Susan 

Carter
Cally Guerin
Claire Aitchison

Doctoral
Writing
Practices, Processes and Pleasures
Doctoral Writing
Susan Carter Cally Guerin
• •

Claire Aitchison

Doctoral Writing
Practices, Processes and Pleasures

123
Susan Carter Cally Guerin
The University of Auckland University of Adelaide
Auckland, New Zealand Adelaide, SA, Australia

Claire Aitchison
University of South Australia
Adelaide, SA, Australia

ISBN 978-981-15-1807-2 ISBN 978-981-15-1808-9 (eBook)

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Acknowledgements

We thank our intellectual companions—those guest post authors, collaborators, and

the researchers we admire and cite often—who confirm, challenge and energise our
interest in doctoral writing. The ‘DoctoralWriting’ blog could not exist without you,
nor our many followers, readers and networked supporters, and nor could this book.
Also to be thanked are the many colleagues and students with whom we have
worked—practice in the field has been a prime motivator.
The University of Auckland must be thanked for the Faculty Research
Development Funding that enabled and drove us to complete this book. Kosala
Krishnan: thanks for early help in reassembling posts. Andrew Lavery, we are
grateful for analysis, common sense and humour. Damon Ellis, we’ve benefited from
your real engagement with yet more analysis. And Sue Osborne played a transfor-
mative role as an efficient, fast-working proof-reader whose work set us free for
other aspects of the book’s production—we thank you warmly for your efficiency
and engagement. The book’s reviewers also helped with firming up: thank you.
We thank each other for again sharing a research journey in which we fitted our
three voices together, finding pleasure in the combination. Finally, we thank our
partners and families for their support, and their willingness to release our leisure
time to work on this volume.

v
Contents

1 Introduction . . . . . . . . . . . ........ . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1
Why the Interest in Doctoral Writing? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2
Shaping the Book . . . . . . . . ........ . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3
Navigating the Book . . . . . . ........ . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4
References . . . . . . . . . . . . . ........ . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5
2 Being and Developing Writers . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ... 7
Supervision and Developing Student Writing . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ... 8
Managing Supervisors and Doctoral Writing: Some Advice
for Candidates . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ... 8
Sharing Our Practice: Writing and Higher Degree Research
Supervision . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ... 9
Doctoral Writing and Decision-Making in the First Few Months . ... 11
Bad Supervision? Or Bad Communication? Avoiding Complaints
in Supervision—The Importance of Good Communication . . . . . ... 12
Can You Care Too Much? Supervisors, Students and Writing
in the Academy . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ... 15
Controlling the Emotion of Doctoral Writing and Supervision . . . ... 18
What Level of English Competence Is Enough for Doctoral
Students? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ... 18
Writing Support from Generic Learning Advisors Compared
to Supervisors . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 20
Doctoral Writing: The Value of Learning Advisors . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 20
Doctoral Writing: Who’s Who in (and Outside) Your Zoo? . . . . . . . . 21
Who Is Helping Your Doctoral Student Write Their Thesis? . . . . . . . 22
Feedback on Doctoral Writing . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 24
Feedback in Doctoral Writing: Why Is It so Different? . . . . . . . . . . . 24
Why Do Supervisors Contradict Themselves? Development
of Feedback . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ... 25
I Just Don’t Get It! Why Don’t You like My Writing? . . . . . . . . ... 26

vii
viii Contents

Doctoral Writing and Feedback: Moving on from Negative

Emotion . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 27
Disembodied Feedback on Writing . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 29
Not Getting What You Need?: Strategies for Maximising Success
from Feedback . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 30
Tough Self-scrutiny as a Doctoral Writing Tool . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 31
Managing Feedback on Writing in Team Supervision . . . . . . . . . . . . 32
‘Sending—Ready or Not’: Feedback Practices and Predilections . . . . 34
Emotion and Identity in Doctoral Writing and Supervision . . . . . . . . . . 35
Doctoral Writing: Why Bother? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 35
Mental Health, Doctoral Study and Supervision: Can ‘Troubles
with Writing’ Mask Other Problems? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 37
Is Dropping Out Failure? Je ne regrette rien . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 39
When Research Moves Too Close: Maintaining Awareness of
Boundaries . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 40
Mother Guilt and the Ph.D. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 42
Finishing the Ph.D.—Or What Happens to Otherwise Normal
People in the Last Few Months of the Ph.D.? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 43
Disaster and Change of Plan for Doctoral Writing . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 46
‘Help with Writing’ Versus ‘Learning About Writing’ . . . . . . . . . . . 47
References . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 48
3 Managing Productivity . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ... 51
Writing Groups and Retreats . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ... 52
Writing Groups, Writing Retreats, Boot Camps and Other Social
Writing Events for Doctoral Writers . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ... 52
Writing in the Company of Others: ‘Shut up and Write!’,
AcWriMo, Boot Camps, Writing Retreats and Other Fun
Activities . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ... 53
‘Sit Down and Do Your Work!’ Disciplining the Writer . . . . . . . ... 55
Writing Retreats aka Binge Writing: Luxury-Class Doctoral
Writing . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 57
Thesis Writing Boot Camp for Doctoral Writers . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 58
Experimenting with Academic Writing Month (AcWriMo) . . . . . . . . 59
Writing Processes . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 60
Questions Students Ask . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 60
Writing, Reviewing and Editing—Not to Be Confused . . . . . . . . . . . 62
Reverse Engineering of Writing: Reading to See How
‘Good, Interesting Writing’ Works . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ... 63
The Writing Process: Agonisingly Slow? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ... 65
The Power of Walking . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ... 66
Contents ix

Habits and Time Management . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 67

Getting the Right/Write Habit . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 67
New Year’s Resolutions for Doctoral Writers . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 68
How Long Does It Take to Write a Thesis? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 70
Writing and Time-Scheduling . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 71
Writing Spaces—Where Are Theses Written? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 73
Starting Again: Picking up the Pieces After an Extended Break
from Writing . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 74
Just Do It! (and Delete the ‘Publish or Perish’ Warning) . . . . . . . . . . 76
Writing Up—An Everyday Job . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 77
Motivation, Pleasure, Humour . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 78
Olympic Endurance and Doctoral Writing: On Motivation . . . . . . . . 78
Real Writing Aversion: Can It Be Overcome? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 79
Sin, the Motivator . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 80
Is Doctoral Writing Doing You Harm? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 81
A Sense of Humour Towards Doctoral Writing? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 84
Writing as … Metaphors for Loving Writing . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 85
Writing Pleasure: Space and People . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 88
References . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 90
4 Crafting Writing: Clarity, Style and Voice . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 93
Clarity from Clean Simplicity . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 93
Balancing Simplicity and Complexity in Doctoral Writing . . . . . . . . 93
Take Your Time—Or Get to the Point? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 94
Sword’s Exercises for Doctoral Style . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 96
Personal Style and Communication . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 97
A Question of Language Competence or Writing Style? . . . . . . . . . . 97
Writing as Social Negotiation . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 98
Personalising the Thesis: Incentive to Writing It? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 99
Where’s This Going? Metadiscourse for Readers and Writers . . . . . . 100
Issues of Word Choice . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 102
Precision with Word Choice in Doctoral Writing . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 102
Saying ‘Says’ in Research Writing . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 103
Widening Vocabulary in Academic Writing? Or Wider Reader
Access? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 104
Politics of Pronouns . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 105
Knowing When to Use ‘I’ in Research Writing: Cold-Calling
Knowledge Claims . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 105
Student/Supervisor Difference with Writing Choices Courtesy
of the Generic ‘He’ . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 107
Who Produces Academic Writing: ‘I’, ‘the Researcher’,
‘This Study’, ‘This Thesis’…? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 108
x Contents

Grammar and Punctuation . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 109

Grammar for Research Writing: Nouns and Verbs . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 109
Comma, Stop . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 110
A Second Helping of Commas, Anyone? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 111
Voice . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 112
‘Insider Persona’ in Voice: Practical Suggestions for Doctoral
Writers . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 112
Authorial Voice, or ‘Putting on the Ritz’ . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 114
Voice and Emphasis in Doctoral Writing . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 116
Voicing Writing by Talking: Exploring the Link Between Body
and Text . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 117
Editing and Plagiarism: Meeting Expectations . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 118
The Examiner-Perspective Lens for Doctoral Editing . . . . . . . . . . . . 118
Who Needs an Editor Anyway? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 120
How Are We to Understand Plagiarism in Doctoral Writing? . . . . . . 121
Recycling Old Papers and Self-plagiarism—Is It a Sin? . . . . . . . . . . 123
References . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 124
5 Writing the Thesis . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 127
General Advice: Impact, Early Choices, Ethics, and Narrative . . . . . . . . 128
‘Impact’ Is Important for Published Researchers, But What
Does It Mean for Doctoral Writers? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 128
Research Writing Outside the Box . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 130
Defending Research Choices in Doctoral Writing: Getting the
Defence Habit at the Start of the Research . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 131
Keeping the Public Out: No-Go Areas in Your Thesis . . . . . . . . . . . 132
Thesis Writing: Process and Package . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 134
The Importance of Narrative . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 134
The Developing Thesis Proposal: Questions to Launch Doctoral
Writing . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 136
Structure: Issues of Design . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 137
Scoping: Bean-Counting as a Step to Thesis Writing? . . . . . . . . . . . . 137
What’s the Formula for Writing a Thesis? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 138
Research Storylines: Moving Beyond Mills and Boon . . . . . . . . . . . . 139
Insecure in a Good Way: Thesis Structure Changes Over Time . . . . . 140
Leave It in or Delete It? Dilemmas in Writing the Research Story . . . 141
The Bones of the Thesis: Structure and Articulation . . . . . . . . . . . . . 142
Turning Facts into a Doctoral Story: The Essence of a Good
Doctorate . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 142
Argument and Contribution . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 144
Structure as a Booster for the Argument . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 144
Contents xi

A Good Argument: The Thesis of the Thesis . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 145

Done All That Work—But Has This Thesis Really Got Anything
to Say? Strategies to Regain Perspective on Research
Contribution . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 146
Take-Home Message, or ‘What Was All That About?’ . . . . . . . . . . . 149
Theory, Critical Thinking and Data Analysis . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 150
Choosing the Right Theory Is Like Op-shopping . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 150
What Does It Mean to ‘Theorise’ Research? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 151
Demonstrating Critical Analysis: A Paint-by-Numbers Approach . . . . 153
Swamped by Data? Time to Take Control and Manage
All that Information . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 154
What to Do with ‘Leftover’ Data? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 155
Specific Parts of the Thesis . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 156
Writing the Acknowledgements: The Etiquette of Thanking . . . . . . . 156
Writing a Thesis Abstract that Will Impress a Potential Examiner . . . 157
How Long Is a Thesis Introduction? Changing Thesis Structures . . . . . 159
The Literature Review for Beginners: Writing While Still
Uncertain . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 160
Literature Reviews—Trust Yourself! . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 162
Literature Review: Hands on Hips or Smash and Grab? . . . . . . . . . . 163
Crafting Conclusions—More Than a Summary of Research . . . . . . . 164
How to Make a Great Conclusion . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 165
My Questions Now: Preparing a Thesis Conclusion . . . . . . . . . . . . . 167
The Last Word in Doctoral Writing: Mechanics of Last Sentence
Rhetoric . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 168
Preparing Your Thesis for Submission: What to Look
for When Editing at the Whole-of-Document Level . . . . . . . . . . . . . 169
Reading Theses to Write a Thesis . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 171
Choosing the Examiner: It’s in Everyone’s Interests
to Get Students Involved . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 172
References . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 174
6 Disseminating Research . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 177
Publishing Processes and Peer Review . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 177
Supervising Student Publishing During Doctoral Candidature . . . . . . 177
Journal Article or Book Chapter? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 179
Peer Review: What’s the Fuss? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 180
Reviewing Can Help, If You Want to Learn How to Publish . . . . . . 181
Reviewing Conundrums: Is This a MAJOR or MINOR
Revision? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 183
Sexism, Peer Review and Critical Thinking . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 184
Scholarly Editing and Networking . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 185
xii Contents

Co-authorship . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 186
Collaborative Writing: Practices and Strategies . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 186
‘Apologies—Running Late with Draft’: Obligation and Writing . . . . 188
What’s It Worth to You? Awarding Authorship Percentages . . . . . . . 189
Career and Profile Building . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 190
Publishing During Doctoral Study—What Are the Benefits? or Why
Would You Bother? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 190
Doctoral Writing and Career Building . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 192
Academic Selfies, Self-promotion and Other Narcissistic
Behaviours . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 193
Other Research Genres . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 196
How Do I Write Thee? Let Me Count the Ways
(with Apologies to Elizabeth Barrett Browning) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 196
Talking About Writing . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 198
Writing Text for Research Posters . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 199
Grant-Writing Season . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 201
References . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 202
7 Conclusion . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 205
References . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 206

Bibliography . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 207
Index . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 217
About the Authors

Associate Professor Susan Carter spent 8 years developing a generic doctoral

programme (Carter & Laurs, 2014) that included a suite of different workshops on
writing. Now she turns the accumulated knowledge from immersion in the doctoral
experience and the complexities of doctoral writing into seminars for academics on
supervision and research writing (Carter & Laurs, 2018). Her own supervision
keeps her at the keyboard face pondering on how to support doctoral writing.
Contact author email [email protected].

Dr. Cally Guerin is currently a Learning Advisor in Research Skills and Training
at The Australian National University. She has worked in researcher education
since 2008. Her research interests include research writing, academic identities, the
academic workforce, and doctoral education. She is a Senior Fellow of the Higher
Education Academy/Advance HE.

Dr. Claire Aitchison is a Senior Lecturer in the Teaching Innovation Unit at the
University of South Australia. Although much of her work now concerns sup-
porting faculty in online teaching and curriculum development, for over two dec-
ades she has played a leading role in doctoral education, specifically doctoral
writing. She continues to work with supervisors, academics and doctoral students
supporting writing development and training.

xiii
Chapter 1
Introduction

This book about doctoral writing aims to help Ph.D. students and their supervisors
master the gamut of writing challenges that can blight—or delight—candidature.
The book presents lively and authentic reflections on practice and pedagogy rendered
through a series of bite-sized vignettes, stories and actionable ‘teachable’ accounts.
From its origin as an academic blog, this book reconfigures six years of posts into an
accessible compilation of reflections from three well-known researchers in doctoral
education: Susan Carter, Cally Guerin and Claire Aitchison.
Each of us has a history of academic work centred on doctoral writing support.
Together we draw on over 60 years’ combined experience as academic developers,
writing teachers and learning advisors in research support, and as supervisors of
doctoral students. Our research emerges from an interest in pedagogy and practice. As
an early practitioner and researcher in the field, Claire Aitchison takes a salient place
in research about doctoral writing (Aitchison, 2014; Aitchison, Catterall, Ross, &
Burgin, 2012; Aitchison & Guerin, 2014; Aitchison, Kamler, & Lee, 2010; Aitchison
& Lee, 2006; Aitchison & Paré, 2012; Lee & Aitchison, 2009). Claire has pioneered
a variety of pedagogical approaches and demonstrates here the way that her research,
teaching and writing intersect to produce insightful reflections that speak to praxis.
Cally Guerin’s practice shows similar interconnectivity: Cally has applied curiosity
and theoretical leverage to issues of writing and identity (Aitchison & Guerin, 2014;
Badenhorst & Guerin, 2016; Guerin, 2013, 2016; Guerin & Green, 2014; Guerin &
Picard, 2012). Susan Carter spent eight years to 2012 establishing, designing and
delivering a doctoral programme at the University of Auckland, and being available
for individual consultation by doctoral students from across disciplines. She has spent
more than 1,000 hours hearing doctoral students elaborating on a range of problems
that returned often to writing-related riffs: how to structure and revise for clarity; how
to demonstrate critical analysis in writing; how to understand what supervisors mean
by squiggles in the margin; how to conform to the demands of the discipline and the
doctorate per se while following a particular ‘desire line’ of interest (Ahmed, 2006,
pp. 19–20). Our backstories are the foundation of this book. We bring our different
voices together and share our separate experiences.

© Springer Nature Singapore Pte Ltd. 2020 1

S. Carter et al., Doctoral Writing,
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2 1 Introduction

In 2012, the editors of this book came together to find a way of sharing and
disseminating their knowledge and experiences of doctoral writing. Inger Mewburn
(of ‘Thesis Whisperer’ fame) encouraged us to blog, and so ‘DoctoralWriting’ was
born. Blogging is vibrant and often temporal—and we became aware that these
beguiling characteristics were also impediments as the volume and breadth of topics
became overwhelming. For example, by mid-2019, we had posted some 310 discrete
blog posts, the vast majority written by us, and the blog had over 14,000 followers
from all corners of the world. To reinvigorate the wealth of work that was at risk of
disappearing in the vaults of time, we settled on a new venture to curate a reimagined
presentation of our work into this book.

Why the Interest in Doctoral Writing?

Over the last two decades, we have witnessed an extraordinary growth in doctoral
student numbers and a resultant growth in research and scholarship on doctoral
education globally. It is not necessary to rehearse these changes here—the liter-
ature is replete with how significant doctoral writing is (Carter & Kumar, 2016;
Paré, Starke-Meyerring, & McAlpine, 2009; Scevak, 2006), how much it matters to
institutions (Golde, Jones, Conklin Bueschel, & Walker, 2006; McAlpine & Nor-
ton, 2006; Nilsen, 2006), supervisors (Carter, Laurs, Chant, & Wolgramm-Foliaki,
2017; Denholm & Evans, 2007; Grant, 2010; Paré 2011) and, of course, students
themselves (Can & Walker, 2011; Carter & Laurs, 2014; Jazvac-Martek, Shuhua, &
McAlpine, 2011; McAlpine, Jazvac-Martek, & Hopwood, 2009). This literature also
demonstrates how much trouble its production causes.
As practitioners, we have each played a part in this change: teaching, research-
ing and disseminating knowledge into the field and through our work, all the while
blogging about our daily challenges, ruminations and practices (Aitchison, Carter,
& Guerin, 2018; Guerin, Carter, & Aitchison, 2015, 2016). Scholarly work has doc-
umented the big changes—while we have bounced between these and the everyday
rituals of supervision and writing. Work with doctoral writing is the bread and butter
of our interface with other practitioners, the people—doctoral students, their support
staff and supervisors—those with their hands dirty in amongst the words and the
sweat on the page.
Our focus here, and over the years, has been this labouring over writing. We
recognise that doctoral writers and those supporting them face multiple challenges,
many of which come to the surface in the iterative and social acts of writing. The
need to stay calm and ordered, to expect and preempt challenges from the start, seems
endemic to doctoral writing.
As well as demonstrating high-level writing expertise, the thesis or dissertation
must comply with discipline conventions and expectations, please examiners, and
fulfil the requirements for a Ph.D. It must show critical analysis and maintain a high
standard of formal literacy. Precision as well as perseverance are required. How-to
Why the Interest in Doctoral Writing? 3

advice is helpful (and we provide some of this), but we also talk about the grubby
bits, the fun and pain, the stories of failure and success.
Doctoral writing tests emotional resilience, instigates a change of identity and
realigns candidates into new social and scholarly communities. For these reasons,
writing a thesis is an intense experience requiring academic, personal and emotional
support. This book acknowledges that doctoral students and supervisors have com-
plex and varied needs, and that they are often time-poor. Thus, we offer a blend of
contemplative, provocative and practical resources delivered with insight and humour
that extends beyond simple skills acquisition.
Because we focus on writing, our target audience is broader than many books
about doctoral study. This book is about text and the human labour of producing it.
It speaks to those who support doctoral writers, for example by describing practices
such as workshops and taught activities; it also speaks to students who identify with
the positive, solution-focused anecdotes.

Shaping the Book

The book reimagines our popular blog posts as a compelling set of themes arranged
into chapters. It was clear from the outset that this rendition would not include guest
posts, although these are certainly a central and important part of the community
of practice associated with the blog; these posts are available on the blogsite at
https://doctoralwriting.wordpress.com. This book presents only our own writing and
pedagogical insights, reimagined as a restructured and repackaged entity.
We mention what has been left out of this collection because so much valuable
work has been produced by our guest writers (which, of course, remains searchable
on the site). The blog also delivered two successful special series receiving some 20
contributions on doctoral writing and technology, and on social writing practices.
Over 100 guests have contributed to the blog, bringing local and international per-
spectives from supervisors, language advisors, librarians, and doctoral students. Also
absent from this book are the comments and other social media exchanges provoked
by individual posts. Missing, too, in this rendition, are the accounts we have written
on relevant conferences and community events, foremost of which is the Quality
in Postgraduate Research Conference with which we remain associated. For many
readers and guest writers, the blog encouraged spin-off activities, connections and
sharing of practice, for example, via Twitter or personal email communication. We’d
like to recognise those spin-off communities—the most recent of which is the active
‘DoctoralWritingSIG’, steered by Drs Susan Mowbray and Juliet Lum, who host
regular, synchronous, online community forums in association with the blog.
The original blogs, written individually by each of us, were serendipitous; reflec-
tions mostly arising from a particular event or prompted by our practices and ped-
agogical understanding as supervisors, our work as writing teachers, in supervisor
training or doctoral research. Compiling a book of these diverse, unrelated and often
idiosyncratic musings required difficult decisions about what to keep and what to
4 1 Introduction

leave out, how to balance popular posts against other considerations such as breadth
and depth around a common theme.
Each chapter curates the relevant blog posts into a compatible dialogue around
discrete aspects of doctoral writing practice. Reviewing work that has been produced
over many years allowed us to identify enduring concerns and themes, and to present
them afresh with a sharpened focus and in fruitful juxtaposition. The result is an
eclectic set of perspectives on persistent themes in doctoral writing—a bit like a set
of short stories or Pecha Kucha presentations. Enduringly, our stories and small ideas
fit together here.

Navigating the Book

The chapters have been structured around popular themes relating to practice hot-
spots. Being and developing writers brings together posts that celebrate the human
dimensions of writing. This chapter explores joy, desire and struggle—writerly expe-
riences that signify change and transformation for both students and those supervising
them. Through the lens of writing, three areas are explored: supervision and writing
support, writing and feedback, and how identity and emotion play out in writing and
supervision.
Because productivity dominates many concerns about doctoral writing, Manag-
ing productivity comes next. This chapter looks at writing groups and social writing
activities, retreats, boot camps, binges and the joy of shared experience. Processes,
habits, and time management, schedules and writing spaces underpin what is essen-
tially an interrogation of attitudes and how to swing them into more productive
routines. Humour creeps into the consideration of doctoral writing, and the chapter
finishes with an emphasis on the privilege and pleasure of this work we all pour time
into.
The next chapter, Crafting writing, discusses what Sword calls ‘artisanal habits’
(Sword, 2017). Doctoral writing must gain acceptance within a discourse community
represented initially by examiners. Arguably, the craft of writing relies on expertise
in amongst the mechanics of language. Doctoral writing is strongest when clear,
which is often achieved by hammering complexity into clean, simple prose. Word
choice, grammar, syntax and punctuation play their role in establishing voice and
demonstrating critical analysis. This chapter testifies that the three of us are intrigued
by how the craft of writing can be taught and learned.
Writing the thesis is a hefty chapter because it is the thesis that preoccupies
doctoral writers and those of us who support them over several years. This chapter
begins with general advice about impact, early choices, ethics, and narrative. From
there, we discuss structure and thesis design. We point out the importance of clarity
around the argument and original contribution, then attend to writing about theory,
critical thinking and data analysis. With those essential framing issues addressed, we
run through posts on specific parts of the thesis. The term ‘thesis’ doesn’t signal that
we are interested in only the traditional monograph. When publications or practice
Navigating the Book 5

shape the thesis, there remains the task of writing, and learning how to do that in
accordance with discipline expectations. ‘Thesis’ is used here to refer broadly to the
doctoral writing that takes the research through to submission.
We are aware that Disseminating findings occurs throughout the doctorate in
different ways, and yet we chose to leave this activity for our final chapter, given that
becoming a research writer, managing productivity, acquiring writing craft skills
usually come ahead of dissemination, while the pressing demands of thesis writ-
ing continue throughout. In this final chapter, we think ahead to the foundations
of a research career, considering publication processes, co-authorship, and profile
building.
Every book takes time to produce and this one is no exception, drawing as it does
from years of writing and musings on writing. We hope it gives you as much pleasure
as it delivered to its authors.

References

Ahmed, S. (2006). Queer phenomenology: Orientations, objects and others. London: Duke
University Press.
Aitchison, C. (2014). Learning from multiple voices: Feedback and authority in doctoral writing
groups. In C. Aitchison & C. Guerin (Eds.), Writing groups for doctoral education and beyond:
Innovations in practice and theory (pp. 51–64). Oxon, UK: Routledge.
Aitchison, C., & Guerin, C. (2014). Writing groups for doctoral education and beyond: Innovations
in practice and theory. London, UK: Routledge. Retrieved from http://www.tandf.net/books/
details/9780415834742/.
Aitchison, C., & Lee, A. (2006). Research writing: Problems and pedagogies. Teaching in Higher
Education, 11(3), 265–278.
Aitchison, C., & Paré, A. (2012). Writing as craft and practice in the doctoral curriculum. In A. Lee
& R. Danby (Eds.), Reshaping doctoral education: International approaches and pedagogies
(pp. 12–25). London, UK: Routledge.
Aitchison, C., Kamler, B., & Lee, A. (Eds.). (2010). Publishing pedagogies for the doctorate and
beyond. London, UK: Routledge.
Aitchison, C., Catterall, J., Ross, P. I., & Burgin, S. (2012). ‘Tough love and tears’: Learning doctoral
writing in the sciences. Higher Education Research & Development, 31(4), 435–447.
Aitchison, C., Carter, S., & Guerin, C. (2018). Blogging: Connecting research communities online.
In R. Erwee, M. A. Harmes, M. K. Harmes, & P. A. Danaher (Eds.), Postgraduate education in
higher education (pp. 153–164). Singapore: Springer Singapore.
Badenhorst, C., & Guerin, C. (2016). Research literacies and writing pedagogies for masters and
doctoral writers. Leiden, Netherlands: Studies in Writing Series, Brill.
Can, G., & Walker, A. (2011). A model for doctoral students’ perceptions and attitudes toward
written feedback for academic writing. Research in Higher Education, 52(5), 508–536.
Carter, S., & Kumar, V. (2016). ‘Ignoring me is part of learning’: Supervisory feedback on doctoral
writing. Innovations in Education and Teaching International, 54(1), 68–75.
Carter, S., & Laurs, D. (Eds.). (2014). Developing generic support for doctoral students: Practice
and pedagogy. London, UK: Routledge.
Carter, S., Laurs, D., Chant, L., & Wolgramm-Foliaki, E. (2017). Indigenous knowledge and super-
vision: Changing the lens [on-line ahead of publication]. Innovations in Education and Teaching
International.
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Denholm, C. J., & Evans, T. D. (2007). Supervising doctorates downunder: Keys to effective
supervision in Australia and New Zealand. Camberwell, VIC.: ACER Press.
Golde, C., Jones, L., Conklin Bueschel, A., & Walker, G. E. (2006). The challenges of doctoral
program assessment: Lessons from the Carnegie initiative on the doctorate. In P. L. Maki & N.
A. Borkowski (Eds.), The assessment of doctoral education: Emerging criteria and new models
for improving outcomes (pp. 53–82). Sterling, VA: Stylus.
Grant, B. (2010). Negotiating layered relations of supervision. In M. Walker & P. Thomson (Eds.),
The Routledge doctoral supervisor’s companion: Supporting effective research in education and
the social sciences (pp. 88–105). Oxon, UK: Routledge.
Guerin, C. (2013). Rhizomatic research cultures, writing groups and academic researcher identities.
International Journal of Doctoral Studies, 8, 137–150.
Guerin, C. (2016). Connecting the dots: Writing a doctoral thesis by publication. In C. Badenhorst
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Guerin, C., & Green, I. (2014). Cultural diversity and the imagined community of the global
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Guerin, C., & Picard, M. (2012). Try it on: Voice, concordancing and text-matching in doctoral
writing. International Journal of Educational Integrity, 8(2), 34–45.
Guerin, C., Carter, S., & Aitcheson, C. (2015). Blogging as learning community: Lessons for aca-
demic development? International Journal of Academic Development. http://www.tandfonline.
com/doi/abs/10.1080/1360144X.2015.1042480.
Guerin, C., Carter, S., & Aitchison, C. (2016). Networks, nodes and knowledge: Blogging to support
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Bitzer (Eds.), Postgraduate supervision: Future foci for the knowledge society. SUN MeDia:
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over time: Cultivating agency in diverse spaces. In L. McAlpine & C. Amundsen (Eds.), Doc-
toral education: Research-based strategies for doctoral students, supervisors and administrators
(pp. 17–36). Dordrecht, Netherlands: Springer.
Lee, A., & Aitchison, C. (2009). Writing for the doctorate and beyond. In D. Boud & A. Lee (Eds.),
Changing practices of doctoral education (pp. 87–99). Oxon, UK: Routledge.
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framework for action and research. Higher Education Research and Development, 25(1), 3–17.
McAlpine, L., Jazvac-Martek, M., & Hopwood, N. (2009). Doctoral student experience in Edu-
cation: Activities and difficulties influencing identity development. International Journal for
Researcher Development, 1(1), 97–109.
Nilsen, R. (2006). Innovative developments in doctoral programmes for Europe. Paper presented at
the New dimensions in doctoral programmes in Europe: Training, employability and the European
knowledge agenda. The UK Council for Graduate Education Summer Conference, Florence, Italy.
Paré, A. (2011). Speaking of writing: Supervisory feedback and the dissertation. In L. McAlpine
& C. Amundsen (Eds.), Doctoral education: Research-based strategies for doctoral students,
supervisors and administrators (pp. 59–74). New York, NY: Springer.
Paré, A., Starke-Meyerring, D., & McAlpine, L. (2009). The dissertation as multi-genre: Many
readers, many readings. In C. Bazerman, A. Bonini, & D. Figueiredo (Eds.), Genre in a changing
world (pp. 179–193). Fort Collins, CO: The WAC Clearinghouse and Parlour Press.
Scevak, J. (2006). Text features and aids in doctoral writing. In C. Denholm & T. Evans (Eds.),
Doctorates downunder: Keys to successful doctoral study (pp. 159–164). Camberwell, UK: Acer
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Chapter 2
Being and Developing Writers

Becoming a writer and providing supervisory support in that journey is complex

and multifaceted. It is a relational process involving novice writers, their supervi-
sor(s), and the tricky relationships between these key individuals. Often, others also
enter this space—institutional and external sources of support, families and social
and learning networks inform and transform the relational influences impacting the
writing experience. Clearly, learning to write as a credentialised doctoral research
scholar is so much more than simply the acquisition of skills. We see writing as a
process of identity formation involving struggles with authority, self-representation
and the personal—most especially we recognise the powerful emotional forces at
play as doctoral students test out the possibilities for new, authentic writerly selves
(Ivaniĉ, 1998) that honour personal, disciplinary and supervisory expectations and
norms.
This chapter explores this rich contextual palette of people, relationships and
practices in three sections. Firstly, through the lens of writing, the supervisory rela-
tionship (and writing support more generally) is examined, thereafter re-examined
with a particular focus on feedback. Finally, we showcase posts that explore how
identity and emotion play out in doctoral writing and supervision.
In this eclectic collection, reflections on supervision, and writing development
more broadly, rehearse some of the causes and responses to tensions, and how to
avoid trouble in the supervisory relationships by establishing good practices early
on. As we show, sometimes supervisor or student behaviours can be problematic and,
at other times, external factors can be at issue. We hope these stories will resonate—as
well as provide concrete support and advice on making your supervisory relationship
strong and rewarding.
The next segment contains writing from a themed sequence on ‘Feedback’. Here
we cover issues such as frequency of feedback, feedback practices and panel supervi-
sion, critical self-scrutiny, management of emotions, and strategies for thriving from
feedback.

© Springer Nature Singapore Pte Ltd. 2020 7

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8 2 Being and Developing Writers

After that, we explore the complex relationships and changing identities that writ-
ers have with their texts, supervisors and others and the dynamic interplay between
writing and research, desire and reality. This section highlights the very human
aspects of doctoral study and supervision, alerting readers to the joys, frustrations
and heartache that befall those embarking on this wonderful, maddening and ulti-
mately rewarding journey. It reminds us that even the best advice, skills and expertise
is shaped by powerful psychosocial dimensions—and life’s little interruptions.

Supervision and Developing Student Writing

Managing Supervisors and Doctoral Writing: Some Advice

for Candidates

Susan Carter

Recently I attended a panel of two doctoral candidates and one supervisor giving
advice on how to manage your supervisor. Some foundational advice came from the
supervisor, who noted that human beings were all different. She had found that what
worked well with one student did not work well with another, and that open and
clear communication enables a good relationship. The doctoral candidates had some
anecdotes of their own experience, and, by recounting them, showed that both they
and their supervisors were indeed different in terms of work-protocol preference. One
said that he hadn’t thought about managing his supervisor nor considered whether
the relationship was okay until he heard his doctoral colleagues telling their tales and
realised that he had a superb supervisor.
I know how important a good relationship is: it affects personal wellbeing over
four years or so. And doctoral students have a part to play in figuring out the protocols
for working together happily. Here’s some advice that could be given to them before
they begin supervision, or for when supervisors are not forthcoming with explanation
about managing doctoral writing.
Expect to be in awe of your supervisors, because they will have a great deal more experience
and thus expertise, and then do useful things with that awe. Don’t let it act as a barrier to good
communication. In western institutions, it is not the habit to offer gifts to express respect,
but do always show your respect by saying thanks for supervisory time and input, and by
replying to their emails promptly. Even if you don’t have an answer, do acknowledge receipt.
That basic etiquette goes some distance towards encouraging busy academics to want to be
involved in your project. Also, ask them, because they are experts and you are the novice,
how the relationship will work around writing.

Some questions that are best tackled early on in the doctorate:

1. Could you tell me how much writing is expected in the first year, and suggest
where I should begin?
2. Is there support with academic writing at this university besides from you?
Supervision and Developing Student Writing 9

3. How much revision do you expect before I submit the writing to you? Are you
willing to skim through a rough draft just to see my ideas and direction?
4. How long should I expect to wait for your feedback?
5. What do I do if I do not understand your feedback? Can I let you know if that
happens?
At undergraduate level, it is typical to hide weakness because you want good
grades and you want lecturers to think that you know perhaps more than you do
really. Disconcertingly, this changes at doctoral level. You and your supervisor are a
team, and if you are worried, it helps if you say so early on. For example, saying ‘I’m
worried about doing complicated statistical analysis’ or ‘showing critical analysis
in English language academic writing’ or ‘writing about theory that I have trouble
understanding’ means that, as a team, together you can find the right support. Do not
hide your weaknesses.
The best way you help people is to mention what you think works well. If you
say, ‘I found that so helpful when you connect with my thought and bring me back
on track’, you are teaching your supervisor who you are and what you value.
Trying not to moan about small shortfalls is sensible. Supervisors are only human.
On the other hand, be aware of institutional guidelines if you think that something
really is a problem. There will be policy, yet it is ideal if you can find ways to sort
out problems between the two of you. If supervisory neglect is the problem, try to
get peer support or support from generic student learning advisors.
There are many ways that relationships around writing and feedback come under
pressure: one premise with academic writing is that it improves with being ham-
mered by critique, and this can be uncomfortable—for supervisors as well as doctoral
authors.

Sharing Our Practice: Writing and Higher Degree Research

Supervision

Claire Aitchison

Very often academics work in isolation, rarely having the opportunity to share their
teaching practice—despite a literature that extols the virtues of peer observation
(Shortland, 2010) and the desire of academics and supervisors for learning from
colleagues (Hamilton, Carson & Ellison, 2013).
Given the history of Ph.D. scholarship and the increasingly busy lives of aca-
demics, it is not surprising that the student–supervisory locus remains the most
private of all teaching spaces. For students and supervisors alike, what goes on there
is rarely scrutinised or discussed publicly (Goode, 2010). Perhaps that is why this
activity received so many exclamations of recognition and generated such lively dis-
cussion. Done with care, I think we all enjoy sharing and comparing our experiences.
Well-constructed scenarios that ‘ring true’ can encourage us to consider events from
10 2 Being and Developing Writers

different perspectives, trigger self-reflection and hopefully enrich our supervisory

practices.
In this blog I share some teaching materials from a series on supervision and
researcher writing. I created small, de-identified vignettes from real events, and
groups were encouraged to discuss the scenarios in response to two prompts: What is
going on here? And, what strategies might be useful to address the issues? Generally,
this activity results in lively thoughtful conversations about problems and solutions.
Scenario 1
For over a year now I have been giving my research student careful, detailed feedback
on her writing. At the end of the Chap. 1 try to summarise her main problems and
identify relevant spelling or grammar rules. I have even given them links to grammar
websites that have clear explanations and practice activities. However, I have seen
the same errors repeated over and over. I am at my wit’s end. What else can I do?
Scenario 2
A recent incident has negatively impacted my relationship with my doctoral scholar,
leaving me perplexed and surprised.
Luke wrote a fabulous Master’s dissertation that was insightful, quirky and inven-
tive. I was happy to take him on as a doctoral scholar. Because I am already familiar
with Luke’s capabilities, I guess I have not been as attentive to this student as I am
with others; nevertheless, I have been happy with the progress of the doctorate. He
has been highly self-motivated, achieved all the milestones and handled some diffi-
cult surprises in his research. He is now in the last six months of candidature and I
am working more intensely with him.
In my experience, candidates’ writing capabilities often show significant improve-
ment in the final stages of intense ‘writing up’. As is not uncommon, some of Luke’s
writing had long been under par—lacking the sophistication and depth required of a
highly theoretical thesis. When I tried to explain that his writing was not ‘academic
enough’ and that he still wrote like a Master’s student rather than ‘at Ph.D. level’,
he reacted badly. He cut short our conversation and left the meeting. Since then our
interactions have been rather steely.
Scenario 3
My doctoral student has been a high school classroom teacher for over 35 years. His
research is on second language acquisition—an issue about which he has very strong
opinions. He is a great writer, teacher and communicator, and despite emigrating from
Italy, his command of English language is exceptional. His thesis writing, however, is
convoluted and dense. His sentences are long and complex. He writes passionately,
at times infusing his work with hyperbole and flourish. He is determined that his
views, born of extensive experience, find a place in the thesis. I am not sure how
to proceed; so far he has failed to pick up on my feedback about the importance of
being objective.
Supervision and Developing Student Writing 11

Scenario 4
One of my very capable students is at risk of not completing on time. She is demon-
strably clever and contributes well to lab activities and discussions. She is popular
amongst her peers, often helping others with their work. She has developed an active
social media profile with a website and research blog where she posts stories and
pictures from the field and communicates with a global network of researchers.
However, she regularly fails to deliver substantial pieces of writing—rather, she
turns up to supervision meetings with pages of dot points and descriptions of what
she is going to do. She often presents with yet another new idea. She doesn’t stick to
agreements about handing in work a week before our scheduled meeting, nor pro-
ducing text in accordance with our discussions. She always has excuses—and grand
plans for catching up. She has probably attended nearly every workshop available to
HDR candidates.
Discussion of such scenarios helps supervisors to realize that they are not alone
with the complexities of writing feedback.

Doctoral Writing and Decision-Making in the First Few

Months

Susan Carter

I’m working with a promising new doctoral student and conversations are mainly
around scoping her project. I’ll call her Angel, although she uses her Chinese name.
Our talk circles round the decisions that need to be made in the first year, and
preferably in the first few months. It’s a process of thinking, choosing and writing.
First, decisions are approached at different levels.
We begin with identifying the problem that is driving the research. I want her
to write that clearly. This leads to how her doctoral project might produce better
understanding of the problem with a goal to mitigating it. One set of considerations
regards methods and methodology. Will her project be mixed methods, and which?
Will the triangulation of these methods be likely to show something really useful?
How much data will be needed? How will it be gathered? How will she delimit what
is in the study and what is not?
At the same time, we both want to find the shortest route to completion—Angel’s
left a toddler at home with her diligent parents and her husband and wants to finish
quickly and to be reunited with them. She’s coping well with the emotions associated
with this and her supportive family believe that they will all benefit from her doc-
torate. Yet the separation is still sometimes overwhelming; the unfamiliar Christmas
celebration with its joyful tableau of mother and son, and its focus on family, brought
an unexpected rush of tears. Desire for the fastest, smoothest route is not just about
institutional desire for timely submissions: it relates to quality of life.
12 2 Being and Developing Writers

So we are considering the scope of Angel’s work and thesis carefully: how much
will be enough to be a Ph.D.? Questions about scoping take us back to the literature,
and to other theses in the field. I’m also keen that Angel designs a research approach
that she will enjoy rather than simply applying other people’s approaches. The meth-
ods she gains expertise in during her doctorate may well be ones she uses again after
completion.
At another level, we are thinking about the best possible doctorate to give Angel
the future that she most wants. She intends to return to her homeland to develop her
career there, so is looking at the kinds of jobs her Ph.D. might prepare her for. She’s
considering at what level she would prefer to work: in a university department, in
a university management role, in a government role with leadership in Educational
policy making…. She also needs to think about where she and her family might like
to live, given that her husband and the grandparents would be involved.
I’m encouraging Angel to write as we go through these conversations. We run
through the pros and cons of different options in our meetings, and she writes this
reasoning down in the week before the next meeting. This enables her to capture
the small details of decisions likely to slide out of mind when it comes to defending
her methods in writing later. Some of what she produces will fit neatly into her
introduction; some will go to the more detailed methodology section.
Where possible, she is building literature that informs her choice into her Endnote
library and into this early writing. This is partly for safekeeping from the limitations
of memory, and it also establishes the habit of linking her project to literature and
capturing that linkage in writing.
Another benefit is that we have begun working together on writing, a pleasurable
part of supervision from my perspective. We are establishing expectations for meeting
deadlines with writing and feedback, and trust with that. I’m figuring how to scaffold
her development to where she is a confident fluent writer in English; we are both
learning who the other one is, and how to best develop together as a team. For a start,
Angel is learning to listen to my curious kiwi accent….

Bad Supervision? Or Bad Communication? Avoiding

Complaints in Supervision—The Importance of Good
Communication

Claire Aitchison

No one wants trouble in doctoral candidature, but unfortunately, sometimes things

can go bad.
Supervision and Developing Student Writing 13

In 2017/2018 the New South Wales Ombudsman released a discussion paper

Complaints about the Supervision of Post-Graduate Students. That Paper, later super-
seded by a Report, described the cases as ‘exceptionally difficult to deal with’, highly
complex and emotional, and requiring ‘very considerable resources’ (p. 2). While
supervision-related complaints may not be disproportional compared to other student
complaints, the human costs can be considerable, threatening student, supervisor and
institutional wellbeing and reputations.
The Paper describes complaints received, processes for handling complaints,
institutional policies and procedures, contributing factors, and suggestions for ways
forward. The Office surveyed all NSW institutions, reviewed institutional policies,
and conducted follow-up interviews with selected staff and students, and student
representative bodies.
Of course, most complaints about postgraduate supervision are handled within the
institutions themselves; it’s relatively rare that cases are taken to the Ombudsman.
Nevertheless, the initial Paper and subsequent Report leave no doubt about the sig-
nificance of the matters and of the importance for institutions—let alone the parties
directly involved—for finding better ways of heading off and then, if necessary, for
handling disputes. The severity of such matters is indicated by their list of examples:
1. Allegations that supervisors have plagiarised students’ work
2. Allegations that supervisors deliberately destroyed students’ research material
or otherwise acted to sabotage students’ research
3. Illegal tape recordings made by students of interviews with their supervisors
4. Threats of suicide
5. Complaints about a university responding inappropriately to threats of suicide
6. Allegations of criminal conduct and/or sexual harassment and/or racist conduct
by supervisors
7. Conduct on the part of students towards their supervisors that could be potentially
regarded as criminal, threatening or stalking to the extent that either universities
or academics personally have had to seek restraining orders.
By identifying factors that contribute to the incidence and gravity of grievances,
the Paper indicates where we can make improvements.
The Report points to the following:
1. Inadequate or poorly timed information for students and supervisors about
processes and practices
14 2 Being and Developing Writers

2. Limited ‘training’ of supervisors for handling difficult situations and for max-
imising productive communication. For example, there were instances where
students genuinely didn’t realise a supervisor was giving them bad news
3. Diverse, obscure and sometimes inadequate institutional policies vis-à-vis stu-
dent and supervisor responsibilities that could help avoid problems (e.g., expecta-
tions for record keeping, feedback and meeting arrangements), and for identifying
and handling grievances and resolving conflicts
4. Often inadequate internal processes for ‘tracking’ and responding to repeated
complaints against a supervisor
5. Inadequate, poorly timed and unclear processes for resolving conflicts and no
clearly identifiable, trusted ‘go to’ people and systems.

Communication Within the Supervisory Team

The Report infers that the traditional, intimate model of supervision that involves
numerous private, unrecorded meetings and agreements between individual students
and supervisors can be problematic. Without record-keeping processes that are mutu-
ally accepted and valued, misunderstandings and unmatched memories of events can
go unchecked—and potentially escalate what would otherwise be minor matters.
We know that when the supervisory space is opened out to ‘community’ or ‘mixed’
models (McCallin & Nayar, 2012) involving supervisory teams, writing support
groups and experts, peers in coursework arrangements, and so on, opportunities for
openness and transparency increase. The safety net is widened.
Honest and Productive Communication Is Hard
Communication is a key issue for causing—and resolving—problems.
The Report noted that more frequent and better-recorded meetings and agreements
can make a huge difference for dispute avoidance and settling. When the discussion
is taken into a written form, it needs to adequately and respectfully document the
issues raised in an agreed fashion. It’s important that students are actively and openly
involved in this process; for example, they may take on the job of recording and
circulating supervision meeting ‘minutes’.
It is also recommended that all parties make good use of existing institutional
reporting mechanisms. Mostly these reporting processes are under-utilised for noting
and addressing concerns—and not everyone has faith in the system, often for good
reason (see Mewburn, Tokareva, Cuthbert, Sinclair, & Barnacle, 2013).
There may be some lag between having a concern and recording it. For example,
supervisors may have concerns about a student’s progress, writing or ability for
some time before raising it with the student—after all, many things get resolved in
the course of the candidature. Raising concerns and handling the discussion is the
first step—but can be hugely difficult and requires keen judgment, careful timing
and sensitivity. A supervisor may be sensitive to other problems in the student’s life
and decide to delay delivering what may be construed as additional bad news. Many
supervisors will feel uncomfortable sharing their reservations, and even when they
do raise them with students, they may hesitate to document their concerns for fear it
could escalate matters, negatively impact the relationship, or undermine a student’s
confidence.
Supervision and Developing Student Writing 15

It is understandable that a student will hesitate to record anything that may be

construed as negative or potentially critical of their supervisor or institution. This is
an unequal power relationship—even without taking into account personal, cultural
or gendered issues. It is really tricky territory—but is even more difficult when the
individuals involved are isolated and lack confidence in their capacity to communicate
in a way that is cognizant of the local sensitivities and contextual interrelationships.
The ‘complaint genre’ is not one many of us are experienced in.
We all know how hard it can be to commit other-than-positive statements to paper.
For both students and supervisors, getting advice and feedback from a trusted and
knowledgeable third party can be crucial for clarifying one’s thinking and for the
tricky process of constructing the written documentation of concerns. Institutions
have a responsibility here.
In the Ombudsman’s Discussion Paper, international students are singled out as
a special case—not because they represent statistically greater numbers of reported
problems but because complex visa, sponsorship and financial concerns add addi-
tional levels of difficulty for these students. In addition, some students have different
perceptions of respect and face-saving that could influence their propensity to com-
plain. Equally, some international students may harbour deep distrust of bureaucratic
processes and thus resist recording concerns, no matter how valid.
As this Report reminds us, it is difficult to overstate the importance of regular,
transparent, and mutually respectful communication, for successful and rewarding
supervisory experiences.

Can You Care Too Much? Supervisors, Students and Writing

in the Academy

Claire Aitchison

I have been reflecting on this idea of caring—and especially on the possibility, and
consequences, of ‘caring too much’.
Recently I spent time with a friend and colleague who was contemplating leaving
the academy. Despite caring very deeply about her discipline, institution and fac-
ulty—and having devoted decades of her life to these things—an accumulation of
issues was causing her severe discomfort. What struck me was her comment: ‘It’s
reached a stage where I just don’t care anymore.’ I wish this had been the first time
I’d heard a respected colleague say this. Unfortunately, in my work as a consultant
across a wide variety of institutions, I hear this sentiment all too often: both from
research students and academics. And more than once I’ve heard the corollary advice:
‘You care too much; that’s your problem!’
16 2 Being and Developing Writers

What brings people to a point when they no longer care? What does it mean to
care too much or not enough, and what’s the effect on doctoral writing?
Scenario 1: Passionate Beliefs
In one of my doctoral writing groups, a participant offered feedback to her peer
saying her writing was ‘too emotional’. Others agreed. Someone said something
along the lines of ‘I have a background in activism myself, so I see where you’re
coming from, but my supervisor has taught me to remove the passion.’
We all felt uneasy for the author because she felt so deeply about her topic—but
we also thought there was some truth in the feedback she received from the group.
Olga expressed surprise at how clear her feelings were, saying ‘And, I thought I’d
toned it down!’
Personally, I respond negatively to an over-emotional account because I find it
unconvincing—I enjoy being challenged by a well-argued position, rather than by a
passionately held one.
These are some of the tell-tale signs of an overly emotional piece of writing:
1. Exaggerated (and unsubstantiated) claims, such as ‘the general public is ignorant
of these facts’ rather than ‘the research showed that this is rarely taught in schools
nor raised in the media’.
2. The use of value-laden words, e.g., ‘the community’s unjustified prejudices’
rather than ‘the community’s response grew out of an historical event …’.
3. Bias or stereotyping of groups, e.g., ‘their typical over-reaction’.
4. When an author works in binaries. Black and white thinking disallows a nuanced
attention to complexity and signals an author’s selective reading of the literature.
5. Failure to acknowledge, in any serious way, alternative perspectives, evidence
and viewpoints. This is often evidenced in the text by scant use of hedging or
modalities or the absence of certain literature.
6. Overuse of adjectives or adverbs, e.g., ‘outrageous and hideous slaughter’.
When writing is characterised by these elements, it loses credibility—the author
has positioned themselves as a passionate believer in a cause rather than an objective
scholar. Passion is good, but care needs to be taken as to how that translates in the
writing.
Scenario 2: Letting Go
‘I’ll write it like he wants: I just don’t care anymore.’
‘I’m over it: let’s just get this finished!’

I suspect those who work as writing support staff outside the supervisory rela-
tionship will have heard similar confessions—from both students and supervisors.
The doctoral journey is an exhausting one and it is understandable that students
and supervisors can reach a point where the need to move on overrides the desire
to make perfect text. Everyone can feel worn down in the very final stages of the
Ph.D. What may have seemed important early on, may become less so in retrospect
and especially in comparison with the desire to complete. I’ve seen once dearly held
visions, for example, for a certain kind of writerly voice, or beautifully presented
Supervision and Developing Student Writing 17

doctoral thesis, abandoned in the last six months. In other cases a supervisor may
feel their student’s work isn’t as good as it could be, but that it’s good enough to get
across the line and so theses and scholarly journal papers are submitted prematurely
(Paré, 2010).
There are points in this journey, too, when even the most capable authors can
get stuck from caring too much about their writing. Writing fast and without care
is a powerful antidote for the kind of writers’ block that comes from striving for
perfection (Elbow, 1981).
Scenario 3: ‘S/he Just Doesn’t Care’
Each person in the supervisory relationship will bring different levels of care to the
task. Some supervisors ‘care’ more than others. One may argue that students will
care more about their project than those on the panel, and that a supervisor’s care
will be closely tied up with a care for their reputation—perhaps even eclipsing their
care for a student.
But can a supervisor care too much? I’ve recently pondered a situation where this
may be the case: a very capable student was cautioned against what was perceived
to be a high-risk project. The supervisor was not well experienced in the alternative
methodology favoured by the student and wanted to avoid trouble. I know the super-
visor was motivated by a care to protect the student from harm—to minimise the
risk of delayed completion, or worse, a poor examination outcome. In the end the
student took the ‘safe’ option: a project that was eminently doable, but unlikely to
stretch the student or challenge the field. Sadly too, it was a project that the student
didn’t really care for.
I am also aware of the human cost to both students and supervisors whose care
drives them perhaps beyond reasonable limits, making a work–life balance impos-
sible. There are very real dangers for those who ‘care too much’ in an acceler-
ated academy where expectations for written productivity are ever increasing. Some
supervisors put extraordinary hours of care into their students, and not all institutions
adequately acknowledge and reward this.
Passion is good: after all a student will need to be passionate about their topic to
last the (doctoral) distance. Some topics will always engender strong responses: for
example, where there are victims and perpetrators and deep political, cultural and
social divides, as with genocide, the treatment of refugees or rape. But I have been
prompted to think that it’s not bad sometimes to care less passionately—that is, I’m
advocating the value of standing back to get some emotional distance to be able to
bring more objectivity to one’s thinking and writing.
When it comes to it, perhaps the most valuable thing about caring is that it provides
the moral foundation and energy for sustaining one’s motivation.
18 2 Being and Developing Writers

Controlling the Emotion of Doctoral Writing and Supervision

Susan Carter

As an academic of some years standing, I don’t get emotional about writing. I know I
need to do it; it’s part of my job. I like doing it more than much of the work I do each
week, but even when writing is not a pleasure, it is still a job that I am responsible
for completing. And I expect to be hammered by reviewers, including kindly peers. I
see writing feedback as a gift (Guerin, 2014) even though, like others, I mutter abuse
when reviewers seem to want to colonise my articles with their own voice or their
own approach.
The gift of rigorous feedback takes some getting used to. Gifts like chocolates
cause pleasure, but are not that good for you, nor, as a gift, do they show real
engagement with who you uniquely are. When the gift of feedback includes a real
pounding, it is like deep tissue massage and acupuncture: it hurts, but usually it helps
and feels so much better later. So I am aware of harbouring unkind thoughts when
doctoral students appear to be drama queens about how impossible it is to write.
Although I am outwardly patient, I know inside that all I want to do is find a means
of getting them writing again. I want them to learn to handle emotion, control it and
move to where they see it as just part of the weird career choice they have made: to
become proficient in academic literacy.
Supervisors are usually more aware than their doctoral students of the need to take
a practical, workerly stance to writing. We forget that the construction of identity
through voice can be deeply troublesome. As a friendly colleague, I am able to simply
back out of an emotionally charged conversation—as a supervisor, I cannot. As a
supervisor, I express empathy so as not to seem monstrous, but I’m always looking
for the opening to move the student back into productivity as soon as possible, with
‘why don’t you try….?’ Probably there is always an emotional disconnect between
how the student and the supervisor feel whenever student writing stalls.

