation. Someone estimated that a good one hour presentation takes about 30 hours to prepare – they are probably right.

5) Question time = fail

Being able to give a good performance during question time is a vital skill because it shows people what kind of academic you are when you are when you are off script. Unfortunately a lot of academics are old hands at asking tricky questions of research students – and they know all the brutal ones. The most common one in a confirmation presentations is “What is your research question?”. It’s an easy hit because usually the question (if there is one – rather than half a dozen) is so convoluted that it is easy to make fun of or rip to shreds. Sometimes it’s merely the tone in which the question is delivered – of barely concealed derision – which is unnerving, especially to beginners. I think the key is to stay calm and take your time to answer. It can help to write the question on a piece of paper.

So – what presentation mistakes would make it to your list?

PhD paralysis

My mother developed breast cancer at an early age, so I have been warned I must be vigilant and get regular check ups. Of course, time marches by, I get busy and don’t always go when I am meant to. You know where this kind of procrastination leads right? Yes indeed. Last week the doctor found something and I had my first cancer scare, which meant a couple of days of tests, worry and kicking myself for not facing the music like a grown woman.

As it turns out I’m totally ok (apparently ‘my girls’ are just getting on a bit – like the rest of me!) but during this time in medical limbo I slipped into some kind of… I can only describe it as walking paralysis. I kept going to work and being with my family, but the whole time I felt detached – like I was watching myself just going through the motions. As soon as I let myself start to feel anything I would be overwhelmed by the ‘what if?’ questions and end up in tears. So I suppressed feeling altogether and existed in a horrible state of numbness and inaction. I watched a lot of TV, but wasn’t good for much else.

One of the terrible side effects of this numbness was I completely lost my writing mojo; it was even difficult to reply to routine email. The sense of loss I felt was profound. Writing is central to my life, so much a part of my identity that without it I felt bereft. Reflecting on the feeling, now that the comfortable illusion of immortality has been restored, I realise that the same, strange lassitude around writing would happen occasionally during my PhD. I would sit at my desk, unable to focus on the screen,  every key stroke an effort, for days at a time. Eventually the feeling would lift and I could get on with it.

Now I know what was causing this PhD paralysis: Fear.

For all that this terrible numbness I was experiencing this week didn’t feel like fear, that’s indeed what it was. As Yoda once said: “fear is the path to the dark side”. What the wise old green dude was pointing out is that it’s the effects of fear – what it does – that we must pay attention to, not the feeling itself. In this case Fear put me into emotional retreat and cut off the vital part of me that I needed to get into the flow of work.

Once you recognise a fear it becomes easier to conquer it, but when I was doing my PhD I don’t think I was very good at this. Even when I was able to write without obvious distress I often indulged in bad writing habits which stemmed, at least in part, from fear.

One of these habits, which you might be familiar with, is the ‘one step forward two steps backward’ syndrome. In the morning I would open an existing file and, by lunchtime, would still be editing. Although I was ‘working’ the word count was not progressing. The only way I got through this block was to give myself permission to write really badly for awhile – sometimes in a new file so I wouldn’t ‘mess up’ what I already had. What I couldn’t admit to myself at the time was that I was afraid my new ideas wouldn’t be any good, so I avoided engaging seriously with them.

Fears can be plentiful in PhD study – fear of failure, fear of leaving out vital information, fear of missing key references, fear of examination, fear of a lack of ability… So how do we deal with fear without becoming paralysed?

Last week @julierudner send me an excellent article by Virginia Valian called “learning to work” which provides a helpful analysis of exactly this kind of  PhD paralysis. Only in 1970′s feminism could someone look to sex therapy techniques for a cure for the inability to write, but this is essentially what Valian does. She starts with an insightful diagnoses of the problem; pointing out that inability to work because of ‘internal problems’ is a kind of luxury only available to the well educated who are engaged in ‘self development’. After this quick smack in the face, she goes on to tell her own story of work paralysis, which sounds hauntingly familiar to the problems I have described above.

Valian claims that problems with mental work, such as writing, are similar to sexual problems in that a lack of enjoyment in the activity itself leads to an inability to perform. In sex therapy couples are encouraged to overcome their sexual dysfunction by just touching each other, without expectations. Removing expectations, along with rewards and punishments, allows couples to experience the act of touching as a pleasure in its own right.