What Level of English Competence Is Enough for Doctoral

Students?

Cally Guerin

I am regularly involved in assessing the English language skills of international

students, which has made me think yet again about this vexed issue and just how
complex it is to accurately assess language levels, especially under high-stakes exam
conditions.
In Australia, the International English Language Testing System (IELTS) is com-
monly used to determine English language competency. All four language skills
(reading, writing, speaking and listening) are tested in four separate parts of the
Supervision and Developing Student Writing 19

exam unlike the Test of English as a Foreign Language (TOEFL), which is conducted
online and integrates writing, reading and listening tasks.
At my university, international students are required to have an entry level IELTS
score of 6.5 or higher. This is equivalent to the 79–93 range in TOEFL. But what do
these numbers mean? IELTS explains:
IELTS Band 7: Good User
Has operational command of the language, though with occasional inaccura-
cies, inappropriacies and misunderstandings in some situations. Generally handles
complex language well and understands detailed reasoning.
IELTS Band 6: Competent User
Has generally effective command of the language despite some inaccuracies, inap-
propriacies and misunderstandings. Can use and understand fairly complex language,
particularly in familiar situations.
These competency levels sound adequate; however, some supervisors may ques-
tion their value when they are faced with poor student writing. Maybe sentences
have small errors such as absent or misused articles (a, the), uncountable nouns used
as plurals (researches or evidences), lack of agreement between subject and verb
(participants has reported), or wrong word forms (have observe).
On the whole, I’m not too fussed about such ‘surface errors’. So long as the
sentence structure is more or less in place, and the reader can understand what the
student is getting at, I am more than willing to work with that. But I am aware that,
as a former English language teacher, I bring particular skills to this task that others
may not necessarily have.
Working as an editor for academics whose first language was not English also
taught me useful lessons about writing and English competence. In that position, my
employing company policy stated that editors were not to intervene with ‘correc-
tions’ unless there was actually a mistake. There is an important distinction between
actual errors and personal preferences that is relevant to doctoral students too. When
we urge doctoral writers to ‘find your own voice’, they may choose to include some
stylistic quirks that are not strictly conventional in academic writing, yet commu-
nicate valuable aspects of their own perspective on the topic. Again, it’s necessary
to consider whether or not it is ‘wrong’, or whether it might be quite acceptable to
many academic readers.
I think it’s also important to recognise what an author is achieving in their
writing, rather than focusing on what is not grammatically accurate. For example,
doctoral writers should be commended for ensuring that all the relevant informa-
tion is present and properly referenced; that the overall argument is structured into
a logical sequence; and that the headings and paragraphing clearly communicate
the central ideas. That is, supervisors can encourage students by taking time to
acknowledge what is right and build student confidence through positive feedback
and encouragement.
20 2 Being and Developing Writers

Writing Support from Generic Learning Advisors

Compared to Supervisors

Doctoral Writing: The Value of Learning Advisors

Susan Carter

I was talking to a doctoral student who is nearing the final stages of her thesis. She
wished her supervisors would make clear, practical suggestions about writing—as I
had just done from a generic advisor position, causing her evident relief and a mini-
breakthrough. (In New Zealand ‘learning advisors’ play a similar role to academic
support roles known elsewhere as writing teachers or language and literacy advisors.)
She also suggested that mature students were maybe more interested in just getting
the job done rather than beating metaphoric bushes—for example, the thickets of
theory that might harbour other possible writing directions. Yet she suspected that
supervisors saw it as good teaching to beat those bushes and send students chasing
after the ideas that might emerge.
Our discussion made me think about the differences between supervisory feedback
on writing and feedback from others outside the supervision team.
Are there clear delineations between the levels (content, clarity, grammar, punc-
tuation, style, structure, etc.) on which supervisors give writing feedback compared
to that from learning advisors? Or is it just luck as to how much time and interest
supervisors and learning advisors have?
Supervisors vary in their availability, and some very diligent supervisors simply
lack the skills to talk clearly and constructively about writing (Paré, 2011). Learning
advisors, on the other hand, are experts in writing at almost all levels, and talk
that talk really well, but they may lack the discipline expertise that would let them
work efficiently (Strauss, 2013), although ignorance can be a great advantage too, in
prompting students to explain things more clearly (Laurs, 2014).
Learning advisor support may be available but ignored by students who avoid
what they see as the negative associations of the deficit model of generic support.
That is a pity, because it has much to offer that supplements supervisory support.
Different learning cultures will mean different expectations (Wu, 2013), sometimes
troublingly so (Fovotation, 2013). Clusters of doctoral students who find structure
or style problematic, or who happen to be grappling with the literature review, will
benefit from working with others at the same point in the writing process. For that
reason, support outside of supervision becomes an important scaffolding to student
learning.
Sometimes learning support might provide encouragement and advice to doc-
toral students whose first language is not English, before they send writing to their
supervisor (Carter, 2009). But sometimes it will be the supervisor who despairingly
sends the student to a learning advisor after considerable frustrations. Supervisor
frustration can lead to comments that demoralise students and cause them to lose
confidence.
Writing Support from Generic Learning Advisors Compared … 21

So often the borderlands between supervisory and learning advisor feedback on

writing are traversed by people who are having difficult times with writing. Yet some
institutions don’t allow learning advisors to work closely with research students, and
their limited availability bodes ill for those students who need more than a supervi-
sor’s advice. In other instances, learning advisor engagement with doctoral writing
means that they influence the thesis significantly, usually with resulting improvement
in clarity.

Doctoral Writing: Who’s Who in (and Outside) Your Zoo?

Claire Aitchison

In this post I want to explore whose responsibility doctoral writing is.

Of course, doctoral students have some responsibility for developing their writing
and moving it beyond that which was considered acceptable for undergraduate study.
But not all commencing doctoral students have the same writing competencies for
advanced academic work. Increasingly, doctoral researchers enter research degree
programs from diverse pathways—perhaps having been away from university for
years, coming from industry, being ‘end of career’ candidates, or coming from quite
different cultural, linguistic or educational backgrounds. To mix metaphors: it isn’t
a level playing field at the start line.
In Australia, supervisors are responsible for making the initial judgement that a
thesis is ready to be submitted. But this does not necessarily mean the supervisor
has responsibility for developing the writing to that point. Studies have identified a
reluctance by supervisors to carry the responsibility for developing their students’
writing (see Paré, 2011; Catterall, Ross, Aitchison & Burgin, 2011). Some supervi-
sors report a lack of skills, confidence or interest in writing—rather they see their job
as building research skills or as disciplinary experts. And with shorter completion
times and additional bureaucratic and auditing burdens on supervisors, some find
they simply do not have time to oversee their students’ writing.
When we look beyond the student–supervisor dyad, the picture gets even more
muddled.
Institutions themselves are not always clear about whose job ‘writing’ is. Murray
and Cunningham (2011) argue that institutions are responsible for developing writing
where those institutions benefit from research publications.
In the North American tradition, freshman rhetoric and composition courses
inform undergraduate writing, but it seems only belatedly is there a recognition
that doctoral students should be able to access similar support.
In Australia and New Zealand, doctoral writing is frequently attended to by cen-
tralised units such as Graduate Schools, Learning Centres, Academic Development
Units, or Schools of Education. Support may include face-to-face or online work-
shops, programmes, intensives, writing retreats and so on, mostly not-for-credit and
22 2 Being and Developing Writers

not compulsory. Typically, these courses focus on writing skills, processes, or gen-
res, covering things like writing literature reviews or conference abstracts, writing
for scholarly journals, structure, editing, and so on. Course provision may involve
in-house writing specialists, linguists or literacy lecturers, as well as visiting experts,
or disciplinary experts in writing and publishing. Individual disciplinary groups or
Research Centres may also offer various writing support directly to their students.
There is also another, less-well acknowledged source of doctoral writing ‘help’. I
am talking about what appears to be a rapidly growing, sometimes hidden, market of
non-institutional writing support mostly accessed via the Internet. In my own work
with doctoral students over the last two decades, I have been aware of the increasing
uptake of such services by students. I am aware, too, of a growing industry of retired
or under-employed academics who offer services as writing consultants, mentors,
editors and coaches. As far as I know, this burgeoning industry is little documented
and much of it unregulated. I believe too, that many institutions and/or supervisors
are unaware of the extent, or nature, of uptake of these services by their doctoral
students.
It seems to me that as long as institutions don’t recognise the centrality of writing
to the doctoral project, and as long as we fail to provide systematic and integrated
writing support into/within degree programmes, then students will seek help with
their writing wherever they can find it. And as a consequence, their experiences will
be uneven, and even unhelpful or inappropriate.

Who Is Helping Your Doctoral Student Write Their Thesis?

Claire Aitchison

At the Quality in Postgraduate Research (QPR) conference 2014, my colleague,

Susan Mowbray, and I spoke about our research into doctoral writing service
providers external to the conferring university. The motivation for the project arose
from a dilemma in my work at the time—I needed to find individual long-term,
intensive writing support for a doctoral student, and my university didn’t have the
resources to help.
Our research aimed to investigate the scope and nature of writing service providers
available to doctoral scholars and to get a better sense of who such providers are.
Our enquiries led us to realise that there was a considerable demand for this kind
of support—and that there was an extraordinary variety of people and organisations
promoting their services. Our study identified over 158 sites simply from entering six
doctoral-writing-related internet search terms. Our analysis showed the diversity of
service provision—from the fully legitimate, transparent and regulated to the highly
questionable.
In a world where so much of our life is lived online and serviced by markets, it
is not surprising that there should be a burgeoning of online commercial doctoral
Writing Support from Generic Learning Advisors Compared … 23

writing support. However, although we only scratched the surface, what surprised us
was the global reach and diversity of such provision and, paradoxically, how little is
really known about this clandestine world.
As we attempted to interpret what was going on, we constructed a continuum of
services in relation to the market and to notions of teaching and learning. At one end
of the continuum were market-based providers and at the other end the free or ‘gift’
economy. The majority of fee-for-service providers at the market end of the contin-
uum sell text-based services such as editing, proofing and formatting, and, it would
appear, even contractual writing. This group includes highly professional enterprises
allied to professional associations with transparent company and service details.
There was also, however, a large number of providers whose advertising raised more
questions than answers in regard to their business professionalism, capabilities and
authenticity—let alone their capacity to deliver quality.
Moving along the continuum we identified others who were offering more devel-
opmental services such as extended personal support, mentoring, coaching, and short
courses for writing and research development, blogs and online conferences/training.
Some of these providers were delivering to institutions as well as to individual doc-
toral students. In our interview phase, in general, we were impressed with the pro-
fessionalism and expertise of these providers and of their genuine engagement with
supporting scholars’ writing development.
At the ‘gift economy’ end of the spectrum we identified a small number of socially
networked, collaborative writing support opportunities in the form of blogs and online
communities that showcased and shared research and writing interests. Our readers
are no doubt already familiar with these online communities.
While the research project was only small and far from conclusive, it raises some
big questions for those of us who care about doctoral scholarship and writing. In
interviews, providers claimed that their clients included ‘all sorts’: working aca-
demics, native and non-native speakers of English and many whose experiences
with supervision were unsatisfactory.
So why is there such a big market offering doctoral writing and research support?
Does this healthy demand for external help signal a failure on the part of institutions to
provide adequate support to their enrolled scholars? And how do/should institutions
interface with these providers? Is it acceptable, equitable or desirable for students to
independently pay for such help? Or should we see it as a natural outcome—indeed
a logical response—to a system that advocates autonomous doctoral scholarship?
Our investigations also raised serious questions about the quality and legitimacy of
some services. The ‘industry’ isn’t regulated. As we explored the more questionable
online sites, we became acutely concerned about the potential for fraud; for the flow-
on negative effects for legitimate service providers; and for the potential undermining
of the reputation and integrity of doctoral scholarship more broadly.
24 2 Being and Developing Writers

Feedback on Doctoral Writing

Feedback in Doctoral Writing: Why Is It so Different?

Claire Aitchison

In workshops on feedback I often ask participants to share memorable experiences

as givers or receivers of feedback—and boy, have I heard some beauties! Rarely is
anyone stuck for something to say, and groups often recoil in shock and laughter
as individuals tell their tales. One of my favourite stories comes from a very senior
academic professor who recounted how her doctoral supervisor scrawled all over her
near-to-final thesis, ‘Total rubbish!’ ‘Crap!’ ‘Nowhere near ready for submission’—
and so on. After she had recovered from the shock, she consulted with her co-
supervisor, decided to ignore the feedback, and submitted. She was rewarded with
brilliant Ph.D. examiner reports. Stories of bad experiences proliferate; however,
there are also wonderful examples of timely, rewarding, satisfying feedback.
No doubt you can tell your own good story.
In an undergraduate context, the tasks, learning goals and assessment criteria are
clear and student and teacher roles more stable, better defined. Feedback occurs when
teachers mark student writing, grading it with commentary. For most undergraduates,
their primary relationship is with other students; they may have little or no relationship
with their teacher marker.
By contrast, in doctoral study the relationship between student and teacher (super-
visor) is all-important and often mediated, perhaps even defined, through the pro-
cesses of giving and receiving feedback on submitted writing. In some cases, doctoral
candidates and their supervisors only ever meet in order to discuss the candidate’s
progress as monitored and measured through the student’s writing.
Doctoral feedback is unique because it is nested within a set of intimate rela-
tionships where relational connections and responsibilities may be ill-defined, and
will alter over time. Furthermore, this dynamic situation is overlaid by institutional
and disciplinary norms, practices and expectations. Oh, and of course, there’s the
personal dimension. Individual styles and personality differences infuse and at times
can override everything else, and yet, this interrelationship must be sustained—for
years. Now, that certainly makes for a high-stakes environment!
One of the outcomes of this complex social arrangement is that the whole process
of giving and receiving feedback on student writing can carry with it the heavy and
additional burden of this interplay of power, responsibility and personality. It goes
without saying that soliciting, giving and receiving feedback is difficult anyway, but
when this involves changing responsibilities and expectations, additional strains are
placed on what is already an emotional space.
Add panel supervision to the mix and there’s potential for a myriad of additional
tricky situations requiring high levels of sensitivity and good will, and sophisticated
negotiating skills. There’s rarely a single, simple fix to the kinds of issues that arise,
Feedback on Doctoral Writing 25

but sometimes it helps to think through the possibilities. For example, what’s your
response to these situations?
What if a student prioritises the feedback of one supervisor over the other—
especially if the principal supervisor’s feedback is ignored? How should supervisors
act when they hold different views about a student’s work? Should supervisors make
allowances when their student feels more humiliated in panel feedback sessions
than in private one-on-one meetings? Should supervisors make their disagreements
known in front of the student? What if it is one of the supervisors who is the wayward
party—guilty of returning work late, cancelling supervision meetings, or giving poor
feedback? What if the student regularly fails to submit work, or to act on the feedback?
Should co-supervisors be expected to be familiar with the feedback given by other
panel members?

Why Do Supervisors Contradict Themselves? Development

of Feedback

Cally Guerin

One of the ongoing challenges for doctoral writers is the confusion (and frustration)
that arises when supervisors seem to change their opinions. It can look like super-
visors contradict themselves if they offer feedback on writing, and then later advise
something different. I think there are several reasons why this can happen.
Firstly, in research, things change over time. Furthermore, doctoral writing is a
recursive process (Paré, 2011)—it is not a simple report on facts. Rather, writing at
this level is run through with abstraction and theorisation. Slowly the author works
through versions of the writing to find meaning. Sometimes, what seems appropriate
and viable as an interpretation is no longer quite so convincing later when sitting
alongside other elements of the research. New emphases appear along the way, and
the project can subtly shift direction, rendering previous feedback redundant. Just
as we think of the writing developing, perhaps supervisors should think of their
feedback as also developing in response to increasing detail and complexity.
Secondly, the writer’s identity as a disciplinary researcher also emerges over
time as the project proceeds (Castello, Inesta, & Corcelles, 2013). While still in the
process of getting to know a new student and developing a working relationship,
many supervisors will avoid being overly critical. Feedback is presented using the
‘sandwich’ technique, bracketing suggestions for improvement with praise for what
has already been achieved in the writing. But as the supervisor builds a better sense
of the student’s capacity, and their ability to respond to criticism, they may push this
writer into more complex thinking. If the student displays the potential to take on
more risk and creativity, the writing that might have been regarded as adequate in
the early stages now receives more stringent feedback.
26 2 Being and Developing Writers

Furthermore, supervisors generally try not to overwhelm the student with too
much feedback. I’d encourage supervisors to focus on just one or two elements at
any given time. For example, early drafts may benefit from feedback that engages
with the big picture such as content and overall structure of the argument; later on, as
the draft firms up, it might be more useful to drill down to the argument and sentence
structure. (After all, it seems a waste of effort to spend time on detailed editing of a
section that is not going to be included in the final version of the thesis—unless the
purpose is to help train the student’s skills in being able to edit their own work.)
And finally, as a supervisor has more time to reflect on the project and nuances,
original impressions of the writing may be reconsidered. The supervisor may come
up with new or better ideas, for example, about the structure. Supervisors will need
to see how various options play out before being able to determine which is the best.
Supervisors might find it useful to talk directly with students about this process as
part of the feedback. And it is worth reminding students sometimes that supervisors
are not superhuman! Frustrating as it can be from a student’s perspective, supervisors
are learning about the research project in parallel with the student. The feedback is
developing while the writing is developing.

I Just Don’t Get It! Why Don’t You like My Writing?

Cally Guerin

This post considers how, despite the best will in the world, sometimes students
simply don’t seem to understand what supervisors are trying to tell them. Recently
I’ve observed a supervisor working closely with a student and providing detailed
feedback on various levels—sentence structure, overall document structure, and the
big ideas aspects of the thesis—and yet the student didn’t appear to understand what
was being asked of her. The feedback is provided in both written and oral forms,
everyone is trying really hard to do the right thing, and yet no progress is being made.
This has pushed me to consider what else is needed to get the message across about
why the writing is just not working.
Students may not recognise what is valued in academic writing. For example,
what students might regard as weak because it is only ‘subjective opinion’, we might
regard as the necessary expression of critical judgement.
Doctoral writing doesn’t necessarily respond well to the kind of marking rubrics
common in undergraduate writing where very specific criteria can be provided. Nev-
ertheless, is certainly possible to establish some criteria to help us assess doctoral
writing, and I’ve found Boote and Beile’s (2005) work very helpful in this regard.
However, a checklist is a blunt instrument when it comes to the subtle nuances and
elements of voice and genre required at doctoral level—and without those elements,
the writing simply doesn’t pass muster.
Sometimes it is not enough simply to tell a novice writer what to do, nor even
to demonstrate the process and ask them to explain the reasons for the revisions,
Feedback on Doctoral Writing 27

particularly if the issues are broader than expression. Rather than direct instruction,
it would seem that some students need to establish for themselves the difference
between the current writing and the desired product. I wonder if part of what is going
on here relates to a basic principle of adult learning (Lieb, 1991)—being autonomous
and self-directed. There are some things that we need to work out for ourselves, that
we need to discover rather than be instructed about. I’m not suggesting that we
should abandon students who are struggling to understand; rather, it seems that some
elements of writing are better learnt through guided self-critique instead of being
told ‘the answer’.
One standard practice is for academics to provide models of the kind of desired
writing. However, the next step needs to be a comparison between the model and the
student’s own writing. And it seems necessary for the student to do this for them-
selves—it just doesn’t seem to have the same impact if the supervisor or learning
advisor points out the differences. By actively identifying and explaining the differ-
ences between the two pieces for themselves, students can start to notice the ways
in which their own writing is not matching the model.

Doctoral Writing and Feedback: Moving on from Negative

Emotion

Susan Carter

I’ve just had the amazing experience of getting to know Professor Rowena Murray
from the University of the West of Scotland. We spent a pleasant few hours talking
while working with the community gardeners in the village of Lochwinnoch. While
weeding, we discussed how students might learn to manage their emotions, resolve
differences between themselves and their supervisors, and be aware of their own per-
sonal development from handling something well recognised as challenging: receipt
of critical feedback.
It seems important to explain to students that feeling as though they are being
criticised personally, although misguided, is pretty common. Barbara Kamler and
Pat Thomson express writing’s personal involvement well: ‘Writing is a physical,
emotional and aesthetic labour…. Many students carry their scholarship deep in
their psyche, bones and muscle’ (Kamler & Thomson, 2006, p. 4). Lucia Thesen
recognised high emotion as a significant risk when facilitating peer writing groups
for research students, while also noting that the informality of such groups makes
them a place where laughter can release that emotion (Thesen, 2014). Feedback
from supervisors is formal, though, a gift of their expertise and time and is generally
evaluative—and that can lead to feeling hurt.
28 2 Being and Developing Writers

Not inevitably, though. I’m analysing data from 80 doctoral students describing the
first time they got supervisory feedback. One doctoral student remembered laughing
with disbelief:
When my first chapter of writing was returned by my primary supervisor, I was enormously
relieved to see very positive comments in the accompanying email. Therefore, I was a tad
taken aback to open the word file and find it smothered in virtual red pen. My initial reaction
was to burst out laughing, welcome to academia, I thought.

Laughter is renowned as therapeutic. Writing about writing, Lamott (1995) sees

the importance of humour. Lightening up lets you step out of emotional darkness.
My data are telling me that, commonly, doctoral students experience anger, despair
and self-doubt when supervisors give them feedback. Doctoral students are used to
high grades. Critique of writing during the doctorate can seem an unexpected blow.
Rowena and I agreed that it is important to acknowledge emotion but not to wallow
in it. Lamott (1995) relates emotional survival of writing feedback to emotional
survival of grief and other life challenges—as doctoral students learn to handle the
writing feedback process, they should note that they are learning life-skills of real
value. My own method for handling my negative emotion—anger, despair or grief—
is to recognise it and then decide what to do with it. I’m not willing to stay hurt
or angry. I find it boring. Being amused by the behaviour of the human species,
including myself and my own, is often how I like to go.
I would recommend the following:
1. Diplomatically give supervisor feedback on the feedback process.
2. Tell the feedback story as a joke to another doctoral student—you’ll help them to
know that the hammering they endure on their own prose is just part of academic
culture. This genre is well rehearsed by Jorges Cham in his popular Ph.D. comics.
3. Then settle down and go through, bit by bit, doing the easiest tasks first.
4. Congratulate yourself on how effective you are when under fire.
Feedback on Doctoral Writing 29

To the student who really feels unable to work with a supervisor, I’d suggest the
following. Ask yourself:
1. What exactly is not working with writing feedback from your point of view?
2. How might it be advantageous to you to bail out of this supervisory relationship?
3. What do you lose by changing supervisor?
One middle-route tactic is to consider where else might you get more useful feed-
back on writing. Tactful openness with the supervisor is essential, so it’s important to
let supervisors know that you have joined a writing group, are taking up writing sup-
port from a learning advisor, or would like to add another academic to your advisory
team. And certainly wait to make sure that the negative emotions you are experiencing
are true symptoms of something unworkable rather than just a short-term response.
A majority of my study’s participants experienced negative emotion—mainly anx-
iety—on first submission of writing and half of those felt worse after getting their
work back. That is something for supervisors to think about.

Disembodied Feedback on Writing

Cally Guerin

I’ve been thinking lately about the challenges of providing feedback on writing for
remote doctoral students (that is, students who do not work on the same campus as
their supervisors). When face-to-face discussion about writing is not possible, how
do we optimise the feedback that students receive?
These thoughts have been sparked by an interest in coming to grips with what is
lost in the disembodiment that comes with some digital communication. For example,
peer-reviewing journal articles is strictly a one-way process.
In doctoral study, unlike blind review, students have an existing relationship with
supervisors and the research, so that the feedback is contextualised. But there are
also important parallels between peer review and supervisors’ written feedback, as
Aitchison points out (2014). Indeed, with the increasing focus on theses by pub-
lication, it may well be a doctoral student receiving that peer review on a journal
article.
Comments on writing must be framed respectfully in both blind review and
in supervision relationships—that goes without saying—and constructive critique
needs to be delivered in encouraging, positive and helpful terms. But perhaps the
main difference is that supervisors have a greater responsibility to develop students’
knowledge and skills about writing.
However, just like peer review, supervisor feedback on writing has the potential
to be misunderstood. If students receive only written feedback on their drafts, they
may miss some of the nuances that accompany an enthusiastic nod, or a slight tilt of
the head to indicate uncertainty. Face-to-face discussion also allows the supervisor
30 2 Being and Developing Writers

to respond immediately to the student’s body language as they receive the feed-
back, providing opportunities to ascertain levels of understanding and/or emotional
responses. I’m not suggesting here that words are inadequate—far from it—but that
feedback is such a tricky and subtle part of the doctoral process that can easily be
disrupted. Great care is required if the only form of feedback is to be in writing.
Synchronous video conferencing on platforms such as Skype or Zoom can go a
long way to mitigating miscommunications. Our embodied selves communicate so
much through tone of voice and body language. Two-way discussions, or ‘learning
conversations’, about writing allow space to ask questions for clarification, to argue
the case for not following supervisory advice, and to clarify the rationale for writing
choices (Wisker, Robinson, Trafford, Warnes & Creighton, 2003; East, Bitchener, &
Basturkmen, 2012).

Not Getting What You Need?: Strategies for Maximising

Success from Feedback

Claire Aitchison

Most writers acknowledge the benefits of having a reading audience of one kind or
another.
But not all readers are equal, nor is all feedback. Consider for a minute the differ-
ence between the kind of response you would expect from these different readers:
a friendly academic colleague, a research supervisor/adviser, an examiner, a writ-
ing buddy or writing group peer, an anonymous scholarly reviewer, a spouse. Each
of these involves different power relations, according to relationships and socially
mediated practices associated with the text itself, and the context.
Sometimes feedback practices, roles and procedures are explicit, perhaps even
regulated. For example, the Ph.D. examiner is instructed to make particular judge-
ments (typically about the contribution to knowledge, research expertise, and so on).
Their interaction with the text has a pre-determined purpose that is independent of
both the writer and the reader. Similarly, on submitting a manuscript to a journal or
a grant application to a funding body, the writer submits themselves and their writ-
ing to a feedback process defined by pre-existing ‘rules’ over which they have little
control. In both these instances, feedback is more summative (i.e., at the completion
of the task) than formative (during the development of the text). The reader’s role
is mostly gatekeeper, examiner; less helper, teacher, mentor. However, in practice, it
isn’t necessarily so clear-cut.
By contrast, when we receive feedback from people known to us, we’re perhaps
able to have some influence on the process, the ‘rules’ are likely to be more flexible
and the intention is developmental rather than summative. (Although—I have heard
doctoral students say their harshest critic is their spouse, parent or child!)
Feedback on Doctoral Writing 31

Feedback will differ, not only according to the context, but also according to the
skills and knowledge of the reader themselves. Sometimes we are lucky enough to
have one reader who is sufficiently skilled to meet all our needs—someone who can
give feedback on the big stuff (the quality of the ideas, the argument, knowledge of
the field and so on), as well as critique sentence-level issues.
Feedback will also vary according to the writing submitted. Often a first draft
has unclear ideas and imperfect grammar and punctuation. Typically, such early
writing benefits most from feedback on the evolving ideas. In the absence of specific
guidance, however, the reader may focus on sentence level matters, again causing
frustration for both parties.
Guiding Feedback
You (mostly) get what you ask for. Hardly a revelation; and yet I am often surprised
by how passive some writers are about the whole feedback cycle. The response you
can expect from soliciting open, undirected feedback (e.g., ‘What you think of this?’)
is anyone’s guess. There are times when this kind of impressionistic feedback is just
what we want, but often, vague requests, especially in combination with limited
information about the manuscript, can produce unhelpful responses for the author
and frustration for the reviewer.
There is much to be gained from directing feedback, especially at particular points
in the process of constructing a manuscript, and especially for novice writers. Being
an active feedback seeker means coming to know our own writerly habits, strengths
and needs—and learning how these change over time. Being a pro-active feedback
seeker sharpens our awareness of audience because it makes us think about the needs
of the reader as we formulate our request for their critique.
In writing groups, we’ve established a practice whereby authors are expected to
provide three pieces of information to guide their reviewers: 1. an indication of the
maturity of the writing (e.g., first, middle or final draft); 2. the nature of the text (e.g.,
part of a chapter, introduction to a journal article, etc.); 3. the kind of feedback being
sought (e.g., flow, argument, use of evidence, etc.).
It’s not always possible, but some students have reported benefitting from incor-
porating these kinds of informational and agentic strategies for directing feedback
when working with their supervisors.

Tough Self-scrutiny as a Doctoral Writing Tool

Susan Carter

This post is inspired by a lecture by John Bitchener, author of a guide to supervising

non-native speakers of English (2017). Here I turn his observations into a checklist
for student self-auditing.
But before we begin, a caveat we’ve often alerted students to: rigorous self-
auditing, like writing review from others, is often disconcerting.
32 2 Being and Developing Writers

If students feel that feedback on their writing is more negative than they expected,
they could consider how the following may have contributed.
1. A gap between undergraduate or Master’s level and doctoral level, especially
if prior educational experiences or qualifications were achieved in a different
country from current doctoral study.
2. Incorrect assumptions about what a doctoral thesis should be—it is longer, more
defensive and with greater emphasis on original contribution than may have been
have understood.
3. Misalignment between theory and practice, or between knowledge and applica-
tion, and uncertainty as to how to work between these dichotomies.
4. Lack of awareness of what theory does (as well as what it is).
5. Inappropriate use of hedging and emphasis. Getting just the right degree of
emphasis can mean the difference between a statement being convincing or
simply wrong.
6. An undeveloped argument at macro levels—the thesis of the thesis—and at micro
levels within chapters.
This kind of self-auditing does several positive things. It improves the writing
because students see what is not working and it gives students agency for their own
learning and builds independence (Park, 2007). Perhaps most importantly, it teaches
the habit of positive critical reflection that academics need to survive and to be good
academic citizens. Critical self-auditing of writing quality is seldom easy, smooth
and comfortable; finally graduating with a Ph.D. is so satisfying partly because it is
recognises the high research quality produced by all that hammering.

Managing Feedback on Writing in Team Supervision

Cally Guerin

Team supervision has many advantages for doctoral candidates and supervisors, as
demonstrated in the literature (see, for example, Guerin & Green, 2016; Kobayashi,
Grout, & Rump, 2015; Lee, 2008; Manathunga, 2012; Robertson, 2017). But it can
also bring some challenges, not least of which is how to handle the feedback from
two or more supervisors who may not agree. This can become a source of anxiety
for the student and can also create tension between supervisors. In some research I
undertook with colleagues (Guerin, Green, & Bastalich, 2011), we talked to Ph.D.
candidates about the logistics of managing feedback from a team of supervisors. We
called the paper ‘Big Love’, since it seemed that part of the task was to keep everyone
in the supervision team happy, much like the husband with multiple wives in the TV
show of the same name.
Feedback on Doctoral Writing 33

When supervisor comments are in conflict, students can feel torn between whose
ideas they ought to follow: the principal supervisor? The advice that makes most
sense to the student? Or perhaps find some middle path that may not really address
any of the opinions?

Three Ways to Manage the Logistics of Team Supervisor Feedback

Simultaneous Multiple Feedback

Some students send the piece of writing to all members of the supervisory team
at the same time. This is followed up with a team meeting in which all members
discuss the feedback together. The advantage of this system is that differences of
opinion can be debated openly and (hopefully) a resolution reached. Alternatively,
some students take the written feedback to team meetings and direct the supervisors’
attention to conflicting advice, again seeking consensus. This might be confronting
for everyone involved, but also creates spaces to practise the skills of managing an
academic debate.
The downside of sending drafts to all supervisors simultaneously is that it is not
clear who is responsible for what and when. It’s easy for team members to assume
that someone else will get on with the task, resulting in a slow turnaround or even
no response from supervisors.
Serial Feedback
Another system is to send a draft to the principal supervisor, who uses track
changes to mark up feedback, which is then passed onto the next supervisor, and so
on around the circle. The advantage here is that supervisors can see the feedback
given by their colleagues and respond, simply leaving it to stand if they agree, or
explaining why they believe an alternative would work better. This is also more
efficient because supervisors don’t need to replicate concerns. However, this process
can be slow for students who have to wait for each supervisor in turn before receiving
their manuscript back.
Selective Feedback
Sometimes it is more effective to send sections only to the supervisor whose
particular expertise matches that part of the thesis, such as specific methodological
knowledge. And sometimes team supervision can include members who are not
involved in the ongoing writing process at all; instead, they are reserved to read
through fresh eyes towards the end of the project. This feedback system can cause
problems if supervisors haven’t seen the overall argument or structure. The parts of
the thesis may not fit together very well, or the late reader may identify major or
fundamental problems with the research just when the student thinks the project is
almost complete.
34 2 Being and Developing Writers

‘Sending—Ready or Not’: Feedback Practices

and Predilections

Claire Aitchison

When is a piece of work ready to submit for supervisor feedback? How much, and how
often, can we expect students to submit writing for feedback? What are reasonable
expectations for turnaround of writing and feedback?
Surprisingly the topic came up after a recent ‘Shut up and Write’ session.
The exchange went something like this:
One student, who was very near the end of his candidature, said he was sending
his writing to his supervisor each day. Everyone was surprised.
‘What, every day?’ we exclaimed!
‘Yes—he doesn’t have to read it’, Phil said defensively. ‘But I like to get it off my
plate. Sending it to him means it is done and I can move on. I’ve only got 3 weeks
before they want the whole chapter finished!’
Another asked: ‘How long will you have to wait until you get the chapter back?’
The answer: ‘That depends on how much I bug them.’
I asked the group what, when, and how often, they send work to their supervisors.
One student said his supervisor only accepted complete chapters. Another said
she only sent small bits of writing—between 4 and 12 pages at a time—because her
supervisor ‘doesn’t have time to read more than that.’ One student said her supervisor
insisted on high quality ‘publication-ready’ work, which she disliked doing, because,
she said, she spent so much time perfecting the chapters that feedback cycles were
too infrequent. Another student said that she sends smaller bits of writing regularly
because she needs to know that she’s on the right track and to avoid ‘wasting time’.
Another student was agog—she said she regularly waited 3–4 months before getting
feedback on her work.
Everyone sent work electronically and most received back ‘Track Changed’ ver-
sions, although the few social science and humanities people said they got their work
returned as hard copy with handwritten feedback.
Another student said she was deliberately not handing in work even though
her supervisor expected fortnightly submissions. She explained that, originally, this
regime had worked for her, but then she found sometimes she simply hadn’t pro-
gressed things sufficiently and she was writing ‘anything really’ in order to comply
with the fortnightly imperative. This compliance in turn created other problems—she
was having to respond to feedback on work she wasn’t even wedded to, thus distract-
ing her from moving forward. The same piece of writing was going backwards and
forwards, round and round. Her solution? She had ‘gone to ground,’ simply getting
on with her own work and not sending it to him.
These anecdotes reminded me of how, as a doctoral student, I—wisely or other-
wise—controlled arrangements. In the final months of my candidature, I had had to
change supervisors, and by then I had very strong views about what the thesis should
look like and (I thought I knew) what I was doing. I used the ‘deliver only completed
Feedback on Doctoral Writing 35

chapter’ method as a deliberate strategy to undermine the chances of my supervisors

telling me they preferred something different. I only handed it over when I was ready.
(Apologies to you, you know who you are …)
Back at the café, the conversation continued as near-completers discussed super-
visor turnaround times for reading the whole thesis. There seemed to be a common
expectation that supervisors might need up to three months, depending on how many
recent revisions there had been—and according to the time of the year. The Christ-
mas break, the beginning of a new academic year and grant writing periods were
recognised as particularly slow times for doctoral writers awaiting feedback.
This sharing of real-life examples of complex interpersonal negotiations and
manoeuvrings over writing and feedback experiences helped us all have a bet-
ter understanding of what is reasonable. And the stories showed how even sup-
posedly ‘good practices’ can come undone as individual workloads and personal
commitments impinge.
One thing that struck me was how the more mature students seemed to have an
intimate knowledge of their supervisors’ likes and dislikes, and a very real appreci-
ation of how they could work in with the competing demands on their supervisors’
availability. There was a sense of mutual respect and consideration which stands
in contrast to much of the literature that reports on student and supervisor frustra-
tions vis-à-vis feedback on doctoral writing (Cadman & Cargill, 2007; Caffarella
& Barnett, 2000; Can & Walker, 2011; Carless, Salter, Yang, & Lam, 2011; Paré,
Starke-Meyerring, & McAlpine, 2009).
What can we take from these discussions? Well, as usual, it points again to the
importance of early conversations about the key aspects of feedback cycles: frequency
and turnaround times; the nature, quality and quantity of text to be submitted; the
kind of feedback required, the mode of delivery and the necessity for timely reassess-
ment of practices. The conversations also highlighted the interpersonal and proce-
dural aspects of this very human activity and the agency of students to make—or
manipulate—systems to maximise the benefits from supervisory feedback.

Emotion and Identity in Doctoral Writing and Supervision

Doctoral Writing: Why Bother?

Susan Carter

Recently a colleague posed this question to academics: ‘Your research and pub-
lication—why bother?’ Now that sounds sullen and disenchanted, but it is a great
question for drawing out what really matters about research. This post considers why
we bother doing doctoral writing as students and carefully supporting it as academics.
It’s based on a workshop for doctoral candidates with a twofold purpose. The first
was about emotion, to vent about the tribulations of doctoral writing for catharsis (and
36 2 Being and Developing Writers

bonding, according to Mewburn, 2011) and then turn to listing positive reasons for
doing this work as a motivational exercise. The other is to emphasise that, throughout
the thesis, the reasons why the research matters should be overtly stated in writing,
specifically in the Introduction and the Conclusion.
My own belief is that we are hugely privileged to spend time on a research project
and acquiring the necessary advanced literacy skills. I think of the very bright people
I know trapped in boring jobs, perhaps with family responsibilities that mean they
haven’t got the possibility of doing a doctorate. I know many doctoral students have
similar pressures in their lives, but somehow within their own resources they find
a way to keep their career moving forward and their minds keen as they learn. Not
everyone can.
Here is a list of reminders about what doctoral writing can do for you:
1. Finding an academic voice helps define who you are and what matters to you; it
is an act of self-creation;
2. Gaining a sophisticated level of literacy that will be useful in the future;
3. Finally figuring rules about grammar and even appreciating their logic;
4. Writing passages that are really satisfying in their clarity and cleanness;
5. Realising that writing is often flowing more easily;
6. Joining a distinct discourse community;
7. Gaining an ability to mentor others;
8. Widening future career opportunities; and
9. Becoming a stronger person who can manage their own emotions and the large
writing project.
Many doctoral students are the first in their family to venture so far into education,
and as they write, they write possible further success for future generations into their
family’s history and repertoire. For some, passion about making the world a better
place drives them as doctoral writers; they may be tackling big challenges or smaller
ones but know that they join the legions of humans who work in different ways to
make things better.
We often acknowledge the challenges of doctoral writing, the way that feedback
can be demoralising, that outside pressures can really squeeze, and that the pedantry
and perfectionism of academic writing can baffle and irritate. We comment on these
kinds of things because we know they can be bothersome. ‘Why bother?’ may often
rise out of irritation, or self-doubt or self-pity from doctoral students or the academics
who support their writing. I’d like to gently suggest that most routes through life are
harder than doing a doctorate, harder because they are more limited, smaller, and
less full of potential.
It is good to take ‘why bother’ literally, too, and articulate this in the thesis so that
there is no doubt that the project was worth doing, worth a doctorate, and that the
original contribution is significant.
In the Introduction and Conclusion of the doctorate, students could be encouraged
to answer further questions with careful detail.
Emotion and Identity in Doctoral Writing and Supervision 37

1. Why did you take up this research?

2. What was the problem that motivated you to seek a solution, or partial solution?
3. Who were hurt by that problem?
4. What was hard for you in this research project and what gave you the impetus to
keep going?
5. How does your research mitigate the problem or fill in a gap in knowledge or
understanding?
6. Who will benefit from your research findings?
7. Might benefits be wider, in that your methods would work with other problems,
or for practitioners in other disciplines?
8. What gaps in knowledge or understanding still exist?
Perhaps one of the most important points this post makes is that questions from
supervisor to student often prompt deep level learning more than advice does.

Mental Health, Doctoral Study and Supervision: Can

‘Troubles with Writing’ Mask Other Problems?

Claire Aitchison

Corridor conversations often reflect problems more widely felt. Recently a friend
who had been called to help because the student reportedly was having ‘trouble with
her writing’ revealed how concerned she was about the mental health of both student
and supervisor.
For those of us who regularly work in the space between supervisor and student,
being called into help is likely to expose us to a disproportionate number of ‘troubles’.
Whether identified by supervisors, research committees or students, I have come to
expect a relatively predictable range of ‘troubles with writing’. These ‘troubles’ can
often be sheeted back to the following:
1. unhelpful feedback (typically inconsistent, contradictory, incorrect, uninforma-
tive, inappropriately delivered);
2. neglect (typically little or no feedback, no formative feedback, feedback too late
to be developmental);
3. student resistance to taking advice;
4. writers’ block.
As a literacy adviser, I learned that such ‘writing troubles’ often coexist with
intensified emotional states. Writing is a deeply personal and emotional activity. For
supervisors and students alike, much is riding on the ability to explain one’s work
eloquently and to argue convincingly for significance. The research has to be sound,
but so does the medium for conveying this good work: the writing.
But I am interested here in the co-existence of ‘writing problems’ and mental
health. Clearly, and not infrequently, writing can wrench at our soul, unsettling our
equilibrium. Writing can make us cry out with frustration, anxiety and fury when it
38 2 Being and Developing Writers

won’t go as we wish, or when we are under so much pressure to produce that we doubt
our own ability. It can also bring joy and pleasure, be rewarding and confirming. But
writing a Ph.D. is not just any old writing: it is risky, even dangerous. It advertises our
intellect, our research and our knowledge to the world. Doctoral writing is monitored
and measured. And doctoral student writers are positioned in relationship to their
supervisors whose job it is to critique the student’s work. All up, doctoral writing
carries a disproportionately high burden.
The claim that Ph.D. study challenges student mental health is not new. The
opening paragraph of a Times Higher Education feature ‘Distress signals: The Ph.D.
mental health crisis’ (13 April, 2017, p. 6) says, ‘… new figures show that more than
half of Ph.D. students experience symptoms of psychological distress and one in
three is at risk of having or developing a psychiatric disorder’. This finding is similar
to others that report above average rates of psychological distress (such as depres-
sion, unhappiness and anxiety) amongst doctoral students compared to the general
population. Doctoral distress is also higher than in other groups in universities. The
Belgian study referred to indicates that the strongest predictors for poor mental health
amongst students are work–family conflict, job demands, job control and leadership
style. Writing as such is not mentioned—so can it really impact mental health or is
it part of a cocktail of influences or ‘troubles’? And is it only students that suffer?
The literature around doctoral student experience continually points to the unique
circumstances that may contribute to mental health distress:
1. Isolation;
2. The student–supervisor relationship;
3. The extended period of study required for Ph.D. scholarship;
4. Lack of confidence (imposter syndrome);
5. Prolonged uncertainty—of the research process itself and of the outcome;
6. Insecurity about career options, against which the pressure to publish is
increasingly seen as an essential criterion for success;
7. Unmet expectations of doctoral study and supervision.
As I think about this list of potential triggers for doctoral student mental health
challenges, it strikes me that a similar list would apply to supervisors:
1. Even with the shift to ‘panel supervision’, supervision is often a lonely job and
many supervisors work in isolation unsupported, and unwilling/unable to share
their insecurities and fears—and perhaps with little institutional support when
they do seek help.
2. The onus is on supervisors to manage and maintain a healthy relationship through
the vicissitudes of personal and professional challenges over time.
3. As experts in the discipline, supervisors may feel more confident about their
disciplinary and research knowledge than about how to manage relationships or
develop student writing.
4. Increasingly, supervisors, insecure about their own future in the academy, are
managing multiple pressures to perform, including meeting their own publication
metrics.
Emotion and Identity in Doctoral Writing and Supervision 39

5. Supervisors are often seen as responsible for the success or failure of the research
project, irrespective of contributing factors. This is a heavy burden to carry.
The call for help for students with ‘writing problems’ seems to have some kind of
institutional legitimacy; there may be designated ‘helpers’ and resources available
to assist. But what would be the ‘acceptable’ equivalent for a supervisor in distress?
Who are their ‘helpers’? What resources are available?
In the corridor conversation that prompted this post, my friend explained that
there was a cluster of supervisors struggling with depression and anxiety in that
particular department. Worryingly, but I guess unsurprisingly, they felt alone and
trapped: obliged to continue supervising high numbers of doctoral candidates. Their
best legitimate call for help came in the form of requests for writing assistance for
their students—to unburden themselves of some of their supervisory responsibilities.

Is Dropping Out Failure? Je ne regrette rien

Claire Aitchison

In a world of spiralling credentialism where employers require ever-higher qualifi-

cations, and institutions compete to recruit and keep doctoral candidates, it’s easy to
see how students and supervisors can feel pressured to keep students enrolled. But
what if doctoral study isn’t for you?
When I met up with a former student she reminisced about her time as a doctoral
student. She said how much she had enjoyed herself, especially the intellectual stim-
ulation and sense of purpose. She told me how she still loved her topic—but then
she went on to say she deeply regretted dropping out of her Ph.D.
This took me by surprise, because, all those years ago, when she contacted me
about withdrawing, she was so definite and had already commenced withdrawal
procedures. Her life was complicated in a way she couldn’t control and there was
scant likelihood this would change in the foreseeable future. I made very little attempt
to dissuade her; instead, I opted to support her in the choice she’d made.
As we talked further, she revealed that at the time she did not have the support of
her immediate family, in particular her husband.
I left our coffee date feeling regretful: I wish I had been more insightful at the time.
I should have been more inquisitive and pushed her harder to reconsider. Perhaps
I could have made a greater effort to find the right support? I was experiencing
supervisor guilt. Had I failed? Had she? Had the institution?
Another withdrawal: similarly, an incredibly capable person whose candidature
had been disjointed with difficult family circumstances and a very demanding job.
Jane hadn’t fully appreciated the demands of research scholarship and struggled with
the writing. From the outset she resented the time it took and never really settled into
a routine of reading and writing. She resisted engaging in theory and after 18 months
of changing topics and direction, she withdrew. Jane explained that she had come to
40 2 Being and Developing Writers

realise other things were simply more important to her and she wasn’t prepared to
spend so much of her time, over so many years, on doctoral study. No regrets.
Both these women had rich, full lives. I respect both enormously as successful,
capable individuals contributing to society. One chose to undertake a Ph.D. at the end
of her working life: she sought stimulating intellectual engagement, a time to reflect
on her professional career and synthesise what she’d learned. The other woman’s
career was at an earlier stage, newly blossoming, rewarding and demanding. I suspect
her original motivation to undertake a Ph.D. was for job security; however, in the
meanwhile she had secured permanency.
Many factors impact the decision to undertake a Ph.D. Too often, advice books
focus on issues such as choosing the right university, supervisor and research project.
Perhaps we should also consider life choices such as identity and desire, stage-of-life,
personal circumstances and support networks. Very often, I suspect, neither students
nor their families fully appreciate the impact of a parent, partner or child undertaking
a Ph.D. Even for the most capable candidates, doctoral study can make unexpected
and extended inroads on family time and personal relationships. For international
students studying abroad, these pressures can be particularly onerous (Ali & Kohun,
2007).
The decision to withdraw usually involves both pull and push factors. When some-
thing needs to change, withdrawing may be the right thing to do, but then again,
sometimes a timely conversation or the right kind of help can change everything. We
know that support from significant others can make a difference (Aitchison & Mow-
bray, 2013; Mantai & Dowling, 2015)—but so too can adequate prior information
so that people sign up for doctoral study with eyes wide open.
There is also the matter of timing. If a candidate is very far down the track and
reasonably close to completion, the economic and emotional cost of dropping out is
likely to outweigh the pain of hanging on to the bitter end.
Ph.D. study isn’t necessarily right for everybody—recognising this, and taking
the appropriate action, isn’t failure. What is important is making well-informed and
supported decisions, thus minimising poor choices, lifelong regrets and unhappy
outcomes. It is in no one’s interests to have people enrolled in years of study, frustrated
and resentful—doing (and supervising) doctoral study is hard enough, even for those
who love it!

When Research Moves Too Close: Maintaining Awareness

of Boundaries

Susan Carter

Some doctoral students find their study more overwhelming than others. Sure, they
face the same challenges as others do: the study is vast; there is so much to read
and to write; and almost inevitably difficulties occur with the research itself—it’s
Emotion and Identity in Doctoral Writing and Supervision 41

hard to find participants, experiments don’t work, or data fails to make sense. But
beyond all this, some students find that their research topic winds so intensely into
other people’s lives they experience something of a meltdown. How can such crises
be handled?
In a study with colleagues (Carter, Blumenstein, & Cook, 2013), we found that
motherhood and inequitable family responsibilities mean women students can find
that they are always feeling guilty anxiety. They may feel they are bad mothers
because they cannot focus on their children, and they find they are bad doctoral
students who struggle to meet deadlines. Mothers who are doctoral students can be
isolated. Our study found that women stepping into the role of expert sometimes
made partners feel uncomfortable; additionally women with an abuse history, used
to keeping below the radar, can experience similar discomfort in the role of expert.
Researchers can also find themselves emotionally immersed in the experience
they are capturing. One academic describes how she interspersed her participants’
stories between her thesis chapters because she found them so moving (Carter, Kelly,
& Brailsford, 2012, p. 2).
I was reminded of emotional intensities that alter the researcher’s relationship with
their new knowledge when I came to a flash of insight in Daniel Mendelsohn’s The
Lost: A Search for Six of Six Million. Equipped with photos from his grandparents, he
had a sudden realisation that he was insensitive when he showed them to old distant
relatives who knew people in the photos. He writes:
I was confronted with the awful discrepancy between what certain images and stories meant
for me…for whom…[they] could never be more than ‘fiercely moving’ (in the way that you
say a book or a film is ‘moving’) and what they meant for the people I was talking to, for
whom the images and stories were, really, their lives. (Mendelson, 2006, pp. 224–225)

Lately the gulch between research and lived reality has been opening conspic-
uously for me. The stories that we hear before we get ethics approval may speak
so much more tellingly than those we gather after approval. The stricture of aca-
demic prose, with its scholarly apparatus, its epistemological compliance, its bank
of literature, seems too sturdy a structure to handle the raw reality of lives being
studied.
It seems to me that where participants’ emotions and privacy are at stake, there’s
always a responsibility to protect them. On the two occasions when I decided not
to publish the most interesting data, I did not seek permission because I felt that
just asking for it would cause pain. Care of participants doesn’t end once an ethics
committee gives consent for research, in my view. Participants have given something
of themselves and, as patrons and enablers, they need respect. Sometimes researchers
ought to simply accept the limitations of mutual commitment.
42 2 Being and Developing Writers

Mother Guilt and the Ph.D.

Claire Aitchison

Can you be a doctoral scholar and ‘good’ mother at the same time? Goodwin and
Huppatz (2010) critique the idea of the good mother in their book, The Good Mother:
Contemporary Motherhoods in Australia. At the planning meeting for this book, a
young scholar spoke of her intention to write about her double life as Ph.D. student
studying in a foreign country while trying to raise her child without family and
community support. She described the cultural, physical and financial challenges—
but the most difficult of all was the emotional challenge. Her biggest problem was
guilt. Guilt about prioritising her needs above those of her child, guilt about not being
physically present and emotionally available. This experience is not unique. I have
certainly observed it often, and conversations about managing family commitments
alongside all the other challenges of research scholarship are frequent in my work
with doctoral students and early career researchers.
Mother guilt for doctoral students can include:
• not being there for the kids. This can be guilt-inducing at any time, but absence for
one’s personal intellectual fulfilment (as opposed to going to work earning money
for the family) can be debilitating;
• feeling the need to hide, from supervisors and others, the extent of the impact of
the family on one’s availability;
• feeling bad about the fact that one’s child/children don’t fulfil one’s intellectual
needs;
• concern about losing the ability to use grownup words from spending too much
time with baby;
• resenting being forgotten by the real world outside nappies, sleep time and baby
vomit;
• just not enjoying nappies, sleep deprivation and baby vomit;
• the secret truth that one would prefer to be working on a critique of Bourdieu than
singing nursery rhymes;
• feeling bad about not being able to meet with supervisors at times they pre-
fer because childcare commitments make afternoons and evenings well-nigh
impossible;
• trying not to feel resentful when babies won’t sleep or when they get sick because
it interferes with writing plans;
• feeling bad about leaving kids, being exhausted and, dare I say it, just not interested
in sex.
Last year I ran a series of regular whole-day writing workshops and I was struck
again at the extraordinary lengths women went to, to juggle childcare commitments
and their doctoral research endeavours. One young scientist brought her child in with
her each week. She had no option—as an international student, she wasn’t able to
afford childcare.
Emotion and Identity in Doctoral Writing and Supervision 43

Over the years there have been a number of parents (including a father) who
brought babies/young children to writing group meetings. It hasn’t always worked
well. But equally, I have had participants who have dropped out because they’d not
been able to find satisfactory childcare. It simply isn’t easy. The first go I had at
doing a Ph.D. didn’t work because my second child wasn’t a sleeper, and after many
months of exhaustion, I simply gave up.
How do we build into our practices a greater awareness and accommoda-
tion of those struggling to honour their love of family and desire for rewarding
motherhood/parenthood alongside satisfying doctoral study? It matters that we do
so.

Finishing the Ph.D.—Or What Happens to Otherwise Normal

People in the Last Few Months of the Ph.D.?

Claire Aitchison

There should be a warning to family and friends about what happens in the final
stages of the Ph.D. and it should read something like this:
WARNING: Do not try to communicate with this person. Advance at your peril
or for your own safety, STAY AWAY.
In preparation for a workshop on the final stages of doing a Ph.D., I asked my
family for their thoughts. As quick as a flash, the following words were thrown
around the dinner table: obsessive, self-absorbed, single-minded, vague, emotional.
They seemed to be talking about me. When I tell this story it always gets a good
reception because anyone who has done a Ph.D. will immediately recognise these
behaviours.
And that’s because at the end stages of the doctorate—people change. Take com-
fort: it is reversible! Bringing 3–5 years of work to completion requires significant
mental effort, at times bordering on overload. There isn’t a lot of space left for getting
the shopping right, listening to homework squabbles, thinking about dinner.
First, there is so much to do. In order to juggle the multiple demands of tweaking
the text, re-checking calculations and results, revisiting arguments, citation choices
and theories, sorting referencing and so on, one has to block out peripheral, less
important things. The primary final stages task is to bring all the components together
into a coherent and unified entity. The whole is more than the sum of its parts. It is
a big job. It carries a high cognitive load.
44 2 Being and Developing Writers

Second, this can be a time of major emotional labouring. The stakes are high and
time is tight. Nerves can fray, and relationships become strained—both at home and
between student and supervisor. In many ways those irritating but levelling parts of
normal life (cooking, doing the dishes, family time and even working) can become
valuable safety valves for releasing tension, forgetting the pressure, and keeping a
sense of humour.
Another way to keep yourself sane is to get prepared (at least 4–8 months prior
to the target submission date).

Final Stages Tasks

1. Do a complete check on what you have done—and what you have yet to do.
2. Get the latest versions of the rules and procedures for completion, submission
and examination (they are likely to have changed since you enrolled).
3. Find and follow your institution’s ‘Countdown check list’.
4. Ensure the Grad School has the right information about you and your project
(you don’t want them reading out your pre-divorce name at Graduation).
5. Suss out a good proofreading/editing service.
6. Budget for the final stages (costs may include editing and printing services,
conferences, and you may have to give up work for a period of time).
7. Plan what you will do after submission (e.g., take a holiday or submit a couple
of journal articles).
Monitor your time very carefully and make a timeline that includes:
1. Final revisions, edits and reviews—of each chapter—and the whole manuscript
(including referencing, tables and figures). AVOID NEW WRITING or last
minute brain waves—BUT do take action if it is really necessary;
2. Supervisor availability and turnaround for final reviewing of chapters;
Emotion and Identity in Doctoral Writing and Supervision 45

3. 1–3 weeks for external editing, proofreading and layout;

4. Discuss possible examiners with your supervisor;
5. Institutional processes for nomination, communication and approval of examin-
ers (this can take months);
6. One week for printing and/or making digital versions.
Final Stages Writing

1. Lock in the title.

2. (Re)write the Abstract.
3. Use your Table of Contents as a mechanism for reviewing logical consistency
and structural cohesion. It must make sense on its own and across the whole
manuscript.
4. Everything you do now must be considered in terms of the project as a whole;
whatever changes you make must be cognisant of the overall integrity of the
argument and structure.
5. Review your Introduction to check that your research problem, research
questions, methodology and results do, in fact, match what you ended up doing.
6. Review your Introduction and Conclusion: they should ‘speak to each other’
working as book-ends that hold the content together.

Final Stages Editing

Even if you plan to send your thesis to an external proof-reader, it is wise
(and economical) to make the document as perfect as possible beforehand. Don’t
underestimate the time this can take.
One approach to editing is to review the thesis on three levels:
1. Manuscript overview. Review the whole document for cohesion and consistency
of genre, voice, presentation, intellectual integrity, formatting and referencing
style. Go through the whole document checking references for consistency,
missing page numbers, and presence in the Reference List.
2. Macro. Check for consistency of structure, sequence and hierarchy of segments,
paragraphing, and balanced chapters.
3. Micro. Check for spelling, punctuation and sentence level grammar.

So Close and Yet so Far

Often doctoral students think that once the hard work of data collection and analysis
is done that they are on the homeward track and completion is just weeks away.
Sadly, this is rarely the case as these final stages can often stretch out for months
and months. It can get disheartening, and you don’t want to run out of steam, so—in
addition to all the other tasks—see if you can schedule a short break somewhere in
the last months to rejuvenate your mind and your body (and supervisors may also
benefit from setting it aside for a week or two). Both you and the thesis will be better
for it!
46 2 Being and Developing Writers

Disaster and Change of Plan for Doctoral Writing

Susan Carter

Horror stories sometimes circulate about disasters that struck doctoral research.
Sometimes this really does occur. It can be that a few years into the project, a new pub-
lication comes out seeming to cover the same ground or produce new evidence that
debunks an approach making the already written work seem out-dated or ill-fitting.
Cryer’s (2003) book reminded me that one of the seldom-mentioned skills of
independent researchers is being able to survive disaster and salvage projects by
handling fairly radical revision. Perhaps this is something that supervisors need to
point out to doctoral students: professional independence means the stamina to handle
demanding revisions if necessary. As much as we have to be able to handle the review
process, including multiple rejections, we need to be able to manage writing when
the research trajectory changes after a manuscript has been largely constructed.
My own experience was with the first article I wrote completely independently
after completing my Ph.D. While busy tutoring on limited term contracts, I moved
on to an intriguing topic that I hadn’t covered in my Ph.D., so this was my first bit
of truly independent research. It took several years to complete the article and when
I submitted it, reviewers pointed me to two recent books that did a beautiful job of
making most of the same points.
After recuperating from the reviews, I read the books and found that a couple of
my less significant observations were not covered. My article had to be refocused to
‘add to recent interest’ and to foreground what had been less significant in my earlier
version. I rewrote the Introduction and Conclusion, cut some stuff out, and theorised
a bit more on those small points, taking them as far as I could. It worked and was
published.
Retrospectively, I see that the unfolding of that project was another conceptual
threshold crossing: learning how to cope, adapt, make do, persevere and do the job
required. On the positive side, such experiences mean learning to value your own
ideas and persist with them. Most doctoral students dread the spectre of someone else
producing their findings before submission. Yet if it happens, it is the trial-by-fire
likely to produce a strong, survivalist researcher.
Horror stories have appeal because they are affective, but I’m sure that there
are stories like mine that have happy endings because they describe salvage and
recuperation.
Emotion and Identity in Doctoral Writing and Supervision 47

‘Help with Writing’ Versus ‘Learning About Writing’

Cally Guerin

It seems to me that students sometimes turn up to workshops or join writing groups

because they think ‘I need someone to help me with my writing’. I think this should
be reframed as ‘I need to learn more about writing’.
My impression is that sometimes Ph.D. students are looking for someone who will
provide editing and proofreading of their work, or simply ‘fix it up’. Occasionally
I get the impression that they hope someone can tell them the ‘answer’ to research
writing as if they are facing a ‘test’. Unfortunately, this approach isn’t helpful to
building long-term skills. After all, research writing is not just a simple process of
imposing a formula; it’s far more complex.
I suspect that, at the root of this problem, is the mistake of thinking that doing a
Ph.D. is really only about making an original contribution to knowledge in the disci-
pline. From that perspective, the focus is on the technical skills required to undertake
the experimental work or to gather and analyse the qualitative or quantitative data.
Writing, by contrast, is regarded as secondary.
Of course, disciplinary knowledge is the linchpin of the whole enterprise—one
of the key criteria for examination at most universities is that the research makes an
original contribution to the field. However, doctoral candidature is also a time for
learning the skills required to be an effective researcher. Learning to write well about
research is central to this training.
I’m repeatedly reminded of this when I run a workshop for Ph.D. students that
includes an exercise using Boote and Beile’s (2005) literature review assessment
matrix. This matrix lists the criteria that could be used to assess literature reviews in
doctoral theses. The assessment criteria are organised into five categories: Coverage,
Synthesis, Methodology, Significance and Rhetoric. In the workshop, participants
are asked to imagine they are Ph.D. examiners who will use the matrix to assess their
own literature reviews. The task is to decide what percentage should be assigned
to each of these elements. Nearly always, students award only 5–10% of the marks
to Rhetoric, which they understand as relating to the quality of the writing. While
they argue that the other criteria can’t be done effectively without good writing, they
rarely want to place too much importance on the writing as a separate category.
As supervisors, learning advisors and writing teachers, we might provide the most
useful support for doctoral candidates if we were to encourage a shift in attitude to
learning about writing as a necessary doctoral skill, rather than offering to ‘help
students with their writing’.
48 2 Being and Developing Writers

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Chapter 3
Managing Productivity

An important aspect of doctoral candidature is learning the habits and discipline of

actually writing the document. Most candidates are new to writing documents that are
as long as a Ph.D. thesis, and experience a steep learning curve as they discover new
processes for approaching their writing. For many doctoral candidates, managing
time and energy can be very challenging. Here we explore writing retreats, writing
processes, habits and attitudes to writing. This chapter uncovers the ways in which
doctoral candidates can be encouraged to carve out time to attend to their writing,
both through self-regulation and participation in various kinds of writing groups and
writing retreats.
Many of the ideas presented here have developed from the pioneering work on
writing retreats by Barbara Grant and Rowena Murray, and the ‘Shut up and write’
model endorsed by Inger Mewburn. Posts on various models of writing retreats were
provided by the editors and guest bloggers. Here we report on our own experiences of
experimenting with various models of writing retreats and groups, and suggestions
for managing the writing process. We distinguish between reviewing and editing,
reverse-engineering, and managing the repetitive reworking of drafts.
Regular habits are key to ensuring the writing is produced. New Year resolutions
can be an appropriate moment to set up new habits, but the discipline required
to manage doctoral writing is ongoing throughout candidature. And pieces in this
section reflect on how to maintain motivation, including reminding ourselves of the
joy to be found in written expression—and the pitfalls to be avoided. Doctoral writing
can be hard going at times, but also immensely rewarding.

© Springer Nature Singapore Pte Ltd. 2020 51

S. Carter et al., Doctoral Writing,
https://doi.org/10.1007/978-981-15-1808-9_3
52 3 Managing Productivity

Writing Groups and Retreats

Writing Groups, Writing Retreats, Boot Camps and Other

Social Writing Events for Doctoral Writers

Claire Aitchison

The editors of this blog are keen advocates for doctoral writers to come together
to do, and share, their writing—whether that be in regular small writing groups,
writing retreats or boot camps. We know that writing groups of all kinds are popular,
and that our friends, colleagues and students are actively engaged in facilitating and
promoting such events both on and off campus, in virtual and physical spaces, both
large and small, across many countries and institutions.

Photo by Claire Aitchison

There’s extraordinary variety in how groups are organised and facilitated and
a growing interest in social writing activities as higher education institutions,
individuals and educators recognise the benefits.
The primary purpose for joining or facilitating social writing events such as boot
camps, ‘Shut up and write’, and retreats is to increase writing productivity in a ‘space’
shared with others. A sense of community develops through the common endeavour
to write; in these forums, participants rarely share or discuss their output in a formal
way.
Other writing communities come together to improve the quality of writing. The
primary purpose of this kind of community is to discuss and critique the work of
the members. Typically, these participants come together in small groups that meet
Writing Groups and Retreats 53

regularly (e.g., fortnightly), where they build trusting relationships while developing
writing know-how through continuous cycles of feedback and review.
The Joy of Social Writing Events
I have facilitated a variety of social writing events, from small groups to large boot
camps, from highly structured intensives with workshops and facilitated feedback to
very relaxed, unstructured events. Some have been held in empty school classrooms,
some in luxurious off-campus accommodation where participants can relax together,
building collaborations and friendships. As I reflect on the joy of writing as a shared
practice, I savour many happy memories:
• Playing Researcher Trivial Pursuit at the end-of-retreat dinner
• Writing groups with fortnightly bake-offs
• Writing group annual Christmas dinners with writing-related ‘prizes’
• Participants emotional with relief at having broken the writing drought
• End-of-event gratitude expressed through heartfelt gift exchanges
• ‘Shut up and Write’ celebrations when participants submit/graduate
• Boot campers being won over by the fun of motivational games and rewards
• A writing group that held ‘theorist lunches’
• Deep and enduring friendships and collaborations
• A weekend beach house writing retreat run by doctoral students
• And, of course, SOME AMAZINGLY GREAT WRITING.
Writing and sharing in the company of others has so many rewards.

Writing in the Company of Others: ‘Shut up and Write!’,

AcWriMo, Boot Camps, Writing Retreats and Other Fun
Activities

Claire Aitchison

I am watching curious passers-by look inquisitively at this small group sitting outside
in the sun tapping away at their keyboards. It’s hard to tell those who are intentionally
part of our new ‘Shut up and write! ’ from those who just happened, accidently, to
lob here today. There are the usual café sounds: orders being given and names called,
cutlery clattering, cups meeting saucers and spoons. Some people look askance,
others quickly soften their voices and look away—as if they have walked in on
someone in prayer.
54 3 Managing Productivity

Photo by Claire Aitchison

It’s 9.15 am and people continue to join us. We are now eight definites and four
fringe-dwellers; perhaps the outliers are hedging their bets, not sure enough yet to
sit with us.
At the break, we talk. Everyone is a doctoral student and immediately there’s an
exchange about thesis topics, stage of candidature, software programs, the recent
boot camp and other group writing opportunities on campus. Everyone wants to
make writing normal business. Everyone needs to build writing into their lives so
they can get their Ph.D. done.
Then we settle down again to write. Together. In silence. It’s magic.
Writing Group Models
There are lots of ways you too can experience this magic.
Writing marathons are productivity-focused events that usually involve mea-
suring output (e.g., word counts) against time. Some examples include AcWriMo
(Academic Writing Month) and boot camps.
AcWriMo was started in 2011 by Charlotte Frost and is an annual online month-
long ‘write-a-thon’ fashioned after the successful NaNoWriMo (National Novel
Writing Month). Originally, writers participated via the host—PhD2Published; writ-
ers determine their own writing goals and are supported by social media including
dedicated posts, twitter feeds and participant exchanges.
Boot camps work on a similar principle, except that they often bring people
together in the same physical space; they are mostly facilitated and very often cen-
trally provisioned by university graduate schools or writing centres. Like AcrWriMo,
participants set personal writing targets to meet in a set period of time, such as two
or three days. Thesis Whisperer gives a great account of how a Boot Camp works.
Other Social Writing Options
‘Shut up and write!’ (https://thesiswhisperer.com/shut-up-and-write/) is a mini writ-
ing sprint, rather than a marathon, usually for an hour on a regular basis (e.g., weekly)
in a convivial place. This kind of writing event is popular with doctoral scholars and
academics because it’s a relaxed arrangement without hard rules or long-term com-
mitment. Participants simply turn up and get on with their writing, in the company
of others, for two 25-min bursts, with a five-minute break in the middle.
Writing Groups and Retreats 55

‘Meetup’ writing groups. ‘Meetup’ is a global social networking phenomenon

and yet another vibrant social writing avenue. The group meets weekly at a pub
in central Sydney where participants write, eat and drink together for 2 h under the
‘cone of silence’. Thereafter, people mix and socialise as they see fit. I was amazed to
discover this group included professionals of all kinds: scriptwriters, bloggers—and
doctoral students.
Writing retreats are another kind of extended writing together opportunity
favoured by doctoral scholars and academics alike. Whether highly structured (as
described by Murray and Newton (2009) or more organic (see Barbara Grant’s
2008 Guide), there’s growing evidence of the value of retreating from the everyday
demands and routines of academic life to spaces entirely dedicated to writing.
Writing buddies and intimate circles of productivity. Finally, I’d like to include
a plug for the common, but undervalued, practice of hiding oneself away with a
colleague/s to write. I’ve been lucky enough to spend weekends away with doctoral
scholars in which we have shared writing, cooking, walking and talking.
Back at the University of New South Wales’ ‘Shut up and write!’ I overhear a
passer-by say (I’m not kidding, I promise!): ‘This looks good … I want to do it—but
I don’t have time’. But that’s the point, isn’t it?—‘Shut up and write!’ and these
other group writing activities are booming because they work especially for those
who don’t have time. The popularity of writing in groups is evident everywhere. So,
if you haven’t already, get yourself into some kind of group writing activity and reap
the rewards.

‘Sit Down and Do Your Work!’ Disciplining the Writer

Claire Aitchison

If you’ve ever been in a school classroom, you’ll be familiar with this refrain. Recently
I’ve been volunteering to read with primary school children, and as I’ve sat with these
young ones who are often fidgety, yawning and distracted, I am intensely reminded
of the bodily or corporeal aspects of learning.
In contemporary educational theory, there is a relative lack of attention to bodily
aspects of learning—except where it emerges as mostly negative discourses about
classroom management or (student) disability. There is even less serious attention to
the role of pedagogy for developing bodily habits of learning. In Education, western
perspectives are built on a romantic view of childhood that favours individual creativ-
ity, student-directed learning and limited teacher intervention. This orientation has
positioned regimentation and discipline as negative, even damaging, to creativity and
learning. Today’s teachers employ pedagogies that focus on cognitive development
and ignore bodily aspects of learning. (If you’re interested in reading more about
these ideas, I’d recommend a wonderful book by Watkins, 2011.)
56 3 Managing Productivity

I’ve been thinking about how this relates to doctoral scholarship.

Those working with doctoral students will have observed and experienced a huge
range of individual work practices over extended periods. We also know that we all
struggle sometimes to settle down and get on with the job. Self-discipline comes more
easily to some than others and varies according to the task and context. Emotional
aspects will also be powerfully affecting. Doing doctoral research is particularly
fraught because achievement and progress is so individual. Disciplining oneself is
so much harder than submitting to an imposed discipline.
But as far as writing goes, there does seem to be an increasingly popular alternative
to solitary, self-directed approaches—in the form of writing retreats.
When I attended my first writing retreat with Murray (2014), she told us we were
to sit together silently and write in structured blocks of time over three days. I was
skeptical: I found her approach surprisingly un-cerebral, and I couldn’t imagine this
mixture of doctoral students and senior academics submitting to her instructions. I
couldn’t imagine myself bowing to somebody else’s structured routine, nor writing
on demand. I was used to writing whenever I could fit it in—and certainly not in
the company of strangers with my productivity being overseen. It felt like a drill
hall with Rowena as the drillmaster. Initially I baulked, but eventually I did settle
down—and by the third day, I had developed a kind of bodily stillness that enabled
increasingly long stretches of thinking and writing.
Since then, I am amused by the popularity of this approach in the halls of
the academy. Who would have thought! Visions of anarchic schooling and army
drills juxtaposed alongside doctoral scholarship! Approaches that attend to the body
couldn’t be more different from traditional doctoral teaching and learning practices
that are usually thought of as cerebral, individualised and intimate spaces defined by
the supervisor–student relationship.
In structured writing retreats, an individual’s predilections of habit are overwritten
by the regimentation of the program. In these spaces, curriculum is subservient
to pedagogy—an enabling corporeal pedagogy. At such retreats, consenting adults
commit themselves to a training regime that disciplines the body and thereby the
mind. It is an explicit pedagogy that aims to ensure a physical commitment to sitting
still and writing.
I run a lot of writing retreats for academics and researchers. Retreats vary from
the boot camp to the more laissez-faire—but they all use regimentation to discipline
the physical body as the foundational step for enabling productivity.
I have enjoyed working with some incredibly self-disciplined doctoral students
who have managed to regulate their lives, studies and writing amazingly well. Such
students have replaced the external disciplining ‘teacher with stick’ with their own
personal training regimes and routines, using, for example, writing schedules and
self-imposed due dates; often they establish social supports that include obligations to
produce. I have also worked with others who find it incredibly, almost pathologically,
impossible to organise and discipline themselves. This group, especially, can benefit
tremendously from corporeal pedagogies where they can learn the kinds of scholarly
habits and strategies that enable productivity.
Writing Groups and Retreats 57

Writing Retreats aka Binge Writing: Luxury-Class Doctoral

Writing

Susan Carter

I am at a desk overlooking trees soaking up misty rain. This post represents a spasm
of procrastination from the article that I’m writing on my new research interest.
Beside me, I have an ambitious stack of reading for the week; I need to get
my head round the recent literature. In front of me, the laptop, currently showing
my resurrected EndNote library. Around me, other women academics are writing,
including a couple who are finishing their Ph.D. theses, and a couple who are newly
graduated and now pumping out articles.
It’s the third day of one of Barbara Grant’s writing retreats for academic women.
I have read five articles and skimmed two journals—two books and another five
journals sit waiting. I have also written 3,749 words, a bit boring and disjointed, but
first draft material sitting in a document. I know that by the end of a fairly blissful
week I will have accomplished a draft of an article to fine tune later, and may have
almost caught up with this reading.
Boice (1987) suggests that ‘binge writing’—days given only to writing—actually
handicaps academic writers, because it encourages procrastination. He recommends,
instead, making space for short bursts daily. Sustained daily short bursts of writing
are recommended by Bolker (1998) to produce what she describes as the dissertation
written in 15 minutes per day. Boice’s and Bolker’s approaches avoid fetishizing
writing or making it a sacred ritual requiring trappings, place, silence, atmosphere…
I too find it helpful to see it as part of the ordinary pattern of each day.
So what do writing retreats give participants? The writing retreat offers a dimen-
sion I do not get in short snatches at my office desk. It’s the business-class luxury
approach. Most conspicuously, it offers a quiet space allowing real thinking. This is
the oasis that I keep ahead of me through all the times I write at a desk cluttered with
folders relating to committee work, teaching work, reviewing work. I’m always able
to write at my desk, but I cannot immerse myself in the same level of thinking. At
the retreat, there is just a desk, my reading and laptop and no other demands.
And there is the social dimension of writing with others. Working around others
obviously deep in thought is somehow energising, as though we mutually thrive on
each other’s absorption in their writing. The tapping of fingers on other people’s
keyboards motivates us.
Encouraging doctoral students to write daily makes sense; if writing retreats are
established for them, they are likely to find clarity of thinking, energy from others—
and are likely to shift their writing forwards.
58 3 Managing Productivity

Thesis Writing Boot Camp for Doctoral Writers

Cally Guerin

In the past I’ve been reluctant to go down the ‘Thesis Writing Boot Camp’ path.
To me it sounds punitive, as if only the naughty students who have failed to make
sufficient progress need to attend. And when unfit writers arrive, they’ll be forced
into doing the work they didn’t complete previously, pushed to the limits of their
ability in exercising their minds (if not their physical bodies). My own attitude to
working with research students is focused on creating an inclusive, collaborative
community of mutually supportive scholars—I want them to feel that I’m looking
after them, rather than criticizing their hard work and extensive, long-term efforts.
But boot camps have become part of the annual program in lots of Australian
universities since Peta Freestone and Liam Connell introduced the concept at the
University of Melbourne. Boot camps seem to follow from the popularity of writing
events and retreats. Students know what’s happening at other universities and want
to be part of what they see being effective elsewhere.
So I decided to give it a go.
I wanted to keep things fairly simple as a first foray into this kind of writing event.
The schedule was set for five mornings in one week in February, 9 am–1 pm, to
kickstart the 2016 academic year in Australia. The event was held in in our usual
building, but in a separate section away from participants’ offices. By using this
familiar space, participants could travel to the sessions easily instead of finding a
new bus route or car park; could have ready access to their offices to run back for any
forgotten materials; and could use their university internet connection (for writing
purposes—not for checking distracting email or social media!).
Participants were reminded one week before the start date to think ahead about
the overall writing outcomes they wanted for the week. We worked to a timetable of
three writing ‘sprints’ each morning; a timetable for the week’s 15 sprint sessions
was provided so that participants could assign specific tasks to work on each session.
The group meeting and discussion time was kept to a minimum, as the focus
was on producing the writing. We had just half an hour at the beginning of the
first morning for participants to introduce themselves to each other and explain their
projects and approaches to the writing tasks they had set for themselves; then another
short session at the very end was used to report back on achievements during the
boot camp and to make a writing plan for the rest of the year.
During the morning, we had two short breaks to allow for more discussion time
and social chat. An urn, tea and coffee were provided—very simple catering, but
enough to refresh the writers (and keep them nearby, rather than wandering off to
get a cappuccino in the café across campus and arriving back late to the next writing
session).
Some participants were unable to attend all five days, owing to other responsibili-
ties, or found they needed to arrive late or leave a little early sometimes. These adults
had signed up voluntarily (unlike some compulsory boot camps); this group was more
Writing Groups and Retreats 59

than capable of making sensible decisions about their time and priorities. A week-
long boot camp doesn’t work for everyone, and gracious withdrawal is perfectly fine.
Nevertheless, overall attendance was consistent and the public commitment to the
boot camp seemed to provide a sense of accountability to the facilitator and the group
for missed sessions.
By Friday lunchtime, a lot of words had been written, and good progress made in
conceptualising thesis arguments and structures. The habit of writing on demand was
established, and participants could brag to themselves and others about what they’d
achieved through their concerted, consistent efforts. The hope is that this sense of
achievement will encourage participants to continue writing to a self-maintained
schedule.

Experimenting with Academic Writing Month (AcWriMo)

Cally Guerin

At Adelaide University we have just tried our first experiment with Academic Writ-
ing Month (AcWriMo). Inspired by National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo),
Charlotte Frost developed an academic version of this concept that has grown into a
worldwide phenomenon. Despite feeling that the word AcWriMo sounds like ‘acri-
monious’, I found the exact opposite to be true. I know that some academics have
expressed reservations about the concept of AcWriMo, but I decided to try it anyway.
As an academic developer running programs for research students, I wanted
AcWriMo to achieve several things. Mostly, I hoped that this experiment would:
1. encourage more writing;
2. build a sense of community; and
3. provide a form of online writing group for those who can’t (or don’t want to)
attend face-to-face sessions.
We used Wikispaces for the register of individual goals and tally of daily output,
as well as for community discussions. Wikispaces was free and really easy to use, but
no longer exists. However, there are alternative free websites available with similar
functionality.
Quite a bit of the early correspondence to set up AcWriMo took place via the
(supposedly outdated but really quite convenient) email system. This is probably
because my initial email inviting all research students to participate was sent out
through the university-wide email list. I’m of the generation that likes email, and the
participants don’t seem to mind such an old-fashioned approach, especially since it
is our university’s usual form of communication.
Participants set writing targets ranging from 100 to 500 words per day. Any kind of
target is fine—the key is making a public commitment and then feeling an obligation
to follow through. As a role model for my first group, I wasn’t always as productive
as I’d hoped, and several others commented on the Discussion Board that they’d
60 3 Managing Productivity

had unexpected interruptions during the month, too. Many, however, exceeded their
promised word count, and I for one found myself trying to write just one more
sentence so that I could meet my obligations.
Thousands of words have been written during this concentrated effort; maybe
they would have been written anyway, but now we have a record of the achievement.
There is certainly a sense of a community developing, with a few key contributors
to the Discussion Board but no doubt plenty of others reading and lurking in the
background—they are all busy adding to their daily scores, even if not responding
directly to my discussion prompts. Already some have asked if they have to finish
at the end of November, or can we continue to have the Wikispace (the answer is a
resounding yes!). And finally, most of the names on the register are not people I’ve
come across in the other writing groups and workshops I run for research students,
so AcWriMo seems to have reached out to a different group from our other offerings.
Overall, as a lead-up to the end of both the calendar year and the academic year
in Australia, this has been an invigorating experience. I’m already planning to do it
again.

Writing Processes

Questions Students Ask

Claire Aitchison

I started this blog during a writing retreat for research students. Some writers were
working on a paper that needed to serve the dual purpose of being a stand-alone
publication while also fitting their thesis as a series of publications. Others were
writing papers connected to their doctoral research that wouldn’t be submitted as
part of the examinable thesis. And some were writing chapters or sections of the
more traditional ‘big book’ thesis. Students came from all stages of candidature and
from all disciplines. In this post, I reflect on the questions students asked in individual
consultations.
• Should I just write it first—let it all out, and then structure later—or decide on the
structure first, and then write into that?
• Should I write the chapter first and then derive the article from that, or the other
way round?
• I’ve got this rough draft of a chapter and my supervisor says I have to make it into
a publication—it is 14,000 words and needs to be 7,000. How do I do that?
• One of my troubles is that I write bits of information and it is just blocks of stuff.
My supervisor tells me I need to connect the bits together. How?
• One of my supervisors is sick, and the other goes on sabbatical at the end of the
year. I need to finish asap—how long will it take me to write the thesis?
Writing Processes 61

• My supervisor says I am verbose. It could be cultural—but it seems too abrupt,

like I’m writing a manual when I do it your way.
• How do I write a methodology section? I have read so many methods books that
I feel overwhelmed. Now, apparently I am writing like one!
• I feel like I’m going round and round. I don’t know what I’m saying anymore.
It’s interesting to note that most of the queries were about writing processes—how
to actually do the writing. This is such a beautiful challenge. Some people like to
begin with an outline: they need the roadmap to guide their writing. Others like to
write freely, drafting as they gradually and organically find the form (and the ideas)
they require. It’s easy to see why these two very different approaches can sometimes
lead to misunderstandings between supervisors and students.
A number of student queries were about cohesion and linking. These prompted
us to discuss the organisation of ideas—sequencing and logical development of
an argument, along with metadiscourse for linking segments and helping writers
articulate the rhetorical raison d’être of their structure.
Other questions related to writing style. The student concerned about writing the
methodology section was experiencing ‘model assimilation’. Methodology books are
mostly written in a textbook style for a student audience and provide a theoretically
detailed account of the topic. Doctoral writers often mimic this style initially. Helping
students identify voice and writerly stance can assist them in replacing the voice of
the informant with their own authorial voice as their project develops.
When the big book thesis also contains a series of related, integrated publications,
writers will need greater dexterity (and nerve!) to accommodate the unpredictability
and uncertainty of these emerging forms. There are fewer models for students and
supervisors to draw on, and they may have less control over the form and timing,
especially as plans can be disrupted by the reviewing and publication process. In
addition, students sometimes struggle to distinguish between the requirements of a
chapter and a journal article where the same story must be told differently.
These questions made me wonder where students can find answers.
Of course, students can speak to their supervisors … or can they? Some questions
cannot be asked of supervisors; at times students may feel uncomfortable asking their
busy supervisors, or maybe they just want a second opinion. In the main, doctoral
students have few opportunities for low stakes conversations about their writing.
Family and friends (Aitchison & Mowbray, 2013) hardly seem best placed (and too
many questions may stretch the friendship!).
Increasingly, institutions are providing opportunities for students to access writing
help (e.g., via 1:1 consultations, workshops, guest lecturers or credit bearing courses).
Nevertheless, ongoing support for doctoral writing is still, all too often, secondary to
the task of getting the research done. Not all institutions are well resourced; not all
recognise the value of supporting writing. Similarly, not all students are comfortable
seeking feedback on their writing. In fact, some say they have only ever shown work
to their supervisors—despite the fact that doctoral scholars who regularly show,
share and talk about their writing are less likely to experience writer’s block or the
debilitating shock that can accompany critical feedback.
62 3 Managing Productivity

The student queries above also speak to the very nature of writing and author-
ship. They remind us yet again of the deep complexities of doctoral writing—of the
temporal and relational nature of writing, of the emotional and subjective aspects
of writing, of the skills and knowledge requirements for discipline-specific research
writing. Open, genuine discussions about writing help bring these complexities to
the fore and help reduce the stigma some people feel about sharing their writing.
In many ways, any writer embarking on a new writing task faces these ques-
tions, particularly when they are not part of a dynamic community of writers. Ques-
tions about writing are perfectly legitimate; our institutions need to encourage and
resource vibrant and ongoing discussions about writing that are deeply embedded in
the practices of scholarly research.

Writing, Reviewing and Editing—Not to Be Confused

Claire Aitchison

Writing (V) To form letters, words, or symbols on a surface with an instrument

Reviewing (V) To examine or assess something with the possibility or intention of
instituting change
Editing (V) To prepare written material for publication by correcting, condensing, or
modifying it (www.thefreedictionary.com/)

When working with scholars on their writing, it can be useful to draw distinctions
between writing, reviewing and editing. In the act of writing, we generally move
between these tasks automatically and unconsciously. Each of these activities is a key
skill for producing text, but their inappropriate application can be counter-productive,
especially for novice writers. Time spent on editing too early in the writing process
can, at best, be time wasted, and at worst can contribute to writer’s block. I’ve found
that a greater awareness of these components of writing practice can help doctoral
students become more productive writers.
I use this simple three-step activity to help identify and separate these writing
tasks.
1. Writing: Six minutes of ‘free writing’ à la Peter Elbow (1998)
In this timed activity, participants write without stopping for six minutes, oblivious
to spelling mistakes, poor expression and so on. It is essential that writers switch off
their internal marker/editor/reviewer selves, and simply put their ideas as words on
the page. (I usually give a writing prompt such as: Today I am writing about….)
Writing Processes 63

2. Reviewing
Writers read over their text without interfering with it in any way. Then I ask them to
record at least one positive comment and at least one comment identifying a change
or aspect for improvement.
3. Editing
I then ask the writers to go back over their writing and edit their work.
Finally, we discuss the difference between these tasks, our relative confidence and
competence with each of them, their different purposes and how they impact on the
progression of the text. This is fruitful for identifying why writing has stalled and
for pointing out strategies for more productive behaviours.
It’s easy to understand why some of us who have spent years marking, reviewing
and critiquing the work of others may automatically default to ‘editor/marker’ when
we sit down to write. But there are times when this activity may need to be corralled—
or banished altogether.
Different stages of writing require different tasks. For example, when fleshing
out new thinking, it can be useful to actively turn off our internal critic and stop
editing and reviewing, focusing only on putting words onto the page. Reviewing is
good to bring to the text after periods of writing, particularly to new writing that has
settled for a while. Editing, like housework, is a job that permanently beckons and
feels always unfinished. Editing is an end-on task whose function is to get the text
ready for show. But productive editing can also be done en route, when we’re feeling
‘brain dead’ and need a break from writing, at points that make sense for the author,
or following self-reviewing activities.

Reverse Engineering of Writing: Reading to See How ‘Good,

Interesting Writing’ Works

Susan Carter

This post draws heftily on Gina Wisker’s website, the Good Supervisor (http://
goodsupervisor.co.uk, password ‘brighton’—please note that it is not Palgrave
Macmillan 2012 book of the same name). Here I give an example of one of Gina’s
exercises that doctoral writers could undertake to improve their writerly skills. It’s a
series of reverse-engineering prompts designed to help doctoral students learn how
to ‘notice’ (Kumar & Kumar, 2009) the strategies that good research writers use. I
noticed that Gina Wisker says to pick ‘good interesting’ exemplars—that is exactly
the kind of writing that early career researchers should be encouraged to notice and
produce.
Gina’s Exercise
Find two good, interesting articles (or dissertations) in your field. Then analyse them
according to the following:
64 3 Managing Productivity

• How the abstract establishes the reason for the work, why it was conducted the
way it was, and what its importance and impact in the field are;
• How the introduction introduces the context, the need for the work, where that
work fits in, what credibility (such as background, work, research, experience) the
author has to write it and how it briefly gives an idea of the rest of the article;
• How the literature review engages with the literature, with both the established
theories and the relatively recent critical work in the same/similar areas, so, how it
engages with the main arguments and concerns related to this area, this question,
this work, and also how this new work enters the dialogue with those previously
written pieces and emphasises its new contribution to this ongoing discussion;
• How the methodology/methods section discusses, describes and defends why the
work was undertaken in the way it was, that is, in what ways and why not in others,
and the limitations and ethical procedures;
• How discussion of data engages with the data produced; how it explains the anal-
ysis, and how it looks at the evidence in the information found, ensuring that this
is all related to the initial question (in social sciences, humanities, related fields),
or hypothesis (in sciences and related fields);
• How it shows that the evidence/data/findings do relate to the initial question or
hypothesis, etc., and to the theories which have helped to ask the question or
address the hypothesis, which underpin the understanding and approach to the
field and to the data analysis and discussion. Look at how it makes claims and
informs them with the underpinning theoretical perspectives, how it backs them
up with some form of evidence rather than overloading with large amounts of
undiscussed, unrelated information or data; and
• How the Conclusion closes. Is there a sense of exhaustion and repetition? Or does it
draw the main findings (factual and conceptual) together to make a statement about
the main factual findings (new information and knowledge), and new conceptual
understandings about the field, as well as their meaning in the field in terms of
areas explored in this work? Does it clearly signal the importance of the work?
Each one of these bullet points would form the basis of a workshop or supervision
meeting. I like to emphasise the word ‘how’ in the above exercise, and ask students
to look closely for the mechanics of language that articulate all these workings of
their chosen examples.
This process is what Helen Sword calls ‘reverse-engineering [of] exemplary prose’
(Sword, 2017, p. 67). That is, by noticing exactly how a good writer achieves their
purpose, a doctoral writer can check whether their own writing is as successful and
do so armed with an informed sense of the linguistic strategies they might employ.
Sword (2017) suggests some examples of what might be noticed, including:
• the author has made complex concepts accessible by using real-life examples;
• the author avoids gratuitous jargon and contextualises crucial technical terms so
that readers can easily work out their meaning.
You will find some of Helen’s resources at http://helensword.com.
Writing Processes 65

The Writing Process: Agonisingly Slow?

Cally Guerin

I’ve been in conversation lately with a student who is analysing and writing about his
research. He has done excellent fieldwork and gathered lots of wonderfully revealing
data. Now that he is mapping out what to do with all that information, the work is
starting to feel rather slow and repetitive. When I try to reassure him that he’s doing a
great job and that this is what writing a Ph.D. is like, he nods politely but the skeptical
look in his eyes suggests he doesn’t believe a word I’m saying.
At present he is engaged in the slow, careful mapping out of each chapter. Big
decisions are being made about the main themes or categories—is that the best
heading to characterise the concept? Does that particular block of material work as a
single category, or should it be broken into separate sections? Then what is the best
order for these themes? It is necessary to move the sections around, to try out a few
structures, to assess which works best and to recognise what doesn’t work as well
and understand why.
Once the basic skeleton of the chapter is decided (knowing that it may well change
again), the next stage of gradually building up the complexity of each section begins.
Starting with the juiciest quotations, then interpreting what they mean, linking to the
literature, theorising about the bigger picture that is gradually appearing.
The uneven development of each section as it comes into being can be discourag-
ing. While it feels like a great deal of work—and effort—has been expended, nothing
is completed. As key words are jotted down under headings, reminder notes are made
to look up references, dot-points are added all over the document, the writer can see
how much remains to be done. It is a process of going over and over the same ground,
gradually filling in the story without reaching an obvious endpoint.
And even when the sections and chapters appear to be written up in full, they still
require a lengthy process of reworking draft after draft. Indeed, it is precisely this
iteration and reiteration that Paré (2011) identifies as a crucial difference between
undergraduate and doctoral writing.
The final neat, smooth product we see in the completed thesis or published article
doesn’t reveal anything of this arduous intellectual work. That neat series of six
headings might not look like a huge output for a full day’s work, but represents hours
of concentrated endeavour.
This really is a normal part of doctoral writing, particularly for qualitative
researchers, although it can be rather dispiriting.
66 3 Managing Productivity

The Power of Walking

Cally Guerin

The final stages of thesis writing are a very difficult phase for anyone, both physically
and mentally; most students seem become quite obsessive (even irrationally so) at
the end of a Ph.D. before they can emerge into the bright sunshine on the other side
of submission. This student identified his main struggle as trying to stand back from
all the material dealt with over the years and assess it objectively. Instead of noticing
what has been achieved, he doubted the worth of his efforts: is the research valuable
to the discipline? Is it sufficiently original? Is it a substantial contribution to the
field? After years of working with the same ideas, they can lose their freshness and
no longer seem valuable.
In an attempt to reassure and offer a practical solution, I suggested he think
through ideas when walking to university and then again when walking home. He
looked rather bewildered (and maybe thought that I too was going mad in a kind of
folie á deux). But I genuinely believe that a great deal of very useful thinking can
happen while walking.
The best advice I ever received as a doctoral student myself was to try and keep
the idea I was working on at the front of my thinking all the time—while waiting for
the bus, while doing the washing up, while watching the photocopier, while doing
any mechanical, mundane task. The point is to keep turning the idea over in your
mind until the pattern or connection appears.
I have extended this thinking activity to walking. There is something about the
soothing rhythm of walking that aids thinking—it needs to be fast enough to get the
blood pumping, but not so speedy as to take up all your concentration. For me, this
is much more effective than sitting staring at the computer and drinking yet more
coffee, nibbling on yet more dry-roasted almonds (or, preferably, chocolate sultanas).
I was therefore delighted to come across a recent study by Oppezzo and Schwartz
(2014) that provided some serious evidence for what many of us have long suspected:
walking outdoors really does stimulate creative thinking. Even Nietzsche (1998) is
supposed to have said that ‘All truly great thoughts are conceived while walking’.
So I advocate walking and thinking as a regular part of academic life.
During mental health week in Australia we are reminded of the importance of
maintaining our mental health, taking up moderate exercise and doing enjoyable
activities to help cope with the stresses of modern life. There is a parallel discourse
about the apparent increase in mental illness amongst academics and doctoral can-
didates. So I’m forced to consider how my advice fits with the recommendations to
exercise but perhaps licenses obsessive work patterns by focusing on an idea and con-
stantly turning it over in one’s mind. On balance, I hope that these two approaches to
doctoral writing create a manageable equilibrium. Not everyone is fortunate enough
to be comfortably mobile, but those who are should gratefully make the most of it.
Habits and Time Management 67

Habits and Time Management

Getting the Right/Write Habit

Claire Aitchison

Successful writers have routines and practices that become habitual; these include
habits of mind, body, time, place and pace. Some of these habits are good, productive
and sustainable—others not.
As an undergraduate I smoked my way through the writing of many an essay,
mostly late at night with the aid of copious quantities of caffeine. Thankfully I’d
kicked the smoking habit by the time I became a paid academic, and these days,
staying up late—with or without coffee—is entirely out of the question. I rarely
write after dinner. I’m a morning person and that’s when I do my best writing.
Writing habits of the seriously successful are far more interesting. Apparently,
Hemingway stood to write; Voltaire, Truman Capote and Proust preferred to lie down.
Many authors fit their writing in around other jobs: Scott Fitzgerald wrote at night
and on weekends when in the military; Philip Larkin wrote his poetry after work,
after dinner.
Some writers set themselves gruelling targets: Anthony Trollope wrote 3,000
words in three hours each morning before going to work. PG Wodehouse averaged
2500 words a day until his late 80s. On the other hand, Gertrude Stein wrote for only
half an hour per day throughout her life.
Some authors favour the solitary life, but some, like Jane Austen, wrote in the
company of others—in her case, with her sister and mother who sat doing needlework.
Oh, and my bad habits pale when compared to the big drinking and barbiturate
consumption of people like Hemmingway, Tennessee Williams and Dorothy Parker.
Habits of mind that work as ‘ideas incubators’ often involve physical activity:
Toni Morrison does her thinking during activities such as driving or travelling to
work. Walking, running and swimming are also productive thinking activities for
many.
So, if we pause to consider our writing habits (good, bad or non-existent), what
can we take from the lives and habits of successful writers?
Firstly, it seems imperative to have a routine—and the discipline to stick to it.
Markus Zusak (author of The Book Thief ) said: ‘I just make sure I write every day
at the same time, and that my room is ready: I don’t need any other reasons to
procrastinate’ (7 January 2014, The 7.30 Report, ABC TV, Australia).
Habits and routines are highly personal; what works for one, doesn’t work for
another. Imperatives such as commitments made to colleagues and deadlines can
help, but, without a routine for getting the writing done, even these may not be
sufficient.
At the beginning of each year I do a stocktake and set some concrete writing
objectives. I itemise my writing objectives for the year and schedule completion
dates for each. This schedule is pinned by my computer. Some years I’m more
68 3 Managing Productivity

successful than others; nevertheless, this activity gives me something concrete to

work towards—and a way of measuring my progress (or otherwise). I also reconsider
my weekly timetable to plan just when, in the week, the writing will actually get done.
Some habits are better than others. Some routines and habits can last a lifetime—
others may shorten your life! These days many of us in higher education have less
certainty around our working lives, and habits and routines can be regularly disrupted.
It can feel like we have no control, and that writing is an illegitimate pastime (see
Murray, 2013).
This context requires us to be more flexible and to regularly reassess our habits
and routines—but equally, we may have to be more disciplined, more determined
and even smarter to ensure the writing habits we develop are healthy and sustainable.

New Year’s Resolutions for Doctoral Writers

Susan Carter

In a seminar hosted for doctoral students each January, I suggest activities to support
doctoral writing for the coming year. Before drawing up their resolutions, doctoral
writers can do a self-audit through introspection by
1. acknowledging successful working practices by listing things they have done
reasonably well; and
2. listing bad habits that might be rectified.
Weighing up the previous track record can lead to New Year’s resolutions, deciding
what might make this time round more successful. Curry and Lillis (2013, p. 3)
explain that ‘the ways that people do things often become part of their implicit
routine or habitual patterns of activity’; that is, the real goal is to build better habits
into our regular (implicit) routine. Here’s workshop prompts.

New Year’s Resolution Exercises for Doctoral Students

Time Management
Make a time frame for the year ahead. What progress you want to make over the
coming year? What is the realistic time frame for each step? Where do you need to
be by January next year? So where do you need to be by July this year? What will
you need to do each month to get there? Take the first month and plan each week.
For this year, at the end of each month plan ahead for the next.
Changing Habits
If you do something consistently for two months, you will have established a habit
that you can maintain. But if two months seems like a long haul, a good beginning
Habits and Time Management 69

is to start with a two-week time frame. What is the first item that you might give
two weeks’ consistent effort towards? Are there little rewards if you achieve this
metamorphosis? Pencil these promises into your diary or the digital equivalent.
Orientation
• Revisit your research proposal and outline of thesis structure;
• Remind yourself of your initial ideas (and enthusiasm) for the research project;
• Re-examine your aim: are you still working toward this goal? Has anything
changed?
• Does your initial idea for the structure of the thesis seem viable? Has anything
changed to make this form less applicable? Try and picture the thesis as a whole so
that you have a better sense of how each of its parts function in the overall context.

Written Work
• Re-examine what you have written so far. Write a summary, noting the key
elements of existing chapters.
• How is the next stage in your thesis going to draw on or link to prior sections?
Pick up the existing threads with a mind to reworking them into the writing to be
done next.
• Focus on the element of your research that most interests you.
• View writing quantitatively—how much do you have? How many words will be in
each chapter? How many within each section? Now count the words every month
so you can see the growth.
• Make a writing contract with a colleague—we will both turn off all morning (or
whatever).

Help from Others

• Make a plan for where you want to go after completion.
• Talk to someone (supervisor, partner) about what you are writing.
• Plan towards giving a seminar or conference paper. Having a specific target can
help motivation, and writing a discrete paper is a good reminder that you can in
fact produce polished, finished work.
• Maintain contact with others: your colleagues and other doctoral students. Put
dates into your calendar so that you participate in departmental seminars. Arrange
coffee or lunch with doctoral friends.
• Participate in (or set up) a reading group with other doctoral candidates in your
discipline to discuss particular articles, readings, theories or methodologies.
• Join or set up a writing group in which you review, edit and comment on each
other’s work—not necessarily limited to those in your field.
• Book seminars provided by the graduate school or library.
• See your subject librarian to ask about new data-bases that you could use.
• Email a world expert to ask advice on a small point. Then insert the response
somewhere in your thesis, referencing as ‘private conversation, date’.
70 3 Managing Productivity

• Join Twitter #phdchat to ask and answer questions.

• Link to an inspiring or sustaining blog like Thesis Whisperer (https://
thesiswhisperer.com).
• Review the supervisory relationship, and plan a strategy for improving it. You can
communicate better and produce more writing by knowing your own weaknesses
and strengths as well as your supervisors’. Then thank them for the previous year’s
support, emphasizing what worked really well.

How Long Does It Take to Write a Thesis?

Cally Guerin

The idea of being able to create a schedule to write a thesis seems pretty obvious,
straight forward and achievable. If there are 80,000 words to be written over three
years, where’s the problem? Assuming five-day weeks and one month for holidays
each year, that leaves 720 work days. That’s just over 110 words per day. So why do
doctoral writers struggle to get this done? Clearly, there’s a lot more to it.
When I meet with doctoral candidates who appear to be busy writing, they often
disappointedly say they are still working on the task they were doing last week, and
the week before, and the week before that. Many start out being very optimistic
about how quickly they can write certain sections of the thesis. It seems that there
is something here about time management related to habits of writing, and also
understanding the size of each writing task.
Those doctoral writers who report feeling that their progress is slow are at a loss
when it comes to strategies to speed up. In thinking about how to respond to this,
I came across Helen Sword’s recent article ‘Write every day’ (2016), in which she
reports on the broad range of writing habits described by successful academic writers.
What becomes immediately clear is that there is not just one time of day, amount of
time nor place that works best—for each person it’s different and depends entirely
on other factors in their lives. Finding out what suits each individual—or adapting
to what one’s own life allows—is part of succeeding in doctoral writing.
It is sometimes too easy for supervisors and writing teachers to imagine that
Ph.D. candidates have only their thesis to work on and can devote themselves full
time to writing. But of course, many candidates have (sometimes substantial) work
commitments, and family responsibilities for children and/or elderly parents—after
all, Graduate Careers Australia reports that the median age of Ph.D. candidates in
Australia is 35, a life stage where much family commitment is at its peak. Even those
who are relatively free of other work and family responsibilities might have teaching
duties, or may be preparing conference presentations or journal articles.
Added to all this, there is a pervasive perception—especially by those who aren’t
doing much of it—that writing isn’t really ‘work’ (Murray, 2013). This means that
Habits and Time Management 71

families or bosses can sometimes regard writing as less important than their own
demands for candidates’ time and attention.
So, all these other commitments and responsibilities mean that every day is not
the same, and therefore each of those 720 days of a three-year candidature doesn’t
actually allow the same space for writing. The 110 words per day plan is already
breaking down.
But, the thesis does have to be written if the candidate is to get their degree. Keep-
ing a diary to see where the time disappears to can be invaluable. Honest recording of
time use effectively draws attention to what and when writing is disrupted by other
responsibilities or commitments.
Armed with accurate information, it is then possible to work around these inter-
ruptions. Often we imagine our days being spent differently from what we actually
do, unaware of just how much time particular tasks take. Identifying these distrac-
tions is one thing—changing the writer’s reactions is another. Learning to say ‘NO’
is not easy.
Of course, there is no answer to my original question; writing can take so much
longer than expected. There are days when the writing tasks seem obvious and are
quickly laid down in a decent form; on other occasions it takes an age to find a
good structure that allows the argument to emerge in a coherent order. One of the
challenges for new researchers is to make realistic estimates of how long each writing
task will take, and then match that with how much time they have available for the
task. It can be encouraging to slightly over-estimate how long tasks will take; then,
if the job is completed a little ahead of time, a warm glow of success can be enjoyed
(Zerubavel, 1999).