Valian applied this principle to her work problem by setting a short period of time – 15 minutes – in which she would just work, without expecting anything to come out of it. Just writing for the pleasure in the act of writing, without any thought of punishment or reward. The sense of accomplishment, she explains, should come from doing the work – not how good it is.

The most important insight in the paper, for me at least, is that I am responsible for the paralysis – I am not a victim of it. I can choose to recognise fear for what it is and learn ways to deal with it. In that spirit (and because I am a total nerd) I will  leave you with the Bene Gesserit litany against fear featured in the Frank Herbert Dune novels to recite if you happen to experience an attack of PhD Paralysis:

“I must not fear. Fear is the mind-killer. Fear is the little-death that brings total obliteration. I will face my fear. I will permit it to pass over me and through me. And when it has gone past I will turn the inner eye to see its path. Where the fear has gone there will be nothing. Only I will remain.”

5 books to help you with your PhD

There’s so many, many books on the market that claim to help you with your PhD – which ones are worth buying? I have been thinking about it this topic for some time, but it’s still hard to decide. So here’s a provisional top 5, based on books I use again and again in my PhD workshops:

1. The craft of Research by Wayne Booth, Greg Colomb and Joseph Williams.

I wish I owned the copyright to this one because I am sure they sell a shed load every year. Although it seems to be written for undergraduates, PhD students like it for its straight forward, unfussy style. Just about every aspect of research is covered: from considering your audience to planning and writing a paper (or thesis). The section on asking research questions is an excellent walk through of epistemology: an area many people find conceptually difficult. I find it speaks to both science and non science people, but, like all books I have encountered in the ‘self help’ PhD genre, The Craft of Research does have a bias towards ‘traditional’ forms of research practice. You creative researcher types might like to buy it anyway, if only to help you know what you are departing from.

2. How to write a better thesis by Paul Gruba and David Evans

This was the first book I ever bought on the subject, which probably accounts for my fondness for it. I have recommended it to countless students over the 6 or so years I have been Thesis Whispering, many of whom write to thank me. The appealing thing about this book is that it doesn’t try to do too much. It sticks to the mechanics of writing a basic introduction> literature review> methods> results> conclusion style thesis, but I used it to write a project based creative research thesis when I did my masters and found the advice was still valid. Oh – and the price point is not bad either. If you can only afford one book on the list I would get this one.

3. Helping Doctoral Students to write by Barbara Kamler and Pat Thomson

I won an award for my thesis and this book is why. In Helping doctoral students to write Kamler and Thomson explain the concept of  ‘scholarly grammar’, providing plenty of before and after examples which even the grammar disabled like myself can understand. I constantly recommend this book to students, but I find that one has to be at a certain stage in the PhD process to really hear what it has to say. I’m not sure why this is, but if you have been getting frustratingly vague feedback from your supervisors – who are unhappy but can’t quite tell you why – you probably need to read this book. It is written for social science students, so scientists might be put off by the style – but please don’t let that stop you from giving it a go. Physicists and engineers have told me they loved the book too. If you want a bit more of the conceptual basis behind the book, read this earlier post on why a thesis is a bit like an avatar.

4. The unwritten rules of PhD research by Marian Petre and Gordon Rugg

I love this book because it recognises the social complexities of doing a PhD, without ever becoming maudlin. Indeed it’s genuinely funny in parts, which makes it a pleasure to read. The authors are at their best when explaining how academia works, such as the concept of ‘sharks in the water’ (the feeding frenzy sometimes witnessed in presentations when students make a mistake and are jumped on by senior academics) and the typology of supervisors. It’s also one of the better references I have found on writing conference papers.

5. 265 trouble shooting strategies for writing non fiction Barbara Fine Clouse

This book is great because it doesn’t try to teach you how to write – you already know how to do that. What you need more is something to help you tweak your writing and improve it. This book is basically a big list of strategies you might like to try when you are stuck, or bored with the way you are writing. This book is so useful I have literally loved it to death – the spine is hopelessly broken and pages are held in by sticky tape. There are many wonderful tips in here from ‘free writing’ and ‘write it backwards’ ideas, to diagramming methods and analytical tools. Opening it at almost any page will give you an idea of something new to try.

What books would be on your top 5 list and why?

Academic digital identities

I thought I would mix it up multi media style this week! Below is a slide presentation for a ‘speed geeking’ session I am doing at the upcoming Science Engineering and Health learning and teaching conference on the 26th of November.