Writing and Time-Scheduling

Claire Aitchison

We acknowledge that, in planning for timely completion of the Ph.D., writing pro-
ductivity is a complex phenomenon. But it is possible to make a reasonably accurate
guesstimate by adopting practices that increase productivity in combination with
output calculations that are based on project targets, writing tasks, and real, personal
circumstances.
A common practice is to identify the average length of a thesis (measured as
chapter, page or word count) and estimate backwards from that. This helps students
to appreciate the size of the task ahead—and while word (chapter or page) count is
a blunt instrument, it can be useful. Identifying the target size for the thesis allows
the writer to map out the number and relative size of chapters, and itemise the jobs
ahead. But still we come back to the question of how long it takes to write a thesis. Is
it possible to make a realistic assessment of the time we need to put aside for writing
in order to meet our targets?
72 3 Managing Productivity

The Long-Term Schedule—Planning to Submission

With doctoral students, I like to have an early conversation about the expected length
of the thesis, so that we all agree on the size of the writing task. A draft Table of
Contents with word counts for each segment becomes the working target guide. Next,
we make an early Gantt chart to map out the months and years of writing ahead. This
can be done using an Excel spread sheet (there’s lots of help online), or by using
online Gantt chart software associated with a project management tool, such as Trello
(check online for other options). Many universities also offer workshops on project
managing the Ph.D., and these may recommend specific software, approaches, or
support.
But having a Gantt chart is only part of the story. Every other part is so much
harder to pin down!
Some writing is slower, and some faster; some is light—even easy—and some
is hard going. In initial discussions, when we need some (albeit imperfect!) guide
for measurement, I often suggest students allocate a minimum of three months for
an ‘average chapter,’ adding or taking from this depending on the kind of writing
task. If new reading and fields of knowledge are required, the writing output will be
slower. On the other hand, some parts of the thesis will be quicker to write because no
referencing is required. For example, in the method section, describing the sequence
of data collection may be relatively speedy compared to explaining the choice of
methodological approach. Co-authoring is often slower than solo authoring. Some
chapters are smaller and should be quicker; however, the Introduction is likely to take
less thinking time than the Conclusion. Typically, over the period of candidature, as
students become more familiar with the literature, their data and findings, it takes
less time to write a chapter.
The Writing Schedule for Everyday Life
Making doctoral writing fit into everyday life makes a plan achievable. And this
requires an accurate assessment of one’s own life, writing preferences and habits.
Zerubavel’s book, The Clockwork Muse (1999), is a fabulous resource for making
realistic plans to integrate writing into our routines. I’ve used it with individuals and
in workshops.
Firstly, students identify how many hours they can realistically set aside for
writing each week. The stated targets vary from 10 to 50 h per week. We then set out
to test the veracity of such goals by completing a weekly (or fortnightly) schedule.
Sometimes, there is a degree of reluctance—but when this task is taken seriously, it
generally reaps big rewards—and can be a Ph.D.-life changing activity!
Making a Schedule for a Writing-Integrated Life
Complete the weekly schedule by first blocking out time that is not available: this
might be work time, children’s sport, Friday prayers, and so on. Also set aside time
each week for fun, family and social activities.
Habits and Time Management 73

Once these items are identified, the calendar suddenly looks very full—but before
we try to identify the 10–40 hours planned for writing, we consider the following.
• Idiosyncratic rhythms. Some people are morning workers, being most productive
before the household wakes; some need total quiet, so avoid writing on campus.
• Different kinds of writing. Try to schedule cognitively demanding writing ses-
sions when and where you write best. Use shorter time slots, or perhaps less
peaceful locations, for undertaking mechanical work like updating references and
minor editing. Identify suitably lengthy sessions for major restructures, or for
responding to supervisor feedback.
• Momentum. If possible, it is better to write more frequently across a week, than
in chunks of long whole days with large gaps between sittings.
• Importantly, build in rewards and contingencies. As a doctoral student I had a
favourite TV show which I allowed myself to watch (with an indulgent glass of
wine) on Tuesday nights—provided I had completed my writing targets. I always
identified Sunday afternoons as a ‘catch up’ space in case life had got in the way
during the week. And when I didn’t use it for writing, Sunday afternoons always
seemed so special!
Having considered these parameters, it is time to complete the schedule. Once
that’s done, give it a test run for at least a fortnight before tweaking or reshaping. It
is essential to have a timetable that is as realistic as possible—and then, stick to it.
Learning how to make realistic judgements about how long it takes to complete
a given writing task is a skill that will be useful well beyond the Ph.D. Being able
to more accurately predict one’s own writing productivity contributes to work–life
balance and means co-authors can trust you to deliver on time, reducing the likelihood
of long, late, last-minute write-athons. It’s worth giving it a go!

Writing Spaces—Where Are Theses Written?

Cally Guerin

As I sit down at my laptop set up on the kitchen bench, I find myself wondering
where all those Ph.D. theses get written. I’m not certain why this is where I choose
to write. Sure, it’s a bit warmer here in the kitchen during the cold, wet Adelaide
winter, and I can get up now and then to stir the quince jam that’s bubbling away on
the stove. I do have a perfectly good study, but when I’ve got the house to myself,
I always seem to end up on the kitchen bench to write. And I know of others who
actually prefer the busy life and noise of the family to surround them as they settle
into their writing at the kitchen table.
74 3 Managing Productivity

A friend confided that she could do serious writing only in her work office and
seemed unable to make progress anywhere else. She described entering her office as
‘putting on her carapace’, harnessing herself to the intellectual activity of writing.
Trying to write while in another country on study leave just didn’t have the same
soothing sense of habitual scholarly demeanour.
Laptops and wifi make it easier than ever to work in cafes with a lively buzz of
activity in the background. The local park might beckon in good weather. For those
with busy work and family lives who undertake doctoral studies part time, a lot of
writing can be done in the car while waiting for children to finish their sports practice.
Doctoral students are often encouraged to establish regular habits around writing
times and places (e.g., Kearns & Gardiner, 2012). This writing might take place in
brief snatches of time (snack writing) or in extended writing binges (Murray, 2002,
2011). Does ‘writing as a social activity’ (Aitchison & Lee, 2006) also call into play
the social nature of those spaces?
Occasionally, I grumpily tell students that they can’t complain about feeling iso-
lated if they choose to work at home alone every day and not participate in the
collegial life of their discipline. But they reply that sometimes the open-space offices
shared by 10–20 students have problematic noise and activity levels. While such
arrangements might create a sense of community, there is always someone chatting
or taking a phone call, or entering or leaving the space, distracting and disturbing
others’ concentration.
What kinds of writing spaces are most conducive to the kind of rigorous intellec-
tual activity that is required at doctoral level? Perhaps we are kidding ourselves about
how much writing actually gets done in those institutionally sanctioned, relatively
public spaces.

Starting Again: Picking up the Pieces After an Extended

Break from Writing

Cally Guerin

Sometimes doctoral candidature is disrupted for extended periods, and candidates

need to take a leave of absence. Sometimes this is because of very positive, planned
life changes such as maternity or parenting leave, or good, short-term job opportuni-
ties that arise. Other times the interruption is for illness or injury, carer responsibilities
for elderly relatives, or pressing financial need pushing candidates into paid work
for a while.
But when those events have run their course, the task of starting again on the
writing needs to be addressed. For some, the chance to get back to their writing is
an eagerly awaited moment, and they are filled with new energy to kick-start the
project. For others, though, it is a very daunting prospect that is approached with
great anxiety.
Habits and Time Management 75

We must remember that, not only has the momentum of the project been disrupted,
but also the emerging researcher identity has been disrupted. The writing of the thesis
is closely linked to developing doctoral identities (Aitchison & Lee, 2006; Lee &
Boud, 2003; Kamler & Thomson, 2006). For those who have taken a break from that
identity and are now trying to return, there are pressing questions to face: How does
my identity as a new parent fit with my identity as a scholar? As a cancer survivor,
will I have the energy required to complete this intense writing phase? After a major
accident that involved head injuries, is my concentration span sufficient for rigorous,
scholarly research? Now that I am a bereaved widow instead of a carer for my
terminally ill partner, will the writing fill up that aching gap of grief or will it be
too isolating when what I really need is human warmth? Never underestimate how
confronting these questions might be, nor how far beneath the surface they might
lurk, stalling progress without being consciously acknowledged.
Disruption to candidature doesn’t have to be an entirely negative experience,
however. Starting again after a break can be a chance to re-assess the project and its
direction with fresh eyes, and maybe even make significant changes to improve the
final product.
As a Ph.D. student many years ago (back when people relied on hardcopy from
typewriters rather than electronic copies stored in cloud technology), a student at
my university lost the single copy of his almost-finished thesis when his home burnt
down in a terrible bushfire. Traumatic as this was, the student courageously started
again, rewrote the thesis, and ended up with an excellent, medal-winning thesis that
was published to great acclaim. The story went that, in the process of starting again,
he was able to reassess his approach to the work and rewrite the thesis based on the
digested, synthesised knowledge that had developed over the entire candidature. Of
course, I would never wish such trauma on anyone, but the salutary lesson here is that
a bit of distance from the project can bring unexpected improvements to the writing.
What advice can we offer students who are returning to doctoral writing after an
extended interruption? The obvious starting point would be to read the last version
of any existing chapters, go through the notes collected while reading the literature,
and establish where the project is actually up to (as opposed to hazy memories that
may be more or less optimistic about how much had been achieved previously).
With that done, it is possible to make an overall, big-picture plan of what remains
to be done, in what order, and in what timeframe. Then I’d recommend breaking the
work into manageable, bite-sized tasks rather than thinking of it as the monumental
undertaking of ‘writing up’ the entire thesis. It’s also a useful strategy to start with
the easy bits first, as it is always encouraging to see something ticked off the list of
jobs and some progress registered.
76 3 Managing Productivity

Just Do It! (and Delete the ‘Publish or Perish’ Warning)

Cally Guerin

I was talking to Ph.D. students recently about how they can’t afford to be precious
about their writing—that they need to simply see it as something they do as part of
their job, the ‘normal business’ of academic life (Aitchison & Lee, 2006). Afterwards,
a participant sent me a comic that she has pinned onto her noticeboard. In it, an
academic is explaining that, in academia, we have a saying ‘publish or perish!’. The
other person (not an academic) responds matter-of-factly: ‘Yeah, we have that too.
It’s called “Do your job or get fired”.’
It’s a harsh message, and one that I would not endorse without reservation. I
am fully aware that some academics’ working lives allow them to get on with their
research and publishing, while others have such heavy teaching and administration
loads that their research output drops off. Nevertheless, doctoral candidates do need
to get the writing done, and many also want to see their work published. If they
are to succeed, it is important to discourage two fairly common attitudes towards
doctoral writing: firstly, that writing is somehow special and more difficult than
other elements of research; and secondly, that writing requires all sorts of particular
conditions before one can get down to work.
For some writers, the routine preparation for writing is to ‘Sit down at my desk
within reach of the keyboard, hold my hands over the keyboard, and start typing’. I
think this is an excellent way to approach the task.
Establishing ‘good writing habits’ that help us get on with the job really means
‘good for you’. What works for one person’s life context is not necessarily the answer
for someone else. Rising at 5 am to write for three hours before breakfast is ideal for
some, but not if you are unable to get to bed early or will be met by a crying baby
at 5:30 am; large quantities of amphetamines might have aided Jean-Paul Sartre, but
this technique is unlikely to be sustainable for most of us.
Increasingly, academic writers are taking a disciplined stand, forming various
kinds of writing groups and writing to order. These are useful ways of proceeding
with the job of writing as an everyday practice.
But if one more person mouths the tired cliché ‘publish or perish’ at me, I might
scream. The situation is obviously far more complicated than that simple dichotomy
announces, and there are all sorts of reasons one ought to avoid publishing research
prematurely (Paré, 2010). I challenge readers to devise an alternative motto to take
its place, perhaps along the lines of ‘Write it or regret it’; ‘Write for your life’; ‘Stay
calm and write’.
Habits and Time Management 77

Writing Up—An Everyday Job

Cally Guerin

The Postgraduate Students’ Association at our university recently organised a screen-

ing of the wonderful PhD Movie (2011). Just as heartbreakingly funny as the Piled
Higher and Deeper comic strip itself, the film explores the ‘reality’ of being a doctoral
student. And, as one might expect, there was minimal mention of actually writing
the thesis! Sure, it was set in a laboratory, and these are the students who never quite
complete anything, but even so, it worries me that writing is left out altogether.
We need to wean Ph.D. students off the idea that ‘writing up’ is something that
happens at the end of the whole process. When students (especially those in the hard
sciences) start making Gantt charts to create a timeframe for their doctoral studies,
the temptation is to allot the last six months to writing. How do we persuade them
that writing is something that needs to begin from the very start of candidature?
Certainly, they’ll probably focus on the finer details of collating the whole thesis in
that last six months, ensuring that the document is properly unified, checking and
re-checking the bibliographic details, updating the literature review to include the
absolutely latest publications that are relevant, and completing all the final editing
and careful proofreading. But to think that the bulk of the writing can be undertaken
in six months is not realistic for the vast majority of Ph.D. students. Why does the
‘writing up’ model endure?
I see lots of students who are keen to attend writing workshops at the beginning
of their candidature; they appear eager to get maximum input starting out on this big
project. In my Australian context, there is generally significantly less coursework in
the early stages than is usual in the US, for example, and Australian universities tend
not to insist on participation in composition and rhetoric courses. Structured doctoral
programmes are only now taking shape in most Australian institutions.
Then, I notice that as students move further into their research, the focus on data
collection (field work, laboratory experiments, reading ancient documents in dusty
archives) often starts to take precedence, and the writing falls into the background.
Meanwhile, much of what has been covered in the early workshops is relegated to
the ‘must remember that for later’ basket, where it can be overshadowed as all sorts
of other research information crowds in.
However, for the vast majority of doctoral students it’s good to start writing early
and keep writing (Kearns, Gardiner, & Marshall, 2008). I want to get the message
across that writing is a skill that requires maintenance and regular practice, especially
as it doesn’t necessarily come easily to many of us. The reason for providing writing
development workshops early in candidature is precisely so that there is time over the
next few years to hone those skills. Until students start doing some serious writing,
it is hard to have an accurate picture of where their writing difficulties might lie.
So this is a plea to encourage doctoral students to believe that writing a thesis nearly
always takes longer than imagined, and writing skills can’t be developed overnight.
78 3 Managing Productivity

If the habit of writing every day (well, most days, anyway!) can be established early,
those last few months will be more manageable.

Motivation, Pleasure, Humour

Olympic Endurance and Doctoral Writing: On Motivation

Susan Carter

This post was prompted by the 2016 Olympic Games backdrop to reading about
writing. I have loved watching Olympic athletes’ demonstration of determination,
self-possession and focus. Simultaneously, I have been reading two books that deal
with writer’s block, bringing the intensity of emotion around writing to the fore:
Alice Weaver Flaherty’s (2015) The Midnight Disease: The Drive to Write, Writer’s
Block, and the Creative Brain and Peter Elbow’s (1998) Writing without Teachers.
I see connections between Olympic effort and doctoral writing. While those writ-
ing Ph.D.s are not striving to be the best in the world, they are labouring to become
a world expert in their niche. They do need to acquire some of those strengths that
world athletes take to the limit.
And the limbic system seems important to this. Neurologist Flaherty describes the
limbic system as the bit of brain just behind your ears that stimulates creativity and
motivation. It is probably significant for world athletes and for doctoral writers. It
may instigate the persistence that Olympians endure in the build-up to competitions,
and the real grit required to push through tough patches. All that is long, slow and
boring, unlike the richly emotional images of winners and losers at the games.
As a New Zealander, I watched with teary interest the interview with bronze-
winning 19-year-old pole-vaulter Eliza McCartney. Her exhilaration and her com-
ments mapped so readily onto someone graduating with a Ph.D. She paid tribute to
her trainer and other supporters. She giggled that the bronze was the most satisfying
medal to get because you knew you’d only just made it.
The interviewer reminded her of some lows in her sporting build-up—‘so when
you couldn’t even get out of bed, how did you feel about your sporting career?’—
that seemed pertinent to writer’s block and doctoral writing. Eliza explained from
her position of success that, in sport training, the good days are not that common.
Most of the time, it is hard, it takes a long time, things go wrong, you mess up. For
her, at these Games, it all came together. That feeling was rare. Well, the same seems
true of academic writing.
Flaherty (2015) had experienced both hypergraphia—the obsessive urge to
write—and writer’s block, and found herself ricocheting ‘between euphoria and
terror’ (2015, pp. 11–12). She became intrigued by the limbic system because
research suggests that it motivates the ability to make things meaningful. So she
began considering writer’s block as a mental condition.
Motivation, Pleasure, Humour 79

The Midnight Disease picks its way delicately through the connection between
creativity and unbalanced states of mind. Flaherty concludes that writing procras-
tination is ‘usually better treated by putting the writer in an appropriate limbic or
motivational state than by cognitive strategies like making a To Do list’ (Flaherty,
2015, p. 16).
Meanwhile, I’m also re-reading Elbow’s (1998) Writing without Teachers. He,
too, bases his pedagogy for writing support on his own experiences of hating writing
at one stage, and later writing in a mad frenzy as a cure for depression. He changed
the book’s initial title, ‘writing without tears’, when he realized that he ‘didn’t want
to define tears as a problem’ (1998, p. xvii). Like Flaherty, he grew to understand
depression, frustration and writing blockage as part of learning and creating. Elbow’s
inspirational pedagogies for writing, including free writing and his early facilitation
of peer writing groups, underpin how many of us still offer support for writing. They
exemplify the productivity of pain, struggle and determination.
The two books, set against the Olympic Games backdrop, have raised questions:
are pain and despair a constructive and unavoidable part of academic writing, and are
there risks to emphasizing this when we teach about writing? As individuals, how do
we learn discipline to handle the slog? Is it possible to crank up our limbic systems?
Flaherty thinks yes. After looking at the way that some prolific artists and writers
resorted to alcohol or drugs to prompt their creativity, she found herself ‘grudgingly’
admitting that exercise is one healthy way to stimulate the limbic system. The old
adage of a healthy mind in a healthy body has neurological evidence.

Real Writing Aversion: Can It Be Overcome?

Susan Carter

The focus here is on the psychology of writing aversion. I’m working again with one
of my favourite ex-students; let’s call her Dr. X.
Dr. X left school at 14 after some unfortunate experiences there. Her passion for
her practical work in health drove her into study. Older and wiser, but still with an
admirable degree of attitude, she has since graduated with a Ph.D. due to her sheer
grit in persisting through the writing of her thesis. She was one of those doctoral
students who thrive when doing research, yet is intensely averse to writing about it.
Takeaway message: Any relationship with writing is likely to be influenced by past
experiences. Negative experiences can’t be changed, but luckily the relationship with
writing can be changed.
With the Ph.D. conquered, Dr. X is determined to become more comfortable with
writing. How does someone get over phobia towards writing? She would like to
feel the same pleasure producing articles that she has when lecturing. I’ve suggested
stepping out of the rigid hard science objectivity and trying some of the elements
that make her lectures so popular. For example, the equivalent of opening a lecture
80 3 Managing Productivity

with a short YouTube clip might be to begin her article with a juicy quotation from
fiction followed by a short gutsy sentence aimed to attract attention.
Could a relationship with writing be improved by changing how it is talked about?
Brause (2000, pp. 11–16) considers metaphors commonly used for thesis writing:
‘mountain climbing, running the rapids, running a marathon, coming of age, a train
ride or journey, a war or battle, a hazing experience, a birthing experience, a dance’
and ‘a blind person: An individual stumbling in a room never visited before.’ Brause
points out how cultivating an identity based on perceiving yourself as a victim of
academia might not help you feel your writing is comfortable, homely, and enjoyable.
I know how therapeutic a good whinge session with fellow sufferers can be (see
Mewburn, 2011). But, if you suspect that your own troubling writing experiences are
more catastrophic than the healthy social exchanges that energise doc student talk,
you can change your own attitude. Following Brause (2000), stop using your routine
lament for at least six months and then see if writing feels any better.
Perhaps it is possible to project from the gruesome writing stage to the elation
at completion, when new doctors often recognise personal development and satis-
faction: it isn’t just the degree they walk away with, but greater certainty of their
ability to manage themselves. For example, one study began being sceptical ‘about
the Romantic project of self-discovery through education’ (p. 139) and found (almost
embarrassingly) that their new Ph.D. graduate participants fairly often described the
‘joy’ of the doctoral process amongst somewhat ecstatic descriptions of how much
they grew as people (Leonard, Becker, & Coate, 2005). Maybe another self-help
trick is to accept writing as an essential part of the struggle towards discovery. I
like O’Connor and Petch’s (2012) assertion that ‘the mechanistic model diminishes
the experience of writing […] Writing must […] be thought of as a form of truth
emerging from self-development’ (pp. 82–83).
You can, of course, choose to stage-manage your writing environment as a plea-
sure zone. O’Connor and Petch (2012, p. 79) declare: ‘we must take this active and
dynamic sense of the body into account when constructing embodied writing envi-
ronments. We must realise that the body in itself has its own traditions and history
in as much as it is open to new possibilities. The body that writes is situated at the
intersection of both practice and possibility’. Not a bad legend for a writing-averse
researcher.

Sin, the Motivator

Susan Carter

Threatened with the prospect of possibly losing academic status while being
restructured, I realized how addicted to academic writing I have become.
I’m addicted to writing as a game that is competitive, edgy, frustrating: it is a
bit like cryptic crosswords only even more multi-dimensional. I like jostling in this
competitive world, controlling my emotions around writing and criticism (including
Motivation, Pleasure, Humour 81

my own dissatisfaction), hunting out thought in amongst the words. I don’t mind
when it is hard. At least it feels real. I feel slightly guilty at recognising that writing
is an addiction.
I know that guilt seems counter to the logic that, in academia, writing is good.
A good doctoral student is one who is writing. I’m conjuring up writing’s wicked
attraction against the grain here. I’m hoping, though, that in amongst those who find
writing to be hard labour, some of you will recognise that you also have a love–hate
relationship with academic writing.
I did a bit of soul searching about the vanity of addiction to writing. I almost like
myself best in the way I write—I’ve got more stamina and agility as a writer than I
have with almost everything else I do. Rather than feeling conspicuously embodied
as a writer, for me writing is about voice and identity (see more in Carter, 2012).
Consider the metaphor: ‘The university is like a bad boyfriend. One day it is going
to break your heart’ (Mewburn, 2011). The university can only be a heart-breakingly
bad boyfriend if, or because, we care so much about knowing, thinking, writing and
entering into the exchange of ideas. Knowing more, knowing it better, and naming,
owning knowledge. Saying things accurately.
Along the same lines as ‘bad boyfriend,’ at the Academic Identities Conference
in Auckland, keynote speaker Eva Bendix Petersen also used the term ‘bad love’ to
describe academics’ addiction to the university. However, Eva’s metaphor was, more
centrally, addiction: ‘You think you are an academic at a conference; I see a room
full of junkies waiting for their next hit. And like junkies, you want to get young
people hooked too. When a student’s eyes light up because they have learned to love
your topic, yours do too because you know you have another person hooked. Your
trade is secured’. Scary, or a touch of realism?
Eva was principally investigating why academics have been so compliant with
the neoliberalism and commercialisation of universities when we’re meant to be the
consciences of society. Her answer, found through interviewing academics, was that
we are hooked on our guilty pleasure for research.
Maybe this thought about the sin of academia—vanity, desire, addiction—can be
used as motivation for doctoral writing.

Is Doctoral Writing Doing You Harm?

Claire Aitchison

Writing is a physical activity that subjects the body to specific routines and imposi-
tions—it wears on the body in particular ways. I recall my grandfather’s deformed
fingers: he had callouses from holding a pen, the physical manifestation of a lifetime
of writing. Writers these days wear different traces of their labouring.
82 3 Managing Productivity

Writing is the business of doctoral scholarship, but not all doctoral students
realise that, when they sign up for a Ph.D., they are signing up to become a writer—
like it or not. Despite the acceptance of a growing diversity of doctoral output (new
forms of the thesis such as inclusion of artefacts, performances, exegesis, series
of publications, multimedia and so on), the vast majority of doctoral students still
solo-author a large manuscript for examination. In addition, students will write for
publication and undertake numerous other writing tasks on a daily basis. Doctoral
scholarship involves not only mental aptitude and fortitude, but also many hours of
writing labour.
There is wide recognition now of technology-related injuries, and yet doctoral
scholars are rarely warned of this. Contemporary writing-related harms include, for
example, wrist, hand and shoulder injuries from use of the mouse; pain from repetitive
keyboarding actions; neck and eye strain associated with peering at small screens;
finger and thumb strain from texting and scrolling; back issues from prolonged sitting,
and so on. These are very real and potentially significantly debilitating side-effects
that can have lasting impacts on our bodies.
I am not qualified to give advice about workplace ergonomics or writing
injuries—there is plenty of information available elsewhere—but I do advocate that,
in the haste to produce text, doctoral students (and academics) should be mindful of
the potential harm.
Lightweight laptops and tablets and ready access to the Internet give us the capac-
ity to set up and write anywhere, any time. Our portable devices provide us with the
capacity to access the information (literature and data) that we need to write, and
simultaneously to store and share our writing from the same device.
Our writing lives have been liberated from the need to sit in a defined space to
access the same computer in the same location. It has also meant that, as individuals,
we need never leave off writing. The accelerated expectations around publishing and
speedy completions are further exacerbated by these new technologies.
But is there a price to pay for so much writing activity? Or too much speedy
writing? How can we protect ourselves against emotional and physical damage?
Whenever I run writing-intensive events (retreats, boot camps) there will be a
number of people who arrive with an array of creature comforts—home-made and
purpose built accommodations to improve their writing experience.
The DIY Stand-Up Desk
Just recently, someone arrived carrying a corkboard, a plastic container, a riser,
computer, mouse and heat packs for a three-day writing intensive. All too often these
folk are taking special care of their bodies because they have already suffered injury.
It is harder to convince others (especially bright and shiny, enthusiastic new doctoral
students) of the need to avoid injury.
Some say sitting is the new smoking. If you are about to commence a Ph.D.,
consider how much time you will be sitting at your desk. You deserve a safe and
comfortable work space—you will spend years of your life there.
Motivation, Pleasure, Humour 83

Photo: Claire Aitchison

How to Take Care of Your Writing Body—A User’s Perspective

The first thing is to be proactive—don’t wait for an injury before you assess your
bodily needs and build a safe working space, whether that is at home, in the postgrad
room, a café or at boot camp. It’s your body and no one else is likely to look after it.
Do your homework—there are numerous sites with advice on how to avoid com-
puter injuries. They all refer to things like screen-to-eye level, making sure arms and
hands are horizontal to the keyboard, good posture, and so on.
Look and learn from others at boot camps and such events; chat to them about
their crafty equipment and practices.
If you can, it is sometimes well worth getting a specialist workplace assessor into
help advise you.
Seriously consider forking out for the right equipment early on: (if you are still a
seated writer) a proper ergonomic chair; a big screen (or two); a separate keyboard;
the right kind of mouse; a footstool.
A standing desk. These can be quite expensive, but, in my own experience, can
be life-changing. It is so much harder to hold stress in the shoulders and arms when
standing—and being on your feet is bone-strengthening.
84 3 Managing Productivity

Special Things for Boot Camps and When Away from Your Normal Writing
Environment
Some basics that I have picked up from others, through my own experiences and
from professionals such as physiotherapists:
• Bring a cushion (seats can be hard and immovable).
• Keep moving—if the organisers don’t prompt you to move, get an app.
• If you can, stand up—even for short periods of time.
• Use a separate keyboard. Laptops don’t allow for the correct eye–screen adjust-
ment.
If you are using your laptop (preferably with a separate keyboard), bring something
to raise the height of the screen—and increase your font size to reduce eyestrain.
Once you are aware of ergonomics for a healthy and long writing life, you can
make small inexpensive adjustments such as these so that you can keep on writing
whenever, wherever you like.
Lastly, one of my favourite pieces of writing equipment is wonderful smelling
hand cream—aromatherapy for the soul. I never go anywhere without it!

A Sense of Humour Towards Doctoral Writing?

Susan Carter

I want to make the case that applying humour to doctoral writing is a great cop-
ing mechanism. Silvia (2010) takes a hard-nosed, pragmatist approach to writing,
detaching all emotion and treating it like any other task. He’s cheerful about this,
and irreverent about the need for inspiration from within, advising: ‘put your “inner
writer” back on its leash and muzzle it’ and focus on the ‘outer writer,’ productively
facing outward (Silvia, 2010, p. 3). It’s a good-humoured survivalist approach, given
the relentless accountability regimes that we currently work within.
Silvia waves aside the idea of emotional blockage: ‘I love writer’s block. I love
it for the same reasons I love tree spirits and talking woodland creatures—they’re
charming and they don’t exist. […] Saying you can’t write because you have writer’s
block is merely saying you can’t write because you aren’t writing. It’s trivial. The
cure for writer’s block—if you can cure a specious affliction—is writing’ (Silvia,
2010, pp. 45–46). Those who find writing really tough to crank out will hate such an
attitude, but those who find it difficult to wring writing from their doctoral students
might identify with Silvia. And it is useful to most of us to find different ways to
ensure that writing gets done.
Motivation, Pleasure, Humour 85

Silvia’s (2010) practical, workerly advice is to use an Excel spreadsheet, set daily
writing chores at the start of the week, with columns for the date, the task, whether
it was achieved that day or not, and the word count, if relevant. He includes data
analysis and literature review as possible chores, but the day’s work needs to be
measurable, and a record made of whether it was done or not. That way there’s
no need for emotion—you simply know the writing will be done within the stated
timeframe. You can produce bar charts of your monthly word count to cheer yourself
up. I tried this for a while and on a couple of days it pushed me to grouchily churn
something out just so that I could tick it off.
I like the steady sense of humour throughout Silvia’s book. Maintaining a sense
of humour helps any long, tedious discombobulation, which is often how doctoral
writing is experienced. Doctoral students who manage to see the funny ironies of
their experience probably end up better equipped for completing and for what comes
after graduation, I suspect.
Another writer-on-writing raises the necessity of humour for survival. Anne Lam-
ott takes an almost opposite position to Silvia, rampaging through writing-based
emotions that she dramatically feels demand suicide or murder of critical reviewers
(Lamott, 1995). Yet her exaggeration is premised on humour: by overstating, she
spoofs and thereby mitigates the negative emotions around writing and feedback.
Many doctoral students trying to capture academic tone and discipline epistemol-
ogy in their writing will warm to the thought that ‘We’re mimics, we’re parrots—
we’re writers. […] You may start to feel that you are trying to pass off a TV dinner
as home cooking’ (Lamott, 1995, p. 177). It’s nice to hear an experienced author talk
like this about self-doubt.
She describes drafting and revising realistically: ‘Writing is about hypnotizing
yourself into believing in yourself, getting some work done, then unhypnotizing
yourself and going over the material coldly’ (Lamott, 1995, p. 114).
And Lamott also recounts how, when a close family member was diagnosed with
terminal cancer, she became ‘desperate for books that talked about cancer in a way
that would both illuminate the experience and make me laugh’ (Lamott, 1995, p. 187).
It was at this point that I saw that Lamott and Silvia, seemingly at opposite ends of
the spectrum, both demonstrate a lively respect for the power of humour. Maybe
a sense of humour should be added to the transferable skills that graduates should
have. How to teach that is a worthwhile challenge!

Writing as … Metaphors for Loving Writing

Claire Aitchison

Doctoral scholars, their supervisors and academics in general, all have intimate rela-
tions with writing. It’s our everyday world. Like any intimate relationship, this liaison
has its ups and downs: there are times of love and hate, joy and bitterness, times when
we resent writing and other times when it brings us comfort and delight. Who hasn’t
86 3 Managing Productivity

known what it’s like to fight and wrangle with writing late at night, exhausted, and
wishing to cut the ties and run away forever?!
In this post I use metaphors to explore some of my relationships with writing.
Writing as Trance

Photo by Hulki-Okan-Tabak on ‘Unsplash’

Writing can put me into a trance-like state so that I am totally unaware of the rest
of the world. When I am deep in writing I am in an altered frame of mind, detached
from time and space. My physical presence is irrelevant—I don’t feel hunger, I don’t
realise that I haven’t moved for hours on end. Whole days can go by unnoticed as I
am completely absorbed, as if under a hypnotic spell. In these times, writing is the
master and my attachment is singular, complete and involuntary. While I love Writing
as trance I am not sure it is wholly healthy, certainly not for extended periods.
Writing as Meditation
When writing is meditative, it is mindfulness in the extreme. Unlike Writing as trance,
this relationship is more intentional and controlled. I am managing this relationship.
It feels healthy. Like Writing as trance, I get into the zone, and am all-consumed.
I give writing my full attention, but it is my friend rather than my master; I can
enter and leave at any time. After spending time in this writing space I feel calm
and positive. Like mindfulness meditation, this relationship benefits from regular
practice, and the more I do it, the better it gets.
Writing as Escape
Sometimes writing is my ticket of leave from the drudgery and disappointments of
work and life. Much of our daily writing is perfunctory: administrative, managerial
and functional. Academic life should, but rarely does, allow much time for the kind of
self-directed writing that characterises doctoral study. But even there, sometimes, one
is tempted to avoid the challenging writing that beckons. When writing is an escape,
it is intentionally short-lived, perhaps even a tad illicit in the pleasure it brings. Like
Motivation, Pleasure, Humour 87

a small holiday in the country, a nap on the couch, or a day at the beach—or the
wickedness of taking a ‘sickie’ on the spur of the moment—this relationship with
writing is exciting and revitalizing.

Photo: ‘Tigerie’ from Pixabay (CC licence)

Writing as Therapy
Writing as therapy is healing; it is a special time for me. It is private and unhurried,
a close, often transformational relationship through which I learn about myself as
much as my subject. While Writing as therapy can be writing that gets published,
in its origins, it is not for an audience; it is for self and for meaning-making. This
relationship is cathartic—free and unfettered, unpredictable. Sometimes this rela-
tionship can go to dark places, but when it is truly therapeutic it returns to wellness,
even after despondency.
Writing as Creativity
This is an energising relationship, full of spark and invention. It is perhaps my
favourite relationship with writing. It is one of the most important (if not elusive) writ-
ing relationships for doctoral researchers, and yet it isn’t encouraged often enough
for fear that it may wreak havoc, threaten supervisors and scare off examiners. Writ-
ing as creativity needs to be handled with care—when this relationship is working
well, it is extremely powerful and rewarding, but unfettered, it can lead one astray.
However, Writing as creativity isn’t always readily available; sometimes it hides
away, stubbornly refusing to come and play, instead leaving me alone with a blank
page fearful that the relationship is over for good. The prolonged absence of Writing
as creativity can be scary.
88 3 Managing Productivity

Photo: ‘Painter’ from Pixabay (CC licence)

Writing as Solace
This relationship is easy-going, wholesome and soothing. It is my friend and restora-
tive comforter. Like putting on an old pair of shoes or warm coat, one can go a long
way with Writing as solace. This relationship is built on familiarity, old habits drive
it: the cup of tea, the trusted tools of the craft; the computer, desk, pen and paper that
work together in perfect and practised harmony.
Metaphors about writing proliferate because writers enjoy the pleasure of testing
out ideas in abstract ways in order to understand complex notions and connections.
I recommend Ted Hughes’ beautiful poem ‘The Thought Fox’ (1957) about the
struggle with writing and the intensity of experience.

Writing Pleasure: Space and People

Susan Carter

Nine people faced a small task: to try to find pleasure in academic writing. They
could write somewhere stylish, glitzy or interesting that they had never tried writing
in before, or write in the same space as others, i.e., do a write-on-site aka pomodoro
aka shut up and write. But the mission was to be writing pleasure-seekers. Their
feedback was illuminating.
Sally pointed out that pleasure is an attitude, as well as an adjective that she hadn’t
readily linked with academic writing. The thought of sullying the café space, a place
that for her is firmly social, went against all logic. But she recognised that she liked
to write on campus because the desk space there was her own, unlike the writing
places at home in a space shared with partner and teenage daughters. She used a
timer to set a rhythm of regular stops and found that the breaks meant being able to
go on for longer.
References 89

Kat worked on a couch in a public place and noticed that a zone of silence
descended. She found she could block off distraction around her if necessary. Iris
went to a deliberately glamorous location, a café in a hotel. She said she regularly
looks for somewhere unusual to write as a stimulus and had never written there
before. When she arrived mid-afternoon, the café was pretty quiet. She set a stop
watch and did nothing in the break except people-watch. And Brenda chose an inti-
mate café with little break-out booths, finding a comfortable one that put her in the
winter sun.
Tui was travelling at the time, so her new environment was on the 29th floor of a
hotel with city views. She had expected to find it hard to write there, saying she is
easily distracted and the magnificent view over the city was alluring, but found the
pattern of writing solidly for a chunk of time, then taking a stretch by the window
worked: she did get more writing done than she usually does when away from home.
Firmly anchored at home, Lana wrote till midnight beside a son who was having
troubling getting to sleep, sitting on the bed next to him with her laptop on her knees.
Often the responsibilities of parenting along with a full-time job have restricted
her time to write, and she was used to working late into the night. Yet she found
that sitting on the bed in the calm of her own research writing somehow made her
academic writing more comfortable, homely.
Home was good for Barry, too, who found being away from work (and having
access to coffee, cheese and crackers) was calming—he could settle down and write.
Coffee is assumed to be crucial in Inger Mewburn’s ‘shut up and write’ way of
working, along with food for the added sense of comfort.
Kevin established a new routine for the week: writing for an hour each morning
straight after going to the gym. He found linking the physicality of the gym with
thinking stimulating: his brain seemed to respond to motion, and then he was also
glad to sit down at the computer.
Caroline had found that routinely fencing off time to write at the same time each
week (Wednesday morning) meant that she made the most of that time. She also
had a breakthrough in that, because she teaches mainly in digital media, working at
the computer makes her edgily aware of teaching demands. So her most productive
research writing medium was pen and paper, with her thoughts later transcribed into
Word. She was aware of the need for what Murray (2013) calls ‘disengagement.’
Usually disengagement is a pejorative term in teaching and learning: the rhetoric at
universities is all about student engagement. But Murray’s disengagement is empow-
ering when it comes to writing—for many research writers, this is exactly what is
needed in order to do the thinking that research writing demands. There was general
agreement that shifting the place of writing allowed disengagement from the distrac-
tions (often other chores to be done) that familiar space offers. This more readily
allows reengagement with writing, and intense focus on it.
There are two benefits to making writing a special occasion, then. It lets you detach
from all the other demands, and it makes the habit of research writing something
special.
90 3 Managing Productivity

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Boice, R. (1987). A program for facilitating scholarly writing. Higher Education Research and
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Bolker, J. (1998). Writing your dissertation in fifteen minutes a day: A guide to starting, revising,
and finishing your doctoral thesis. New York, NY: Henry Holt.
Brause, R. (2000). Writing your doctoral dissertation: Invisible rules for success. London, UK:
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Carter, S. (2012). Original knowledge, gender and the word’s mythology: voicing the doctorate.
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Hughes, T. (1957). The thought fox. In The hawk in the rain. London: Faber & Faber.
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North, SA: Thinkwell.
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Chapter 4
Crafting Writing: Clarity, Style
and Voice

Skilled researchers develop their craft as writers beyond compliance with grammar.
Their tools of trade include precision in word choice, logic in structure, clarity of style,
and manipulation of syntax for accurately placed emphasis. We make the case that
it is worthwhile for doctoral writers to work at acquiring ‘artisanal habits’ (Sword,
2017), the practices of a sharp-eyed research writer honing control over language.
Doctoral writers should be encouraged to ‘notice’ the mechanics of language as they
read (Kumar & Kumar, 2009). Attention to becoming and being a research writer
continues in this chapter with its overarching themes of clarity, style and voice.

Clarity from Clean Simplicity

Balancing Simplicity and Complexity in Doctoral Writing

Cally Guerin

Many years ago I wrote a Ph.D. thesis that used French psychoanalytic and post-
modern theory. It may have been the translation of the texts, but I found it necessary
to read, and re-read, and re-read again before I even began to understand the con-
cepts, let alone learn how to work with them. Part of my difficulty was the texts’
cultural preference for long, convoluted sentence structures; another part was the
slow process of becoming familiar with a new vocabulary.
However, it took many years before I recognised that sometimes when I couldn’t
understand a piece of writing, the problem lay in the writing rather than with me.
There are plenty of jokes about how obscure academic writing can be. There’s
the Philosophy and Literature journal’s Bad Writing Contest from the 1990s, and
Pinker’s (2014) diatribe on how and why academic writing stinks. As Thomson
(2015) points out, this kind of writing is an easy target. Given these attitudes, how
should we best advise doctoral candidates to strike the right balance in their writing?

© Springer Nature Singapore Pte Ltd. 2020 93

S. Carter et al., Doctoral Writing,
https://doi.org/10.1007/978-981-15-1808-9_4
94 4 Crafting Writing: Clarity, Style and Voice

I encourage students to keep the sentences simple and straightforward—being

clear and easily understood are not actually bad things. This can sometimes be even
more important when English isn’t the author’s first language, especially if there is an
inclination to translate from a first language that privileges very complex structures
for formal writing. Relatively short sentences allow the author to control the subject,
verb and object so that readers can follow who is doing what to whom.
The trouble with simple sentence structure is that it becomes possible for the
writing to appear rather naïve—not at doctoral level. One way to ramp it up to
a more appropriate level is to use more complex vocabulary within those simple
sentence structures. For example, instead of ‘Participants were asked to answer the
questions’, it might be better to write: ‘Participants were invited to respond to the
questionnaire’. Subject, verb and object are all firmly in place, but the language is a
little less rudimentary.
Care is needed to ensure that word choice doesn’t tip the balance towards the
equally irritating practice of using language that sounds pompous and overblown. It is
always important to be wary of bloated jargon and overuse of abstract nouns, but sim-
ple sentences can effectively communicate complex ideas through more sophisticated
vocabulary.
Statements in doctoral writing sometimes require numerous caveats to ensure
accuracy and clarity of purpose; anxious acknowledgements of all the limitations in
order to head off potential criticisms can lead to very long and complex sentence
structures with many clauses and sub-clauses. Even these situations can be much
easier to comprehend when the sentences are shortened. Although some disciplines
still don’t seem to approve of dot-point lists, for many this is a very good way to deal
with a number of points that need clarification.
Writing for different audiences can be a very useful way of learning how to
manipulate sentence structure and vocabulary. Considering the requirements of non-
specialist audiences can help move away from the kinds of constructions that obscure
meaning; instead, efforts to show how the research is relevant and useful force the
author to clear out anything unnecessary to the central message. This is one of the
reasons I like the Three Minute Thesis Competition—it’s such a good way to help
researchers think about communication as their main purpose. Blogging for a general
audience can also help to focus on straightforward explanations of complex ideas.

Take Your Time—Or Get to the Point?

Cally Guerin

I’ve read lots of interesting papers written by doctoral students and colleagues lately,
as well as reviewing journal articles. As I work through the various pieces of writing
and line them up against each other, the styles used in different genres are clearly
evident. This is especially noticeable when a paper doesn’t quite produce what one
would expect of that genre. One of the challenges for any author working across
Clarity from Clean Simplicity 95

a range of genres is adapting one’s own style to suit the current writing task. In
particular, I’ve been noticing a tension between the defensive detail of a thesis, and
the brisk pace of the journal article that needs to get to the point much more quickly
and efficiently.
I find I’m drawn to the style of writing that takes its time to unpack each point
of the argument in detail. But I’m torn between that and wanting to get to the main
point quickly—like everyone else, I’ve got a lot of reading to do. If the idea can be
expressed adequately in 5 words, then why use 15 to make the same point? And too
often, it seems that those extra 10 words are padding formed from empty jargon that
poses as ‘intellectual’ but doesn’t really say much at all.
I think the ability to write in different genres (thesis, journal article, book chapter)
is one of the difficult challenges facing doctoral students, who are expected to under-
stand the differences of genre in quite nuanced ways in order to pitch their work to
different audiences and different outlets. I’m very much in favour of the thesis by
publication, and advocate that format most of the time. For those who plan to work
in careers that require publication in academic journals, there are great benefits in
learning how to write articles, and then negotiate the reviewing and publishing pro-
cess. Most will only write a thesis once, but will need to know how to write articles
repeatedly during their research careers.
But just lately I’ve noticed a sneaking feeling forming deep beneath my general
conviction that thesis by publication is mostly helpful. I’ve been wondering what
might be lost along the way if the traditional thesis format is abandoned. Where else
does one have licence to follow through on the fine detail of intellectual thought,
to expound at length on a complex theory, or to work through the digressions and
tangents that surround the core ideas?
Perhaps this all points to the strengths of a Ph.D. thesis format that allows for a
combination of published papers and the more conventional framing chapters (some-
times referred to as a ‘thesis with publications’ or ‘hybrid’—see Jackson 2013;
Sharmini, Spronken-Smith, Golding & Harland, 2015). Here the big introductory,
context-setting chapter allows for more extensive philosophising on the topic. That’s
the place to take up the more leisurely style of careful unpacking of big ideas. But
the shorter, neater, more concise representation of the findings can be found in the
article-length chapters forming the middle of the thesis.
This preference for different kinds of writing might also mark a tension between
scientific and humanities writing. There’s obviously a place for the beautifully crafted
sentence in science writing—and certainly, poetry can find a place in science—but
it doesn’t always have to take a lot of words to get there.
96 4 Crafting Writing: Clarity, Style and Voice

Sword’s Exercises for Doctoral Style

Susan Carter

To what extent should those of us who support doctoral writing aim to help candidates
to write succinctly, clearly and with a control that makes reading smooth and even
pleasurable? I puzzle over that, aware of what a marathon writing task the thesis
presents, how emotionally challenging doctoral writing can be, how life can throw
study off-centre and what extraordinary diligence is required to learn English as an
additional language to the level of fluency and sophistication required at doctoral
level. Might it demoralize doctoral writers to include tips about further authorial
skill along with feedback on content, structure, and ideas?
My own inclination is towards teaching for style because I believe that enhanced
writing skill is a huge benefit, but I check with each doctoral student that they also
prefer this. I seek consent.
So, what is stylish writing? Helen Sword surveyed over 100 guides on academic
writing and came up with six points that they agreed on (Sword, 2012, pp. 26–27):
• Clarity, Coherence, Concision: Strive to produce sentences that are clear, coherent
and concise…the ‘three C’s’ are mentioned in some form in most of the style
guides…
• Short or Mixed-Length Sentences: Keep sentences short and simple, or vary your
sentences by alternating longer sentences with shorter ones
• Plain English: avoid ornate, pompous, Latinate or waffly prose
• Precision: Avoid vagueness and imprecision
• Active Verbs: Avoid passive verb constructions or use them sparingly; active verbs
should predominate
• Telling a Story: Create a compelling narrative.
Three exercises from Sword could be offered to doctoral students who want a
route to stylish academic writing.
Voice and Audience
Thinking about voice, write down the names of five real people. They should be:
1. A top expert in your field, one you’d like to impress
2. A close colleague in your discipline who you would trust to give you honest
feedback
3. An academic friend from outside your discipline
4. An advanced undergraduate from your discipline
5. An intelligent non-academic friend or relative.
Then read a passage of your writing aloud to imagine each person’s response.
Revise the writing so that each one would understand you, stay interested, and want
to read on (adapted from Sword, 2012, pp. 46–47).
Clarity from Clean Simplicity 97

Possible Agents Governing Verbs

Then ‘make sure that at least one sentence per paragraph includes a concrete noun,
or human entity as its subject, immediately followed by an active verb. Some exam-
ples are “Merleau-Ponty argues…”; “Students believe…”; “International banks com-
pete…”’. Sword makes the case too that, because abstract nouns are hard for readers
to envision, ‘Where possible, explain abstract concepts using concrete examples’
(Sword, 2012, p. 61).
Modelling on Exemplars
Find an author whose work you find really like to read. Then look closely and
analytically at how the writing achieves this. What strategies could you adopt in
your own writing (Sword, 2012, p. 85)? How are paragraphs organised so that readers
follow through the logic of an argument being steadily built? Once the grammatical
bones of a good article are traced, it becomes possible to model structure on the
well-written exemplar.

Personal Style and Communication

A Question of Language Competence or Writing Style?

Cally Guerin

Recently, a student came to me in tears, distraught at what she felt was a very unfair
assessment of her writing ability after her supervisor had decided her English was
not up to scratch. She is from an Asian background, although born and educated in
Australia. While English might not be her first language, she is certainly not using
English as an Additional Language (EAL). Our universities have lots of ‘Generation
1.5’ Ph.D. students like her who work and think in more than one language.
This young woman is typical of many: a reasonably competent writer with room
for improvement—which one might say of at least 90% of Ph.D. students. Many
students can write grammatically correct sentences (at least most of the time), can
more or less communicate their ideas, but don’t produce particularly elegant prose.
This student’s writing fell into this category.
How can students respond to supervisors who seem to be very harsh on their
writing, imposing their own personal preferences and calling it ‘an English language
issue’? Most students are sharply aware of the power supervisors have over them; it
can be frustrating to feel you have to impersonate your supervisor’s style. How do
supervisors judge ethically when to insist that writing needs revision, and when to
back off and accept that it is not their own writing and doesn’t need to be in their
voice? And where should thesis examiners draw the line concerning style, voice and
accuracy? (Or, for that matter, journal reviewers who seem to have very specific ideas
about what is ‘correct’.) Is it necessary to set the highest standards right from the
start? Could that be too discouraging for students, or does it prepare them for what
98 4 Crafting Writing: Clarity, Style and Voice

lies ahead in the academic world? Where does reasonable academic rigour end and
pettiness—that could even be construed as racism—begin?
My own experience working as an academic editor has encouraged me to think
carefully about the difference between something that is incorrect, and something
that is simply a matter of style. I think that supervisors have a responsibility to help
students learn the specific writing conventions of their individual disciplines, and
that certain vocabulary can have vastly different connotations in particular areas.
Nevertheless, it’s also important to notice in doctoral writing what is being achieved,
what is a surface issue and what is genuinely problematic.
Importantly, feedback needs to be specific to be useful. To label all writing issues as
‘English language problems’ seems to me to be particularly unhelpful in developing
writing skills for doctoral students. Many students take time to learn the disciplinary
vocabulary of a new field and the accompanying conventions of research commu-
nication in their area. The language of the discipline itself can be very foreign for
researchers grappling with the details of unfamiliar sub-disciplines, regardless of
their own language background. Acquiring academic literacy often requires specific
training at all levels of education.

Writing as Social Negotiation

Susan Carter

Writing is a social practice. We might labour over clunky writing with rage at how
long it takes, or grieve at the mutilation we perform on our prose when we admit
something’s irrelevant. This laborious work is a courtesy to our significant other, the
reader. It is important. Being courteous, following social expectations, has to be done
because writing is social.
We grow up aware of social expectation. All those rituals that we know about
and usually conform to unthinkingly as adults—who to speak to formally, who,
informally, how far we can take humour with different audiences—gain us the benefit
of fitting in comfortably. It keeps those around us comfortable too. Same principle
goes with thesis writing. With writing, our guest, the reader, is a person. They have
needs.
Recently a friend wrote to apologise for a very minor sin of omission with the
excuse that she had been in an agony of house-cleaning before hosting dinner guests.
Applying this little domestic homily to doctoral writing almost works. The last
touches to the doctorate, in the last four months or so, should be to ensure the
comfort and interest of the reader as a guest.
Clutter should be tidy enough for your reader’s ease of access. Clear the access
route. You do not want a heap of barely relevant detail at the start of your thesis. The
introduction should be a well-lit attractive foyer, inviting.
Where does a reader enter a thesis? Examiners usually look at the abstract, then
skim the Introduction, Discussion and Conclusion before beginning in earnest: these
Personal Style and Communication 99

parts should be good. One experienced examiner I know first checks the reference
list at the back for dates. ‘Nothing since 2012 is likely to be a case of revision,’ he
said. Avoid being too retro for comfort.
A clear statement of the motivating problem/question/hypothesis will arouse
reader interest, too, so that they are looking forward to the reading ahead. A reader
who smiles over their first skim through is likely to be a sympathetic reader. Then
starts the examiner’s burning need to tick off that the regulations for a doctorate have
been met. A clear statement of the original contribution to knowledge or understand-
ing helps. They also want evidence of critical analysis of literature; clearly explained
methods; and a good framework tying literature, methodology and findings together.
The word ‘evidence’ here means some sentences explaining these things set out
where they will be clearly seen.
Perhaps this is where the analogy of the dinner guest/tidy house works best. Can-
didates do need to take care about grammar, punctuation, referencing, consistency
and a zillion other small housework details before submitting, which usually means
leaving about three to six months for this revision. What is even more important
is highlighting what matters: the generic requirements of the thesis. These keep
the examiner readers comfortable. Good hosting as author will help make for well-
behaved reader guests. Keep them happy so they leave the social negotiation of thesis
examination with the satisfaction of signing off positively.

Personalising the Thesis: Incentive to Writing It?

Susan Carter

Thesis authors often stamp their identity on their theses. Perhaps such personal
marking—think dog and territory—helps with the more stodgy writing of the thesis
body. When we find a way to mark our academic work with our own style, it is more
fun to produce.
One example of personal marking is the epigraph that might open each chapter,
a strong quotation that inflects the author’s attitude to the topic. Lockhart’s (1997)
Ph.D. in International Business covers export systems in the context of ‘land-based
values.’ His opening chapter, ‘Motivation, Research Approach, and Problem State-
ment,’ begins with the epigraph, Oscar Wilde’s, ‘It is a pure unadulterated country
life. They get up early because they have so much to do and they go to bed early
because they have so little to think about’ (Lockhart, 1997, p. 1). This quotation
obliquely ties economics to the rural versus urban, local versus international aspects
of New Zealand history that underpin his topic. Another of Lockhart’s chapters uses
the well-known Pink Floyd exhortation to eat your greens if you want your pudding;
again, the quotation is apt for the chapter’s topic.
Lockhart’s epigraphs establish that business is a social and culturally embedded
practice. His thesis was recommended as a good one, suitable for use as a model
100 4 Crafting Writing: Clarity, Style and Voice

of a well-written thesis. My hunch is that those epigraphs gave the author as much
pleasure as its subsequent readers, including its examiners.
Sometimes epigraphs are taken from classical times, for example, a thesis on
health in an aging population might use Cicero’s ‘Active exercise, therefore, and
temperance can preserve some part of one’s former strength even in old age’ as a
prefix to its introduction. The effect of going classical is to place the research study in
a lineage that goes back over centuries, showing a long-standing preoccupation with
the same problems and solutions, and an authorial connection with those landmark
figures who have shaped Western thought.
The aesthetic dimension added to the thesis should be taken seriously. It gives
pleasure to writers and readers when thesis writing is personalised. It isn’t new to
note that the personal is the political; the pleasure of thesis style also implies a politics
through what is personal and personality-imbued.
At a time when education discourse laments how commercial, neoliberal and
audit-cultured the university is becoming, it’s unsurprising that we enjoy opportu-
nities for generating new knowledge that reflect the identity of the human creator.
My experience tells me that when writers find their own distinctive style, voice
and character, it ‘enhances productivity.’ For me, though, this isn’t so much about
faster product. It is more about writing’s construction of academic identities that are
pleasurable to inhabit and to know.