It’s a 5 minute presentation about why I started the thesis whisperer and how creating a professional identity might be useful to academics. The notes appear below the slides – but you have to click ‘view through slide share on the bottom right to see them.

I hope you enjoy it and let me know what you think

5 ways to detox your desk (and mind)

Recently I grabbed a book from the RMIT library called “Detox your desk: declutter your life and mind” by Theo Theobald and Cary Cooper. Have a look at this picture and you’ll see why:

This is my at home desk – not my at work desk (which is in such embarrassing condition I am not going to show it to you ).

The book is a fun read, but not one I would urge you to run out and buy if you don’t have the time or inclination. It’s actually more about productivity and is one of the better ones I have read, but half of it was dedicated to asserting the validity of the ideas – which was too much for me (I was sold at the title!). Since it is part of our mission at the Whisperer to do this sort of reading for you, I sifted through it for nuggets of goodness to share.

So if your desk is driving you crazy and you feel submerged in a sea of work, here are 5 strategies:

1) Most of the stuff on you desk shouldn’t be there

How many biros do you have on your desk? Looking at the photo above I have 7 – why? I type most of the time. One biro is all I need. That box of paperclips? I don’t print stuff out so I never use them – likewise the stapler (which I don’t think works anyway). There’s a bunch of DVDs, a child’s folding toy, a cap, a box of old business cards with the wrong phone number of them (why??)… But the biggest problem on my desk is that pile of paper on the left. There’s a parking permit form (I don’t have a car!), a list of instructions for the skin cream for my son’s eczema (note empty box), an old bank statement, a couple of tax receipts and the ‘melbourne magazine’.

You know what I feel when I look at the pile – that’s right. Guilt. I know that somewhere in there work is lurking, unfinished… You know what? Let’s get rid of everything I don’t need today:

Ah – much better. All I have is functional biros and markers, my notes, a book and my phone/gadget cords. It’s not impersonal, just efficient (I kept the photos of my son tucked under the monitor) and it took less than 4 and a half minutes to achieve. Already I feel like a more organised and purposeful person. Ok, so most of the stuff ended up in a box on the floor, but the book told me to leave it there for 10 days and only take out the stuff I need to use. By the end of 10 days I will know what should have a permanent spot and what should be thrown out or put elsewhere.

2) The Inventory.

I’m a busy, engaged sort of person. I always have a few pots on the boil and many of these projects involve small details – ring someone back, supply someone with something, think about an idea – you know the sort of thing. It’s taken me a long time to realise that most research work is just bits of this kind of detail, in endless motion. When details are in my head they have to compete for attention with what I will eat for lunch, what I think of Bruno Latour, my sprained little toe and so on. The details tend to get lost in the fog, where they lurk leading to feelings of  – you guessed it – Guilt.

I spent an hour putting what was in my head into a big list, which acted like the desk clean up. It’s not a to-do list – that would be too confronting. It’s more like an inventory of what I have going on in work and in life.

3) The cycle of work

I think the most useful idea in the book was how to use productivity cycles. The authors claim that your work day starts with a short ‘problem solving window’ (or ‘the hour of power’). The next block of time till lunchtime is good creative time – a place to wrestle with new ideas. After lunch most people’s brains tend to go into a bit of a slump, so this time is good for ‘sorting’, mechanical and repetitious tasks. Towards the end of the day you tend to pick up a bit, so this is good for dealing with people and planning.

I don’t know about you, but I never believe that my body works like other people’s, but clearly it does. I used the hour of power to solve my biggest problem – getting on top of my inventory. Then I employed the ‘creative time’ to a creative problem and I made more progress than I have for a month. Colour me amazed. Now I know that this works for me I will say ‘no’ to morning meetings!

4) The twenty minute rule

The authors claim that 20 minutes is about all you can expect to spend intensely concentrating on something before taking a break. I find it’s task dependent and that I can write for at least an hour before I start to fade. Either way, planning to take a short break every 20 minutes means that you can goof off a bit and recharge as you go.

5) The punch list

Armed with this knowledge you can plan your time in four chunks along 20 minute intervals: Problem solving, Creativity, Sort and People and Planning. Use the inventory to break off tasks, estimate how many 20 min chunks you think you will need to achieve them, and then write a ‘punch list’. For researchers the hour of power and the creative time will be most important to plan. Cross it off as you go for a feeling of achievement. Theobald and Cooper claim that before going home each night, a punch list for the next day should be written.