Where’s This Going? Metadiscourse for Readers and Writers

Claire Aitchison

We’ve all heard good teachers and orators lay out what they’re going to cover in their
talk. It usually happens early on, and when done well, it is unobtrusive and incredibly
useful to help us ‘get’ what they are going to talk about. Depending on the situation,
they may remind listeners of what was covered previously (where they’re coming
from), of the scope and nature of their current talk, and how they’re going to proceed
(where they’re going). This bit of talk acts as a launching pad. It gives us a moment
to collect ourselves mentally and it reduces cognitive load because we don’t have to
second-guess where things are heading. As an audience member, I appreciate this
early orientation because I want to know upfront how my time is going to be spent.
Linguists call this chatter ‘metadiscourse’—that is, talk about the talk, or ‘dis-
course about discourse’ (Feak & Swales, 2009, p. 38). Generally this discourse is
empty of content—although it may include a position or argument statement.
Metadiscourse features a lot in academic writing—and especially in thesis writing.
Generally speaking, the longer the manuscript, the greater the amount of metadis-
course. Feak and Swales (2009) say that expository texts have more of it than narrative
texts. Metadiscourse is most commonly found at the beginning and end of chapters
and as a segué between different parts within chapters. Metadiscourse is a feature of
a reader-friendly text (Paltridge & Starfield, 2007).
Personal Style and Communication 101

Not surprisingly, there’s a fair bit of metadiscourse in the average dissertation or

thesis, although some disciplines favour it more than others. Hyland (1998) describes
variations across disciplines. In my own experience, I’ve seen more in theses that are
heavily argument driven, and less in the pure sciences and humanities.
Evans and Gruba (2002) outline a useful structure for the beginnings of chapters:
that is the three moves of (1) backward reflection to the previous chapter; (2) statement
of what’s in the current chapter; and (3) foreshadowing what follows. The rendition
of these ‘rhetorical moves’ will vary—they might appear as three distinct paragraphs,
or be combined in one paragraph, or even in one sentence.
Here are some examples of sentence structures or ‘skeletons’, as Kamler and
Thomson (2014) call them, that may be located at the beginnings or endings of
chapters or between segments of a text.

Current orientation The focus of this chapter is …

This chapter reviews the literature on …, beginning with an
overview of the key disciplinary influences…
Backwards orientation This chapter follows from a detailed report of the findings that …
The previous chapter provided an historical review of the
evolution of these models. To recap, the main …
Future orientation Having established the central argument, the next chapter …
… and thus, the next chapter explores the key themes …
Combination orientations This chapter analyses the environmental drivers first identified in
Chap. 4. It begins by …, and then …, thereby establishing the
context for a more thorough discussion in Chap. 7.
Following from the discussion of key findings in Chap. 5, this
chapter lays the ground for the resultant recommendations
presented in the final chapter

Isn’t Metadiscourse Just Plain Boring?

Some readers object to this kind of directional voice, finding it intrusive and sim-
plistic, even insulting. Certainly, if it is formulaic and repetitive, recurring at regular
intervals when it simply isn’t necessary, it can become tedious.
Using Metadiscourse as a Writing Tool
As a writer myself, though, and as a writing teacher, I make frequent use of metadis-
course. My early drafts often have lots of metadiscourse signalling for me what it is
(I think) I’m doing. Later, I remove most of this writing.
When working with others, I often ask them to include explicit metadiscursive
text between new sections of writing because this forces writers to clearly articulate
their intentions for any particular section—and how these relate to what has come
before, and what will follow. Sometimes, together, we read only the metadiscourse or
sentence skeletons to gauge the logic and rhetorical integrity of the writing. Removing
the ‘content’ in this way can reveal the strength of the structure as articulated in this
‘discourse about the discourse’.
102 4 Crafting Writing: Clarity, Style and Voice

A final note: There are some excellent resources on thesis writing from the fields of
applied linguistics and ESL written for those who have English as a second language:
Evans and Gruba (2002), Feak and Swales (2009), Hyland (1998), Paltridge and
Starfield (2007), and Thomson and Kamler (2013). Supervisors are not always aware
of these resources and of their applicability for all kinds of writers—irrespective of
language backgrounds. After all, arguably academic English is just another foreign
language.

Issues of Word Choice

Precision with Word Choice in Doctoral Writing

Susan Carter

In the latest doctoral writing group, we blitzed words that were the cause of inaccu-
racy, often because the tone they added was too informal. This post gives our list of
treacherous words. Many other words might be tricky, but in this group, we identified
the following.
Firstly, ‘very’ probably does not have a place in a thesis, whereas ‘significant’
works well. Myriad is often another overstatement. My Shorter Oxford English
Dictionary (SOED) says that a myriad is ten thousand, and can also mean count-
less numbers, hordes. So whenever I read that there are myriads of challenges, I
replace ‘myriads’ with ‘many.’ Wild overstatement is acceptable in many circles,
those inhabited by people who like to shriek ‘OMG!’ often, and declare that they
would die rather than revise their chapter again. However, the academic community
tends not to be like that and can be disapproving.
Another word that I have commented on in two different writers’ work is ‘usage.’
SOED spells out that usage means ‘habitual or customary practices or procedure’.
Now, arguably when you use a theory or method you could claim that your use is
habitual, but just as arguably it is not because use in one research project is not
customary. Quite simply, ‘The use of X theory/method is justified by…’ is stronger
than ‘The usage of X theory/methods….’
I recommend not using ‘proper’ for methods or theory: ‘I needed to find the proper
methods’. It is true that SOED lists one meaning as ‘suitable, appropriate, fitting,’
but that is in meaning 9. Other meanings include ‘owned’ (meaning 1), belonging or
relating to distinctly or exclusively’ (meaning 2); ‘genuine, true…normal’ (meaning
5).
One student gave a few more words to beware of. She wrote to me later:
I think the use of ‘all’ as in ‘Interactivity is a shared point of all social learning theories’
can also be a good example. ‘Many’ or ‘quite possibly all’ offer defence positions. More
examples can include the use of ‘always’, ‘never’, ‘the only example’.
Issues of Word Choice 103

I agree with her. Defence options include ‘frequently,’ ‘seldom’ and ‘a rare
example.’
It is sensible to avoid superlatives for the same reason. A writer may believe that
something is the earliest of its kind; an examiner may know of a similar thing that
is earlier. The safe bet is to write ‘an early example of X’ rather than ‘the earliest
example of X.’
Another person said that she is ‘learning to use understatement’, and that made me
realise that accuracy needs to be emphasised. Inaccurate understatement leaves the
writer open for challenge too. This was endorsed when I read that ‘The University
of Auckland is one of the biggest in New Zealand’. Actually, the University of
Auckland is by far the biggest in terms of student numbers, so in that case, ‘one of
the biggest’ is not accurate. You could build a bigger list of words that might be
stated too emphatically to be defensible. Mostly, candidates should be encouraged
to stay accurate and scholarly.

Saying ‘Says’ in Research Writing

Susan Carter

Academics tend to agree that, all else being equal, a simple word is better than a
pedantic one. There’s one curious exception: we avoid saying ‘says’ in academic
writing. Careful choice of ‘says’ words shows critical evaluation of the literature—it
is the literature that usually does the saying in research writing.
I once heard a doctoral student say that their supervisor told them to unerringly
use ‘suggests.’ The student believed it was a discipline preference relating to an
objective voice—I think it was simply bad advice. For all disciplines need to show
critical analysis: ‘suggests’ is simply the wrong word in some cases. Encouraging
students to think about the degrees of difference in what those ‘says’ words convey
is one way to explicitly show them how to demonstrate critical analysis.
‘Suggests’ is neutral, a tad on the tentative side. A suggestion doesn’t stridently
take a stance. So although ‘suggests’ seems harmless, it won’t be the most accurate
word if the author actually was really emphatic. If an examiner wants sound evidence
of critical interpretation, ‘suggests’ won’t always give that.
Listing ‘says’ words shows more clearly the nuances of meaning between them.
‘Says’ words can be collected up by individuals or as a group exercise. Then those
of use in similar situations can be put together. This includes, for example, when an
author
• is tentative or explorative;
• endorses someone else;
• disagrees with someone else;
• picks something apart to show better how it works;
• pulls things together in new ways; or
104 4 Crafting Writing: Clarity, Style and Voice

• takes things further.

At the tentative end of the spectrum sit ‘explores,’ ‘speculates,’ ‘suggests,’ ‘pro-
poses,’ ‘finds,’ and ‘shows.’ Then ‘describes,’ ‘clarifies,’ explains’ or ‘unpacks’ are
there for when authors make things clearer. They may ‘theorise,’ ‘refine,’ or cal-
ibrate,’ or, more forcefully, ‘assert,’ ‘endorse,’ ‘demonstrate,’ ‘affirm.’ An author
may ‘emphasise’, or even actually ‘argue.’
When an author wants to say that those they are citing came across something
really very new, the cited author can be said to ‘discover’ or ‘find’. Sometimes head-
way is made by clearing aside misconceptions, when an author can be said to ‘doubt,’
‘refute,’ ‘rebuff,’ ‘challenge,’ ‘dispute,’ ‘disprove,’ or, more graphically, ‘explode the
myth/misconception/belief.’ Or they may take someone else’s lead further, as when
they ‘add,’ ‘expand,’ ‘develop,’ or ‘take further.’ Sometimes they ‘synthesise’ by
pulling different discourses together.
When a research writer says an author ‘reveals,’ ‘illuminates,’ ‘dissects,’ ‘expli-
cates,’ ‘develops,’ or ‘anatomises,’ they are signalling that they found that work
helpful and learned from it. They are endorsing the cited author and aligning their
own work. My highest praise for a cited author is to say that they ‘anatomise,’ because
it conjures up the cutting open to show how things work inside. Rembrandt’s Dr. Tulp
with his solemn anatomy lesson springs to mind.

Widening Vocabulary in Academic Writing? Or Wider Reader

Access?

Susan Carter

Here is a sticky dilemma for thesis writers: do you develop a wider vocabulary so that
your academic prose gains precision and richness, or do you keep your vocabulary
tightly reined in so that it is easy for all to read? This is a no-brainer for me: I very
much like using interesting words. I come out of English literature studies, and now
in Higher Education I sometimes still enjoy using words with evocative histories. I
feel that building a quirky stock-in-trade lexicon lets me texture my prose voice.
Another academic colleague discussing her publication work in progress recently
had to pare back her lexicon because the journal felt readers whose first language is
not English would find her wide word range too hard. Fair enough, she thought; it is
an international journal.
This thought stumps me with a real problem. Equal access is great. Those who
produce academic writing in a language other than their mother-tongue are valiant and
add so much by widening academic discourses for those locked in the English they
were born into. I want to be considerate of these adventurous readers who manoeuvre
through wider linguistic terrain. But considerately constrained vocabulary raises the
spectre of the English language being clipped too thin.
Issues of Word Choice 105

Partly, theoretical constructs govern. Those who strive for objectivity bat aside
individuation of language. But word choice is also about the academic identity under
construction in every act of thesis-writing.
I know I am heading towards the rogue end of the spectrum in my own keenness
for little-used but intriguing words. I almost expect to be reprimanded by reviewers
and made to trim my sails.
Somewhere, though, there must be happy medium, even if it is always a balancing
act.

Politics of Pronouns

Knowing When to Use ‘I’ in Research Writing: Cold-Calling

Knowledge Claims

Claire Aitchison

The use of the first-person pronoun in academic writing has had a chequered history.
When I first taught undergraduates about academic writing over 20 years ago, we
claimed that academic writing was ‘formal and objective’ and therefore the use of
‘I’ was frowned upon. Truly scientific research, and research writing, was to be
‘objective’: perceived as unbiased, unemotional and independently factual. The idea
had its origins in nineteenth-century endeavours for seeking ‘natural truths’ untainted
by humans. It was based on a perception of the external world as an object for study
quite separate and removed from the researcher. This view has been widely criticised:
such objectivity is an impossibility, or as Haraway (1988) put it, an illusion, ‘a god
trick’.
Charles Darwin, the naturalist, didn’t seem to have had a problem with ‘I’. In The
Origin of the Species (1873), he uses the first-person pronoun liberally throughout,
starting from his second sentence. I love his prose; it is easy to read, engaging and
very personal while also thoughtful, considered, persuasive and credible. We know
what he thinks and why, as evidenced by this small section:
As far as I am able to judge, after long attending to the subject, the conditions of life appear to
act in two ways, — directly on the whole organisation or on certain parts alone and indirectly
by affecting the reproductive system. With respect to the direct action, we must bear in mind
that in every case, as Professor Weismann has lately insisted, and as I have incidentally
shown in my work on ‘Variation under Domestication,’ there are two factors: namely, the
nature of the organism and the nature of the conditions. (1873, p. 1)

These days ‘I’ has made a comeback—even in the ‘hard’ sciences. However,
acceptability doesn’t necessarily translate into stylish use. Whether or not to use ‘I’
raises issues of voice, authority and knowing in relationship to a particular knowledge
community. The successful use of ‘I’ involves more than simply prefixing an author
to one’s view or experience.
106 4 Crafting Writing: Clarity, Style and Voice

‘I’ statements are more common in certain types of research and in particular
locations in the research documentation. Participant research, personal narrative or
reflective texts will, of necessity, include many ‘I’ statements since the role of the
researcher needs to be unambiguous. In a thesis, ‘I’ can often be found in an account
of the methods undertaken in the conduct of data gathering and analysis, e.g., ‘I
interviewed 25 people’, ‘I used NVivo in the coding process’.
‘I’ statements are also likely to be found when arguing a position, as may occur
in the literature review when the author wants to emphasise their particular posi-
tion. They often occur in the Discussion of findings and in Conclusions where the
researcher is making claims for significance, e.g., ‘Therefore I have demonstrated
…’. These claim statement uses of ‘I’ are the most difficult to execute success-
fully, because they involve careful use of hedging and boosting and adroit contextual
awareness.
Research writing involves manipulating the voices of many players: mixing and
presenting the author’s own views with the views of others into an already existing and
on-going conversation. Graff and Birkenstein (2014) have successfully captured the
nature of this intertextual dialogue by the phrase ‘They say, I say’. This conversational
construct is a fabulous device for entering the conversation—but doesn’t always mean
‘I’ must be used to convey this position.
It’s Not All About You!
‘I’ can be overused. Excessive use of ‘I’ can give the impression that the work is
overburdened by personal opinion. Sometimes ‘I’ is unnecessary and inappropriate. If
something is commonly accepted or widely known by the reading audience, to use the
construction ‘I argue that …’ is redundant at best, or at worst can give the impression
of ignorance. For example, doctoral education scholarship has long recognised that
the student–supervisor relationship changes over time, so to claim ‘I argue that the
relationship between students and supervisors changes during candidature’ would be
inappropriate. This is an argument already won. In this case, far from strengthening
the authority of the author, an ‘I’ statement may undermine the author, positioning
him/her as an unknowing ‘outsider’. In each case, knowledge of the disciplinary
community/reading audience will influence the author’s decision.
An ‘I’ statement works well to foreground and differentiate one’s position from
others as, for example, in this statement: ‘I understand reflective practice as…’ or ‘I
take up the notion of culture in order to…’. These two statements work because they
profess a relational position in a space already occupied by others. The ‘I’ marks a
point of difference within a given context in recognition of an ongoing debate while
also constructing the researcher’s identity as a knowledgeable insider.
It takes time to become proficient at navigating and balancing different voices
and to know when and how to pitch one’s own voice into the fray with authority and
confidence. Used judiciously, ‘I’ can be the perfect mechanism for achieving this.
On the other hand, inappropriate ‘I’ statements are like cold calls—they are decon-
textualized, mostly unwelcome and unsuccessful. To simply claim a position isn’t
authorial—a claim needs to relate to existing knowledge, connect to appropriate
evidence and be argued rhetorically. It sure is tricky!
Politics of Pronouns 107

Student/Supervisor Difference with Writing Choices Courtesy

of the Generic ‘He’

Susan Carter

Use of the generic ‘he’ is an example of a writing choice with the potential to irritate
readers. A recent writing tips post asked whether it is erroneous to use ‘they’ in
the singular—and surveyed what readers thought. I’m amongst those who see a
generic ‘he’ as implicitly sexist, and the singular ‘they’ is often how I avoid the
generic ‘he’. So I might write ‘A thesis writer who neglects the thesis framework
risks difficulty during examination. They may find that they have a hefty revision
ahead.’ A majority of the posts’ respondents agreed with my choice about ‘they’ for
gender bias avoidance, but not all.
I can tell you why I choose ‘they’ as the best avoidance option. ‘He or she’ or
‘s/he’ seem a tad clunky to me, and too evidently self-conscious. Then sometimes
I don’t want to pluralise the whole sentence as a way out (‘thesis writers…they’)
because I want to conjure up that single figure at the computer. If I have a quotation
with a generic ‘he’, which I regard as sexist, I sometimes add ‘[sic]’ in the case of
fairly recent writers (in which case their choice is made knowingly—and it’s one I
don’t agree with). I’m also willing to restate all that in good formal academic prose
if a gun was at my head—or if I was submitting a doctoral thesis to a critical reader,
or something similar.
However, some academics are more irritated when the plural pronoun disagrees
with the singular person. This raises the question of how students and academics
handle writing’s negotiation around choice.
Thesis writers sometimes need to have the theoretical baggage of specific words
pointed out to them. And I do mean spelt right out, not just by suggesting a change
without the reason. Often it is only when someone tells us that we realise we are in
a minefield.
How should supervisors and academic developers handle students who choose
words differently from them? Sometimes doctoral students choose to do stylistic
things differently from their supervisors or advisors because they have different
values and tastes. I have seen students grappling with the fact that other academics
work the way that they want to, but their supervisor leans in a different direction.
Leans insistently.
I suggest if the choice has theoretical implications, the student might produce
writing explaining their choice in good epistemological academic language. It can
give them a firmer platform to diplomatically suggest that they have a valid take
on the point in question. Or finding it hard to write their defence of choice might
persuade them they are wrong.
Putting the explanations for choice in the introduction is an excellent practice:
persuasion aimed at a supervisor usually holds good for an examiner. It’s a formal
demonstration of disciplinary and interdisciplinary savvy. It pre-empts examiner
irritation, given that most academics have preferences.
108 4 Crafting Writing: Clarity, Style and Voice

In all instances, people who I respect for their other values make word choices
I wouldn’t, and I go on respecting them. Even the crustiest of us maybe need to
concede that academia has room for more than only people who are exactly like us.

Who Produces Academic Writing: ‘I’, ‘the Researcher’, ‘This

Study’, ‘This Thesis’…?

Susan Carter

Choosing terms for the agent in academic writing can be tricky for novices. ‘I argue
that…’ could also be ‘this thesis argues that…’ or ‘the researcher argues that…’
Doctoral students must decide what nomenclature is best for their research projects.
Some writing shies away from admitting there is an author. Historically, empirical
science disciplines sought objectivity; to do so, they veiled human agency with
passive constructions, e.g., ‘It was found that’. Textual masking of agency signalled
a positivist epistemology.
By disappearing the people from the text, the matter of the research itself is empha-
sised, since, in theory, anyone could duplicate the study, and a measure of objectivity
is established. Thus, the use of ‘I’ would be almost misleading for empirical study.
However, in common speech, we use the passive less often than we use the active;
its most common use is when we don’t know who did something or wish to avoid
naming them for social reasons: ‘my lunch has been taken from the fridge’ means
that I am not accusing anyone in particular.
We also use it when the topic of our focus is the object of an active sentence:
‘these people have been invaded in their homeland’ or ‘she was given a bunch of
flowers.’ Then we need not name the doer because they are not important for the
point we want to make: the focus is on the object of the main verb not the doer of it.
And yet, this convention is undergoing change. I propose it is softening, as my data
showed in Carter (2008), when no doctoral examiner (n = 23) from any discipline
was averse to the use of ‘I’ in a thesis. And I believe that it should soften purely in
the interest of readability. The active verbs common of speech are easier to unpack.
Another option for agency is for the writer to refer to herself in the third person
as the ‘author’ or the ‘researcher’. I’m not sure of the epistemology behind this
convention but it seems to me like a fusion of social science constructivism and hard
science positivism. There are people, but they are part of the matter of the study, and
the author thus distances herself as thesis writer from herself as researcher.
When I am examining or reviewing, I dislike the convention of an author writing
about herself in the third person because it causes textual ambiguity. Commonly in
the discussion, the research of the thesis project is compared with findings from other
literature. More than once, I have had to read three times to figure out whether ‘the
researcher found’ refers to the researchers of the last-mentioned piece of literature
or the author-candidate.
Politics of Pronouns 109

An option that allows for active verb construction and readability while keeping
people out of the way is to allow the thesis, the chapter, or the findings to speak. ‘This
chapter’ can review, analyse, or theoretically position the project. ‘This thesis’ may
even argue. It is oddly anthropomorphic but does accord with the hope that a thesis
ought to be clear and easy to read. My preferences are not necessarily constructivist
but emerge quite simply from respect for readable academic writing.

Grammar and Punctuation

Grammar for Research Writing: Nouns and Verbs

Susan Carter

Doctoral theses are long. Writers want their readers to persevere and to follow closely.
So the writing needs to be clear. Terms may be so vague that readers disengage. Exact
concrete options beat broad abstracts hands down. Generally, the more a reader can
see in their mind’s eye what you mean, the more closely they follow you. One route
to best possible precision is to think about the function of nouns and the function of
verbs. Different grammatical functions mean different implications for verbal and
nominal abstract terms.
Nouns are substantive. They have presence. But they can’t do anything without
verbs. Grammatically, nouns are static. Verbs lack substance, but they get nouns up
and running. Without nouns, verbs are just an electric current without a light bulb.
They exert their own presence only by animating nouns. In a research topic that is
bogged down in abstract terms, a writer might need to labour at precision. That nouns
and verbs have different grammatical implications means that they bring their own
influence to abstract, complex or theoretical ideas.
Often we begin thinking about research and thesis with the nouns. A mind-map is
usually of nouns. Then you get into structure when you bring on the verbs that drive
and connect, driving the nouns into contributing to an argument, the thesis. You are
likely to begin by feeling at the start of a doctorate that the substance matters most
and realize at the end of it that it is the drive of ideas through the substance of your
thesis that actually gives you the thesis.
If you are plagued by the bunches of abstract nouns in your topic, or if you are
a style fanatic, you will find Helen Sword’s work (2007, 2009) useful. Try Sword’s
YouTube video, Beware of Nominalizations (aka Zombie Nouns), on mutant verbs
gone nounwards. When she moves on to prepositions, you know you really are in
the presence of a grammatician with tenacity.
110 4 Crafting Writing: Clarity, Style and Voice

Comma, Stop

Cally Guerin

It comes as a great surprise to me that other people don’t always find punctuation
as fascinating as I do. In fact, it turns out that the vast majority of my students find
it frankly boring and tedious, despite my enthusiastic offers to devote a two-hour
workshop to exploring the wonderful world of commas. I admit that I’m definitely
not a serious scholar of punctuation, but I do like talking and thinking about it
(and suspect that some of my colleagues deliberately include punctuation errors in
documents simply to give me the pleasure of correcting them).
The continuing evolution of English means that conventions keep changing. While
it’s not useful to be too pedantic about punctuation, there are lots of situations where
a misplaced or missing comma can confuse the reader. The critical placement of the
comma in the title of Truss’s (2003) Eats, Shoots & Leaves plays with the image of
a panda wielding a shotgun: removing that comma changes ‘shoots’ from a verb to a
noun. While not an academic text, Truss’s very readable and entertaining exploration
of punctuation is much more approachable than some other texts on punctuation that
I’ve tried to wade through.
One of the most unhelpful pieces of advice I’ve received about punctuation is to
read the text aloud and pop in a comma wherever I need to pause for breath. This
might work for very simple sentence structures, but is really not useful for doctoral
writing, where noun phrases are often very long. By the time the subject has been
announced (the ‘thing’ the sentence is about), I often need to take a breath and gather
my composure before continuing. An example of a long noun phrase would be ‘The
ongoing and contested nature of the simple squiggle known as the comma…’.
By contrast, one of the most useful rules about commas that I’ve been lucky enough
to learn early is that a subject must never be separated from its verb by a comma. In
the above example, we must leap straight to the verb: ‘The ongoing and contested
nature of the simple squiggle known as the comma is a source of great consternation
to many academic writers’. Sure, I can’t say out loud the whole sentence without
taking a breath, but readers will get confused about how the parts fit together if I slot
a comma in before ‘is’.
When sentences get more complex, it’s possible to insert extra information in
between two commas: ‘The ongoing and contested nature of the simple, although
alarmingly complex, squiggle known as the comma is…’ And don’t forget that those
dependent clauses also need a comma when introducing the main part of the sentence:
‘Although they are alarmingly complex, commas can be tamed by even the most timid
of writers’.
There are many more erudite scholars than me who can help writers work out
the correct punctuation for their sentences. One book worth exploring is Punc
Rocks (Buxton, Carter, & Sturm, 2011). The Online Writing Lab (OWL) at Purdue
University has very straightforward, useful materials available for free.
Grammar and Punctuation 111

For doctoral writers, the main focus must always be on ensuring clarity for the
reader. While extremely complex sentence structures might look scholarly to some,
most readers will be more interested in following the argument than trying to track
the subject of a sentence through a dense array of punctuation marks. Directness and
simplicity can go a long way in communicating complex ideas.

A Second Helping of Commas, Anyone?

Susan Carter

I share Cally’s fascination for punctuation: my workshop focussing solely on the

comma is three hours long. (I hasten to add that this is partly because we also talk
about style and voice.) Cally covers the point that you must not separate a subject
from its verb, even when that sentence subject is one of those giant mutant nouns
to which academic writing is prey, made up of the noun word with a whole heap of
adjectival stuff before and after it. I’m running over that point again because I agree
with Cally that it is invaluable to doctoral writers when they get to the proofing stage
to check that verbs in long sentences are not separated from their nouns.
Essential or Non-essential
Often decisions about using a comma will be based on whether additional information
in a sentence is essential or not. Non-essential words, phrases and clauses can be
omitted without altering the meaning of the sentence. Judge what is essential by
which words need to cluster together to make one meaning.
Never separate words from their essential meaning-cluster, that is, essential to the
grammar or the meaning, with commas. For example, it is wrong to write ‘Boys,
who learned ballet, were found to be better soccer players,’ because ‘boys who learn
ballet’ is one single idea.
We begin clauses with the word ‘that’ when the content is essential: ‘The data that
showed anomalies has been destroyed’ (other data wasn’t necessarily destroyed). So
the rule is that ‘that’ clauses don’t have a comma before them. ‘Which’ clauses, in
contrast, are used for non-essential material and it helps readers to always have a
comma before them. ‘The data, which took five years to accumulate, were destroyed’
(all the data were destroyed).
If you insert non-essential detail into the middle of a sentence and use bracketing
commas, you must have two (just as you need two brackets). You can often get away
with none but not one.
Never Use Commas that Disrupt the Logic of Grammar
1. Never separate a noun from the verb it governs, even when the noun has adjectival
stuff round it that makes it fairly long (as in that giant mutant noun example
above). E.g., it is wrong to write ‘The evidence that came from a longitudinal
study involving 52 first-in-the-family graduates and how their careers developed,
was surprising.’ That sentence cannot take a comma.
112 4 Crafting Writing: Clarity, Style and Voice

2. Never put a comma between a verb and its object. It is wrong to write ‘The rat
ate, the poison’ or ‘The chemical was then heated, to 200 degrees Fahrenheit.’
In general, there is a tendency in academic English to leave commas out when
they are optional. If in doubt, it is safer to leave them out than risk breaking up a
meaning-cluster or disrupting grammatical logic.
When to Use Commas
Use a comma to differentiate items in lists. Note that some pairs are regarded as a
single idea and the comma will come after the second item, e.g., ‘Guests choose from
eggs and bacon, filled croissants, and cereal with fruit and yoghurt’ (they have three
options). If that list were more elaborate, semicolons to separate items and commas
within items would help readers to visually see what is going on: ‘Guests choose
from eggs and bacon, with toast; filled croissants, with a range of filling options; and
cereal with fruit and yoghurt.’
Put a comma after any introductory material before a main clause, especially if it
is more than a few words long. This makes for easier reading, especially when the
introductory material is long, e.g., ‘While she was analysing comments about scrum
experience from her All Black interviews, scrum rules were changed.’
Personally, I’m never sure why there is such interest in the Oxford comma, that
comma before the penultimate item. It does raise the point that there are different
practices between British and American writing, particularly around the punctuation
at the end of quotations. For those of us outside these places, consistency is the main
rule.

Voice

‘Insider Persona’ in Voice: Practical Suggestions for Doctoral

Writers

Susan Carter

One outcome of the successful doctorate is a fully-fledged researcher who has been
accepted as an insider into their research community. How can doctoral students
demonstrate through their writing that they are insiders? Berkenkotter and Huckin
(1995) found that reviewers of 441 submitted conference abstracts had four criteria
for acceptance or rejection. One of these was the sense that the author projected
‘an insider persona’. Reviewers liked abstracts whose authors accurately portrayed
relevant literature, used the right terminology and sounded as though they would
deliver a publishable paper. Thesis writers want the same in what they submit: a
thesis should seem publishable, and is stronger when the writing has confidence.
Here are some quite simple practical tips for gaining a sense of authority by
writing more clearly.
Voice 113

Tip 1: Clear, succinct writing keeps readers engaged as well as happy.

All readers, including examiners, grow disgruntled when they feel they must wade
knee deep through a quagmire of prose to extract its meaning. It is really worthwhile
revising writing carefully after a ‘final’ draft with the purpose of simplifying it by
cutting it back. Here is an example.
1. The research team initiated an approach that would allow them to utilize known
facts from literature at the same time as they employed constructivist theory as
the lens to interpret what they found in the literature.
2. The research team applied constructivist theory to facts from literature.
3. The research team interpreted facts in literature through a constructivist theory
lens.
The sentence in Point 1 is grammatically correct, but cluttered. Point 2 simplifies it.
Then Point 3 focuses more accurately by changing ‘applied…theory’ to ‘interpreted
literature.’ The change tells the reader that theory was not simply applied as an
academic exercise but for the purpose of interpreting literature—the most important
action was interpretation. That shows astute analysis too.
Tip 2: Spend time choosing the most precise words throughout.
When words are too broad and general, the reader loses traction on exactly what is
intended.
• Replace broad general nouns with the most precise specific noun. For example,
‘education’ ought not vary in meaning. If a thesis covers classroom practice, cog-
nitive processing, national or institutional systems and social interactions within
teaching and learning, different terms should be used consistently. Using one word,
education, for each different aspect will lose the reader in a fog of vagueness.
Consider whether words or noun phrases are too broad and fine tune for accuracy.
• Sharpen up verbs: replace neutral verbs with accurate verbs. e.g., ‘X
affects Y’ might be X undermines/problematises/weakens, or complicates, or
improves/enhances, or…? Authors will trim prose where using an accurate verb
saves writing another sentence to say what the neutral one meant, but most
importantly, there’s a better sense of an author who is in full control.

Tip 3: Apply simple sentence structure to more complex sentences.

Make use of syntactical rules to get clarity by applying the principles governing how
simple sentences work to complex sentences.
• The most important ‘character’ (can be a thing, chemical, etc. but is the prime
agent) in the sentence is in the grammatical subject place.
• The most significant action of the sentence is in the main verb position.
• They are as close together as possible.
Gopen and Swan (1990) demonstrate this succinctly and clearly.
Two more tiny tiplets:
114 4 Crafting Writing: Clarity, Style and Voice

Tiplet 1
Remove words expressing insecurity about whether the aims have been met. So,
‘This section aims to describe historical events leading up to the phenomena’ should
be simply, ‘This section describes historical events…’. Words like ‘tried, hoped,
attempted to’ should also be removed if they merely express anxiety, and used only
in the rare case where there is description of a change of methods: ‘we tried this, and
when it didn’t work, we chose this other way of working.’
Tiplet 2
When complex statements are expressed in the negative, readers are obliged to do a
double-take to understand them. Compare the following—and I confess that I wrote
the first sentence before realising just how awful it is to read.
1. The mind cannot cope so comfortably with either the fragmented presentation of
information that free floating independent sentences provide, nor the seamless
flow of unbroken information that long prose passages provide, as it can with
ideas packaged into paragraph-size chunks.
2. The mind copes more comfortably with ideas packaged into paragraph-size
chunks than with either the fragmented presentation of information that free-
floating independent sentences provide, or with the seamless flow of unbroken
information that long prose passages provide.
Personally, I enjoy tinkering with the mechanics of language with the aim of
clarity. The tips above are approaches that I routinely use in my own revision of
writing.

Authorial Voice, or ‘Putting on the Ritz’

Cally Guerin

Doctoral students are often told they ‘must find their own voice’ in their writing,
and they must explain the literature ‘in their own words’. Even if the literature they
are reading is beautifully expressed, they can’t just copy it: they must find another
way of explaining the same ideas. But—and it’s a big but—they must summarise in
a way that is recognisable to others in their discipline. Their work needs to match
the expectations of their disciplinary community (for example, they need to demon-
strate that they can use the ‘correct’ structures, the ‘correct’ citation conventions, the
‘correct’ vocabulary, the ‘correct’ genres and forms) (Eira, 2005). Confusingly, they
must ‘be original, but not too original’ (Picard & Guerin, 2011).
I’m fascinated by the slippery concept of ‘voice’. It seems to me that everyone
talks about voice as if they know what it means, but if you ask them ‘So, how do I
demonstrate my voice in writing?’, they usually look a little shifty and change the
subject.
Voice 115

One way of thinking about voice is to notice how we are required to adopt a
particular identity or persona for a given writing situation. Bowden (1999) helpfully
explains:
as a metaphor, [voice] has to do with feeling-hearing-sensing a person behind the written
words, even if that person is just a persona created for a particular text or a certain reading.
(pp. 97–98)

In a sense, then, authors act out an identity in their writing.

Hirvela and Belcher (2001) use Ede’s (1992) concept of the ‘situational voice’,
exploring the ways in which writers adopt difference voices for different texts and
purposes, rather like they might put on different outfits for different occasions. So, a
writer might wear fairly casual clothing—jeans and T-shirt—for an informal seminar
in their own department, but choose a smart suit to present the keynote at an interna-
tional conference. The levels of formality in clothing echo the levels of formality in
the language that is used. By contrast, if an academic turned up to a seminar in a ball
gown, others are likely to feel that s/he had got the situation extremely wrong—just
as using entirely inappropriate language might also be read as not understanding the
expected discourse of a particular writing situation. (Proviso: the ball gown might
be gorgeous and excite enthusiastic responses from others—I’m not suggesting it
is necessarily a bad thing to wear fabulous outfits and maybe there should be more
experimentation in these matters…)
But there’s a further catch—scholars use the language and authorial voices that
others have used before them. In being original, but not too original, doctoral writers
select their outfits from the second-hand rack (Ivaniĉ & Camps, 2001), recycling
language and voices that demonstrate they know how to fit in with the discourse of
a particular discipline.
So how and where do we see ‘voice’ in writing? The most useful explanations
I’ve been able to find are from Helms-Park and Stapleton (2003) and Zhao and Llosa
(2008). They identify the following voice markers in language:
1. assertiveness—hedging language, intensifiers;
2. self-identification—pronoun use, active voice;
3. reiteration of central point—frequency and explicitness of presentation of central
ideas; and
4. authorial presence and autonomy of thought—presentation of alternative view-
points.
Alongside these, I’ve used the very helpful list of examples that Paltridge and
Starfield (2007) provide, describing some of these concepts in slightly different terms
(e.g., ‘boosters’ in place of ‘intensifiers’). They also point out ‘attitude markers’ and
‘engagement markers’, which further unpack the idea of how voice appears in the
text.
I’ve argued elsewhere (Guerin & Green, 2012) that the process of developing
a greater sense of confidence and authority in the textual persona is a threshold
concept for doctoral candidates. Working out which language elements can/should
be recycled—which items of clothing are available from the second-hand rack—is
116 4 Crafting Writing: Clarity, Style and Voice

part of this learning. A longer discussion of this topic is available in Guerin and Picard
(2012) ‘Try it on: voice, concordancing and text-matching in doctoral writing’.

Voice and Emphasis in Doctoral Writing

Susan Carter

Here’s a speculation: too much writerly focus on discipline convention sometimes

muffles the value of the argument and the authorial voice. I’m prompted by two
separate experiences, both wrapped around giving feedback on writing. First, Bert,
a longstanding personal friend who is also currently a doctoral student. Because I
know Bert well, I know that he is passionate about inclusive teaching, and I could see
that his authentic concern with getting at-risk students safely through their first year
at university would have been the foundation for his Ph.D. topic. He was struggling
with writing, stuck, getting hammered by his supervisors, and I became an informal
mentor.
What I noticed straight way as I read was that he avoided making statements about
his own belief: there was no sense of a live author with a set of pedagogical values
evident in his discussion section. In Education, there needed to be, and even more
so in this case. As a friend, I felt indignant that Bert’s commitment to what he saw
as academic style (objective, muted in tone) was betraying who he was, a caring
teacher—and one, at this point, under pressure to wrap up his Ph.D.
Then another colleague doing her doctorate showed me two sections of her writing.
One was written on the basis of an initial review of literature. The other was written on
the basis of her own ideas. The ideas-prompted one was much more logical in its flow,
more animated and convincing, with a stronger sense that she was an experienced,
trustworthy author.
Comparison made me wonder whether maybe it is sounder to begin from the
spark of ideas and feed literature references into the prose than it is to privilege the
literature as the starting point.
I suspect that most academics start with an idea rather than literature, and it may
be a point of difference between experienced research writers and those who are
new to the task—new to the extensive literature search and daunted by academic
conventions. Of course, initially candidates need to read extensively to check there
is a gap in knowledge to be filled, and to tentatively write about what they read, but
once writing starts in earnest, I believe that prose driven by ideas is usually stronger.
When candidates step up to research writing at a higher level than they have
experienced before, it can seem daunting trying to meet discipline conventions and
reader expectations. But, certainly in some disciplines, a good legend above the desk
might be ‘Trust yourself: Your research value lies more in your ability to think and
connect than in your ability to hobble prose to academic conventions.’
Voice 117

Voicing Writing by Talking: Exploring the Link Between Body

and Text

Susan Carter

This post picks over some of the purposes of having doctoral students read their work
aloud. Most of us who support doctoral students with writing will repeat this handy
bit of revision advice: ‘read the sentence out loud and you’ll hear when it is too long,
or when the syntax is a bit skewed.’ Reading aloud will bring to light what’s going
wrong and helps revision.
Another ‘talking fix’ entails students talking through their research while someone
writes down what they hear and asks questions when they don’t understand. Fairly
commonly, students miss what is important in their writing, but find it when they
are explaining to another human who probes them. Authors expect that readers will
see what’s important without them needing actual sentences spelling it out, whereas
readers often don’t.
We can advise, ‘remember your audience’s needs’, but with the talking fix, the
audience (think ‘reader’) has become real. The researcher is no longer groping round
in thickets of big words but is back helping another human to grab hold of what
matters. Usually, then, as a supervisor I’ll ask students to read their writing aloud for
the reasons of enabling authorial clarity and to foster thinking by asking questions
when I suspect that there is more to be said. But in this post, I also want to speculate
on the relationship between voice and identity.
The term ‘voice’ is used for the sense of authorial individuality captured in written
prose. It is often hard to achieve, because on one hand the writer must show they are
aware of genre and discipline expectations, and on the other, that they have engaged
with any contentions in their field and positioned themselves defensibly in relation
to them.
Claire Aitchison uses voice recognition software that writes what you say, cap-
turing an embodied and voiced version of thoughts. Claire finds that she likes the
spoken-aloud version of her own writing better than the one produced by her fingers
on the keyboard. There’s something going on with that. Perhaps she sounds more
like herself, like the Claire who talks in other situations, and in quite different roles
(observing many different genres). Maybe talking aloud serves another purpose:
staying truer to the self that you are holistically, both in and out of academia.
Friends and family outside of academia don’t hear us talking in abstract theory.
Talking also lets you hear when you are using theory in a way that is true or untrue
to the ordinary talk of your background. For some of us, this alignment factor feels
important, and/or it may be important because we are writing from a theoretical
position, as a woman using feminist theory, say, or an indigenous author using post-
colonial theory for the purpose of ‘decolonising’ (Smith, 1999) or as a scholar from
working class origins.
I was mature when I wrote my Ph.D., with life and work behind me that gave
me a self who was known by friends, neighbours, previous work mates and family.
118 4 Crafting Writing: Clarity, Style and Voice

I wanted to become an academic, but I didn’t want to sound pompous. Ok, there is
nothing ‘natural’ about written text, so that the idea of an authentic voice is naïve,
but the textual construct of academic persona, I felt, should be bear some recognition
of the embodied writer.
In my case, I couldn’t chase after the feminist theory that attracted me to the
extent that it wasn’t true to who I was, in this case, happily married to a bloke. I do
remember reading one of my sentences aloud and recognizing I just could not use it.
It was a well-written, theoretically interesting academic sentence, but I would feel
an idiot reading it to my mates. My own life as I had lived it wasn’t predicated on
theory.
The sentence had to go, and I had to find a way to be sharp in academic terms, but
within the scope of who I was as a whole person. This tangle with theory and voice
induced one of those little identity crises that accompanies transformative learning.
So I’m suggesting here another use for asking doctoral students to read their writing
aloud. It can be empowering for doctoral writers who want to build an authorial voice
that speaks their holistic self into being within academia.

Editing and Plagiarism: Meeting Expectations

The Examiner-Perspective Lens for Doctoral Editing

Susan Carter

For those doctoral candidates whose examination process includes an oral defence
or viva, preparation for facing the examiners is a crucial part of completing the Ph.D.
But the defence work should be done before submission. Vernon Trafford and Shosh
Leshem research doctoral examiners and examinations. When I placed their work in
the writing section of my book on Developing Generic Doctoral Support (Carter &
Laurs, 2014), they worried I had made a mistake. However, I deliberately put them
there because their research findings are so useful at the writing stage.
One of Trafford and Leshem’s earlier articles suggests that it is easy to guess
the kind of questions you will get in the viva because the same clusters of issues
underpin all examinations (Trafford & Leshem, 2002, pp. 7–11). Their breakdown
of predictable questions looks like a checklist against which doctoral writers can
audit their work before submitting the thesis to ensure they defend their choices in
writing.
Here I have clipped their work back to just what seems applicable to all doctoral
research, regardless of epistemology or methodology—this is just a sample, and
may inspire you to follow up their work. Some predictable examiner questions from
Trafford and Leshem (2002, pp. 7–11) suggest defensive writing in the thesis before
submission:
Editing and Plagiarism: Meeting Expectations 119

Cluster 1 Opening Questions

Why did you choose this topic for your doctoral study?
Cluster 2 Conceptualisation
What led you to select these models of…?
What are the theoretical components of your framework?
How did concepts assist you to visualize and explain what you intended to investigate?
How did you use your conceptual framework to design your research and analyse
your findings?
Cluster 3 Research Design
How did you arrive at your research design?
What other forms of research did you consider?
How would you explain your research approach?
What is the link between your conceptual framework and your choice of methodology
and how would you defend that methodology?
Cluster 4 Research Methodology
How would you justify your choice of methodology?
Please explain your methodology to us.
What choices of research approach did you consider as you planned your research?
Cluster 5 Research Methods
How do your methods relate to your conceptual framework?
Why did you choose to use those methods of data collection?
What other methods did you consider and why were they rejected?
Cluster 7 Conceptual Conclusions
How did you arrive at your conceptual conclusions?
What are your conceptual conclusions?
Were you disappointed with your conclusions?
How do your conclusions relate to your conceptual framework?
Cluster 9 Contribution
What is your contribution to knowledge?
How important are your findings and to whom?
How do your main conclusions link to the work of [other famous scholars]?
The absence of evidence is not support for what you are saying and neither is it
confirmation of the opposite view. So how do you explain your research outcomes?
Some of these questions are invitations to doctoral students to spell out things that
they do actually know, but might not have articulated in the thesis. The list above
could be a great help for checking everything is covered before the thesis goes over
the counter to be sent to these questioning examiners.
120 4 Crafting Writing: Clarity, Style and Voice

Who Needs an Editor Anyway?

Cally Guerin

The role of professional editors in doctoral theses came in for a lively discussion at
the 2012 Plagiarism Advice conference in the UK. I was taken aback by the surprise
expressed by my UK counterparts that such a thing could be possible, even perfectly
respectable, in Australia. It made me reflect (yet again!) on what best serves the
candidate and the academy in this respect.
The Deans and Directors of Graduate Studies (DDOGs) and the Institute of Pro-
fessional Editors (IPEd) in Australia agreed on a set of guidelines for professional
editing of theses in 2001. These have since been updated to take into account current
digital technologies in order to allow editors to use track changes on theses. The
details are available on their website.
Some Myths About Doctoral Writing and Editing
1. Editing is mostly for international students who use English as an Additional
Language (EAL). Of course, for those students who are struggling with English
grammar and sentence structure, an editor can tidy up their writing to ensure that
the reader is not distracted by surface details of expression. Research by Mullins
and Kiley (2002) and Carter (2008) into the examination of theses has shown
that carefully proofed, polished documents are received well by examiners. Many
people find it hard to notice errors in their own work, so this is an advantage for
all students, not just EAL students.
2. Ph.D. students are already good writers. We know that some Ph.D. students have
not previously written long documents. Achieving high grades in exams focus-
ing on multiple choice and short answer questions as an undergraduate requires
very different skills from presenting a sustained argument over the course of
a whole thesis. Even for those presenting a thesis by publication with a series
of journal-length papers, the expectations of this level of writing can be some-
what mysterious. And some students are comfortable communicating through
formulae or diagrams, but struggle when it comes to writing prose.
3. Supervisors know how to help students develop their writing skills over the course
of candidature. Certainly, some supervisors have an excellent understanding of
how to teach writing, but others ‘correct’ their students’ writing without being
able to articulate the grammatical or stylistic principles underlying the changes.
Students can happily accept those changes, but do not necessarily learn to be
better writers without direct instruction about why the supervisors’ suggestions
are better than their own first attempt. Certainly some students will improve their
own writing when working this way, but others need rather more. Lots of students
and supervisors also tell me that supervisors simply don’t have time to focus on
writing development for individual students.
Editing and Plagiarism: Meeting Expectations 121

But How Much Editing Is too Much?

The concerns expressed by my colleagues at the conference seemed to stem from
anxiety that the editor might intervene in the writing too much, so that it was no
longer the student’s own work. This is where the Guidelines mentioned above can
be very helpful. The appropriate level of intervention is clearly spelt out there in
relation to copyediting (clarity of expression, grammar, spelling, punctuation) and
proofreading (checking for consistency, ensuring everything is complete, including
accuracy in references). Professional editors should not comment on substance and
structure, which is the domain of the supervisors and the students themselves. The
details of what is included under each of these headings can be found in the Australian
Standards for Editing Practice, which can be found on the website of the Institute
of Professional Editors (IPEd).

How Are We to Understand Plagiarism in Doctoral Writing?

Claire Aitchison

According to a headline article in Times Higher Education (Jump, 2013), we could

be forgiven for thinking there is a ‘plague’ of cheating and plagiarism involving all
levels of authority and scholarship, including doctoral study. Putting aside the media
thirst for scandal and the fact that some accusations may be politically motivated,
stories of plagiarism and cheating in the attainment of Ph.D. qualifications occur
remarkably frequently. But how widespread is doctoral plagiarism in reality? And
how should we act/react as supervisors who value genuine scholarship, rigour and
truthfulness in research and research writing? What are the losses from cheating and
plagiarism, and who are the victims?
Plagiarism is a high voltage word—it conflates numerous historical, cultural,
linguistic and behavioural properties into one big sin. To be accused of plagiarism in
any country or context is a big deal that can carry severe penalties. For individuals,
personal and professional fallout is inevitable, irrespective of the facts (which may
explain why these stories attract so much attention in the volatile world of politics).
There is also reputational damage to the institution. Ph.D.s attained by unscrupulous
means undermine the value of a doctorate for everyone involved in scholarly work
and research.
Is It Getting Worse?
The impetus for this post was threefold: another spate of media accusations of Ph.D.
plagiarism by politicians, a discussion with a colleague overseas about institutional
capacity-building regarding the avoidance of Ph.D. plagiarism, and a presentation of
preliminary findings from an Australian study into contract cheating.
Reporting on this study, Bretag et al. (2018) suggest incidences of plagiarism and
cheating are increasing because of a ‘perfect storm’ of concurrent influences:
• Massification, internationalisation, and diversification
122 4 Crafting Writing: Clarity, Style and Voice

• Digital disruption, changing social norms/values

• Pressure to perform: metrics, measurement
• Precarious job markets, casualisation
• Corruption in wider society
• Employability focus, learning seen as ‘transaction’.
These are precisely the factors we have been identifying as drivers for the changing
doctorate and as key pressure points for doctoral writers and researchers.
Clear-cut intentional cheating such as outsourcing the writing of the thesis is
widely recognised as unacceptable; however, what about smaller incursions and
everyday failings such as misjudging the boundary between common knowledge
and knowledge with ownership issues?
Plagiarism That Isn’t a Headline Story
I am certain that most everyday plagiarism occurs out of ignorance or oversight or
through sloppy, unscholarly practices where due care is relinquished under pressure.
Every day we work with language, reading, writing and talking about ideas so that
they become part of our own thinking. I suspect many a writer would acknowledge
that somewhere, somehow, they have likely failed to fully or correctly attribute every-
thing they have ever written. It is a kind of low-level anxiety we all carry. Small acts
of indiscretion, hurried writing and poor practices are part of the human condition
of authoring—yet if experienced writers can err despite knowledge of what should
be done, then how much harder it is for novice writers? And what of those situations
when ignorance plays a role?
The vast majority of doctoral students wish to excel as researchers and scholars.
Few set out to intentionally cheat. However, in the same way that we don’t expect
doctoral students to begin their journey as fully formed writers, we cannot presume
a mastery of integrity practices early on.
High profile cases of plagiarism and unethical practices in research are major
concerns for institutions. Universities are increasingly taking a more proactive role
to alert doctoral students of the dangers of plagiarism, but, in my experience, few go
further than warning against cheating behaviours. Much responsibility for overseeing
the development of appropriate practices continues to default to the supervisor. And
yet how many of us feel well equipped to ensure our students develop practices and
attitudes that hedge against inadvertent plagiarism?
It takes time to become adroit at avoiding plagiarism, integrating and citing the
work of others into one’s own contribution. Many candidates truly struggle to develop
strong scholarly practices that mitigate plagiarism, especially when they come from
disciplines that aren’t heavily text-based or where individuals have had restricted
experiences in higher education research. If one has to write an 80,000–100,000
word document in a foreign language, the difficulties are further exacerbated.
When supervisors don’t regard writing support as their responsibility and institu-
tions are poorly resourced to provide support, doctoral scholars can be left without
guidance and help. Helping students develop robust and routine practices that protect
them against accusations of plagiarism is important work for those of us who work
with student writers.
Editing and Plagiarism: Meeting Expectations 123

When I did my Ph.D., anti-plagiarism software was relatively new and it was
mostly seen as an undergraduate anti-cheating tool. These days, students and super-
visors are well aware of the advantages of incorporating these tools into their routine
practices for self-checking. That is certainly one useful strategy.

Recycling Old Papers and Self-plagiarism—Is It a Sin?

Claire Aitchison

A student contacted me yesterday to ask my advice on the sticky question of self-

plagiarism. She (let’s call her Cat) was preparing a conference paper, and, like all of
us, being time-poor was seeking efficient ways to put her paper together.
Cat wanted to know if it was okay for her to re-use writing that she had put together
for an earlier conference. In that earlier conference paper she had written about the
same research project. For this forthcoming conference, she had a new slant and a
different audience. Cat had never published that previous paper but felt some degree
of unease about what was acceptable practice vis-à-vis reproducing segments of it
for this new conference. How much could she reuse from that earlier paper? Could
she reproduce the format and the content but simply change the words? Could she
keep some or all of the words? The findings would be the same no matter how the
words were changed. Is there an acceptable proportion of verbatim reproduction that
is permissible? Is the essence about what’s acceptable to do with the words or about
the ideas being reproduced?
Her query raises some important questions, familiar to doctoral scholars and
academics alike. Certainly I am not able to point to a rulebook or a set of universally
accepted guidelines. I know there are different views—even within disciplines within
the same institution. I know it’s not easy to get guidance from within the academy
itself. Try asking your own supervisors, or Grad Schools, about self-plagiarism. Try
asking your publishers.
My concern is not so much about breaking publisher contracts, or transgressing
disciplinary norms or in-house practices; I’m more interested in how we understand
and practise ‘good scholarship’.
In a perfect world we’d all start with a blank page and write beautiful, pris-
tine work on each and every occasion. Certainly I recall as a doctoral student and
novice scholar starting every piece of writing anew and being appalled if I found an
established scholar had reworked the same ideas in a second publication. Now I’m
not so critical—I see the blurring of the boundaries, the way that ideas evolve in
small increments rather than in leaps and bounds of unmitigated ‘newness’. Einstein
moments are rare. The everyday work of our writing is more often pedestrian; it can
be slow—even repetitive and circular.
But somewhere there comes a crossing of boundaries. I know as a reader, and as
a writer, the displeasure and discomfort of rehashed work that offers nothing new.
The line isn’t clear. It isn’t easy to tie down—it’s not simply a matter of saying
124 4 Crafting Writing: Clarity, Style and Voice

‘you’ll be safe if you only reproduce 20%’, or ‘it’s a different audience or purpose,
so it’s fine’—although I do think proportion, audience and purpose are central to the
discussion.
Is self-plagiarism a mortal sin, is it unethical—or simply sloppy and lazy? Is it
an inevitable by-product of our ‘push to publish’ academic environment? Are there
cultural and/disciplinary dimensions we’ve not countenanced? These are questions
that challenge academics and offer scope for future research.

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Chapter 5
Writing the Thesis

The independent researcher, with sophisticated writing skills and need for a career,
is one outcome of the doctorate. The text itself, the thesis, is another. This chapter
swings focus onto that textual artefact, still concerned with the human experience of
producing it, but aware that, for most candidates, the doctoral period of their life is
dominated by the research and the writing of the thesis. That document itself takes
centre stage.
The production of a doctoral thesis is usually the largest writing project its author
has ever attempted. It is the first attempt at a task that, like running a marathon, will
require discipline, management, social support, and will change the writer substan-
tially. At the same time, the thesis is a sum of its parts; many workshops for doctoral
candidates focus on some specific aspect of the thesis. This is because there are
implicit expectations about what each part should accomplish to convince the reader
that this is indeed a doctoral study. We avoid being baldly instrumental in this chapter,
because experience persuades us that fulfilling generic expectations takes more than
a paint-by-numbers approach. Nonetheless, there are helpful pointers. This chapter
moves from general advice about the larger thesis project, through posts on specific
parts or required moves of the thesis, to consideration of what examination requires
of writing.

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S. Carter et al., Doctoral Writing,
https://doi.org/10.1007/978-981-15-1808-9_5
128 5 Writing the Thesis

General Advice: Impact, Early Choices, Ethics,

and Narrative

‘Impact’ Is Important for Published Researchers, But What

Does It Mean for Doctoral Writers?

Claire Aitchison

These days there is an increasing expectation that research has ‘impact’. The impact
agenda has particular resonance in a world where research funding is increasingly
constrained and universities compete for influence and reputation in order to attract
funding. Impact also connects to quality and accountability.
Impact is sometimes narrowly conceived of as countable measures of the uptake
of research (i.e., publications, citations and grants), but it also includes less easily
quantifiable things like influence on practice, resultant applications, the generation
of new ideas and outcomes, and longer-term subtle change. This perspective relates
to ideas about the public good and the public intellectual—in other words, it is about
being connected to, and giving back to, society.
But How Does this Impact Agenda Affect Doctoral Research and Writing?
Firstly, considerations of ‘impact’ can constrain or influence the choice of doctoral
research topic. For example, an aspiring doctoral candidate may have a personal pas-
sion or interest in floral art—but is this alone worthy of four years of public funding?
If, however, their research concerns the re-imagination of the cultural aesthetic, an
exploration of commercial value, or the preservation of endangered flora for floristry,
the potential impact becomes clear because the benefit of the research is clear.
A key task of a doctoral thesis has always been to identify the purpose and the sig-
nificance of the study. When we consider impact, this becomes even more important:
potential impact not only justifies the choice of research project; it also validates the
chances of lasting influence or ‘contribution’.
Research impact counted through scholarly publications and citations is an
‘end-of’ activity, occurring after publications are in the public domain. If doctoral
researchers are able to publish during candidature they can complement claims of
potential impact with evidence. A shift to demonstrating impact during candidature
may contribute further to the rise in doctoral student publishing and may result
in research dissemination being reconsidered not simply as an end-of activity, but,
rather, an organic part of the doctoral writing process across candidature.
Concerns for impact may necessitate different practices during candidature
regarding dissemination and profile-building for the doctoral student. Because schol-
arly publication is notoriously slow, doctoral students (and academics more gener-
ally) are using social media platforms to build learning networks, and to discuss and
disseminate their research.
It seems to me that doctoral writers who aim for impact need to undertake careful
positioning work within traditional ‘big book’ theses, as well as develop strong
General Advice: Impact, Early Choices, Ethics, and Narrative 129

digital communication skills. The expectation for social accountability, or relevance,

requires a rhetorical balancing act on the part of the writer, who needs to satisfy
sometimes quite different conceptions of ‘relevance’ and ‘doctoralness’.
For the thesis writer, purpose, significance, contribution and relevance are all part
of the narrative of impact. It is not always easy to produce this kind of writing.
Stylistically it can feel awkward and self-promotional if done poorly. To maintain a
credible and authoritative stance, claims for significance arising from findings need
to be tempered in strength against the evidence (sample size, statistical relevance and
so on) and in light of a (social) value. Claims for impact will be largely propositional
and may be complemented by evidence where it already exists.
Traditionally, doctoral writers establish the rationale and justification for their
research primarily in relation to a gap in the literature. In grant writing, we see that the
justification for the research turns not so much on a detailed account of what we don’t
know (as evidenced by the gap in the scholarly literature), but rather on the impact
of this absence of knowledge in relation to something of importance. Thus a grant
writer is appealing for financial support not simply because the discipline is interested
in finding out something, but because that knowledge has implications/applications
that will benefit society in some way. A grant writer knows that if they cannily
connect their research to a bigger agenda—especially if that coincides with a national
priority or one identified by the granting body—their chances of success increase
significantly.
A doctoral writer does not always have such clarity about the audience and pur-
pose to help frame this kind of rhetorical performance. Oftentimes they are ‘writing
blind’, knowing with confidence that the gap in the literature identifies a worthwhile
study, and imagining the relevance to a setting such as a school, farm or industry.
Connecting the research to ‘what matters’ requires the writer to be connected to
an industry or social community outside the academy. In other words, the doctoral
writer needs to convince their examiner that this project is worthwhile in a way that
goes beyond academic curiosity.
There are key places in a traditional thesis where this work needs to occur. The
abstract should highlight the importance of the work—and if there is already strong
evidence of impact, this can be referred to directly. The Introduction traditionally
gives the rationale for the research (based on a research problem demonstrated to be
of some importance). Then, in arguing the significance, the writer needs to provide a
measured outline of possible areas of influence or application. If there is already
evidence of how others have found value in the work (such as citations, media
acknowledgements, Twitter feeds), then these can be cited. It can be useful to find
opportunities to self-cite in the Introduction to establish the profile of the research and
researcher early on. (But not all disciplines approve of this practice—so don’t over-
do it!) The Conclusion should also re-affirm impact and summarise key examples
because this is where contribution is generally given most credence.
Impact is founded on the idea that the research project will have some kind of life,
value and influence beyond and outside of itself. This is a worthwhile aspiration—so,
early on, plan for it, and practise writing about it.
130 5 Writing the Thesis

Research Writing Outside the Box

Susan Carter

It is exhilarating to come across research that pushes the boundaries. Human ingenu-
ity is alive, fresh and daring in such work. I say ‘daring’ because, in every boundary-
stretching instance I know of, there are always some risks and costs. ‘Pioneer’ is
something of a cliché, but researchers who step into the unknown are pioneers in the
most red-blooded, riskiest sense.
I want to use three examples of pioneering theses.
Example 1: One prompt for this post is the tale of the comic book thesis by Nick
Sousanis, Unflattening: A visual-verbal inquiry into learning in many dimensions.
It’s worth reading. Firstly, anyone working with theory is likely to be wowed by how
cleverly theory is shown visually in comic strip format; this is a staggeringly stylish
and advanced representation. Secondly, the article describing it spells out some of
the tensions involved in doctoral innovation that I am thinking about here in relation
to doctoral writing.
Example 2: At my own institution, one of my favourite theses is Poulsen’s (2009)
Another Way with Words: Language as Twentieth-century Art Practice. Structured
like a medieval commonplace or day book, it has 26 chapters, one for each letter
of the alphabet. Each chapter-heading word is theoretical: as with a commonplace
book, what looks simple is designed as a pleasurably deep-level exegesis. It is an
exquisite demonstration of expertise.
Example 3: In New Zealand, I’m aware of two theses on the use of Māori language
in education. One is written in English. One is, unusually and excitingly, written in
Māori, in te reo. Because New Zealand education is governed by the Treaty of
Waitangi, we have an option to use Māori language in many situations, including in
education; using it is a decision bristling with political positionality.
If you choose to walk the political talk and talk in te reo, the reality is that your
audience shrinks immediately. Other indigenous scholars won’t have access to your
ideas—not all Māori can understand te reo. On the up-side, your leadership within
your own community may be firmly established, and you may be able to drive real
changes to how New Zealanders perceive education.
My instinctive reaction to pioneers is to applaud. Innovators are heroic figures.
They make the world a more promisingly complex, puzzlingly rich place as they
engineer rules, and change configurations. I join others who suggest that examiners
need to be open to frameworks other than those they already know and use, and
welcoming of people who expand the boxes we work within.
I worry, though, whether candidates will be strong enough to survive the risks
of pioneering. Sometimes it is hard to find examiners who will be as flexible as
the work itself. After graduation, will institutions welcome the new graduate or
appoint someone a little more central, a little less risky? Does the student have the
psychological stamina to forge a new path forward? And, perhaps most importantly,
General Advice: Impact, Early Choices, Ethics, and Narrative 131

are their writing skills sophisticated enough for the execution of stunningly innovative
ideas? If not, I recommend a less ambitious approach in the interest of survival.

Defending Research Choices in Doctoral Writing: Getting

the Defence Habit at the Start of the Research

Susan Carter

Thesis writing is aimed at a primary reader: the examiner, a creature from the back of
the psychological cave. Examiners are much feared because they are, by definition,
testy readers, menacingly powerful. The research thesis is thus the most defensive
academic writing we produce, more defensive than undergraduate work or articles.
Johnston (1997) sensibly points out that ‘Examiners require all of the normal
forms of assistance which should be provided to any reader’ (p. 345). Additionally,
examiners often work in the evenings in short bursts, and may need just a little more
guidance, despite being experts by definition. Doctoral writing should steer them
towards signing off the thesis as completed.
Reading research on examiners’ needs is good before submission, even better if
it’s quite early on in the doctorate. Useful questions to imagine examiners asking
include:
• Why did you choose that particular problem? Why did you not study this other
problem instead?
• What exactly were you trying to find out? I’m unclear about the meaning of your
problem statement.
• You have reviewed the important literature, but I fail to see what use you make of
your review. Can you clarify for me what you learned from the review of literature?
• When you reviewed the literature, why did you decide to review that particular
area of study?
• Why did you choose that particular method? Why did you not instead use this
other method?
• Can you clarify for me how the particular method you chose relates directly to the
problem you have chosen to study?
(Glatthorn, 1998, pp. 186–188)
Addressing these questions somewhere in the first year of the doctorate when
decisions are being made boosts word count—good for confidence level and keeps
supervisor happy—and establishes the mindset of defending choices in writing. Care-
ful defence also shows that the writer knows about the thesis genre—it gives the look
of someone who is already an insider.
And examiners will want to see that:
• the rationale for the study is clearly explicated;
• the appropriateness of the researcher conducting this study is made clear;
132 5 Writing the Thesis

• clear and succinct hypotheses or questions are derived from/revealed by the

literature review;
• the rationale of the general approach is closely argued, giving a reasoned case for
rejecting other possible approaches;
• a justification of the research design is presented, taking account of potential
advantages and limitations;
• the research techniques are argued as being theoretically and practically relevant
to the research problem; reasons are given for rejection of possible alternatives,
rationale provided for amendments to standard tests and procedures or for detailed
design of innovative techniques.
(Tinkler & Jackson, 2004, pp. 114–116)
Another good source of examiner questions or focus is found in Trafford and
Leshem (2002), who analyse what examiners want to tick off as satisfactory, and
come up with 10 ‘clusters’ of questions round different generic doctoral aspects:
e.g., research design, conceptualisation, methodology, methods, etc. Thesis writers
may need to disengage attention to research in the early stages to patiently defend
decisions as they are making them.

Keeping the Public Out: No-Go Areas in Your Thesis

Claire Aitchison

Earlier this month when I was running some workshops for doctoral students in
the Northern Territory of Australia, a conversation ensued about no-go areas in the
thesis.

Photo: Claire Aitchison

General Advice: Impact, Early Choices, Ethics, and Narrative 133

In thesis writing, as in life, we are wise to keep certain things to ourselves.

Some things that happen in doctoral research are best not shared. For example, don’t
mention how you forgot to turn on the tape recorder at the focus group interview…
Let me quickly make it clear that I am not advocating unethical practices like
hiding bad results or manipulating data or findings, or withholding relevant informa-
tion from participants. It is absolutely imperative to conform to ethical standards of
research and be as open and transparent as possible.
But in writing the thesis, one constantly needs to make decisions about what to
include and exclude. Various institutional, disciplinary and ethical practices—and
personal preferences—impact our decision-making about what goes into, or stays
out of, the thesis.
For example, how much do we need to tell about the twists and turns of the research
journey? It’s not always clear. I worked with a student who sought to measure the
impact of a certain leaf-chewing insect on a eucalypt forest. For many and convoluted
reasons to do with access to a specific machine in the laboratory, she ended up
changing her research, instead investigating the impact of the insect droppings on
soil structures. She could have told this story from a variety of vantage points—not
the least of which would have been her anger and frustration! What appeared in
her thesis, however, was a very authoritative statement about the need for the study
she did. Another scholar working with an indigenous community also had to make
significant and unexpected changes to her research. She recognised that she was not
at liberty to relate any aspect of what had brought about this substantial change, even
though it had required her to abort three years of data collection and reconfigure her
entire project. Her choice to keep the public out of this part of the story was the right
ethical decision.
It’s unlikely any doctoral thesis will include a review of all the relevant literature.
Generally, it’s only after many iterations that we get clarity about what can stay and
what must go. If it’s not fit for purpose, then it shouldn’t be in the thesis.
Reporting on the pilot study can also present a dilemma. In my own doctoral
research I did a small test-run to check the veracity of my interview questions and
my recruitment processes. It was a useful activity for me—but it wasn’t a particularly
important part of the research and I never reported on it, nor did I use the data that I
collected in the process. On the other hand, I’ve known of situations where the pilot
study, although conceived of simply as a mechanism to test a research method, itself
became an important source of data. In such cases, should the researcher describe
how it started out as one thing and changed to another? Could they abandon the term
‘pilot study’ and include that original investigation as one of the data sets?
Sometimes there is uncertainty about inclusions in appendices. Some scientific
studies require lengthy appendices (detailing protocols and calibration specifications,
for example). In the social sciences and humanities there is often less need—but again,
it depends. I know of a couple of studies using photovoice as a method, but only one
thesis had an appendix with participants’ photos. For most social research, it would
be rare to provide participant interview transcripts in the appendices—on the other
hand, it’s likely in applied linguistics.
134 5 Writing the Thesis

When deciding whether or not something needs to go into the thesis, I am reminded
of something my kids say: ‘I’ll tell you if you need to know’. This could be equally
good advice for thesis writers.

Thesis Writing: Process and Package

Susan Carter

I’ve been thinking about the divide between doing research and packaging it up into
a thesis. On one side, there’s all the thinking, sense of inadequacy and panic that
goes into the research work, and on the other there’s the calm emotional-suppression
of the doctoral thesis’s formal academic writing. The thesis contains all the baggage
of the literature review, methodology, theory, with aspects of research that entailed
roller-coaster emotional highs and lows, all packaged up together in pristine neatness.
At the stage when the work is done and the drafts are in, you need to cross that divide.
Kevin Sowerby, an Engineering academic at my university, told the story of a
friend who had travelled the same route as Michael Palin, of Monty Python fame,
but also now known for his travelogue TV docos. Sowerby’s friend noticed when
he later saw the TV film that people and places were often presented a little out of
sequence. He realized that production loyalty was not to exact detail of the journey’s
order, but to what would enhance the viewer’s pleasure. Aesthetic values were over-
riding those of detailed factuality. And he decided that this was good thing. The end
product was more interesting. It was not false—you could say ‘As we approached
this village we noticed…’ and it was still true even if the shot that followed was
filmed during the eighth approach to the village as they came and went. The effect
was that what seemed significant and unique was emphasised. Kevin was pointing
out that this is true of the thesis: emphasising what is significant is more important
than faithfully following the trajectory of your research progress.
A second comparison is the art of packaging. Imagine that you have changed
jobs. You are no longer production manager. You have moved into packaging and
marketing. You can ditch all those anxieties about meeting deadlines, pumping output
up, and making sure that the machinery runs properly. Now your task is only to
envision the product consumer and what they will buy. Doctoral writing can been
seen as packaging and promoting doctoral wares so that they sell.

The Importance of Narrative

Cally Guerin

It seems that everywhere I look, people are becoming more and more focused on
narrative in academic and research writing. Whether it is an application for a research
General Advice: Impact, Early Choices, Ethics, and Narrative 135

grant, a research report or a teaching award application, the constant refrain is: ‘Try
to tell more of a story about this’. It is particularly common to be encouraged to write
literature reviews—and even entire theses—as if they are a ‘story’.
What is this about? I suspect that the writer needs to interpret and join up the bare
facts of the case, not just present that information and wait for the reader to infer
what it all means. Perhaps narrativising is also a way of engaging the reader with
some kind of emotional tug—the story can attract readers’ attention and make them
care about the topic.
So, if we want to write research with more of a story, it is useful to consider
the various elements of conventional storytelling in order to see how they could be
harnessed.
To start with, stories require a setting, so it is necessary to describe the context for
the research. To some extent, the setting can be a way of putting parameters around
the project, pointing to the specifics of the context that are relevant for the rest of the
research.
Characters might refer to the main players as the researchers, or might refer to
the study population. The characters involved in a study do not always mean people,
of course—it could be a gene or a building material under investigation, or a set of
policy documents that are being examined.
Plot is where structure starts to emerge. The stages of plot can help draw the
reader into wanting to know ‘and then what happened?’, inviting them to see how
this story evolves. Readers need to start with an orientation to the original topic to
be explored and a sense of the current state of affairs. Next, the complication can be
described—what is it that we need to find out more about? What is the problem/gap
to be explored? And eventually (importantly for reader satisfaction), a plot requires
resolution—what were the findings or outcome of the research, and how does this
change our knowledge of the world?
Storytelling also takes into account content and form. For research writers, this
refers to collecting and collating the relevant information and ensuring details (and
resulting conclusions) are accurate. That content must be expressed in a form that
meets reader expectations, which will always depend on disciplinary expectations.
Once we know who did it, what happens, when and where it occurred, narrative
also demands that we can see the relationship between different elements; readers
need to understand why this bit comes before that section, and how those parts
inform each other. The why is important here just as it is in other stories—why did
this happen and why is it important or interesting?
The storyboarding approach can be helpful for choosing what order things should
go in. One way of storyboarding is to use PowerPoint to plan the writing. One slide
for each idea or paragraph provides a graphic split between the chunks of content,
and they are easily moved around using the ‘slide sorter’ view. The thesis story may
then be seen with different plot scenarios, helping the writer to choose the right story
line according to where the significant parts of the content are, and what order will
make them most accessible to the reader.
136 5 Writing the Thesis

The Developing Thesis Proposal: Questions to Launch

Doctoral Writing

Susan Carter

A potential doctoral candidate choosing their topic might ask themselves: ‘“What
are the subjects that interest me—that I want to make sense of?” “Who do I want to
talk to about these subjects?” And “What can I bring to the conversation?”’ (Kempe,
2005, p. 2). These are three pertinent questions that Anne Sigismund Huff (cited in
Kempe, 2005) sees as initiating research direction. From there, though, it is rarely
that simple.
Crotty (1998, p. 1) notes that ‘methods and methodologies…may appear more as
a maze than as pathways to orderly research’. Indeed. As students read more, more
possibilities become evident. The complexities suggest many potential pathways.
Choices at the outset are hard because so much is unknown.
Yet the doctorate is constrained by time and budget. The first year of enrolment at
our institution is provisional, and by the end of it, the student needs to have produced
a full thesis proposal of about 10,000 words. Considerable emotional tension can
occur when uncertainty delays writing. The choices are significant; it seems unwise
to make them hastily, and yet, as weeks slide into months, students (and supervisors)
can feel increasingly anxious if they have produced little writing in the face of this
10,000-word requirement. Strategies that help students get writing done early, and
often, can go a long way to reducing the debilitation of rising anxiety.
Here is a set of questions that one student found helpful to prompt early writing.
The questions are a subset that were intended to help her to find the answers to
Crotty’s essential questions, begin writing her proposal, and escape from anxiety.
She thought about the questions ahead of our meeting; during the meeting I typed
notes while she talked through her responses to each question.
• What was your original motivating idea for your doctorate? Was there a problem
you wanted to investigate in order to make it better?
• What has been added to this idea as you have been reading, reflecting and talking?
• Has anything been cut back? If so, what, and for what reason?
• Who will be helped by your research findings and in what way? What might be
the original contribution and who could benefit from it?
• What sort of research do you most like doing, or expect that you would like to do?
• Where is it easiest for you to gather data? (Some international students plan a trip
home, whereas others can’t afford it.)
• What work would you most like to do when you graduate? Where would you like
to work, for whom, and doing what?
• We’ve talked about several methods. List the positives and negative of each, what
benefits it would give you and what problems it might cause.
The exercise reminded me of how crucial questions are at the start of the doctorate.
If supervisors and students work through many questions, discussion around what
General Advice: Impact, Early Choices, Ethics, and Narrative 137

questions need to be asked will begin the talk that enables the full proposal to be
defensively written.

Structure: Issues of Design

Scoping: Bean-Counting as a Step to Thesis Writing?

Susan Carter

An academic friend declared that it was absurd for students to ask how many refer-
ences were needed in a thesis, as though you tallied these up quantitatively. ‘How
long is a piece of string?’ was her standard response. I don’t agree; measuring out
that string quantitatively gives another way to think quite deeply about thesis writing.
This insight was triggered when I’d organised a panel of academics for a workshop
on thesis writing and a doctoral student asked them how many references were needed
in the Works Cited list. He had over 1000—was this too many? And a professor from
Engineering almost instantly replied, ‘Yes, it is too many. You need about 200.’
I was startled—tallying numbers seemed at odds with the requirement for critical
evaluation and analysis. Yet I could see that 1000 references would signal a lack of
the critical evaluation needed to choose wisely.
Getting a sense of ‘how many’ helps judge how the research fits into what is
expected in the thesis. If there is a general convention that a thesis in this discipline
cites around 200 items, knowing this begins to scope what might be excluded. You
must decide on your inclusion criteria and adhere to them.
So I suggest thesis writers try taking a bean-counter approach to the task of
scoping the thesis, beyond the number of references. How many words in total are
desirable? How many chapters are needed? About how long will the Introduction
and Conclusion be? How detailed will the description of methodology need to be,
and then, if methods are to be contextualised within a methodology, how long is that
likely to take? How important is theory, and how many words will its discussion
consume?
In New Zealand and Australia, usually the thesis may not exceed 100,000 words,
with an unspoken assumption that around 80,000 words suffices for an average thesis
written primarily in prose (rather than coding or formula). At the start of a doctorate,
thinking about the practical realities of research can develop in tandem with thinking
about the thesis, the textual artefact. Thinking through the length factor might help
to ensure delivery of the right length of string.
Limitation can do more than render things doable in creating small chunks: it can
also give traction to the whole cognitive process of deciding what will and won’t be
included. It compels thought towards the importance of each section in relation to
the other sections, moving towards a structural overview and thus understanding of
the work as a whole.
138 5 Writing the Thesis

What’s the Formula for Writing a Thesis?

Cally Guerin

Sometimes it seems that doctoral students attend workshops on thesis writing seek-
ing a nice, neat formula to follow. The primary question they want answered is:
‘What’s correct?’ Given all their other pressures on them—to finish on time, to be
original, to get research published, etc., etc.—it’s easy to understand the desire for a
simple, straightforward set of rules to follow that will please examiners and journal
editors alike. Part of the writing teacher’s job seems to be letting them down softly
and helping them realise that it can never be that simple. The route to thesis sub-
mission always demands complicated decision-making along the way; even more
challenging, the environment in which those submissions occur is changing rapidly
in unpredictable ways.
There is some comfort for those seeking these kinds of formulaic answers, how-
ever, in the traditional IMRAD structure of scientific articles: Introduction, Materials
and Methods, Results, and Discussion. Unfortunately, this neat acronym neglects to
mention the Abstract and Reference sections. And then, the apparently neat separa-
tion between different sections turns out to be rather messier for many researchers—is
it okay to include some discussion in the Materials and Methods to explain why a
non-standard procedure was adopted? Is there always a clear cut-off between Results
and Analysis/Discussion if I’m reporting on qualitative research that has already
been analysed in order to create some broad organising themes? For useful strate-
gies to work through such complex issues, try Carter, Kelly, and Brailsford’s (2012)
Structuring Your Research Thesis.
Also very popular amongst those looking for instruction is the ‘moves’ or CaRS
(Create a Research Space) approach developed by Swales and Feak (1994, 2004).
This model illuminates the reasoning behind Introductions in research and includes
three main moves or positionings: establish a research territory (and make a case for
why it matters); establish a niche (and point out a gap in the field); and occupy that
niche (by explaining what this new research will add to the field). These moves or
opening gambits work very well as a means to engage readers and demonstrate the
value of the research. This approach has been picked up and developed further since
(see, for example, Cargill & O’Connor, 2009; Paltridge & Starfield, 2007).
The structures mentioned above provide very useful guidance for novice writers,
but a thesis requires much more nuanced negotiation of the conventions of the disci-
pline. In relation to this, Anne Freadman, doyenne of genre theory, pointed out at the
Writing Research Across Borders (WRAB) conference that writers need to conform
to the ‘generic form’ only sufficiently for readers to recognise where their work fits
in with the conventions and expectations of genre—they do not need to slavishly
imitate or repeat that genre. The real achievement is for doctoral writers to find a
balance between what they want to say and the conventions of their discipline. This
is always a matter of judgment and can’t be dictated by adherence to strict rules.
Structure: Issues of Design 139

Research Storylines: Moving Beyond Mills and Boon

Claire Aitchison

At a writing retreat this week I was reminded again of the importance of finding the
right storyline. Of course there is the generic Research Storyline that goes like this:
There is a research problem –> the extant literature shows –> the research gap is –> the
research aimed to investigate –> the methodology/method used –> the findings/results
showed.

This storyline foregrounds the research itself. The style and terminology create
a sense of objectivity and the storyteller is invisible. It is the logic of empirical
experimental research design as demonstrated in the IMRAD structure (see post
above) of most scientific papers. The long arm of the scientific method infuses
so much of our academic writing that this structural storyline is applicable across
multiple disciplines and kinds of studies. It’s the Mills and Boon of academic
research writing.
A good storyteller will manipulate the template to suit their needs. For example,
one student sought help saying that, even though she’d covered all the necessary com-
ponents, her supervisor said the thesis was disjointed and she’d been told to make
links between the sections. As we talked about practitioner-research as a method-
ology, it became clear the story could (indeed, needed to) be personal, and thus we
worked through where and how she, as practitioner-researcher, would become the
link across the thesis. As both narrator and protagonist she would use the first person
to tell her researcher journey—and her story unfolded thus:
There was a problem/issue in my workplace that worried me (the Research Problem) –>
some things were already known about it (the Literature) –> but there are some things we
don’t know (the Gap) –> I set out to address the unknown (Research Aim) –> this is what I
did (Methodology/ Methods) –> this is what I found (Results/ Findings) –> and this is what
it means for my work (Implications).

It’s the same storyline, but told differently. Very often empirical research involves
this kind of ‘grand narrative’ or overarching storyline within which smaller sub-
stories can sit. Examples of offspring stories may include the story of doing the
fieldwork, the story of the literature, or one part of the literature. There are stories
within stories and authors must decide how to tell them.
But identifying the right story isn’t always so straightforward.
Zeiger (2000) says the natural storyline for an experimental hypothesis or research
testing paper is chronological. In this kind of story, the account of the experiment
flows like a recipe that first itemises the ingredients and then describes, step by step,
the processes for mixing and baking.
When I’m working with scholars who are ‘stuck’—perhaps they have lost track of
where they are going, they’ve wandered off on a tangent or become bogged down—
helping them to identify a single, robust storyline can be a breakthrough. Having a
clear grand narrative makes it easier to locate subsequent sections or papers in relation
140 5 Writing the Thesis

to the main story, something that’s a particular challenge for those undertaking a thesis
by series of publications.
Many texts on doctoral writing refer to the importance of telling a story—but, of
course, this requires having the right storyline in the first place!

Insecure in a Good Way: Thesis Structure Changes Over Time

Susan Carter

Sometimes feeling insecure about thesis writing is a simply an uncomfortable symp-

tom of increasing understanding of the topic. The example here is the experience of
designing a thesis structure, but there may be other times when insecurity, despair
even, has to be read as a sign that you are right on track. You are just getting wiser.
It’s disconcertingly counterintuitive.
The example: At many institutions, there is an assumption that, by the end of the
first year, thesis structure is more or less nailed in place. However, with colleagues
Frances Kelly and Marion Blumenstein, I researched doctoral students (n = 92) to
learn more. What was unexpected was that when we correlated time-through-the-
doctorate and Likert-scale levels of uncertainty about structure, we found that the
further through the doctorate individuals were, the less sure they felt about their
thesis structure.
In almost every discipline, some doctoral students find the rigidity of that structure
does not serve the complexity of their topic well. And this realisation, which may
come a year or two in, is bothersome. Candidates become torn by anxiety: if they
are too creative, examiners may not recognise their work as a legitimate thesis. But
they may feel increasingly unwilling to stay on the well-trod path.
My two-hour workshop on structuring a thesis sets off from the IMRAD model—
if that never-fail recipe will work, it should be taken up gratefully and followed.
Students who want to finish as quickly as possible find IMRAD as a recognisable,
short, safe route. But IMRAD is also a check-list for thesis writers who don’t use it;
they will still need to do the work of these sections somewhere and somehow within
their theses. And make sure the expected generic moves are visible. From there we
work through a raft of possible ways to think about structure.
Our project suggests that initial structure plans aren’t final, nor should they be;
they are contingent, and enable forward movement. As students gradually come to
understand their topic, they may need to reorganise their plan—and they may have
to live with the reality that doctoral writing is always a compromised negotiation. At
the time, this feels like disillusionment, but it is also the learning of research skills.
And possibly of wisdom that translates elsewhere.
Structure: Issues of Design 141

Leave It in or Delete It? Dilemmas in Writing the Research

Story

Cally Guerin

Increasingly, I remind students that a thesis doesn’t have to report on every single
thought the researcher has had for the past three or four (or more) years of candidature.
Sure, it is valuable to include descriptions of null responses or negative results from
experiments—this is certainly interesting and helpful for other researchers in the
area, sometimes closing off possible paths that are now known to be unfruitful. It can
also be very useful to report on problems that arose during the project which changed
the direction of the research. Such insights can demonstrate critical thinking on the
part of the candidate who encountered problems and also found innovative solutions.
What gets left out is sometimes as important as what is in the thesis, however. Not
everything that has been read needs to be included in the literature review; indeed,
critical thinking is demonstrated in part by being discerning, rather than offering up
a grab-bag of all that vaguely touches on an area. Staying focused on one central line
of argument, maintaining a strong sense of direction and not going off onto irrelevant
tangents, makes for good research writing, as does the capacity to delete sentences
that, however beautifully written, move off in a different direction. Likewise, a scholar
must choose what is usefully included in the final telling of the story of the thesis.
I use the word story deliberately to imply that this is one version of events that has
been carefully constructed and crafted to present a coherent account of the research
process. I like Rudestam and Newton’s (2001) description of a well-written thesis
containing many of the elements of detective fiction: a mystery in terms of a research
question that requires answering; clues that take the form of data collection; the
elimination of incorrect answers or red herrings encountered along the way. The
thesis doesn’t necessarily have to follow the chronology of events as experienced
by the researcher—readers need a coherent story about those events that adheres to
its own internal logic in order to understand the value and integrity of the research
itself.
Perhaps this is as good a place as any to make a plug for the thesis by publication.
This form is often rather leaner than traditional format theses. It offers one way to
help students stay focused on what is interesting and useful to the reader. Writing
with the audience of journal reviewers in mind can be a valuable aid towards being
a little more objective about one’s own writing; having a strict word or page limit
can also focus the mind on what really needs to be included. Using the format of a
journal article encourages researchers to home in on what’s new and important, and
to recognise what is assumed knowledge at this level.
142 5 Writing the Thesis

The Bones of the Thesis: Structure and Articulation

Susan Carter

I was talking to a chap who’d just graduated from a Master’s with strong grades.
He said, ‘Sometimes I got my best marks when I was really busy and didn’t have
enough time. When you’re too busy, you’d just try to figure out the bare bones of
what they wanted. Actually, that seems to be what matters.’ With a big project like
a doctoral thesis, noticing what matters becomes harder because there is so much
detail to attend to with painstaking care.
Yet examiners who need to tick off that each of the generic requirements has been
met are really looking for ‘what matters.’ A thesis with good bones usually stands
out as strong once finished. Figuring out the bone structure gives a writer advantages
at many stages of the thesis. Usually a full thesis proposal produced in the first year
will have a skeleton outline. The more specific such an outline is, the easier to begin
the writing project.
During the writing of the whole thesis, shifting from detail to the bare bones of
thesis structure gives psychological relief as a way of shuffling forward with a large
writing project. Moving back and forth between structure and detail helps with the
sheer tedium involved in a large project. Then, before submission, it’s a good idea to
take an x-ray view of the thesis. At the end, the articulation of the skeleton becomes
crucial because it does much of the work that allows the examiner to identify the
criteria for a Ph.D. That word, articulation, is apt: it applies to both talk and to
movement. ‘Articulate’ is the word I use for absolute precision with a theoretical or
novel idea that is still slightly nebulous.
Then the articulation of the skeleton gives movement to the mass of flesh: the
talk of a thesis, the flesh of content, needs to make moves too. The metaphor of a
skeleton with articulation could be taken a bit further into the joinery hooking those
bones together. Ensuring that every section of the thesis is framed within the main
argument, the context of the problem, what is known, what unknown, the theory, the
methodology and why the research matters somehow assures examiners that this is a
coherent entity that makes a sufficiently substantial contribution. Successful articula-
tion of those good bones (what really matters) ensures that the research contribution
is valuable and interesting.

Turning Facts into a Doctoral Story: The Essence of a Good

Doctorate

Susan Carter

Recently, three experiences collided for me: having a co-authored article rejected;
examining a thesis; and giving feedback on a literature review. They brought home
Structure: Issues of Design 143

how essential it is in the world of doctoral writing to turn facts, even sophisticated
original facts, into a story. As I circled round each chore on my list, I saw how
problematic it is when the storyline is lost within thickets of academic writing.
I learnt this as a doctoral candidate when my colleague Margaret Reeves com-
plained about academics being suckers for plain old-fashioned stories—she lamented
that academics do not perform the sophistication you might hope for in a post-modern
era. Instead, they favour a homely, familiar storyline. Most will not recognise a
valuable contribution without it.
Margaret’s lament was in conjunction with Ian Watt being credited as the historian
who first tracked the rise of the novel: Margaret knew that several scholars had rolled
the same facts together, but it was Ian who turned it into a story, with the novel as
the main character. Margaret has written on this, asking: ‘Why is it, then, that Rise
of the Novel has had a much greater impact on our understanding of the conditions
enabling the novel’s growth than any of these earlier literary histories?’ (Reeves,
2000, p. 32). Her answer is that Watt’s version drew out a story that readers could
follow.
So how can doctoral writers be encouraged to make use of what Reeves calls ‘an
Enlightenment narrative of uninterrupted progress’ and what I usually describe as
something like the simple structure of most stories for small children?
This post describes an exercise with a doctoral writer who was having trouble
turning lists of facts into a story. I gave her some scattered, random words around the
theme of ‘flowers’. Then I asked for all the words to be ordered as a story. Working
together, talking rather than writing, we realised that different stories could be built
from these words. I suspect this might be good as a writing workshop exercise.
Each story-maker could be given two sheets with the same words and asked to make
two different stories. The stories we made could be seen as different arguments,
demonstrating why you must have a connecting story: it is the story’s progress that
builds an argument in doctoral writing.
I’m speculating that maintaining a thesis in the written thesis in the simplest of
terms means turning it into a story, with the same kind of structure as the ones we read
to children: characters (in a thesis these are usually things not animals or people),
what happens to them, and then a conclusion.
I’ve pondered upon the different plots of doctoral stories (Carter et al., 2012,
pp. 58–63) while thinking about thesis structuring work. Possible structures are:
bildungsromans, that is, stories of maturation; quests; journey narratives; loss and
recuperation stories; tragedies or romances in which ‘characters’ are put together
with happy results. Another workshop might be what kind of story is your research
thesis…
Here are the words I presented printed like this on a page, in several copies, and
then we circled and numbered them, and talked the stories through to each other.
144 5 Writing the Thesis

lily wedding flower plant petal rose

colour daisy paintings funeral scent
chrysanthemum symbolism miniature rose wild flowers
bridal bouquet edible flowers climbing rose beauty
deep red patterns of petals flower arrangements art
cauliflower religious interpretations soft white rhizomes
vines bees flycatchers tiny flowers

A similar exercise could be devised for individual doctoral writers or as a group

workshop.

Argument and Contribution

Structure as a Booster for the Argument

Susan Carter

Although structure can be revised through ordinary workerly diligence, its effect
works at a deeper level, showing authority and conveying purpose. How’s that
achieved?
Ann tells of her experience a thesis writer: ‘I visualized the hard-bound thesis,
complete with my name on the spine, as being an “argument” from beginning to
end. I designed every chapter to have a punch-line, which would contribute one
major argument in support of a holistic contention’ (Carter et al., 2012, p. 56). Her
envisioning ahead of doing (a helpful strategy in itself) shows she was aware of the
need for structure to hold the argument in place right through the thesis.
Each chapter can be framed with an Introduction and Conclusion that deliberately
takes the holistic argument forward. Often this will be installed only towards the end
of the thesis writing process, when the overarching argument becomes clear. But
a sentence written early on that says what this chapter needs to contribute to the
thesis can also act as an anchor to hold the author to the chapter’s purpose. Knowing
the precise purpose of the chapter can guide the cutting back to delete what is not
relevant.
A firm line of argument can be held in place by the use of subtitles and what
Elizabeth Rankin calls ‘echo links’ (Rankin, 2001, p. 30), clusters of words embedded
within the thesis rather than in subtitles that assure the reader the themes within the
argument are woven consistently throughout. White (2011, p. 132) gives examples
of what he calls ‘preview, overview and recall’:
The following analysis is presented in two stages. In the first the current perspectives on…are
evaluated. The second is a critical evaluation of….In this chapter the reason for….has been
discussed. In the next section, this discussion will be elaborated by…
Argument and Contribution 145

His example of recall is ‘back in the introduction’. In a recent writing class, a nice
example of recall was found when we looked at Introductions and Conclusions in
articles chosen for their strength: the Conclusion began, ‘To return to our research
question….’ Linkages like this can be installed during the final revision process,
when one sweep through the entire thing could seek to install linkages.
This post emphasises that structure should relate to the argument and purpose of
the thesis. The conventional headings of Introduction, Literature Review, Methods,
Findings, Discussion and Conclusion do this to some extent: they signal covertly
that this written work describes an authentic bit of research contextualised within its
discourse and following acceptable methods in its epistemology. But the reader wants
to know what the original contribution to knowledge is, that is, what new argument is
offered. I recommend that thesis writers deliberately make use of structure to clearly
show the argument their research allows them to make.

A Good Argument: The Thesis of the Thesis

Susan Carter

The thinking done through writing is perhaps the most powerful route to developing
a good argument. Yet often it is only once the whole project is completed that the
author is able to defend what the findings of the project mean. This means just before
submission they need to calibrate what is usually called an ‘argument’.
A good argument, then,
• expresses the single most significant contribution;
• goes beyond facts to what they mean in practice and to theory;
• avoids being dogmatic/didactic;
• is critical and not just a description of the research project;
• aims to persuade based on logic and evidence (not just a statement of fact); and
• is more significant than claiming that something needs more study (or funding).
It can be difficult to decide which aspect of a novel contribution is really the
strongest. Sometimes it is possible to interpret data from different perspectives. It
can be hard to choose the most significant story that comprises a thesis’s thesis.
Some of us are led to a research topic because we have an existing, didactic
position on the topic. We all bring our life’s experience to research, and then we
acquire academic approaches, theory, and discipline epistemologies. Despite initial
motivation towards the topic, though, researchers must keep an open mind to what
findings show. It can be that the thesis argument changes from the original argument
intended by a candidate. It may even happen that the final argument has a similar
structure to a detective thriller: ‘All the evidence for what produces B points to fact
C, and yet analysis of M and N shows that C is a red herring: it is really Z that
influences B.’
146 5 Writing the Thesis

It can take time to fully process findings, too. Although my kindly examiners
allowed me to fly through the Ph.D. examination, I achieved my best iteration of the
argument inherent in my doctorate in a book chapter that came out 10 years after
graduation (Carter, 2011). Doctoral candidates can take comfort in the fact that the
thesis argument of their thesis may not necessarily be the final one emerging from
the doctoral project. But, meantime, before submission, they may welcome prompts
to help them articulate the argument more clearly and defensibly.
A doctoral writer might self-audit by writing the argument statement in a format
that begins: ‘This thesis argues/proposes that…’ and then goes through the statement
checking the following:
• is every word accurate?
• can I stand by this and live by it as a researcher?
• what sort of challenge to my argument might come from my research field? Can
I refute it?
• is the most important noun in the subject position of the main clause?
• is the main verb accurate?
• is the tone right, not more dogmatic or confrontational nor more understated than
what I really want to say?
It’s also sensible to consider the precision of that verb defining whether the the-
sis ‘argues’ or ‘proposes’. The final statement from the research could ‘suggest’,
‘advise’, ‘question’, ‘raise questions about’, or it could ‘insist’, ‘redefine’, ‘highlight’,
‘expose’. There are many options, and it is satisfying to find the most defensible.
And I remember being nervous before submission that I did not actually have a
thesis in my thesis until my supervisor firmly assured me that I did—that sort of
self-doubt may be common, so talking it through with doctoral candidates can help
them feel more sure that they really are researchers who have an argument to stand
by.

Done All That Work—But Has This Thesis Really Got

Anything to Say? Strategies to Regain Perspective on Research
Contribution

Claire Aitchison

What have I got to say? This is one doctoral terror moment: the fear that perhaps
there isn’t anything of worth to show for all the years of work. I’ve never met a
student who hasn’t experienced this kind of self-doubt—in part fuelled by exhaustion
during the final stages, and in part an almost natural outcome of being too close,
too fully immersed in the project to be able to objectively assess the merits of the
work. However, it is essential that researchers make such judgements accurately since
convention demands that the thesis clearly identifies the contribution and significance
of the research.
Argument and Contribution 147

Over the years I’ve collected a few strategies for helping students gain the perspec-
tive needed to make objective judgements and locate this appropriately in their texts.
I’ve drawn on the work of Paltridge and Starfield (2007) for evidence-based accounts
of structure and moves within theses; Kamler and Thomson (2014) for writer identity
and positioning; Graff and Birkenstein (2014) for activities that help scholars engage
in critical academic conversations; and the wonderful Patricia Goodson (2016) for
stimulating thinking and writing.
Harnessing the Advantages of Objectivity and Distance …
Even though I am, by first inclination, a qualitative researcher who loves detail and
nuance, it is easy to get lost and overwhelmed in too much detail. One strategy
to overcome this is to use tables, grids and figures, which force simplification.
Reducing things in this way requires distance, so that I crystallise my thinking,
identify key points and thus see how the parts interrelate as a working whole. This
strategy of stepping away from the narrative to condense work into tables is a great
antidote to my own tendency for expansive writing.
I use a metaphor that I first read in Swales and Feak (2000) to describe this
process. Imagine you’ve been walking in a forest for some months examining the
vegetation and have developed an expert, detailed knowledge of the individual trees,
bushes and undergrowth vegetation. Down amongst the trees you have a close-up,
comprehensive—but narrow—perspective. But in addition, another perspective is
required, one that can be achieved only by moving out of the forest up onto a hill
overlooking the entire valley. From there it is possible to see the big picture: how
the trees congregate near the waterways, where shrubs sit in relationship to other
vegetation, where the tall trees stand, the shades and nuances of the whole landscape
and their connections to each other. From this distance one is able to make ‘high
pass’ judgements about relationships and interdependencies—to overview the whole
territory informed by an intimate knowledge of the detail.
I love this metaphor and use it often, for example, to explain to students how we
need to situate work in the literature, or make overview statements about a body of
literature or to help us identify claims for significance. But how does one climb up
to the top of the mountain to get that objectivity?
Writing About Findings
When working with scholars who need clarity around findings I use this staged
activity:

1. On a separate piece of paper, brainstorm what you know now that you didn’t
before you collected and analysed your data.
2. Order/reorder this list from most important to least important, making sub-sets
as necessary.
3. Take the most important three or four findings and complete this table:

(a) list each finding down the left-hand column, and, working across the rows;
(b) list the evidence for the finding (e.g., statistical significance, or thematic
consistency);
148 5 Writing the Thesis

(c) identify how strong that evidence is (strong, medium, purely contextual,
weak and so on); and
(d) identify how relevant or important this finding is, to whom/for what purpose?

(a) Finding (b) Evidence (c) Strength of evidence (d) Relevance/Importance

(strong, weak…etc.) (high/medium/low—to
whom?)
1.
2.
3.

As a tool to double-check hunches and impressions from the data, this grid helps
objectivity: it builds confidence about claims. Especially for qualitative research,
this strategy forces researchers to think and strategise more clearly. For example,
sometimes the strength of evidence doesn’t match what is known to be important
(from reading or experience in the field); when the information is laid out in this
way, it may show the need to return to the data or the literature to investigate this
mismatch. It helps deeper consideration about whether the relationship is causal,
coincidental, contextual or general.
Connecting Findings to the Literature
I also find tables useful as a systematic approach to building connections between
findings and the literature. Here is an example:

1. list key findings down the left-hand column;

2. for each item, ask: ‘Who else has had something to say about this?’ and brainstorm
answers; then,
3. as appropriate, complete rows b–d.

(a) (b) (c) (d)

My key findings Other relevant Other relevant The connection
studies (similar studies (different … (making sense
findings) findings) of your findings
vis-à-vis the
literature)
1.
2.
3.
Argument and Contribution 149

Answering the ‘So What?!’

And tables can be useful for answering the ‘So what?’ question:
1. Review your findings and list the main ones down the left-hand column (try to
stick to only two to four items to help crystalise thinking).
2. Answer ‘So what?’ and brainstorm answers against each of the four columns to
prompt new thinking (you may wish to add/modify these prompts according to
your research).

(a) (b) (c) (e) (d)

Key finding So What? … So What? … So What? … So What? …
for practice for theory for policy for future
research

1.

2.

3.

Take-Home Message, or ‘What Was All That About?’

Cally Guerin

It’s old and well-worn advice, but worth repeating at regular intervals: make sure you
know what the key message is for any given piece of writing. Surprisingly often, at
the end of a conference presentation you are left wondering what the main point was
meant to be. The same is true of an early draft of a chapter or article. Now, I’m not
immune from this myself, and admit to having left audiences somewhat confused
more than once in the past.
I think that this confusion about the central meaning of research comes largely
from being bogged down in the complexities of data analysis, where vast amounts of
information need to be processed and organised. Doctoral writers have often collected
piles of data, can be overwhelmed by the sheer mass, and perhaps don’t want to leave
anything out: every detail seems precious.
But, as Mullins and Kiley (2002) demonstrate, one of the most damaging responses
a thesis can evoke in examiners is confusion about the main message the research
has established. Holbrook, Bourke, Fairbairn, and Lovat (2007) make a similar point
in relation to literature reviews, highlighting that doctoral examiners are looking for
the synthesis of ideas into a coherent argument. At various levels of the thesis, then,
150 5 Writing the Thesis

it is crucial to be absolutely clear about the central point. Luckily, there are a couple
of tried and tested ways to focus thinking about the key argument or central idea.
One useful technique is to make sure that the Introduction to the paper matches
the Conclusion. Although this seems obvious, the trick is to avoid repetition but,
at the same time, make it easy for the reader to see that the task the writer set out
to do has been accomplished, and that the point of the whole exercise is clear. For
long-term projects, the main message can shift in emphasis over time as the data are
analysed in more detail; hence the value in revisiting Introduction and Conclusion
synchronicity at the end of the writing process.
Another effective exercise is to ask participants to write, in one sentence, the main
idea they want to get across for the particular piece of writing they are currently
producing. Many find explicit articulation quite difficult, but most usually get there
in the end. It sounds simple, but is often overlooked as part of the writing process
when the focus tends to be on elaborating the discussion rather than being clear about
the start and end points. However, when the work really has been fully digested, it
is possible to state the take-home message very clearly.

Theory, Critical Thinking and Data Analysis

Choosing the Right Theory Is Like Op-shopping

Claire Aitchison

The analogy that choosing theory is like op-shopping came up years ago in a writing
circle and it has stayed with me ever since. I shall elaborate. In Australia, ‘op shops’
or ‘opportunity shops’ are charity shops that sell second-hand clothes. Not everyone
likes op shopping. Some people prefer wholly new outfits; others make their own
gear. In general, however, op shops are a great place to get affordable stuff. But you
have to choose carefully. Not everything there is good value … in fact, some op shops
carry a lot of junk. Nevertheless, for the discerning shopper, they represent a good
option: there is a wide range ready to try on. There are all sorts, sizes, shapes and
designs. Op shops don’t subscribe to particular brands or labels. You can discover
well-known, familiar labels, even exclusive labels, but also obscure and un-branded
items. And because op shops are affordable, if you change your mind, it doesn’t
matter too much—you simply give it back to be recycled again. The item has value,
but not to you.
Occasionally you come across something that’s almost new, seems hardly to have
been taken out of the cupboard before finding itself in the op shop seeking a new
owner. One wonders why it has been rejected. Perhaps when the buyer brought it,
and later after trying it on at home, found it just wasn’t right for them after all. Maybe
it didn’t match anything else in the wardrobe, or was simply not needed.
Theory, Critical Thinking and Data Analysis 151

Some items are so well used that they look a bit tired and tatty. However, they
may still have some value, for example, when worn with the right accessories?
An op shop allows you to try on outfits endlessly—to mix and match across styles
and eras, to experiment and test out unusual combinations, to dig out long-forgotten
fashions.
I spoke with my doctoral student today and she was having trouble with theory.
After initially browsing freely, she’d narrowed the field to Bourdieu and Foucault. But
she was hesitating, saying that ‘everybody uses Bourdieu’ and she wanted something
new.
I thought of the op shop and suggested she think about how theories might work
together—that she try choosing one for the main outfit and see how the second
theorist could complement that. We talked about her purpose—what did she want
from theories/theorists; where could she go with them? How did she imagine they
could work together to achieve her objectives? But mostly we agreed the answer
would come from trying on the theories by actually writing the story of the data and
then seeing where, if, and how those theories would apply. Perhaps she might be
surprised to find they fit well—or perhaps she’ll return them to the rack and keep
looking a while longer.
Postscript: In keeping with the idea that everything new is old, Cally Guerin drew
my attention to this and its reference to the idea that student writers ‘try on’ different
voices in the process of becoming authorial.

What Does It Mean to ‘Theorise’ Research?