I’ll report back on how effective I find this approach after 10 days – but I will be interested to hear from people who have tried it or have other refinements to suggest

The researcher’s hunch

I’ve been talking to @tassie_gal on twitter about the relationship between confidence and doubt while doing a PhD. But my thoughts didn’t coalesce until last week, when a scientist told me a story about plants.

A friend of this scientist did his PhD on the use of hormones to promote plant growth. The first part of the study was to grow a series of plants using a method published in an earlier paper. The method was meant to yield 15 new plants per round, but the plant researcher only got 8. Perplexed, he threw out his materials and tried again, only to get the same result. This time he assumed the temperature was wrong, threw out his materials and tried again. Once more: nothing. For a year he fiddled around, trying to get the expected 15 plants, but he never did.

Later the plant researcher happened to go to a conference and met the person who did the original study. He took the opportunity to  describe his  failures in exhausting detail and ask for help. The person who did the original study merely blinked and said “oh yes, that experiment didn’t work particularly well”. As it turned out, the original person never did get fifteen plants using that method.

In other words, the original researcher lied.

It’s tempting to view the PhD researcher in this story as a bit of an idiot for assuming he was doing something wrong, but this would overlook the fact that the written word can have immense persuasive power. And it’s not just what is written on a page which can lead us researchers astray – it’s the ideas which get stuck in our heads.

For example, it is not uncommon for PhD students to turn up to our statistical consulting service asking the mathematicians to ‘fix’ their results, when the results are, in fact, correct. You would expect the students to be relieved to find out they did their analysis right, but apparently many will still insist the numbers must be wrong because they didn’t ‘fit’ the hypothesis which was being tested.

We need preconceptions – let’s call them hunches – to get going in the first place, but problems can develop when we hold on to them too tightly. I was reminded of this recently, while working on my current research project about PhD students and progress reports.

Twice a year we ask our PhD students to fill in a progress report accounting for how they spent their time and what they will do next (you may have a similar system at your university). Administrators and supervisors complain that progress reporting is a meaningless ‘rubber stamp’ exercise which should be changed, or even abandoned, so we decided to study it and see what could be done.

Our focus groups confirmed that students felt the same way as the administrators and supervisors: the progress reporting procedure was largely meaningless. However we were wrong in our assumption that students would want to change the system too. Many LIKED that it was a rubber stamp exercise and that the plans they wrote didn’t actually translate to reality. It seems the mere act of writing a plan can be psychologically reassuring and the administrative meaninglessness of the reports meant that no one would attack them when the plans didn’t translate to reality.

I puzzled over how to understand this until I realised that all our stakeholders were being pragmatic, but pragmatic meant something different to students. In retrospect this explanation was blindingly obvious, but it took an embarrassingly long time to come to me because I was thinking with my hunch, rather than looking at the data. Actually – I was thinking like an administrator not a researcher (oh the shame!). Once I had become aware of this tendency the rest of the analysis came easily. I just assumed that my first thought would be wrong and looked for other explanations.

We don’t often think about how useful these kinds of errors can be – if they are taken seriously. In his new book ‘Where good ideas come from’ , Stephen Johnson makes some interesting observations on the nature of error and creativity, citing research on how people free associate from trigger words. 40% of people presented with the word ‘green’ will say ‘grass’; 80% when shown the colour blue will suggest another colour, or say the word ‘sky’. Only a few people will volunteer words like ‘Ireland’, ‘leaves’ or ‘jeans’.

It would be easy to assume that the outliers are naturally more ‘creative’, but it seems that those of us who would choose ‘sky’ are not so pedestrian after all. In another experiment people were exposed to the colour blue while sitting in front of a screen with a group of actors. The actors insisted that the colour was red, which made people doubt that their initial perception of blue was correct. When these people were later asked to free associate they produced more ‘outlier’ responses. While Johnson out that too much error can be fatal, a little ‘noise’ in the system can be good.

In other words, assuming you are wrong can make you more creative.

There’s certainly comfort in conforming with existing theories and ideas, rather than challenging them. It takes confidence to take ‘wrong’ results seriously because you have to examine your own biases.  If our hapless plant researcher had more confidence in his own ability he wouldn’t have wasted a whole year. But I think his story shows us that confidence can sometimes be in short supply when you are doing your PhD.