Cally Guerin

Researchers, and especially those working on doctorates, are advised that their work
needs to be more than mere description; they must also ‘theorise’ their work. Many
are unsure about what this really means, especially when instructed to ‘theorise your
practice’, so here is my attempt to try and define it.
Doctoral writers generally need to tie their research to existing, well-established
theories, for example, feminist theory, attachment theory, social constructivist the-
ory. Such theories act as a lens through which the research is perceived, and often
determine the focus of the research.
But, on another level, writers are also required to ‘theorise’ their findings. This
second kind of ‘theorising’ demands stepping away from the mass of details for a
big-picture view of data that reveals its broader meanings.
Attempts to theorise can result in the production of typologies or frameworks,
models or patterns, analogies or metaphors. Such high-order thinking is very chal-
lenging for most of us—and can also be the most rewarding part of research. It allows
for creativity in interpretation, for intuitive thinking, and even a degree of conjecture.
152 5 Writing the Thesis

There are three main ways to theorise empirical results: deduction, induction and
abduction. It can be helpful to think about how these processes align with research
design early in the project.
Deduction works from (de = from) the general to the specific. One way to think
about this is as a path that moves in the direction of rule –> case –> result. You begin
with the general theory/rule/principle and apply it to a specific case, the context
or topic of the doctoral project. The theory might say that, in situation A, B will
necessarily result. The researcher gathers data from the specific case and then sees
whether or not the general theory holds true. Another way of describing this ‘top
down’ approach is to start with a general rule or hypothesis, examine the evidence of
a particular case and reach a reliable conclusion. This approach is good for research
that starts with a hypothesis to be tested and causality established.
Induction works in the opposite direction, from the specific to (in = to) the
general. This time we move in the direction of case –> result –> rule. This time the
data show that A leads to B which can be explained by this theory or rule. This ‘bottom
up’ process starts with small details or observations, then works up through related
issues to establish the general rule or explanation. Such generalising from specific
events or cases thus allows prediction of likely outcomes in future, or in similar
situations. This approach is good for research aimed at exploring new phenomena or
new perspectives on phenomena.
Abduction occurs when a probable conclusion can be taken away (ab = away)
from limited information. The process here moves in the direction of result –> rule
–> case. Given result B, could this rule/theory explain it? Test against case A to see
if it stands. Here we start with the result observed, guess or hypothesise a theory that
might explain it, then test that theory against the case. This approach can be helpful
when surprising data are observed. Often this is a matter of asking why certain results
have appeared, a process which sometimes requires creative and intuitive thinking.
Importantly, the conclusions of abduction are tentative, based on the most likely
explanation, so hedging language is necessary: ‘it seems probable that…’ or ‘it may
be…’.
Swedberg (2012) offers the following advice when it comes to making sense of
data and attempting to theorise:
What one observes is typically often covered, but not completely so, by some existing
concept. In this situation it is important not to dismiss the difference, and to squeeze one’s
observations into some existing category. Instead one should zoom in on the difference,
magnify it, and explore if the phenomenon does not merit a new name or at least a new
description or definition. (p. 18)

This strikes me as a wonderfully liberating way to approach the data and free up
the creative and critical thinking that results in ‘theorising’.
Theory, Critical Thinking and Data Analysis 153

Demonstrating Critical Analysis: A Paint-by-Numbers

Approach

Susan Carter

In my experience of working across-campus with doctoral students, those who floun-

der at examination generally have the same failing: a lack of awareness of the generic
expectations of a thesis. Their writing shows (1) inadequate linkage between problem
or research question, literature, methods and findings; and (2) evident ignorance of
the framework expected of a thesis.
A paint-by-numbers approach may help students who struggle with the abstract
language of genre, linkage, and framework, let alone epistemology. Question, lit-
erature, methods and findings must be linked not just in the author’s mind but in
clear explicit sentences so that a reader can quickly see connections. An audit before
submission could include a check of the following:
• The description of the background fits what the study actually found—rewrite if
things have shifted and the background now required is slightly different.
• The research question captures the essence of what the study actually finds—if it
doesn’t, it should be rewritten so that it does.
• The methods section relates to the research question—sentences should explain
how.
• Any method discussed and not used has a sentence explaining why it is discussed
at all—if there is no reason, it should be removed.
• Theories discussed in the literature review are applied in analysis and discussion.
• Findings are compared with findings from literature—differences and possible
reasons are discussed.
• The overall balance of literature, methodology, findings and discussion is appropri-
ate (e.g., about the right % of the thesis is devoted to literature review, methodology,
etc., for the discipline).
Behind this apparently simplistic approach sit the issues of epistemology and
discipline expectations, and the network of theories about how new knowledge is
constructed and accepted by academic communities. But not all students find talk of
epistemology the fastest route to seeing what they need to do in writing. Some who
do good research and make valuable contributions may not find that explanations of
high theory expressed in Latinate terms helped them with writing their thesis.
In the current environment of shorter times to completion, it is sensible to use
straightforward routes to successful thesis writing. That does not include the super-
visor writing for the student, but can include pragmatic suggestions that might save
students from another longish block of revisions after examination. And I suspect
that even a paint-by-numbers approach may provide a learning route to appreciating
that you always write in a socially restrained situation and for a critical audience,
and that meeting expectations matters.
154 5 Writing the Thesis

Swamped by Data? Time to Take Control and Manage All

that Information

Cally Guerin

In conversations with Ph.D. candidates, I am reminded of how difficult it can be to

manage all that data generated by empirical research. It’s great when dozens of people
are willing to be interviewed for your project; when you receive a 90% response rate
to the survey; the chance timing of your fieldwork generates much more material than
expected; or serendipity in the laboratory leads to a vast increase in usable results.
It’s a gift to have so much material to work with; yet, it’s easy to feel swamped by
all that data and wonder how on earth you will find your way around them, let alone
analyse and write about them. The storage and management of data is a key aspect
of any research project, and finding ways to do this effectively sets up researchers
for writing about it later on.
The Australian Code for the Responsible Conduct of Research (2007) has lots to
say about the management of research data. Section 2 specifies that research data
and primary materials must be retained for at least five years after any publication
resulting from that data, but this may be much longer if the data apply to clinical trials
or have heritage value. All data must be stored in a secure location. If the research
generates very large files, or is particularly sensitive in terms of confidentiality, intel-
lectual property or potential commercialisation, it may be necessary to make special
arrangements. However, for many doctoral writers, ‘secure storage’ just means a
password-protected file on their university computer, backed up on the university’s
server. If the research involves other kinds of artefacts or material objects, again,
a locked cabinet in a locked university office is often enough. The data also need
to be in a ‘safe’ place, not at risk of damage from flooding, for example (I could
tell you about what happens when the basement holding all the central computing
facilities meets a burst water pipe…). Reliable record-keeping goes hand in hand
with storage concerns. Record-keeping might seem boringly pedantic at the time,
but can be invaluable later on to ensure easy accessibility and enable the researcher
to describe how the data were collected, organised and stored.
The process of saving data and putting it into various folders begins the first level
of analysis. Choices at this stage about categories to employ and how to assign items
to the folders will later inform how that data and the relationships between various
items are perceived; the names of those folders and subfolders may even become
the headings and subheadings of chapters and sections. Of course, it’s possible to
change the categories as familiarity with the material develops.
One of the important messages here seems to be ‘use long and informative names
for files’—a year or two later it can be hard to remember what that cryptic notation
means… and it’s not only important for the current project: the origins and labelling
of data can also be crucial if other researchers later use that data for further research.
Lots of universities have helpful templates to create an ordered, sensible approach
to the task of managing data. You can find examples on the Australian National Data
Theory, Critical Thinking and Data Analysis 155

Services (www.ands.org.au) website. Just as ethics applications force researchers to

think through what they want to do and why, these templates ensure careful consider-
ation of what information is likely to be gathered and how it can be organised in order
to be retrieved when the time comes to analyse and write about it. Templates usually
include sections covering things like the forms of data to be collected; considerations
about file naming conventions and version control; ownership of data; durability of
storage forms; access rights; and retention and sharing of data. A systematic process
at the early stages will make the writing much more straightforward later.

What to Do with ‘Leftover’ Data?

Cally Guerin

On winding up a research project recently, I got to thinking about the ideas and
data that didn’t make it into final publications or conference presentations. After
collecting survey responses and focus group transcripts, we looked over the findings
and divided it into publishable chunks. Then for each paper we took the data that were
relevant to that topic, analysed it thoroughly, and decided what the main argument
could be—that is, what is the new knowledge gained from that part of the research?
But there are still a few intriguing bits and pieces of data left over. That brought
home to me how often doctoral writers are faced with ideas and data that don’t quite
fit into the scope of the doctorate. To avoid feeling that work is ‘wasted,’ it is helpful
to think about how those leftovers might be used. Sometimes these leftover items
of data stay in the researcher’s mind, hinting that there is more to be said about the
topic, niggling away in the background and refusing to be put aside.
I firmly believe that there is a place for the intuitive hunch in research, the idea
that attracts attention even when it is not fully worked out, the idea that seems to be
left over from the main project. I have taken to heart Maggie MacLure’s advice in
this regard. She writes about data that ‘glow’, by which she means ‘some detail—a
fieldnote fragment or video image—[that] starts to glimmer, gathering our attention’
(MacLure, 2010, p. 282). MacLure provides us with an example of how she works
with such data in ‘The Wonder of Data’ (2013).
These glowing data points tell us something interesting, but maybe not in relation
to the current research project. Or perhaps the glowing data stand out from what’s
already been said, not contradicting the main argument, but moving off on another
tangent. It might be something really interesting, even though it does not fit logically
alongside the central point of the thesis or articles that make it to the light of day.
When writing for the ‘DoctoralWriting’ blog, I often find myself exploring ideas
that start out tiny, and maybe grow into a blog, and occasionally continue to blossom
into a full-sized research project. For doctoral candidates, publishing one’s work
through blogs is not always straightforward and should be approached cautiously.
But perhaps a similar process of writing up short pieces that might later be revisited
156 5 Writing the Thesis

can be a useful practice. This procedure has the advantage of saving left-over data,
of encouraging ongoing writing habits.
Perhaps the possibility of confronting leftover data is more common in qualitative
research, for example, where interview participants might expand on related ideas
that are not quite directly on the main topic of the formal interview questions. I remind
students that nothing is ever wasted in the work they do towards their doctorate, and
suggest that they keep any extra ideas that don’t seem to fit into the main thesis in a
separate file for the future.

Specific Parts of the Thesis

Writing the Acknowledgements: The Etiquette of Thanking

Susan Carter

Acknowledgements pages show the essence of the thesis author and their experience.
If you look through a dozen or so at a time, you will hear the screams, the manic
laughter, and catch the sombre tragedy and awe and agony that underpins the doctoral
lifespan.
Acknowledgements are non-consequential in that they are not really evaluated,
unlike the rest of the prose students have laboured over. Some acknowledgement
pages give away the secret of their authors’ difficulty with formal prose, and it doesn’t
matter—by the time anyone reads them, the author has been found acceptable. But
acknowledgements do matter because, in amongst the celebration, the right people
need to be thanked in the right way.
Acknowledgement pages vary considerably. Most thank funders, supervisors,
close colleagues and family. Possibly supportive friends. This means it is effectively
a snub if someone important is not thanked.
Typically the structure moves from thanking the most formal support to the least
formal, as detailed above—funders, supervisors, other academics, colleagues, and
finally family. This makes sense according to the logic of incremental progression
because the informal thanks to family are often the most heartfelt. Close family
members are often the people who gave the most (although some supervisors are
likely to feel this is not true).
It is important that a student acknowledges the formal carefully, though: any
person or institution that has contributed funding to the project, other researchers
who have been involved in the research, institutions that have aided the research
in some way. They should also acknowledge proofreaders and editors—that is a
requirement at the University of Auckland where I work, and a good one in terms
of honesty about authorship. Such formal thanks are usually in the first paragraph or
two.
Specific Parts of the Thesis 157

Yet acknowledgements are a space owned by the author: I have seen people thank
their dog for sitting at their feet for hundreds of hours, the cat for its companionable
choice of the thesis draft as the spot for a nap, and God for creating a magnificent
universe available to be studied.
It is possible to thank people for specific help throughout the thesis, too. I like
doing this, because it cheers me up to remember the kind, wise colleagues who
have helped me along with my thinking. If footnotes are used, the work can be
done there, for example, by stating: ‘I am indebted to xxx for several discussions
that helped me to focus this section’. Without footnotes, provision of a ‘Name,
personal conversation, date’ reference does the same work. Students may choose to
namedrop in these internal thanks too: if a big name in the field gave feedback after
a conference paper or in conversation, acknowledgements strengthen the student’s
academic insider status.
Acknowledgements vary in length, and the effect of a very long acknowledge-
ment—I have seen a nine-pager—is to dilute the thanks. I have also seen one that
simply lists five names, which was blunt, but powerful.
So it is good to start an Acknowledgements draft within six months of submission,
and revise it for the full satisfaction of a job well done on graduation, with all dues
paid. The usual structuring principles apply: those who gave most should be given
the most thanks. Supervisors will know the sad truth if the cat gets more lines than
they do.
Thanks are best when concrete. I really like thanks to supervisors that carry a sense
of who they were in the drama, like ‘My supervisor, who kept a sense of humour
when I had lost mine’; ‘my supervisor, whose maddening attention to detail drove
me to finally learn to punctuate prose’; or ‘my supervisor, whose selfless time and
care were sometimes all that kept me going’. A precisely worded acknowledgement
is like a perfectly chosen gift. It fits. It matches.
Most supervisors tend not to give advice on acknowledgements, because they
expect to be thanked, so it feels pre-emptive. Perhaps acknowledgements are a place
where academic advisors with expertise in rhetoric could give objective advice on
tone and balance.

Writing a Thesis Abstract that Will Impress a Potential

Examiner

Claire Aitchison

When the thesis becomes available to the public, apart from the title, the Abstract is
the most widely read. But way before then, the Abstract needs to win over the target
examiner.
Perhaps because the doctoral Abstract is so often written in a hurry when candi-
dates and supervisors are immersed in the final stages, exhausted and in a rush to
158 5 Writing the Thesis

towards examination, inadequate attention is paid to this small, but crucial, piece of
writing.
Imagine receiving an invitation to examine a doctoral thesis. The email, probably
a standard grad school template, is likely to begin by buttering you up with some
generic comments about your reputation or expertise. It might include official forms
with examination criteria, instructions and procedures. It’s likely to remind you of
the requirement to work to a timeframe—and of the (very) small financial reward for
undertaking the task. It will be accompanied by the thesis Abstract. So, if you were
that potential examiner, what would you like from the Abstract to help you decide
whether or not you want to take on the task?
I’ll wager that you want pretty immediate clarity concerning what the thesis is
about: what the research was aiming to do, what literature, methods and theories
were employed, and what were the outcomes or the findings. Having said that, if
you are an expert in the field, you’ll also want to know what is special or unique
about this research that would encourage you to read yet more on a topic that you
are already so familiar with.
Most of the advice books indicate that the content of the Abstract should include,
at a minimum, topic, literature, method, findings. In most cases, the study will be
explained by giving a clear (and early) statement of the issue or problem under
investigation, the literature that was brought to the investigation, how the research
was undertaken and what was found (including the significance of these findings).
Some disciplines and/or kinds of studies may require different levels of detail or
additional information, such as the central argument (common in cultural studies,
for example), and/or the theoretical framework. Besides the content outlined above,
the Abstract should make clear what kind of thesis it is, for example, by indicating
if the thesis has a non-traditional structure, a special use of voice, presentation, or
structure such as an exegesis or a series of papers.
At the sentence level, some Abstracts refer to the research, while others reference
the thesis (or dissertation) itself. This distinction will likely impact the choice of verb
tense. For example, descriptions of the research may use the simple past tense (The
research showed that…), whereas commentary on the thesis is likely to use present
simple tense (This thesis explores…).
Some disciplines favour longer Abstracts up to two pages in length; however,
in my opinion, a short Abstract is preferable. The judicious use of keywords, dis-
ciplinary or ideological ‘markers’, will help provide short-cut clues to the kind of
research it is, and make the thesis searchable. But at the same time it’s important to
be as accessible as possible: well-structured paragraphs with topic sentences should
break the text into clear segments. As with any Abstract, focussed, precise writing
is the way to go. Ideally, sentences will be dense with detail and relatively sparse in
‘padding’ (i.e., adjectives and adverbs).
Time markers and location-specific indicators are worthy of special care. For
example, state that the study took place ‘during 2019’ rather than ‘recently’. A Ph.D.
is an international qualification, so local identifiers rarely work: it is preferable to
replace ‘Western suburbs’ with ‘fringe suburbs with lower socio-economic status’.
Specific Parts of the Thesis 159

The process of writing the Abstract can help candidate and supervisor identify
the strengths and ‘sales points’ of the study. An Abstract should play to these. For
example, if the researcher has developed a new way of doing something, or modi-
fied an existing method or approach, then indicate this along with other significant
‘findings’.
Irrespective of the discipline or kind of study, the Abstract should give ample
attention to the findings; up to 60% of the Abstract can be devoted to presenting
findings and their significance. This segment can be especially difficult to write
because it requires a particular kind of authorial voice and confidence that sometimes
is only just developing in the very final stages of candidature.
It’s the old adage that first impressions stick. A well-written, well-structured
Abstract provides a sense of the researcher and the research. If the Abstract is neat
and crisp, comprehensive and well written, if it provides the essential elements that
enable one to make a judgment about the thesis, then, hopefully, a potential examiner
is already starting to engage with the task.

How Long Is a Thesis Introduction? Changing Thesis

Structures

Cally Guerin

One of my doctoral writing workshop exercises compares real theses to the generic
advice on writing theses. Participants bring along theses that are regarded by supervi-
sors and examiners as examples of good research and writing. The process is designed
partly to encourage Ph.D. students to have a clearer picture in their own minds of
the end-product they are working towards, and partly to provide ways of articulating
standard structures. Increasingly, I find that the theses students bring along don’t
quite match the standard advice.
The first chapter of a thesis, for example, is usually labelled ‘Introduction’, but
what that means can vary surprisingly in terms of length and what is included. In the
past, I’ve worked with a list of components that could (should?) be included in this
opening section:
• background information;
• rationale for research;
• scope of project;
• research questions and aims;
• maybe something about methodology and/or the theoretical framework;
• an outline of chapters.
I suspect that most writing advisers and supervisors have similar lists in their
heads. But how and where do these elements actually appear in the thesis? For
example, where do they sit in relation to the literature review?
160 5 Writing the Thesis

The Introduction elements might all be covered in a relatively short ‘mini chapter’
of 6–10 pages. This is then followed by a separate, considerably longer chapter that
provides a big Literature Review or detailed examination of the context, background
or theory underpinning the project.
Alternatively, the Introduction elements might act as brackets for the first chapter.
The chapter starts by setting out the problem or issue and providing background
context, but then moves into a lengthy, detailed examination of the literature. After
this, the chapter returns to details of the specific project that will be reported in the
thesis, its questions, aims, methods and finally, chapter outline. That is, ‘Introduction’
might include a substantial literature review before we know much at all about the
specific focus of this particular project.
(Personally, I like the mini-chapter format so that I know up front what this project
is about; no need to keep it a mystery for the first 30 pages, in my opinion. This use
of a short introductory chapter does not appear to be linked to specific disciplines.)
When I look at successful theses, the elements listed above are not always obvi-
ously on show. Sometimes they are disguised behind other language; sometimes
they are simply not present. For example, we usually see the chapter outline, but not
always; research questions or aims can be hard to identify; theory and methodol-
ogy may not be very prominent in what is labelled ‘Introduction’. While writing a
doctoral thesis has never been a ‘painting-by-numbers’ exercise, it seems that varia-
tions on the basic patterns are more and more common. Maybe these variations have
always existed within the broader framework of disciplinary expectations. Perhaps
the apparent loosening up of examiners’ expectations partly relates to the changing
nature of the Ph.D., in which the topics and types of Ph.D.s no longer fit neatly
into the traditional structures—different kinds of projects demand different forms of
writing.
Conventional advice is useful as a reliable guide, but should not be presented as
a rulebook. If something else makes sense in a particular context, follow the internal
logic of the situation. Maybe we need to let go of some of the traditional advice when
updating the next edition of our ‘how to write a thesis’ manuals.

The Literature Review for Beginners: Writing While Still

Uncertain

Susan Carter

Writing about literature can cause confusion and frustration for new Ph.D. candidates.
How can they start ‘writing a Literature Review’ in the first few months of candidature
when they are still not sure of what they are really looking for, and may not have
finalised the scope and aims of the thesis? It means building a Literature Review
without a sure sense of its final, definitive purpose.
Specific Parts of the Thesis 161

Despite this, reviewing the literature is commonly the entry point to doctoral
writing. Frequently it is begun early in the first year in order to stake out the research
landscape. The main purpose of reading early is to ensure that the project hasn’t
already been done, and to better understand methods commonly used. At the same
time, novice researchers will absorb the jargon and conventions of the discipline, and
should be encouraged to do this consciously.
Using some form of referencing software, they should at least summarise what
they read so as to remember who said what: writing must accompany reading. The
more this early writing includes initial responses, i.e., ‘evidence of their critical
analysis of literature’, the more effort will be saved later.
Having a purpose for writing can help candidates unnerved by contingency. Theses
make generic moves, each of which needs support from literature. The entry-level
doctoral student could begin with a plan of how literature will buttress the final thesis.
The idea is to plot out the story that the literature must support.
The Introduction usually establishes a problem, limitation, or lack of understand-
ing. Literature provides evidence that a gap exists in understanding about something
that matters, identifies exactly where, and shows the topic’s seriousness. That gap
is often not clearly defined at the start of the project, especially in non-STEM dis-
ciplines. However, whenever the topic problem is mentioned, it can be included in
what will eventually become the beginning of the Introduction. Here, the ‘best’ lit-
erature will show that the problem really matters—that will strengthen the thesis’s
significance.
Then methods used will be defended with literature. Detail about previous
approaches will build the argument for methods used—reporting these from the
literature requires looking for other studies’ limitations as well as strengths, then
writing the story of what seems useful, and what seems less so, to the current project.
Having a set of evaluation criteria enables even early reading to be fitted into a coher-
ent plan, described in a way that is likely to be useable. Hart (1998) spells out the
kinds of questions that literature ought to answer. Some questions might be:
• Are any definitions useful?
• Is their problem the same as mine?
• Are their methods good?
• What supports my ideas?
• What raises new ideas or disagrees with mine?
• What are the limitations?
Additionally, candidates can look at each publication’s prose for exemplars. Does
it clearly articulate the problem, and the argument? Is it succinct and convincing?
How does it defend methods and articulate a methodology? What vocabulary is
used? How does it handle theory? Strong prose structures at the level of paragraph
and sentence can be emulated by novice researchers.
If you are in a discipline that uses direct quotation, accumulating useful quotations
is useful—and while picking those that express ideas eloquently, notice the syntax
for how this is achieved.
162 5 Writing the Thesis

It still won’t be easy, but the candidate could begin by itemising what literature
will be needed in each section—that gives one way to mitigate the panic that some
candidates feel when writing about literature while still unsure of their final topic.

Literature Reviews—Trust Yourself!

Cally Guerin

Doctoral students often start out feeling obliged to summarise everything that has
ever been written on their subject, and to do so in a politely deferential manner. Yet
it is necessary to stand back from all that information and tell a story that puts the
student’s research right at the centre in the starring role. To explain this, I return
again and again to the ‘hands on hips’ stance that Kamler and Thomson (2014) put
forward in a wonderful chapter entitled Persuading an octopus into a glass: Working
with literatures.
Hands on hips is a great image for the authoritative stance that needs to be taken
up in the huge shift from undergraduate to autonomous researcher. It helps to picture
oneself undaunted by overwhelming information in the literature and making some
judgements about what is important, interesting, valuable and/or topical. With hands
on hips it becomes easier to pose questions such as: How would I categorise all this
information? What do I think about it all? How do I see those elements linking to
other papers, theories and arguments in the field? What have I got to offer that others
should listen to? Where is my value-add in all this?
Wisker (2005, p. 93) hits the nail on the head when she says that one purpose of
a Literature Review entails entering into dialogue with the discipline. It can take a
while, though, for postgraduates to believe in themselves as scholars with something
useful to say to all those other published researchers around the world who are
working in the same field. Yet the expectation is that doctoral writing will speak to
the discipline at a global level.
So it’s necessary to talk to doctoral students about taking up the hands on hips
stance in their Literature Reviews. However, I’ve also been pushing them to trust
their own knowledge of the field much more than they often seem to do—and here I
may be on somewhat shakier ground.
I encourage students to stand back from their copious notes and highlighted PDFs,
and take control of the overarching story. Then they can start listing the main topics
they need to address in the literature review. Doctoral writers can trust themselves to
know what the key themes are after all the reading they’ve done; they will remember
the main concepts that must be included; they will recall the ideas that surprised
them, shocked them, or opposed what they had previously believed. I really do think
that they can trust their own understanding of the field for this part of the process,
rather than slavishly patching together summaries of what everyone else has already
written about the topic. Of course, it’s extremely important to go back and confirm
Specific Parts of the Thesis 163

the precise names, dates and facts to ensure that the information in the Literature
Review really is accurate and to acknowledge where ideas originated.
Is it dangerous to encourage students to trust themselves this much as they launch
into writing Literature Reviews? Am I going to regret this a little further along the
track if they start imagining that they are experts on the topic long before they really
know enough? I’d hope that this would be the beginning of establishing a confident,
scholarly voice as an author.

Literature Review: Hands on Hips or Smash and Grab?

Susan Carter

The metaphor I use when teaching how to review the literature is home invasion.
When you are reading an article, you want to get into it quickly, spot what will be
valuable to you, grab it, being careful not to damage it (take the page numbers and
reference carefully) and get out fast. You don’t want to waste time admiring anything
too large to carry off—if you can’t make it relevant to your topic, then cut and run
with just what will fit. You might note what interests you in case you get a chance to
return some other time, but you need to stay alert and get out as fast as possible.
Of course it makes sense to spend time in text that is enjoyable or valuable—it’s
one of the pleasures of being academic. But I recommend a smash and grab approach
because most doctoral students are overwhelmed by how much literature is out there.
Many students are reading in a language other than their first language, so the
tsunami of what needs to be read is terrifying, sometimes literally sickening. Even
when your first language is English, academic writing is pretty challenging to read
and digest. It is too seldom pleasurable.
It is common to suggest to doctoral students that when reading they skim, skip,
or speed-read first to identify what must (groan) be attentively read cover to cover
and possibly re-read. The home invasion metaphor version of sullying into litera-
ture cheers me up because it is rowdier and less doggedly systematic than ‘skim,
skip, speed-read.’ Students cheer up with the thought of pillage…you are not at the
mercy of other authors and can assume Kamler and Thomson’s (2014) hands on
hips approach. And it captures that muscling in required to psych yourself up as a
reviewer of literature who has control.
The metaphor extends: while you are making this grab-and-go, check out the
décor. When you find academic writing that is a pleasure to read, often this is because
it does something special stylistically. We often learn how to improve our own writing
by looking closely at how others achieve eloquence.
When we teach, although it is crucial to explain the various academic requirements
and the ways writing demonstrates meeting them, we also suggest ways to make
tedious work seem doable. Humour and irreverence help to keep doctoral writing
grounded in reality.
164 5 Writing the Thesis

Crafting Conclusions—More Than a Summary of Research

Cally Guerin

Working with a student in the final throes of completing his thesis, I was recently
reminded about the importance of writing Conclusions. This very challenging part of
thesis writing comes at the point when the Ph.D. candidate is often exhausted by the
whole process of the research degree, under enormous pressure to meet deadlines,
and even heartily sick of the topic.
The concluding chapter of a Ph.D. thesis is often surprisingly short—sometimes
no more than 6–10 pages. Perhaps this reflects the exhaustion mentioned above. Yet
the Conclusion plays a crucial role for the reader in reflecting back on the entire
project. Of course, the thesis ‘readers’ are the examiners: Mullins and Kiley (2002)
make it very clear that it is dangerous if an examiner reaches the end of the thesis
and feels unsure what it was all about. The Conclusion needs to make it impossible
to miss what this thesis contributes to knowledge in the discipline, explicitly stating
and drawing attention to the central message of the whole project.
It can be very helpful to go back to the original aims/objectives/hypotheses out-
lined in the Introduction to show how each research question set up at the beginning
has now been answered. Repeating those initial questions in the Conclusion can make
it easy for the reader/examiner to see that the research has indeed achieved what it set
out to do. Depending on the disciplinary conventions, presenting the aims or ques-
tions as numbered statements or dot points—as a kind of checklist—can highlight
that each of these points has been addressed.
In situations where the thesis is presented as a collection of articles, the Conclusion
is even more important in its power to bring together a coherent, unified whole. Even
though each article/chapter has its own Conclusion (sometimes just the last paragraph
of the Discussion section, depending on the intended journal), the Conclusion of the
thesis needs to do meta-level work on top of summarising the findings.
This is the moment in every thesis to address the implications of those findings—
the ‘so what?’ question. What does it all mean? Why does it matter? Finally, after
all that work, it becomes clear where the whole argument is going to end up.
In the process of reflecting on the overarching meaning of the research, it may be
necessary to return to the previous chapters and scrutinise what has been presented
there. Sometimes it is necessary to adjust the content or interpretation of earlier
work in light of what is known at the end. The emphasis may have shifted for the
overall project along the way, rendering some passages of writing redundant or others
requiring more prominence.
I particularly like the idea that the thesis needs to end on a strong note. One exercise
I do in writing groups is to look at the final sentence in several theses—sometimes a
very illuminating insight into the state of mind of the candidates at the end of their
projects.
There is a lot of useful advice on Conclusions available in academic writing text-
books. Paltridge and Starfield (2007) have a very useful chapter that I’d recommend
Specific Parts of the Thesis 165

for all doctoral writers (not just those writing in a second language, as the book
title suggests). They include some good pointers about identifying the limitations of
the research and therefore being wary of how grand the claims can be now that the
evidence has been presented throughout the thesis. They also give valuable language
tips.

How to Make a Great Conclusion

Claire Aitchison

I love a good Conclusion. There’s nothing more satisfying than reading a good paper
that finishes strongly, but what a let-down when there is a poor—or non-existent—
Conclusion!
We know that most of us read the Abstract, scan the Introduction and then move
quickly to the Discussion and Conclusion sections when we read research papers
(Feak & Swales, 2011, p. 40). Whether it is a thesis or journal article, the Conclusion
is really important, so how can we make sure it’s as great as it can be?
I think there are some useful processes that can help ensure a successful Conclu-
sion. Because a Ph.D. thesis is such a long time in the making, it is useful to begin
building the Conclusion chapter over months and years—at least from the time data
are being collected and analysed. I suggest the following steps.
Build a ‘Conclusions Bank’
1. From mid-stage in your Ph.D. make a new file called ‘The Conclusions Bank’
and throw into it inspirations and ‘big ideas’ as you construct your thesis. For
example, this is the place you can dump insights that come to you during data
analysis or when reading the literature, and it’s a good place to store chapter
leftovers.
Don’t worry about organising this information until you have finished all your
data chapters and you are ready to begin your Conclusion. It can be an absolute
delight to find this treasure trove of ideas as you run out of energy and inspiration
towards the end of your candidature.
Within the Conclusions Bank, make a separate section into which you copy and
paste each of the Conclusion sections from each of your chapters as you write them.
Having these together enables you to better synthesise these parts and see the big
picture required to make the ‘big claims for significance’. Remember that a key task
of a Conclusion is to identify what it is that makes the whole greater than the sum of
the parts. It’s a big job for a totally blank page and an exhausted mind!
2. At some point toward the end of your writing, remove yourself from your work
and freewrite (Elbow, 1998) to these questions:
166 5 Writing the Thesis

• So, what have I found—and why does it matter?

• What do I know now, that I didn’t know before (e.g., before I read the literature
or before I collected and analysed the data)?
• Who cares?/Who should care? (e.g., are these things of value for practitioners,
for policy or theory, for improving how we collect or analyse data)?
• What do I know that no one else knows? (e.g., things that arise from my unique
context or data sets).
The Disappointing Conclusion
As an editor or examiner, one of the most common failings I come across is a
Conclusion that looks and reads as if the author has run out of steam. The Conclusion
is way too brief, sloppily written—and incredibly disappointing. Some examples
include:
• a failure to overview the whole project, perhaps just focusing on one aspect;
• a collection of statements disconnected from the literature;
• ‘soap box’ announcements or imperatives for action that don’t necessarily flow
from the evidence presented. For example, chest beating on issues not at all
substantiated by the research: ‘Thus teachers should blah blah blah…’;
• a lazy reiteration (even duplication) of statements from the Abstract or the
Introduction;
• a bland re-summarising of the research and/or listing of findings that lacks finesse
and nuance;
• a failure to highlight the ‘take-home message’—be that the key argument, key
finding(s) or implications.
What a Conclusion Should Do
Remember that a Conclusion may be read as a stand-alone item. So it needs to inform
the reader of what was done, how and why, what was found, and why it matters. It
can be a challenge to reiterate all of this succinctly and without boring repetition;
nevertheless, that’s the task of the Conclusion.
Conclusions should do some, or all, of the following:
• remind the reader of the research problem and purpose, and how they were
addressed;
• briefly summarise what has been covered in the thesis;
• make some kind of holistic assessment/judgement/claim that pertains to the whole
project (i.e., more than a descriptive summary);
• assess the value/relevance/ implications of the key findings in light of existing
studies and literature;
• ‘speak’ to the Introduction;
• outline implications of the study (for theory, practice, further research);
• comment on the findings that failed to support or only partially support the
hypothesis or research questions directing the study;
• refer to the limitations of the studies that may affect the validity or the
generalisability of results;
Specific Parts of the Thesis 167

• make recommendations for further research;

• make claims for new knowledge/contribution to knowledge.
(Adapted from Belcher, 2009; Paltridge & Starfield, 2007; Swales & Feak, 1994.)
How is a Conclusion Organised?
A Conclusion is sometimes described as a mirror image of the Introduction, in that
it moves from the particular to the general. There is another sense in which the
Discussion and Conclusion section is the reverse of the Introduction: an Introduction
contains extended discussions on the previous existing research and literature on
the topic, and relatively little on the current research. In the Conclusion section,
the new research, positioned against existing knowledge, is the primary focus. In the
concluding section, existing literature and previous research is used for confirmation,
comparison or contradistinction (Swales, 2004 cited in Paltridge & Starfield, 2007,
p. 147).
Every thesis is different and writers need to decide what suits their particular
needs, writing style and methodological approach; however, being aware of common
patterns and genres can help writers make judicious decisions to suit their own thesis.
We know, for example, a Conclusion section in a thesis commonly follows these
moves:
• an introductory restatement of research problem, aims and/or research question;
• a summary of findings and limitations;
• practical applications/implications;
• recommendations for further research.
Given that we know that the Abstract, Introduction and Conclusion are often the
only parts readers bother with, it is essential that the Conclusion concludes the paper
in a succinct and punchy fashion. You want it to have authority and impact. You want
quotable sentences. So don’t leave it too late to try strategies like those suggested so
that you can maximise your changes of ending on a high.

My Questions Now: Preparing a Thesis Conclusion

Cally Guerin

The Conclusion is the moment when examiners are assessing whether the whole text
has persuaded them that, yes, this thesis makes an original and significant contribution
to knowledge and is therefore worth a Ph.D. Yet, as Trafford, Lesham, and Bitzer
(2014) point out, a surprising number of theses fail to make a direct statement about
the originality of the research and its contribution. While it is still possible to succeed
in exhibiting ‘doctorateness’ without fulfilling the standard requirements, why not
make it as easy as possible for examiners to see that the thesis meets the established
criteria? The Conclusion needs to state what can be deduced or inferred from the
material presented.
168 5 Writing the Thesis

As Wisker puts it in The Good Supervisor (2012, pp. 431–432), the Conclusion
ought to ‘clarify the effects and the importance of what has been found, what it
means, why it matters and what might be done with it’. I want to add a series of
questions that might be used to think through the significance and implications of
the research.
Conclusions can be particularly challenging for students working on a thesis by
publication, or a thesis in which each chapter reports on a separate experiment, case
study or (as in mixed methods research) approach to the central research question. I
devised the following series of questions to guide doctoral writers in thinking through
the big picture and reaching conclusions about their research.
• What is the relationship between the various studies? What is the most important
idea to come out of Study 1a and out of 1b? And then what is the overall message
from all that information and analysis?
• What did Study 2 then add to our understanding?
• What did we learn from Study 3 to add to that?
• Now that we know all of this, what does the world need to know about this topic
overall?
• What is new about this thesis? What do we now know that we didn’t know when
you started?
• Why is it important? And what policy recommendations do you want to make now
that you know these new things?
• What excites you about what you have learnt during this research? What was
surprising? What do you care about, and what do you want others to understand
now?
A structure for thinking through the issues can be helpful, especially when so
many doctoral writers are exhausted when they get to the end of their projects (the
requirement to write a confident final sentence to leave resonating in the examiner’s
mind might seem like an impossible task!).

The Last Word in Doctoral Writing: Mechanics of Last

Sentence Rhetoric

Susan Carter

In a recent writing class, we gathered the last sentences of journal articles that par-
ticipants thought were really strong, and analysed why they worked so well. This
exercise focuses on the mechanics of language for rhetorical force, something that
takes doctoral students into a healthy space as they develop their writing’s style and
voice.
The last sentence of any article, thesis, chapter has an important role: farewelling
readers in a way that is likable and memorable. Readers should leave convinced of
the take-home message, and, preferably, impressed enough to cite it.
Specific Parts of the Thesis 169

The group included people from STEM and non-STEM disciplines—we were
well aware by this stage that there were disciplinary differences in preferences for
academic writing style. Group analysis defined the rhetorical mechanics of what we
liked, and why. So what did we like as an inter-disciplinary group?
Short sentences with short words in them were recommended for their power.
Rhetorically, they really did have a sense of finality. One last sentence, ‘Nothing else
seems to be on offer’ (Young & Muller, 2014, p. 63), had a gloomy touch of realism,
but also shrewdly suggested that the topic needed more research. We liked the use
of a common truism for the final sentence.
‘Poised’ and ‘pursued’ drew approval for this last sentence: ‘Patient-centred out-
comes research is poised to substantially change how clinical questions are asked,
how answers are pursued, and how those answers are used’ (Frank, Basch & Selby,
2014, p. 1514). The reader liked ‘the persuasive and goal-directed tone that would
have helped some fairly die-hard ‘positivists’ see value in stepping out of their com-
fort zones’. We liked the counter-balance between the instability of being ‘poised’
and the massiveness of ‘to substantially change’: a dramatic pivotal moment of
consequence makes a good cliff-hanger closure.
Our list of last sentence rhetorical strategies to date, then, coming from a fairly
small group, includes:
• punchy, short, pithy;
• evocative vocabulary;
• rhythmic and rap-like;
• cliff-hanger tension;
• pointing to the future.
Within that group, people from all disciplines found this a helpful exercise as they
approached building a firm ending to their articles or chapters.

Preparing Your Thesis for Submission: What to Look

for When Editing at the Whole-of-Document Level

Cally Guerin

There is a lot of good advice available about editing and proofreading. In Australia,
the Institute of Professional Editors has very detailed information about the kinds
of details that professional editors look for, including the Australian standards for
editing practice. This list and the ‘Levels of Editing’ link provide a really helpful
range of elements that should be checked before submitting a work for examination
or publication.
While many writers think ‘editing’ relates to clarity of expression, grammar and
punctuation, there is another whole area of thesis editing: the formatting and layout
170 5 Writing the Thesis

of the whole document. The unity and consistency at the whole-of-document level
might seem less important than all those words explaining the theory, methods,
findings and conclusions; however, I think it’s essential to recognise that the visual
elements of the writing affect the reader. Just as a paragraph break at the wrong
moment can create misunderstanding about how the information fits together, so,
too, a sub-sub-heading that looks like a sub-heading can result in misinterpretation
of the significance of the material. But it’s very difficult to notice these issues when
reading for sense and clarity, or correcting grammar—it must be undertaken as a
separate stage of the editing/proofreading process.
I’ve been working on a checklist for the details that need to be in place at the level
of the whole document.
1. Completeness: Are all the necessary parts actually present in the document and
in order? For example, are there any missing sections from chapters, and have
all appendices been included and accurately numbered? Is this definitely the
most recent version of the document? Have all changes have been included and
integrated into the document?
2. Formatting: Is the layout consistent? Check margins, indents, spacing between
paragraphs, spacing after full stops.
3. Headings and subheadings: Do they all exactly match the Table of Contents?
Is it easy to visually distinguish between levels? Is the font and size consistent
across heading levels in different chapters?
4. References: Are all the references in the text also in the bibliography, and vice
versa? Are they all accurate and complete? (Note that bibliographic software is
not unerringly reliable.)
5. Illustrations/Tables/Graphs: Is there consistent formatting of captions? Check
the font and size as well as the layout. Then check capitalising and abbreviations
(e.g., Fig. or Figure) are also consistent. Are captions consistent with any text
inside the graphic? Check numbering of tables and figures is in order with no
numbers left out. READ the text inside each graphic for accuracy, spelling and
grammar (it’s amazing how often there are errors inside the tables).
6. Page numbering: Is cross-referencing between chapters accurate? Check num-
bering follows correctly between chapters if working on individual documents.
Of course, working with a template from the beginning can solve some of these
issues, but even so, changes and revisions can introduce mistakes over the years
of writing a Ph.D. It’s worth checking that all is in order: examination is likely to
be much less stressful when there is certainty on submission that the formatting is
consistent.
Specific Parts of the Thesis 171

Reading Theses to Write a Thesis

Cally Guerin

One of the major challenges of doctoral writing is that a thesis doesn’t usually look
much like the texts that Ph.D. candidates read. For many students, the first six months
or so is spent reading masses of articles, chapters and books. Then they turn their
attention to writing a markedly different genre. Even for those writing a thesis by
publication, the document submitted for examination includes sections that do not
resemble what they have been reading during candidature.

Photo by Cally Guerin

Usually there is much more information about methods in a thesis than is common
in the articles published by most disciplines. Some disciplines accommodate the
basic science-based IMRAD model (Introduction, Materials and Method, Results,
Analysis and Discussion) for the thesis, but this is not relevant everywhere; instead,
choices need to be made about the number and order of chapters. Judgements need
to be made about what works as a separate chapter compared to what sections are
better combined into one chapter—and if combined, how much space or how many
words should be allowed for each section? Does the concept of a chapter labelled
‘Literature Review’ work for this project? Or does literature need to be threaded
throughout the thesis where relevant? There is no set number of chapters, and every
project will take its own shape.
It can be useful to encourage students to read a few recently examined theses by
other candidates in their field. While it is also helpful for students to read their own
supervisor’s thesis (as is often recommended by supervisors), sometimes they are so
old that the options and university regulations for presentation have changed con-
siderably since they were submitted. The questions below can help current students
notice various features of theses.
1. Is the Table of Contents formatted to ensure that the story of the research leaps
off the page? What makes contents pages easy or hard to read? Is it obvious
at a glance where each new chapter begins? How are the levels of subheadings
172 5 Writing the Thesis

indicated—with indenting, bold and/or italics? How is capitalisation used? Is

there a line of dots leading to the page number?
2. What do individual thesis pages look like? Is the font big enough, are the margins
wide enough and the space between lines appropriate? Is there too much or too
little white space on the page? Some universities provide a template but many
candidates need to develop their own.
3. Is there a separate short Introduction outlining the project before the first big,
substantial chapter? Or does the Introduction include much of the Literature
Review?
4. Are all chapters the same length? (Hint: they don’t have to be—sometimes it
makes sense to include a shorter section that stands alone.)
5. What is going on in the Conclusion for the whole thesis? Does it simply sum-
marise what’s already been said in the chapters, or is there a whole lot more
included here?
6. Is this thesis perfect, or simply good enough to have been awarded the degree?
Reading other people’s theses is a very useful strategy to help authors focus on the
elements that distinguish a thesis from other genres. After all, it can be very difficult
to write something without a clear sense of what the end-product needs to look like
in terms of shape and content.

Choosing the Examiner: It’s in Everyone’s Interests to Get

Students Involved

Claire Aitchison

In Australia, as in many other countries, doctoral examination is a ‘single blind’ peer

review process: the examiner is given the name of the candidate whose work they
are examining, while the Ph.D. student is blind to who their examiners are, until
afterwards—if at all. (Examiners are often given the option to retain their anonymity
even after the outcome and examiner reports have been submitted.) While students
may never know the identity of their examiners, and each examiner operates without
knowledge of the other(s), the supervisor is intimately involved in examiner selection.
Rules and practices around examination vary but, in most cases, it is the supervisor
who approaches potential examiners to inquire if they are interested and available to
examine a student’s work. Generally in that initial inquiry, the supervisor sends the
thesis Abstract and an estimation of when the work may be ready for examination.
Once potential examiners are locked in, the Grad School then handles the process.
There are strict provisions that neither students nor examiners are to make contact
with each other, and breaches can derail the whole process.
Specific Parts of the Thesis 173

But just because a student doesn’t have direct knowledge of their examiners
doesn’t mean that they shouldn’t be involved in discussions about potential examin-
ers. Selecting the best examiner is in everyone’s best interests, and that is why many
supervisors actively seek input from their students about examiner preferences.
Getting the Right Examiner
There’s plenty of good information that relates to choosing an examiner. Kiley (2009)
usefully points to the importance of considering the reputation of the examiner, their
knowledge of the topic and ‘fit’ with the methodology, their capacity to benefit the
candidate’s career, their examination experience, and knowledge of the type of degree
(i.e., professional doctorate, creative practice-led degrees and so on).
Here’s a quick round-up of key considerations:
1. Think about how a potential examiner may be helpful for the student’s future
career. For example, if the student has a strong interest in working in a particular
country, research centre or institution, an examiner from such a location could
be advantageous.
2. Examiner perspectives may be worth closer attention. For example, consider the
benefits and cautions regarding disciplinary expertise versus industry expertise,
experience of the genre (e.g., Thesis by Publication) versus disciplinary expertise,
novice versus experienced examiners.
3. Identify the strengths of the research and thesis—and play to these in choosing
the examiner.
4. Consider the mix of examiners that will produce the best coverage of key aspects,
such as the field, methodology, industry knowledge and thesis type.
5. Apart from these professional components, consider also examiner personality:
‘You don’t want a smart Alec’ for an examiner! (Kiley, 2009, p. 889—titular).
But what can be done with this information?
A Four-Step Process for Considering Examiners
Here’s one process for how a student might take an active role in the process of
choosing an examiner.
1. Three to four months out from submission, arrange a special supervision meeting
to discuss possible examiners.
2. Prior to the meeting, students should list six to eight possible examiners from most
favoured to least—plus any they would not want. Don’t neglect the importance
of ruling out unsuitable people (maybe someone’s work is admirable, but they
have a reputation for being ruthless, or maybe there’s the potential for a conflict
of interest). Supervisors should also think about suitable examiners.
3. At the meeting, discuss the advantages and disadvantages of the listed individuals
for the particular thesis and research to be examined. Such discussions can illus-
trate the issues at stake and demonstrate how the process works, giving students
valuable insights into the academic world.
4. Then it’s time to do some homework in preparation for a follow-up meeting.
174 5 Writing the Thesis

• Both student and supervisor(s) should (carefully and appropriately) collect

‘insider’ information on the shortlisted favourites. The academic world is small
and highly networked. For example, it can be helpful to know if a potential
examiner is reliable, if they have a reputation for being pedantic, or if they are
married to a major competitor of your research institute!
• Ask the student to search their whole thesis recording (rather than guessing)
every reference to the potential examiner and their work. This activity creates
an empirical account of how often, where, and in what ways, citations have
occurred in the document. It’s not that every examiner needs to see themselves
cited; however, it would be curious to choose an examiner that wasn’t part
of the community of scholars referenced in the thesis. Secondly, the student
needs to check that they have correctly interpreted/critiqued/referenced each
of these potential examiners and their work. Ask the student to think about
how those who have been referenced will feel when they read what’s been said
about them and others (possibly their friends and colleagues).
• At the second meeting everyone should have the chance to share their home-
work and air their views, and hopefully, through discussion, arrive at general
agreement on a short list of favourites. In the end, however, it’s important
to remember that the choice of examiners is the responsibility of the supervi-
sor(s)—and even then, despite their best efforts, a favourite may be unavailable
or unsuitable for one reason or another.

Even where institutional guidelines are strict about the examiners’ identity remain-
ing confidential, these supervisory practices provide clear benefits. Students are given
the chance to critically re-examine their own work from an examiner’s perspective
and they learn more about the often-occluded practices of the academy. Supervisors
get assistance with the difficult task of finding the best match of examiners to suit
their student’s work.
In spite of the fact that the student will leave these discussions still not knowing
who their examiners are, they will have learned by engaging in the process—and no
doubt will have contributed to the final decision.

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Chapter 6
Disseminating Research

Now all that research has been written about, it needs to find its way to a wider
audience. This chapter focuses on publishing processes, including peer review and co-
authorship; touches upon how these relate to future careers; and considers some of the
other writing genres doctoral writers produce outside the thesis itself. While doctoral
writers must prepare some kind of written document for examination, they also need
to learn about the broader dissemination of their research in a variety of written (and
spoken) formats. For some doctoral writers, this aspect of research communication is
embedded in the doctoral programme or provided by supervisors as a necessary part
of research training; others find they must seek out their own opportunities to learn
about the nuances of writing for audiences beyond their supervisors and examiners.
Here we reflect on the pedagogies of publication and the opportunities afforded by
participating in all aspects of publishing research, including the learning that comes
from co-authoring. Beyond the desire to have an impact in the real world, a key
reason to disseminate research is to build a reputation as a scholar and researcher in
the field. This final chapter leads doctoral writers beyond the thesis into the wider
world of research dissemination.

Publishing Processes and Peer Review

Supervising Student Publishing During Doctoral Candidature

Claire Aitchison

In some disciplines, especially in the hard sciences, publishing during the doctorate
has a long history of well-established practices. I have worked with students involved
in water-management research which consisted of a number of individual case studies
and experiments conducted sequentially over the course of candidature. Each of these
smaller projects was described as a complete, separate study containing an account

© Springer Nature Singapore Pte Ltd. 2020 177

S. Carter et al., Doctoral Writing,
https://doi.org/10.1007/978-981-15-1808-9_6
178 6 Disseminating Research

of the relevant literature, research question, methodological approach and findings.

This system enabled the researcher to write the chapter and journal publication in
tandem as their research progressed; it also facilitated post-completion publications
and minimised major rewriting.
In another instance, a supervisor insisted her nursing students did a systematic
review of the literature, requiring it to be written and submitted as a publication. With
very little additional work, this output then becomes the literature review chapter of
the thesis. For this supervisor, ‘writing for publication’ is a key pedagogical practice
that facilitates student learning of the relevant literature, the methodology, and of the
scholarly and publication practices of the field.
As more institutions have adopted various Ph.D.-by-publication models, many
such practices have become explicit and formalised, making reworking of thesis
chapters into publications redundant. However, not all supervisors are necessarily
well tuned to such approaches and, of course, not all research projects are suitable. In
addition, some supervisors may not regard student publishing during the doctorate as
a high priority, or may have concerns about competing demands on their own and/or
their student’s availability.
In the humanities and social sciences there’s less tradition of publishing during
candidature; even 10 years ago, this was rare. Hence, supervisors in humanities and
social sciences are less likely to co-author with their doctoral students than we see in
lab-based, large-scale science research; instead, doctoral study is mostly an individual
enterprise. The vast majority of supervisors saw their job as assisting students to do
the research and write the examinable thesis. Now, many more supervisors in these
disciplines see writing for publication as a component of doctoral study.
But supervising doctoral students to write for publication can be a difficult, labour-
intensive challenge. Why would supervisors be interested in taking up the extra work
required to support a student wishing to publish during candidature?
There is an understandable hesitation on the part of those who are supervising stu-
dents already struggling with their doctorate. It’s not uncommon to hear supervisors
speak about the heavy workload involved in simply getting a student to fulfil the basic
requirements for completion. Where the doctoral degree does not require researchers
to publish, and where supervisors will not be co-authors, should a supervisor feel
obliged to help with the additional work of publication?
I know students in the humanities and social sciences often feel awkward and
hesitate to ask for their supervisors’ assistance in their publication ambitions. And
yet most students these days want to publish; at a minimum, they see it as a career
imperative. How can we acknowledge and respond to this desire? We need to ask:
what are our roles and obligations regarding students who want to publish?
Publishing Processes and Peer Review 179

Journal Article or Book Chapter?

Cally Guerin

In the context of trying to find out more about theses by publication, I’ve been
reflecting on where doctoral students might place their publications. What are the
differences between the genres of journal articles and book chapters in edited collec-
tions? Are these differences significant and, if so, how? If we are to support doctoral
candidates in their writing, it can be useful to have considered the different oppor-
tunities these genres offer, especially if we are advising students to publish their
research.
It seems that, in Education research at least, writing for peer-reviewed journals
places different constraints on what we might write about, and how we might go about
it. When sending something off for double-blind review by a journal, I notice that I’m
more inclined to ‘play it safe’. It’s necessary to please any possible reader imaginable,
as there is no control over who might make a decision about the article. This means
the paper often ends up taking the form of a traditional ‘scientific’ paper reporting on
empirical research, and using the IMRAD (Introduction, Methods, Results, Analysis,
and Discussion) structure. Even so, I can’t seem to keep the results and discussion
separate in qualitative research—it just doesn’t make sense in my writing.
In contrast, book chapters in edited collections seem to allow for rather more risks.
Book chapters allow more space for reflection on bigger ideas than journal articles,
and a little more licence to be adventurous in the approach to the topic. Perhaps this
is partly because, again in Education research, the essay form is more common in
book chapters than in journal articles. As part of an edited collection, these chapters
don’t need to stand alone in the way that articles usually do, even in special issues;
rather, they sit alongside other chapters exploring closely related issues. This often
allows for some cross-referencing between chapters, so that each chapter doesn’t
need to say absolutely everything on the topic, and the ideas can expand out beyond
the individual chapter. Here, a quite distinctive, personally inflected contribution can
be valued for the fact that it adds to the composite whole. It also seems that those
reviewing the chapter, the editors and possibly other contributors to the collection,
are likely to be more empathetic readers in terms of their interests and concerns. I’m
not suggesting that this necessarily makes it an easier option, but it does feel less like
writing into the black void of the unknown.
Thomson (2013) makes a good case for the advantages of book chapters, but there
is some debate about the usefulness of articles versus chapters in terms of citations
and profiling (see Anderson 2012 in ‘The Scholarly Kitchen’ blog and Deevybee
2012 in ‘BishopBlog’). While these arguments against book chapters may become
less and less valid as e-books become more visible through standard search engines,
doctoral candidates should at least be aware of these other elements in the equation.
When thinking about a thesis by publication or publishing from a traditional thesis,
concerns about building a research profile and becoming known in the field should
play a part in the decision.
180 6 Disseminating Research

Peer Review: What’s the Fuss?