Which leaves me with a final thought: does a lack of confidence stem, at least in part, from a fear of being examined? Perhaps in our heart of hearts we still view this last step of the PhD as a ‘test’ through which we have to pass, rather than a review process which ensures our work is the best that it can be? I’m not sure, in lieu of an answer I can only say: try to have confidence in your doubt – and doubt in your confidence!

 

5 ways to declutter your writing

Last week I was in Readings bookstore, with a $100 book voucher burning a hole in my pocket, when I spied a book called ‘On writing well: the classic guide to writing non fiction’ by William Zinsser. According to the cover ‘On writing well’ has sold more than a million copies, which piqued my curiosity (just as the publisher had intended). Since book vouchers are like academic candy – impossible not to spend instantly – I bought it straight away.

If you have been reading this blog for awhile you will know that I am a sucker for any book on writing. I thought I already owned everything worthy in the genre, but clearly not. The difference between Zinsser’s book and many others is that it deals with technicalities at the same time as being an inspiring call to action. Zinsser is all about the audience and how to make their reading experience more enjoyable without dumbing down your text – something all thesis writers must be interested in. I encourage you to go right out and buy this book if you don’t own it already. To convince you further here’s 5 ways to declutter your text based on some of Zinsser’s ideas:

1) Use brackets to diagnose ‘fuzz’ in your text

All writers (will have to) edit their prose, but (the) great writers edit (it) viciously, always trying to eliminate (words which are) ‘fuzz’ – (excess) words (which are not adding anything of value). Zinsser compares (the process of editing out) ‘fuzz’ to fighting weeds – you will always be slightly behind (because they creep in when you aren’t looking for them). One of my (pet hates) is (the word) ‘also’. (If you search and replace all instances (of this word) you will find you can live without it and your writing will improve (instantly). (Likewise the word)’very’.)

Let’s try that again:

All writers edit their prose, but great writers edit viciously. The point of editing is to eliminate ‘fuzz’, or excess words which don’t add value. Zinsser compares removing ‘fuzz’ to fighting weeds – you will always be slightly behind. Two examples of fuzz are ‘also’ and ‘very’. Work at keeping them out of your text and your writing will improve.

2) Pay attention to your adverbs and such

I’m a child of the 70′s, when, it seems, they gave up teaching grammar. I can’t explain what an adverb is, but I know one when I see it. Zinsser points out that “smile happily” doesn’t say much more than “smile” and that the tall in “tall skyscraper” is redundant. If you start to mentally put brackets around these words as you read you will start to see adverb abuse everywhere – which unfortunately makes reading trashy novels (very) irritating.

3) Get rid of qualifiers

Zinsser claims that qualifiers “weaken any sentence they inhabit”. Phrases like “in a sense”, “a bit”, “sort of” have no place in a thesis. Worse – they imply that you are apologetic or unsure of your ideas. This is not a  message you want to send to your examiners.

4) Strive for nuance

Grammar hurts my brain. It’s like trying to understand how I am walking as I walk and makes me dizzy. So I will make this next point without resorting to technical explanations. This advice comes out of Chapter 7 of Kamler and Thomson’s excellent book “Helping doctoral students to write”, but I think Zinsser would have approved. Consider the following sentences:

Inger argues that the words you use to describe the work of others is important
Inger asserts that the words you use to describe the work of others is important
Inger states that the words you use to describe the work of others is important
Inger outlines that the words you use to describe the work of others is important

There’s quite a difference between ‘argues’ and ‘asserts’. The first implies that Inger is making a case, the second implies that Inger is defending a position without necessarily providing any evidence for it. ‘Asserts’ adds a whiff of arrogance, but without over playing it (remember that academia is in a state of polite warfare). Likewise ‘stating’ something is different from ‘outlining’ it – the latter implies that some explanation is supplied which will help the reader understand what is being discussed.

Paying attention to the words you use to describe the work of others saves you the trouble of adding another sentence to explain to the reader what you think of the work. It’s the thesis writer’s equivalent of a nod and a wink to the reader. It’s hard work to remember all that nuance, so I keep a handy list of verbs on my wall.

5) Get comfortable with pruning the excess

It’s hard to write well on a subject if you don’t understand it clearly. Sometimes the only way to get to the idea is to write it out. It’s likely that you will generate far more text than you can, or should, use. It can be tempting to ‘dress up’ your writing to appear more intelligent. Resist the urge. The ideas and findings in a thesis are important; style is secondary. A simple and precise style is like painting your walls white – a backdrop against which your ideas can pop. It can be hard to do the necessary pruning, but remember that examiners are likely to view a thinner thesis as a sign that you are confident and in charge of your material.

Happy gardening thesis writers!

The stegosaurus strategy

The other day a student came to see me after his mid point presentation. He was upset because the panel chair had questioned the scope of the work and his ability get the rest of it done. The student felt the questioning was out of line. Who was this academic who hadn’t worked in a ‘proper job’ with real deadline for years and years to judge him and his capacities? He was no newbie – he’d had 25 years of professional experience for heaven’s sake! Wasn’t he best placed to judge his ability to complete the work?

The student was so angry he wanted this person could be kept off his review panel. He was somewhat taken aback when I suggested that such a person was actually ideal in that role. While I agreed that it was uncool for the person to be nasty in the way he gave the criticism, I saw no lasting harm if criticism was all it was. Yes, it would be difficult to have such a prickly, critical person as your primary supervisor, but having such people around does keep you on your toes and can be good for you.

The problem was that this student was used to collaborative, supportive workplaces where people worked towards common goals. He failed to understand that just about all of academia is in a state of endless, polite warfare. Arguing is the academic’s raison d’etre and spending time fighting this tendency is wasted energy. I suggested that the student adjust his attitude and start to treat this particular academic like an expert goal keeper in a football match. The idea of playing football is to work at landing the ball in the net, to take offense at the goal keeper’s existence.

Now of course many academics are moderate and helpful in the way they approach criticism. I’m pleased to say that a great many that I meet on review panels seek to have a dialogue with the student, rather than an argument, but there are plenty of exceptions. There’s a reason why a wise person once said that academia is like a group of warring principalities united by a common parking problem. Some of the arguing is the result of genuine differences of opinion; in other instances it is mere jockeying for power – either way, sooner or later, you’re bound to find yourself on the sharp end of it.

Although I am handing out this advice, believe me when I say I’m conflicted about comparing academia to a football game. I’m well aware there’s a downside to this culture of criticism.

I spent my first 8 years in academia in an architecture department where it was a perverse mark of pride to be ripped to shreds by a guest review panel. The guest reviewers were professional architects who had suffered through this system themselves and knew all the tricks. Some of them would become so angered by poor student work they would rip drawings from the wall and throw models on the ground. This kind of behaviour seemed, for the most part, to be viewed as theatre rather than abuse – which is a sad commentary on the state of teaching in the profession at the time.

The first time I stood up to defend my design work, some 20 years ago now, I had no idea what was coming and ended up crying in the bathroom, wondering, a mere 4 days in, whether was too early to quit my degree. A kindly third year student followed me in, handed me a tissue and gave me a pep talk. She told me that criticism can be helpful, but it is always hard to hear. She suggested that I learn to take it – or choose a new career, because what she had just witnessed me go through was mild compared to what I would face later.

I took her advice to heart, I learned to take it, but I never did get used to it. Something worse happened – I started to avoid it. I slowly learned what critics wanted to see and started giving it to them. In fact I became expert at  internalising the culture of the school I became a chameleon. I managed to graduate that degree with honours, but somewhere along the way I lost sight of me. It is hardly surprising that I didn’t last long as a practising architect: I was working from a place of fear, not love.

Other students reacted differently to this deluge of criticism – becoming increasingly combative, argumentative and reactionary. These students took up what I like to call the Stegosaurus strategy. When faced with a T-rex determined to eat you, grow armour and  learn to swing your huge spikey tail. During the review sessions the students would argue back, sometimes stalking off in righteous indignation. In my opinion being a stegosaurus is almost as bad as being a chameleon. One of two things seemed to happen to these people: either they become an outcast or they became one of the bullies. The problem is, if you get really good at arguing back, you are not spending time listening. Eventually no one dares criticise you at all and you miss out on the valuable correctives you need to make your work better.

Many new PhD students are not used to this aspect of academic culture and I have little of comfort to provide. Learning to exist and thrive in this culture can take some time and it pays to remember Machiavelli’s aphorism: “Keep your friends close, but keep your enemies closer”. Learn from these people, but try not to become a chameleon – or a stegosaurus.