Cally Guerin

Ph.D. students are often encouraged to publish their research in academic journals,
but it can be daunting to submit work to an unknown audience for judgement. Every-
one has stories about receiving harsh, unfair reviews from journals. However much
we try to tell ourselves and our students that ‘it isn’t personal’, it does feel personal
at the time of getting negative responses. As Chanock (2008) amusingly points out,
the process can feel rather like going through the stages of grief—but in this case,
it’s the Seven Stages of Resentment. Of course she is being ironic, but there is more
than a hint of truth in what she says.
Despite the problems with peer review, it underpins most academic work as the
usual process from assessing grant applications through to publishing the results of
those grants. It seems to be the best system we can come up with. So what are the
problems?
One of the challenges in the system of peer review is the long delays this process
can incur. It can be difficult for journal editors to find suitable, willing reviewers. Not
only do many academics find themselves confronting ever-increasing workloads in
their official jobs but, in most disciplines, they are asked to do this extra work for no
pay and no recognition by their institution. Editors must rely on the ‘gift economy’
operating in academia, hoping that reviewers will believe that what goes around,
comes around—by doing their share of reviewing, someone else will review their
own article when they later submit to a journal. Delays occur when well-meaning
reviewers agree to do the work, and then find themselves overwhelmed by other tasks
and responsibilities. From an editor’s point of view, very subtle nagging skills are
needed to coax this voluntary work out of reviewers; from an author’s point of view,
a great deal might be hanging on the outcome of the review.
And how helpful are those reviews when they finally arrive? In most areas, the
standard practice is blind review—double (where the identities of both author and
reviewer are anonymous) or single (where the identity of the reviewer is unknown
to the author). In theory, this anonymity sensibly protects reviewers so that they
can be frank about their assessment without risking damage to their own careers.
Unfortunately, this anonymity sometimes allows those reviewers to be vicious in
ways that they might consider highly inappropriate if they were to speak openly to
the authors.
Whether the reviews are positive or negative, they are really just two or three
people’s points of view—a fourth reviewer may want something else again. It’s
perfectly possible to get contradictory reports: there is always an element of chance
in what ends up getting published. Even with the best intentions to be objective and
constructive, reviewers can submit entirely different reviews of the same piece of
research—they may have particular interests, specialised knowledge, or be focused
on different aspects of the writing.
Publishing Processes and Peer Review 181

There are moves afoot to try to solve at least some of the weaknesses of peer
review. One response has been to implement processes of ‘open review’, that is,
where the identity of the reviewer is made public and the reviews themselves are
published. While this might encourage more courteous behaviour on the part of the
reviewer, the potential risks associated with a junior researcher criticising someone
with a big reputation in their field remains. In some disciplines, everyone has a pretty
good idea of what projects are being undertaken by other research groups and where
the funding went, so that author identity is a matter of informed guesswork if not
overtly known; in these situations, open review dispenses with the pretence of author
anonymity.
Post-publication review (Jump, 2014) is another model that might be useful. This
allows publication of research and then invites anyone who is interested in the topic
to review the work. Such an approach fits well with contemporary practices of com-
menting on social media. While this system might draw some ill-considered reviews
and may or may not be anonymous, on the whole it seems a good way of encouraging
debate and ongoing conversations in the field.
In an era when research output is endlessly measured and quantified, the work of
reviewing that output could, perhaps, also be measured in order to provide reviewers
with more reward for their effort. Publons is one organisation making it possible
for reviewers to get some credit for the work they put into reviewing; another is the
‘R-index’ suggested by Gero and Cantor (2015). These are both ways of recognis-
ing the work of reviewing as having a measurable ‘impact’ and contribution to the
development of the discipline and the dissemination of knowledge.
All these concerns are becoming ever more pressing as the move towards open
access gains momentum. As the whole landscape of academic publishing changes,
these are important questions for all researchers, and pose major challenges for
doctoral candidates, their supervisors and learning advisors supporting them.

Reviewing Can Help, If You Want to Learn How to Publish

Claire Aitchison

Reviewing can be useful as a stepping-stone pedagogy for learning to write for publi-
cation. Volunteering to review seems like giving oneself more work—true, but doing
scholarly peer review can help develop publication skills, know-how, confidence and
competence.
Anyone who has received reviewer feedback on their manuscript submissions is
likely to have wondered about the reviewing process—and perhaps wondered about
the value of doing some reviewing themselves. At an intuitive level, it’s seductive
to imagine that reviewing would provide insider knowledge that might benefit our
writing and publication skills.
182 6 Disseminating Research

What’s to Be Gained from Doing Peer Review?

• Improve your writing. Critically focusing on someone else’s writing can sharpen
your awareness of your own writing foibles, idiosyncrasies and strengths.
• Develop self-editing skills. Taking a critical eye to other people’s writing helps
develop self-editing skills when you apply the same reviewing and editing
processes to your own work.
• Up-to-date knowledge. As a reviewer you get access to the latest research, trends
and debates in your field months, even years, ahead of publication.
• Publication know-how. Being inside the system as a reviewer provides valuable
insights: forewarned is forearmed. If you are aware of what a reviewer is expected
to do, what they might look for, and how they might judge manuscripts, you are
more likely to avoid such pitfalls yourself.
If you are using scholarly peer review as a strategy for learning, then seek out
those journals that circulate the comments of each of the manuscript reviewers. I have
certainly found this practice illuminating; it can be confirming to see other reviewers
identify the same issues, and informative when they attend to quite different aspects
in the paper.
How to Build Competencies for Scholarly Reviewing
As an editor of a scholarly academic journal, and as an academic author, I have come
across inept reviewers whose critiques have been unacceptable. While many people
learn by trial and error, my own view (particularly informed through my editor role)
is that it’s preferable to develop some key skills and competencies before taking on
peer reviewing for scholarly journals.
Here are some suggestions for becoming a good reviewer.
• Begin small. If you’ve been to a particular conference a couple of times, and
especially if you have presented a paper at that conference, then volunteering to
review conference abstracts can be a great way to learn the ropes. Most conference
organisers are keen to find reviewers for the hundreds of abstracts they receive.
Reviewing abstracts for conferences is generally a well-supported and manage-
able task whereby the reviewer is asked to judge a submitted abstract against
criteria such as relevance to the conference theme, theoretical or methodological
soundness, and interest level.
• Begin local. One of the best ways to build reviewer skills is to join a writing group
where members review each other’s work regularly. Writing group peer reviewing
enables participants to hone skills for identifying strengths and weaknesses in
manuscripts and articulating those judgements in respectful ways. Furthermore,
in a writing group, members can learn from reviewing AND can compare and
discuss their feedback against that of other group members.
• Find a mentor. Supervisors and more experienced colleagues can be fantastic
allies for learning reviewing practices. Having someone to talk over reviewing
experiences, especially difficulties and challenges, can be invaluable. Obviously,
high levels of trust and sensitivity are necessary to maintain the confidentiality
required of blind reviewing.
Publishing Processes and Peer Review 183

Reviewing so often happens in a vacuum, in secret, and in isolation because of

the requirements of blind review. But the very secretive and occluded nature of peer
review is exactly what accounts for some of its biggest failings—not the least of
which is the limited opportunities to find out about, discuss, debate and practise
scholarly review.
I hope some of the issues raised here provide at least some avenues for us to
begin to debunk the unnecessary mystery that shrouds the practices of scholarly
review—and, importantly, help us build good reviewing practices.

Reviewing Conundrums: Is This a MAJOR or MINOR

Revision?

Claire Aitchison

I was stuck in a conundrum—ready to submit my carefully worded review of a

manuscript for a well-known scholarly journal, but uncertain whether I should tick
‘major’ or ‘minor’ revision required. And this isn’t the first time I’ve found this
decision difficult. What might be considered a minor revision for one person could
be major for another.
In this particular example, my request didn’t require more than a small paragraph
of additional writing, plus some well-placed rhetorical sentences. In that sense I
was looking for a relatively minor change to the text—the article didn’t need major
rewriting or restructuring. There was nothing inherently wrong with the paper. The
author had a really interesting and valuable contribution to make. They had a sound
argument and had nominated appropriate theoretical and methodological frames, and
they had great data.
In essence I had two requests: I was asking for some clarification about the method-
ology which could be satisfied in one or two sentences. This was a relatively small
ask if the author was familiar with the nominated method. My second request was
that they explicitly integrate the theoretical frame they claimed to be using in their
data analysis. Now, if the author wasn’t really familiar with the theory, then in order
to respond to this criticism, they would need to do some new reading and thinking.
In this case, therefore, they would need to undertake some major work in order to
prepare the revision—even though the revision itself may only involve 200 words.
So back to my role as a reviewer—do I tick the box for Major or Minor revision
required? I checked the ‘Instructions to reviewers’ and found the information there
unhelpful. The problem, as I saw it, was that relatively minor textual changes were
required, but, depending on the knowledge and rhetorical dexterity of the author,
achieving these changes may be a major task.
Now there’s another aspect to this that, in a perfect world, shouldn’t impact on
reviewer decision making … but I suspect often does. In most of the journals I review
for, if the submission is deemed to require only minor changes, then the reviewer
184 6 Disseminating Research

isn’t expected to assess the resubmission. So, by ticking minor changes required, I
can save myself some work … and that’s a pretty seductive option for any already
overburdened academic.

Sexism, Peer Review and Critical Thinking

Cally Guerin

You may have followed the furore in 2015 surrounding the peer review of an article
submitted by two postdoctoral scientists, Fiona Ingleby and Megan Head. They
had undertaken a survey regarding gender differences in transitions from Ph.D. to
postdoc. The review they received from a PLoS ONE journal has since become the
subject of much astonished discussion—for example, see Retractionwatch (Marcus,
2015), Bernstein (2015) in ScienceInsider and Baitz (2015).
In a nutshell, the reviewer suggested that the two female authors should ‘find one
or two male biologists to work with (or at least obtain internal peer review from,
but better yet as active co-authors)’ in order to avoid their apparently ‘ideologically
biased assumptions’ and that higher publication rates by male doctoral students
might be linked to the idea that ‘male doctoral students can probably run a mile a
bit faster than female doctoral students’. Presumably, the reviewer believed that the
comments were offered as scholarly critique; most others felt they were the product
of ill-informed gender bias.
I came across this discussion when preparing to talk to doctoral students about
critical thinking. It’s a topic that some students feel has been done to death, a regular
feature in most university preparation programs. Yet it’s a concept that many students
still struggle to understand, let alone perform in their own work. It seems that critical
thinking is exactly the skill or competence expected when engaging in peer review,
just as much as when writing a doctoral thesis.
It’s fine to tell doctoral students that they need to ‘think critically’ and to offer their
own opinions on the scholarship in their field, to assess the value of what they read,
and to evaluate the arguments put forward by other researchers. But doing so is not
always easy. Despite the issues raised by the story mentioned above, the academic
journal articles students read are usually of a very high standard, having been through
a rigorous review process. That process is designed to assess the evidence and how it
was generated, and to weigh up the claims put forward on the basis of that evidence
on behalf of other readers. To some extent, then, the critical thinking of judgement
and assessment has already been done for the reader.
The most useful approach to critical thinking that I’ve come across is that by
Barnacle (2006). She provides a list of questions of the kind that we expect to see
in advice about how to develop critical thinking (drawn from the classic handbook
by Browne and Keeley, 1994/2007). But, much more interestingly, Barnacle then
broadens the concept to include the concept of critical thinking as generative, in that
it creates the conditions for proposing new theories or ideas.
Publishing Processes and Peer Review 185

And perhaps most helpful of all, she makes the point that it is very difficult to be
a critical thinker when one is a novice in the field. It is much harder to identify what
has been omitted from a discussion if you haven’t yet read very much in the field; it
is often difficult to imagine alternative points of view if you’ve only recently started
thinking about an idea. For doctoral students grappling with how to demonstrate their
own critical thinking, this can be encouraging and comforting in equal measure—it
is reasonable to assume that they will get better at critical thinking the more they
learn about their topic.
Barnacle also reminds us that becoming a critical thinker is a transformative
process and changes who we are and the way we approach the world. Critical thinking
should create scholarly communities where peer reviewers will not write the kind
of review received by Ingleby and Head; in parallel, critical thinking should also
aid researchers to respond productively when they receive reviews where ‘critical
thinking’ appears to be based on misinformation.

Scholarly Editing and Networking

Cally Guerin

There’s lots of advice to doctoral students about how important conference attendance
is for networking, but not everyone finds this easy. Personally, I’ve never been very
good at bouncing up to strangers to introduce myself, nor breaking into the tight
huddle of buddies chatting during teatime at conferences, so I can understand why
many find this daunting. I also used to think that the concept of ‘networking’ was a
touch grubby—as if it described the unpleasant schmoozing of people who were being
friendly just to see what they could get out of others. Then I realised it meant making
an effort to get to know your community, which changed my attitude completely.
As well as conference attendance, an effective way to network and build longer-
term collegial relationships is through editing—by working with others on collections
of essays. I started doing this as a postgrad and volunteered on the journal that was
published out of my department at that time. I learnt a lot about what to look for as
a subeditor or proofreader. Hopwood’s (2010) article on doctoral students as journal
editors does a great job of articulating the value of non-formal learning afforded by
this kind of academic work, and Thomson et al. (2010) also develop related ideas in
detail.
Over the years, I have also co-edited a number of book-length projects. Yes,
it can be quite a bit of work; and yes, this work is rarely acknowledged by the
formal university structures that measure output. Editing anthologies or collections
of academic papers is usually unpaid, relying on the academic ‘gift economy’ (see,
for example, Antal & Richebé, 2009). Yet I continue to do this kind of academic
writing work because it brings me other benefits that feed into the rest of my work
that is recognised by the institution.
186 6 Disseminating Research

By being involved in co-editing, I learn a lot about current research, closely

reading papers that I otherwise might not come across. It’s also a great way to hone
the skills of editing and of peer review. Noticing and articulating how papers can be
strengthened forces the reader to think carefully about the research and the writing.
Learning how to do this in a way that keeps authors on board with the project greatly
improves the standard journal reviewing practice of writing something cursory behind
the protection of blind review. It’s more like providing feedback on students’ writing
as a supervisor. Through these projects I’ve also learnt much more about how the
publishing industry works—how to put together a book proposal, how to market it,
and how to target particular audiences.
But what I value most in this has been the opportunity to develop collaborative
relationships with co-editors and contributing authors. Working alongside others,
doing something productive together, has helped build ongoing relationships. The
people involved in one project may well suggest ideas for the next; others will pass
on information about events related to the topic of the book. Gradually, a community
of like-minded academics forms to share knowledge about the discipline.
Of course, much can go wrong in undertaking tasks of editing or co-editing.
There’s the risk of offending authors by editorial decisions; of letting others down by
not meeting deadlines; of insurmountable differences of opinion about how things
should be done. So far I’ve been lucky, and have perhaps also learnt along the way (or,
more accurately, have been taught by my co-editors and authors) how to communicate
clearly in order to avoid these sorts of problems.
Nevertheless, I’d encourage doctoral candidates to volunteer to help with editing
projects, whether they are special issues of journals or edited books. There’s much
to be gained from getting involved—it’s a risk worth taking.

Co-authorship

Collaborative Writing: Practices and Strategies

Claire Aitchison

I’ve been working on a book project with my colleague. It’s been fantastic—but
intense, as we’ve worked to get a big job done on time. I enjoy co-authoring and
it’s put me to thinking more about this way of writing. Whether you are a student
or supervisor, this post might offer a framework for thinking about undertaking
collaborative writing projects.
Collaboration, of course, happens on many levels, including the initial pooling
of ideas; the rigorous discussions that result in agreements about topic, structure,
theoretical and conceptual framing; the practices of writing together and of sharing
and critiquing each other’s work; and the mundane tasks of editing, proofing and
despatching manuscripts to publishers. Here I want to talk about arrangements for
Co-authorship 187

writing collaborations and the actual practices of working with others to construct a
manuscript.
Round Robin or turn-taking on one paper. This approach sees a manuscript being
constructed over time, as each person adds to the text, building on what’s been written
by the previous author. Turn-taking usually occurs consecutively, section by section.
Authors may work to a predetermined structure or the process may be more organic
as each writer responds to existing writing. Clearly this works best when the authors
have reasonably similar ideas and approaches to the topic.
The colour-by-number or community patchwork-quilt approach. In this approach
each person writes their section independently and then the bits are assembled accord-
ing to the master plan. The master plan (the content, argument, structure and allo-
cation of tasks) may not necessarily be determined by the contributing authors. For
example, a lead author (the originator of the project) takes on running the project,
choosing and inviting contributors, allocating the tasks, determining the structure
and writing schedule.
Serial co-authoring with allocated first authoring. This arrangement works, for
example, when a group of people have collaborated on one large research project and
each person has responsibility for the production of an article arising from it. This
can be an effective use of time, requiring each individual to do the bulk of the writing
and organising for one, discrete, resultant publication. It also means all members of
the group will get their name on each publication.
Writing together. Actually writing together is my favourite kind of collaboration
but it is also the most time-consuming and labour-intensive. I have tried doing this in
cyberspace but, for me, there is nothing more enriching than physically sitting beside
my co-author and working with them to put words on the page (and to take them
off again, and put them back again, to reshuffle and rearrange words and thoughts
together).
This kind of close-up collaboration is enormously rewarding and informing.
Whenever I’ve done it, I have learnt from my colleague new ways of doing writing
as an intellectual activity, but also as a physical, tech-savvy operation. For example,
with one co-author I was always challenged to go home and read more, to think
more deeply and to return to the production desk ready to reconceptualise our work.
This week again, I’ve learnt heaps—a new way to ‘cut and paste’ and how to fix yet
another EndNote challenge. I’ve been reminded of how important it is to set tasks
for the day and to break up the heavy intellectual work with a quick walk, a decent
lunch break, a laugh and even a little chocolate!
The combination. Most of my co-authoring collaborations fit into this category;
that is, authors agree to write certain sections independently and other bits together,
but all the co-authors participate in the final readings to ensure everyone is happy
to ‘sign off’ on the document. This is the most pragmatic approach—it works
best with colleagues at a distance and combines the best features of most of the
strategies/practices I’ve listed earlier.
188 6 Disseminating Research

‘Apologies—Running Late with Draft’: Obligation

and Writing

Claire Aitchison

Writing with others brings rewards—and obligations. As academics, we are fre-

quently writing in collaboration with others: on grants, projects, books, articles and
so on. Often with multiple writing projects running concurrently, we work with col-
leagues across time and space, in our own departments or across disciplines, cross-
institutionally and internationally. We may know these individuals personally, or
perhaps not really at all. Technology has enabled all sorts of collaborations between
writers that, until recently, would have been impossibly difficult.
I am always interested in how people write in collaboration. There are endless
possibilities and permutations. What works for some doesn’t work for others. Most
collaborations are defined by time, task and obligation. Each of the collaborators
needs to commit time to the project, and most projects must be completed within a
defined timeframe.
Time can be your friend and your enemy; can be both productive and immobilising;
it can be motivational—and on the other hand, it can become the hill the project dies
on.
‘Time’ demands organisation and carries obligations. I know of one group of co-
authors who ensure writing gets done because they have one absolute rule, and one
only—when the fortnight is up, the text must be circulated. No excuses, ever. In this
group, it is absolutely obligatory to forward on the master document, irrespective of
what the responsible author has done, or not done, to progress the manuscript. Their
time imperative has been the winning formula for their ongoing collaborations. I like
this strategy: although the timeline is inflexible, there is scope for forgiveness!
It’s more common, however, to tie task to time. For example, we mostly commit
with our co-authors to do a specific writing task by a certain date; and in supervision
we mostly request students write X, Y and Z for the next panel meeting. Getting time
and task to match isn’t always easy, and there would be few writers amongst us who
haven’t occasionally failed on either score, if not both. Predicting how long a writing
task will take is challenging. We see this in supervision when we ask students to write
something we think should be a snap … and for them it’s torture! How common is
the request for an extension?
This is where I think obligation can be useful. My own view is that obligations to
meet deadlines should (in most cases) trump the obligation to complete a particular
task. Tasks can be modified, renegotiated, made more do-able, but mostly, time is
non-negotiable. Deadlines are rarely able to be modified.
I believe that working to deadlines is important—but obligations to people can
be even more powerfully motivational. I don’t like letting myself down—but I hate
letting others down. Perhaps that’s why I find myself committing to collaborations
more often than perhaps is wise. When I make a commitment to someone else, I am
more likely to deliver.
Co-authorship 189

Of course, there are times when no matter how pressing the deadline, our obliga-
tions to people need to come first. Sometimes life does get in the way, and commit-
ments can’t be kept. A certain amount of generosity and flexibility is essential for
productive, long-lasting collaborations.

What’s It Worth to You? Awarding Authorship Percentages

Cally Guerin

In the process of writing with a group of colleagues, I was reminded of the complex-
ities of assigning authorship. In particular, the question came up regarding who had
done the most important and/or the most difficult work.
Some felt that the original concept for the research was most important; others
claimed that research design was the challenging part; another felt that organising and
collecting the data were key; yet others believed the analysis of that data mattered
most; and for others, framing all that empirical data in the relevant literature and
locating it in the current debates in the field was what took creative imagination and
lots of background reading and preparation.
These issues are pertinent to doctoral candidates writing joint-authored papers in
theses by publication. At my university, a statement detailing who did what must be
signed by all authors for any co-authored chapters written as journal articles. This
is sometimes fairly straightforward if there are only the supervisor and candidate to
be named. In other situations, where to draw the line on who contributed what gets
considerably murkier.
There are some guides to working this out. The Australian Code of Conduct for
Responsible Research (2007) states that:
Attribution of authorship depends to some extent on the discipline, but in all cases, authorship
must be based on substantial contributions in a combination of:

• conception and design of the project;

• analysis and interpretation of research data;
• drafting significant parts of the work or critically revising it so as to contribute to the
interpretation.

It is possible to think that this means the three elements listed are of approximately
equal importance, though there are plenty who wouldn’t agree.
The Vancouver Protocol makes it clear that legitimate authors must participate in
all stages of:
• conception and design, or analysis and interpretation of data;
AND
• drafting the article or revising it critically for important intellectual content;
190 6 Disseminating Research

AND
• final approval of the version to be published.
But these codes and protocols tell us more about who should be included, rather
than how big their contribution might be (‘substantial’ is not very helpful in disputes
over percentages of contribution—everyone might think their work is ‘substantial’).
Researchers will place greater value on some elements of the project than others do.
I love co-authoring papers and learn from everyone I’ve written with—how they
approach their research, tips on everything from ethics applications to database
searches, and the writing processes that they find useful. Part of this learning includes
discovering where other authors place the value and importance in their writing.

Career and Profile Building

Publishing During Doctoral Study—What Are the Benefits?

or Why Would You Bother?

Claire Aitchison

In a workshop for doctoral students I asked: ‘Why would you be interested in publish-
ing during your doctorate? Given the amount of work involved and the uncertainty
of success, why bother?’
Of course, I had already prepared the usual answers to this question—that
publishing is good because it can:
• disseminate your research;
• contribute to your profession/community;
• mark your territory;
• build your public profile;
• advance your learning/thinking/research/thesis;
• develop writing skills and publishing know-how;
• build your career path;
• provide personal satisfaction;
• perhaps have financial benefits.
In the discussion, generally all these points are raised, and usually we laugh about
how unlikely one is to benefit financially from publishing. Indeed, some scholars
pay to get their work published (e.g., Schroter & Tite, 2006).
But this time, in a group of mostly international students, there was a very dif-
ferent discussion around the financial benefits of publishing during doctoral study.
One student said she had received approximately $AUD 2,500 from the Indonesian
government for each article in an international journal and $AUD 2,000 for pub-
lishing locally. Another student, from the Middle East, said he, too, received similar
Career and Profile Building 191

reimbursement from his government for publishing. The Australians, on the other
hand, were aghast—none of them stood to personally receive any financial benefit
from publishing in scholarly journals.
There is no doubt that Australian institutions benefit from doctoral student pub-
lishing. Historically, Australian universities have received government support for
publications. In addition, of course, high publication rates are equated with ‘research
output’ and build an institution’s reputation which, in turn, increases the chances of
winning grants and attracting high-profile scholars—and more doctoral students.
Some institutions reward academics directly for their publications. I’ve heard
of payments ranging from $AUD 12,000 per person per year to $AUD 1,000 per
publication. I don’t know of anywhere where supervisors receive financial benefit
for helping their students publish.
While money might be made through doctoral publication, how fairly are the spoils
being distributed? Who is receiving the benefits from the armies of writers, reviewers
and editors who mostly labour for free? And there are also other, non-monetary
considerations flowing from this ‘push to publish’.
It seems to me that the imperatives around academic publishing are skewing
doctoral scholarship and supervision, re-prioritising research choices, workloads
and pedagogical practices. For example, another student at this workshop, who had
recently arrived from China, already had one publication written and accepted. Fur-
thermore, they had deliberately chosen a research project mining existing data to
enable them to fast-track publications. Such pro-publication strategies and research
decisions aren’t necessarily problematic—but it is important to recognise potential
impacts.
In some countries, doctoral candidature includes a requirement to publish. In
Australia, most doctoral students are not required to publish to fulfil the requirements
of their degree, yet the global competition for jobs means that many feel compelled
to.
Some students are lucky enough to work in research clusters where writing for
publication is integral to the practice of research. Some students have supervisors
ready, willing and capable of supporting them. Some supervisors are able to assist
students to dovetail writing for publication with the writing of the thesis and with the
research practice itself. Some supervisors are happy to mentor students, co-authoring
with them or assisting them through the publication process. Sometimes students find
assistance outside of the supervisory relationship, for example, through courses or
writing groups.
Yet, despite the benefits institutions accrue from doctoral student publishing, I
remain surprised by how many students are left floundering—keen to write for pub-
lication but lacking the necessary support, skills and know-how. Financial incentives
are no substitute for proper institutionally sanctioned, pedagogically sound practices.
192 6 Disseminating Research

If we truly recognise the importance of publishing research—its benefits for the

knowledge economy, our institutions and doctoral researchers—then how can we best
support those who do publish, and from whom institutions benefit so handsomely?

Doctoral Writing and Career Building

Susan Carter

In giving advice on how to develop academic careers, two professors began with
stories of serendipity when external influences changed their direction, and both
spoke of their own naivety in some early choices. Much of their helpful advice
relates to viewing writing as a significant factor in developing an academic identity
that is likely to affect career progression—or non-progression.
Both professors said that good advice about career decisions was crucial for
novices. It should be actively sought from the right people. Some academics are
genuinely keen to help and others less so—find those who do want to mentor. Some
know how things work and others don’t pay much attention to that—ask people who
do know. Some welcome newcomers into their networks and knowledge and others
don’t. Novices are often reluctant to reveal ignorance of what they need to know, but
they do need to ask.
These professors emphasised the importance of writing in research careers. Doc-
toral students and those supporting them don’t always see writing as a big issue—in
my recent survey of doctoral supervisors (n = 226), several from STEM disciplines
kept insisting that my questions about writing were off track. They felt supervision
was about doing research; writing was not the issue. Their doctoral students ‘wrote
up’ after the research as a sort of mopping-up process. But doctoral writing forms the
basis for any academic career, and for any other research career that entails writing
reports. It can be valued as the driving force to steer the career trajectory.
Further advice included:
• never feel too humble to put yourself forward;
• you will need to develop strongly in teaching and service, but put your research
and its writing first; and
• focus on writing and publication, and be strategic.
Supervisors should encourage research students to publish. It is sensible for
them to collaborate to do so—this gives students the chance to leverage off their
supervisors’ higher profile. Take the time to write up conference papers and publish
them.
The Education professor advised: ‘keep writing personal; keep writing passion-
ate.’ For many, especially those in social sciences and arts/humanities, that advice
works well. A sense of personal ownership of writing and a passion for the research
can feed energy into the labour of writing.
Career and Profile Building 193

Maximising Publication Value from a Research Project

These professors recommended developing continuity, so that research feeds into
publication, and publication feeds further publication. Several well-focused articles
from a research project will be stronger than one overly full, possibly less clear
article. When a tangled article draft needs revision, one solution is to split it into two
articles.
For example, a doctoral thesis on the globalisation of sumo wrestling produced
three conference papers from a chapter on women and sumo: at sports, women’s
studies and cultural studies conferences. That one chapter had the potential for three
peer-reviewed articles. Seeking different audiences and angling findings towards
quite different discussions and arguments is helpful to productivity. Although self-
plagiarism is anathema, many well-respected academics publish more than one article
from the same research project, and, unsurprisingly, the description of methods and
framing within literature overlap. Self-plagiarism isn’t always clear cut; it makes
sense to make as much use of your work as you can.
Build a solid ‘research platform’ over a few years in an area where you can aim
for high impact as a recognised expert. Funding can make it challenging to delineate
your research platform—you need to ensure that, within funded projects, there is
a place for your niche area so that your research portfolio retains cohesion. Look
across projects for common themes for an impressive academic biography. While
funding is a two-edged sword, aim for prestigious funding and plan ahead to secure
it.
My hunch is that academics who think writing is not important maybe haven’t
recognised the skills that they have as writers: they need to do so in order to mentor
doctoral students appropriately.

Academic Selfies, Self-promotion and Other Narcissistic

Behaviours

Claire Aitchison

I was talking to my 90-year-old father about his working life in a post-war world
where opportunity seemed abundant, and where job security and predictable promo-
tion trajectories were common. My father doesn’t understand self-promotion. In his
view of the world, good work is noticed and rewarded by good managers. Blowing
one’s own trumpet is crass; modesty and humility are admirable. I’m grateful he isn’t
part of my world and will never see how we academics survive by self-promotion.
194 6 Disseminating Research

Image by Claire Aitchison

I have conflicted views about this brave new world—sometimes it seems so self-
indulgent and narcissistic. But I also recognise that there are few alternatives. The
Anglo-Christian idea that ‘the meek shall inherit the earth’ and Confucian respect
for humility, for example, just don’t cut it for job-seeking doctoral students.
In our highly competitive world, doctoral students need to keep a very firm eye
on profile building. Publishing—and not only traditional paper-based publishing—is
a central plank to constructing one’s public profile. Publishing is not simply about
disseminating research: it is also about building an image of yourself as a scholar,
promoting your work and your availability. Unfortunately, most of this promotional
work must be driven by the individual; our institutions rarely assist scholars in this
endeavour.
So, what academic selfies are available—and acceptable—for building this public
profile?
Self -citation, or citing oneself, is a traditional approach, although it’s not always
clear where, when and how much one should cite oneself. For example, a friend is
scathing about her colleague’s habit of citing his own work within the first paragraph
of his articles.
Citation circles (you scratch my back, and I’ll scratch yours) have long been used
for building a presence and getting traction within a particular community. Of course,
sometimes citing oneself or one’s colleagues is entirely legitimate, but not always
entirely innocent.
Career and Profile Building 195

Email signatures can be effectively constructed to advertise new or highly cited

publications.
Personal websites and online professional networks such as LinkedIn,
Academia.edu and ResearchGate are widely used for displaying publications, profile
analytics, and other professional achievements. A Google Scholar profile is essential
these days.
Compared to these relatively static mechanisms, the power of social media (e.g.,
Twitter, Facebook, blogging) for profile building is like dynamite. Big and loud, social
media can make a useful impact—but it can also be damaging. It is immediate and
pretty unforgiving. Social media, more than these other tools, requires you to manage
your own image-making. Blogging—public diary-keeping—is now commonplace
and it’s no surprise that doctoral scholars and researchers are increasingly taking to
this medium as readers (Tenopir, Volentine, & King, 2013) and for the dissemination
of their research (Gruzd, Staves, & Wilk, 2012). But blogs also present an image
of their authors, inviting public engagement in ways that aren’t predictable (Steel,
Cohen, Hurley, & Joy, 2012). The format, title and visuals, the choice and treatment
of topics, the style and tone all help brand the author as a certain kind of scholar.
Image making is hard-wired into social media tools, as I discovered when I signed
up to Twitter. Having agonised over the choice of name (or hashtag or handle), finally,
with the help of seasoned experts, I signed in—only to discover that Twitter then
wanted a descriptor and a photo. Weeks later, I added a descriptor—as short as I
could get away with. Not long afterwards, momentarily forgetting about the still
absent photo, I tapped out a response to a tweet, only to receive this quip: ‘I see
you’re still an egg head!’ (referring to my blank, egg-shaped portrait). So much for
my careful image making!
This relatively harmless mistake underlines how easy it is for social media to
backfire. Blogging and other social media operate like selfies—you choose and make
the image of your public self. Therein lie the benefits—and risks.
Participating in this self-promotional world is a performative act that (to a degree)
is self-indulgent, but can also be business-like and professional—and, when viewed
as reciprocal practice, can reap great rewards. Nevertheless, successful engage-
ment necessitates careful thinking about identity, image and personal/professional
boundaries.
My experience has been fun, but I recognise the central requirement to sell oneself
in such public forums can be daunting. If your objective is career-building, then
it’s worth taking a considered approach to how, where and when you will build
your public profile, and promote particular aspects of your research and professional
persona.
196 6 Disseminating Research

Other Research Genres

How Do I Write Thee? Let Me Count the Ways (with Apologies

to Elizabeth Barrett Browning)

Cally Guerin

Research students are required to write many different kinds of documents and in
many genres over the course of a degree. This can be used by doctoral candidates to
demonstrate to potential employers just what capable writers they are. One useful tool
for noticing these writing skills is the Vitae Researcher Development Framework (you
can find it at https://www.vitae.ac.uk/vitae-publications/rdf-related/introducing-the-
vitae-researcher-development-framework-rdf-to-employers-2011.pdf). This frame-
work lists, in detail, the ‘knowledge, behaviours and attributes’ developed through-
out doctoral candidature, organising them as: knowledge and intellectual abili-
ties; personal effectiveness; research governance and organisation; and engage-
ment, influence and impact. While writing appears under all these domains, the
last one, ‘engagement, influence and impact’, is the most obvious, including a
section on ‘Communication and dissemination’. Yet there is a lot of written com-
munication required of doctoral candidates before they reach Vitae’s endpoint of
‘Communication methods/communication media/publication’.
To start with, even entering a Ph.D. requires the writing literacies needed to
complete lengthy and detailed application forms. Some students find this a daunting
writing task which develops both complex positional and rhetorical writing skills
and may also teach valuable lessons in how to construct such forms in other areas of
their careers.
Then there is the task of writing a proposal. This writing must provide the right
level of detail about the project to persuade readers of its originality and interest,
and that it is do-able in the set timeframe. The writing demonstrates that the aspiring
researcher can organise the stages of the project in a logical order. Some familiarity
with discipline expectations about methods, theory and writing style will also be
demonstrated.
After that, the doctoral writer might engage in more conventional academic writing
of thesis chapters, book chapters, journal articles or textbook entries. Here they
show that they understand the expectations of the scholarly audience who might read
their work, that they can use discipline-specific language and have a command of the
field’s knowledge. Employers looking for evidence that an individual can perform
the traditional role of an academic can be reassured that this writer knows the ropes.
Writing conference presentations relies on some of this, but often takes on a more
conversational tone (though that might depend somewhat on the discipline and/or
the particular atmosphere of the conference).
Other important documents that candidates might write demonstrate further writ-
ing skills. For example, those submitting ethics applications soon realise they must
present complex ideas and projects in a manner that the ethics committee—generally
Other Research Genres 197

composed of people who are not experts in their particular research field—can engage
with. And then there might be all the attendant documents, written for participants
who are often much further removed from the academic field of research: recruitment
materials and invitations to participate in the research (emails, flyers); information
sheets; consent and complaint forms. The ability to communicate complex ideas in
ordinary language becomes essential—and can be oddly hard to do when one is adept
at talking discipline jargon. Some projects require candidates to learn the skills of
writing survey and interview questions. These need to be unambiguous; they also
need to be easy for a layperson to understand if they are to get accurate responses.
Others will write grant applications and present the significance of their work to
a well-informed, but non-specialist, audience. This is a time to promote the value of
the research, rather than a moment for modesty or humility—the tentative hedging
required in other writing has little place when important funding is at stake. And
if successful, there are likely to be progress reports required, writing that might be
aimed at an industry audience, or those whose priorities may not be identical to those
in the academy.
Then (perhaps most importantly of all?) is the written communication with super-
visors, often via email. Here, doctoral candidates learn about private writing that
needs to be appropriately professional. Sometimes this is expected to have a formal,
polite, deferential tone; other times, a casual, abbreviated note is perfectly accept-
able. Negotiating this while maintaining clear communication requires great skill
(we all know emailers who have had their messages misunderstood, potentially with
very damaging effects). Effective email writing is an asset in any workplace.
More and more doctoral candidates are also writing about their research or doctoral
experiences on social media, blogging and tweeting, or on professional academic
sites like LinkedIn. Presenting and maintaining a presence in these forums requires
a host of other writing skills and literacies to communicate effectively.
All of this writing happens before the collation of the final thesis or exegesis, a
document that demonstrates how doctoral candidates are capable of carefully proof-
reading a long document. The document must be consistent throughout, present com-
plex skills of referencing accurately, and meet the highest expectations of persuasive
argumentation and scholarship. This capacity for sustained, precise presentation is,
again, valuable for other long reports or publications.
Through these different writing experiences, doctoral writers learn how to express
their ideas clearly, how to structure material so that all sorts of readers can engage
with it, and how to design the appropriate layout of the document to indicate how it fits
together. They learn about the nuances of genre and audience—what’s appropriate,
expected and useful in a range of different writing situations.
It’s a huge list of writing skills developed through the ‘depth and breadth and
height’ of a doctoral degree; these skills can be used in many contexts outside
university departments. It’s useful to remind doctoral writers of the vast skill set
they’ve developed during candidature (and how they might present them to potential
employers).
198 6 Disseminating Research

Talking About Writing

Cally Guerin

The Three Minute Thesis Competition (3MT) displays the range of extraordinarily
talented individuals doing Ph.D.s. It’s a wonderful competition at every level—from
the local presentations in Schools and Faculties, through the University finals, and
onto the Asia-Pacific event. Ph.D. students exhibit their capacity to speak fluently
to a lay audience about their amazing projects. Watching students at every stage of
preparation has made me notice just how valuable it is to talk about what you are
writing about.
The enormous benefit of participating in the 3MT is learning to step back from
the detail of the research and think about the bigger picture. The long, intense project
of doctoral research often includes relevant and irrelevant tangents, and the task of
finding a structure for the resulting complex arguments can be daunting (in fact, it
can seem just about impossible at times!). The exercise of explaining it succinctly to
someone else is a valuable way of identifying the focus. Was it really Einstein who
said that if you can’t explain it simply, then you probably don’t really understand
it yourself? Patrick Dunleavy uses words to that effect too, in his book Authoring a
PhD (2003).
When the writing gets stuck, it is sometimes possible to talk about it to someone
else (if your listener is a little reluctant, I’ve found it helpful to do this on a long car
trip when they are trapped in the seat next to you…). After that, you can translate the
verbal explanation into a written form—preferably reduced to just a few sentences.
Going a step further, try to write the central argument, the main point you want the
reader to understand, in just one sentence. Narrowing the focus like this can make a
huge difference to creating a coherent thread of argument within a section, and also
throughout the whole thesis.
Another useful approach is to think in terms of a verbal presentation when planning
the outline for a chapter. You can imagine or actually create a PowerPoint slide show.
What are the topics for each of your slides? What order should they appear in? What
does your audience need in order to follow the steps of your argument? If you think
about the slides as representing a paragraph each, that also helps to block out the steps
of the argument. And, of course, slides are easy to move around when you realise
the sequence isn’t quite right, or to add an extra slide to make the transition clearer
from one point to the next. Imagining yourself talking to the audience encourages
objectivity about what’s actually interesting, too.
The final reason to talk about your writing is to understand that writing is really
a social activity (Lee & Boud, 2003), not something that has to happen in isolation,
locked away with a computer in a dank, dark room somewhere in the depths of a
university building. It’s all about communication of ideas, after all. You’re not doing
it just for yourself, but to get those ideas out to a wider audience in your discipline. I
have some sympathy with those who say that research is meaningless if it just stays
inside your own head—focus on communicating.
Other Research Genres 199

Writing Text for Research Posters

Cally Guerin

Recently I sat down to make a poster about the DoctoralWriting blog for a higher
education conference. I’ve made only a few research posters over the years; this
genre is more common in some science disciplines than it is in humanities and social
sciences. The exercise encouraged me to think about how this kind of research writing
differs from that of a journal article or a thesis or, for that matter, a 20-minute oral
presentation for a conference.
Poster prose is a little like reducing an 80,000-word thesis to a Three Minute
Thesis presentation: turning an article-length idea into a poster requires the author
to focus in on the key messages of the communication. Posters encourage writers
to extract the skeleton of the narrative they have developed in more fulsome terms
elsewhere, to distil the key ideas of the work into neat dot points or short statements.
This is not a time to be chatty; a poster gives us only the central message.
Some of Dunleavy’s (2015) advice on ‘How to write a blog post from your journal
article’ applies to posters, too. He recommends minimising the methods section and
literature review, and writing short paragraphs. He reminds us that it is also useful
to capture the key message in a narrative title. Unlike blogs, though, posters can
make good use of subheadings to emphasise key points, to break up the text, and
communicate ideas quickly.
In any writing, it is important to consider the audience. Do poster readers want a
condensed form of the whole thesis, or just one aspect of the work? Are they actually
much more interested in the results and conclusions than in the theoretical framework
and research methods? Perhaps some sections should be given a larger proportion of
the space than one might expect in an article. Or the poster might act as an enticing
introduction to the research, inspiring readers to seek out the full article or published
chapter where they can discover the nuances left out in the abbreviated poster form.
My own tendency when looking at posters is to start at the top left corner and read
down the columns, working towards the bottom right corner—just as I would a page
in a book. Lots of the poster templates available online encourage this format, and
many posters thus provide a condensed version of a traditional article in their form
and layout. The following example demonstrates this type of transfer from an article
to a poster. The text-based format is broken up with headings, and a few photos are
used to illustrate the subject.
200 6 Disseminating Research

This can be effective, but there’s no need to feel constrained by columns of text.
Given that we can see the whole item at a glance, it’s perfectly possible to draw the eye
to other parts of the communication first, such as a diagram at the centre of the poster,
or photographs that encapsulate the essence of the findings. The linear narrative of
an article might be transformed into a hub-and-spokes format to demonstrate the
complexity of relationships. The layout of the poster can be used to direct readers’
attention to specific parts of the communication.
Think about font size to ensure that important elements such as subheadings can
be read from a distance. Remember to check colour choices for contrast so that the
text and images are easy to read. Consider also how it is possible to draw on the
symbolic aspects of colour to support the message.
Since a poster is oriented towards visual elements rather than just the prose, it
makes sense to take full advantage of images to support the words. Some posters
can benefit from the central focus being on the images, with words playing a supple-
mentary role. For those in disciplines where conference posters are not so commonly
used, this can be both challenging and liberating. For example, Foxen (2017), a Ph.D.
candidate in Humanities at the University of Exeter, reports on her experience of very
successfully translating her research into a poster. Even if research does not generate
data in the form of tables, charts or graphs, what other kinds of visual representa-
tions are possible? Could a diagram help explain relationships between stakeholders?
Evocative images can get to the heart of arguments, regardless of the discipline. In
the process of explaining research in this visual medium, it is possible to gain new
insights into the work when seeing it presented differently.
Other Research Genres 201

Grant-Writing Season

Cally Guerin

When they have finally submitted their thesis and had the document examined, many
doctoral writers continue their academic writing life by applying for funding for their
next big research project. Grant writing is a major undertaking, requiring concise but
nuanced argument in a highly competitive environment.
The annual research-grant-writing season in Australia is always timed to occur
during the summer teaching break; instead of enjoying some well-deserved time
off, academics are flat out putting together detailed proposals, competing for part
of an ever-smaller pot of research money. As government funding has reduced and
more academics put in applications, we engage in this hugely intensive and time-
consuming activity knowing there is only a very slim chance of success. Most uni-
versities run workshops where experienced researchers and successful grant winners
offer advice. These workshops are invaluable. In this post, I’d like to add some of
my own reflections on my experience, and share some tips for other grant writers
and those helping them through the process.
Specific Grant Requirements
Funding bodies generally provide lots of invaluable information about how to fill out
the dense and complex online forms—read it! The requirements can change from
year to year, so make sure that you are up to date with the current expectations. If
your role is to help applicants, show them where to find that information so they can
check back later to ensure they have included everything and put it in the right place.
Time
The warning that it will take longer than applicants might expect does need to be
front and centre of any advice. A lot of detail must be supplied, and quite a bit of
that must be gathered from other people, especially as many big funding bodies tend
towards a general preference for collaborative rather than single-authored projects.
Checks on eligibility must be carried out, and all partner institutions might need to
approve the personnel, depending on specific grant conditions. Applicants may not
be aware of just how long they’ll need to wait on other universities, even if they have
already talked to their research collaborators about the project itself.
Readers and Assessors
Grant-writing workshops also encourage researchers to present a clearly written
outline of their proposal. It’s important to emphasise that this writing must focus
on what the reader needs to see. Just like preparing a Three Minute Thesis talk,
it’s important to avoid technical words in the summary. Grant assessors are often
generalists from the broader field of enquiry into which the proposal falls.
For those applying to large government programs, it’s also important to think
about how the proposed research might it be received by the general public if it were
to be funded—does it sound like a project worthy of tax-payers’ dollars? Within
the walls of academia, some projects are easily understood, but can look irrelevant
202 6 Disseminating Research

and esoteric outside that environment. It’s well worthwhile explaining in everyday
language why that research really does mean something beyond itself.
Word Limits
Check the word limits and stick to them from the start! Everyone believes their work
is too complicated to explain in a short paragraph, but the task is actually to refine
your own thinking so that you can be clear and succinct, focusing in on the central
points that matter most.
Budgets
Budget can be the biggest mystery for first-timers. How do you know the going
rate for employing a research assistant to set up interview appointments, or a tech-
nical expert to undertake some complex statistical analysis? If you want to send a
researcher to attend a conference or undertake fieldwork, how do you know what is
a reasonable allowance for a hotel room, travel on the ground and meals? It’s impor-
tant to discover where to find this information from the appropriate unit, such as the
finance management segment of the Research Office or, in Australia, standard rates
can be found on the Australian Tax Office website.
One particularly strong experience for me as a first-time, big-grant-writer was
the requirement to develop a fully rounded fantasy of doing the research. I had to
imagine numerous details including what will be published, what the associated
website will look like, who will do what. After weeks of intense work fleshing out
this fantasy, I felt like I’d already conducted the surveys and interviews, recruited
research assistants and participants, delivered the workshops and built the website.
At the end I found myself peering around my office and realising that I’d spent the
past week inhabiting a fantasy life—not actually mine at all! But, like writing ethics
applications, it focuses the mind on what needs doing, how, and to what purpose.
Tiresome as it can feel, there are big advantages in immersing oneself in this fantasy.

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Barnacle, R. (2006). On being a critical researcher. In C. Denholm & T. Evans (Eds.), Doctor-
ates downunder: Keys to successful doctoral study in Australia and New Zealand (pp. 95–103).
Camberwell, VIC: ACER Press.
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Browne, M. N. & Keeley, S. M. (1994/2007). Asking the right questions: A guide to critical thinking
(8th ed.). Englewood Cliffs, NJ: Prentice Hall.
Chanock, K. (2008). Surviving the reviewing process and getting published. Journal of Academic
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Deevybee. (2012). How to bury your academic writing. Retrieved from http://deevybee.blogspot.
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Dunleavy, P. (2003). Authoring a PhD: How to plan, draft, write and finish a doctoral thesis or
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Chapter 7
Conclusion

As experienced doctoral educators, we have woven our three voices together in a

collection of reflections on the practices of supporting, and doing, doctoral writing.
This book brings together discrete responses to ‘teacherly moments,’ reviewed and
critiqued collectively to be made public. From the original blog posts to the compila-
tion of this book, writing, has, for us, been a living mechanism for reflection-in-(and
on) action (Schön, 1987). It gives evidence of the value of practioner reflection in an
era of audit where reflection can seem undervalued.
But our intentions were never simply personal—we always wrote also for our
imagined community of readers, hoping to nudge, to inspire and to illuminate. Super-
visors, doctoral educators and students are already acutely aware of the challenges
of doctoral writing—to that knowledge we aimed to bring nuanced and innovative
responses. At times, we provide easy tips and take-homes; more often, there is no
short route: the reiterative cycles of words on the page, further thought, revision,
review, revision in the light of reader feedback is unavoidable. This is the challeng-
ing reality of doctoral writing, where courage, self-belief, perseverance might be
sustained by a book like this. We recognise and celebrate those necessary qualities
of doctoral writers. Our respect for them is one motivation for producing this book.
We began this collection by considering what’s involved in becoming a writer:
navigating relationships, emotions and support while also creating a textual identity;
as Kamler and Thomson note, ‘there is continual slippage between the person and
the text’ (2006, p. 15). We then explored the processes and practices that facilitate
the emerging writer’s identity. Since its origins, the blog has witnessed a sustained
interest in strategies for maintaining productivity. As we reviewed our own and guest
posts, it became clear that students and supervisors longed for more social approaches
to maintaining writing. Here we have grouped these social practices together, but we
also suggest individual actions available for supervisors and students. It is here,
considering practice, where we point to the pleasures of writing about research too.
After that, the focus turns squarely on to the page—to the craft of research writing
and the need to develop ‘doctoral level’ capabilities such as the ability to produce clar-
ity, criticality, accuracy and to fashion textual style and writerly voice. This section

© Springer Nature Singapore Pte Ltd. 2020 205

S. Carter et al., Doctoral Writing,
https://doi.org/10.1007/978-981-15-1808-9_7
206 7 Conclusion

ranges across concerns around suitable choices in the face of changing expectations
about appropriate research discourse.
Unsurprisingly, one of the largest sections of this book is about writing the thesis,
that very particular genre reserved exclusively for research study. This chapter covers
an enormous territory, dancing from explicit advice on design and structure to general
principles for critical and rhetorical writing and processes for shaping a successful
dissertation text. The thesis itself is put under scrutiny, from a holistic overview
to specific components and chapters. As supervisors and academic developers, we
(three authors and probably many of our readers) are often most drawn to support the
doctoral writer as a person, and yet inevitably the thesis itself monopolizes attention.
Nevertheless, over the last 5–10 years we have witnessed a growing demand for
knowledge about how writing into the public arena can build profiles and careers.
The final chapter responds to this and other changing requirements for writers: the
greater acceptance of diverse forms of the examinable texts and institutional pressures
to disseminate research. Thus, we conclude the book by considering this evolving
space of new genres, and doctoral publishing, peer review, co-authorship and profile
building.
Looking back over our practices and reflections, we recognise the challenges of
doctoral writing for the writers themselves and for those who are supporting their
efforts to communicate complex ideas. While research writing comes more easily
to some than it does to others, we firmly believe that scholars from all disciplines,
educational backgrounds and language groups can learn the craft of writing well.
Our aim in this book is to facilitate that learning.
Necessarily, a book is linear. Yet the dimensions of doctoral writing in its practices
and processes are anything but a clean start-to-finish trajectory. As much as this book
interweaves our individual voices and concerns, so do the topics we cover within it
interweave. Amongst the entanglement of doctoral writing, we hope that readers also
find the deep pleasures of authorship that we have experienced at times as research
writers. That is the real goal, we suggest: that doctoral writers learn how to sustain
productivity, produce clear stylish writing, and find pleasure in the prose they produce
and the researcher self they write into existence.

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Index

A Desire and writing, 4, 8, 27

Academic Writing Month (AcWriMo), 53, DoctoralWritingSIG—the blog, 3
54, 59, 60 Dropping out, 39, 40
Argument, 4, 19, 26, 31–33, 43, 45, 59, 61,
64, 71, 95, 97, 100, 101, 106, 109,
111, 116, 120, 141–146, 149, 150,
E
155, 158, 161, 162, 164, 166, 179,
183, 184, 187, 193, 198, 200, 201 Early stage of writing, 25, 155
Article-writing, 95 Editing, 21, 23, 26, 44, 45, 47, 51, 62, 63,
73, 77, 118, 120, 121, 169, 170, 182,
185, 186
B Emotion, 4, 7, 11, 18, 27–29, 35, 36, 41, 78,
Binge writing, 57, 74 80, 84, 85
Body (and writing), 30, 56, 80, 81, 83, 99, Emphasis, 4, 32, 36, 64, 93, 104, 106, 116,
117 145, 150, 164, 199, 201
Boosters. See hedges and boosters English as an additional language. See too
Boot camps for writing, 52–54, 56, 58, 84 IELTS
Epigraphs, 99, 100
Examiner, 2, 4, 24, 30, 44, 47, 87, 97–
C 100, 103, 107, 108, 113, 118–120,
Care, 9, 15–17, 23, 30, 41, 81–83, 87, 94, 99, 129–132, 138, 140, 142, 146, 149,
122, 135, 142, 157, 158, 166, 168 157–160, 164, 166–168, 172–174,
Chapter writing, 4, 28, 51, 60. Seealso Thesis 177
chapters Exemplars, 63, 97, 161
Commas, 110–112 Exercise physical. See body
Complex ideas, 94, 111, 196, 197
Concrete nouns, 97
Craft of writing, 4, 5
Creativity, 25, 55, 78, 79, 87, 151 F
Critical analysis, 1, 2, 4, 9, 99, 103, 153, 161 Feedback (from a distance will be one cate-
Critical thinking, 4, 141, 152, 184, 185 gory), 4, 7, 9, 10, 12, 14–16, 18–20,
Culture, 20, 28, 106 24–37, 53, 61, 73, 85, 88, 96, 98, 116,
142, 157, 181, 182, 186
Final stages, 10, 16, 20, 43–45, 66, 146, 157,
D 159
Defense in writing, 12, 118, 131 First person pronoun. See too pronouns

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S. Carter et al., Doctoral Writing,
https://doi.org/10.1007/978-981-15-1808-9
218 Index

G N
Gender, 107, 184 Narrative, 4, 96, 100, 106, 128, 129, 134,
General audience, 94 135, 139, 143, 147, 199, 200
’Noticing’, 64, 66, 95, 142, 186, 196
Nouns, 19, 94, 109–111, 113, 146
H
Habits for writing, 4, 12, 31, 32, 51, 56, 59,
67, 68, 70, 72, 74, 76, 78, 89, 156 O
Hedges and boosters, 115, 144 Oral examination, 118

I P
Identity, 1, 3, 4, 7, 8, 18, 25, 35, 40, 75, 80, Parental responsibility, 43, 89
81, 99, 100, 105, 106, 115, 117, 118, Part-time doctoral writers, 74
147, 172, 174, 180, 181, 192, 195 Perseverance, 2
International English Language Testing Sys- Persona, 112, 115, 118, 195
tem (IELTS), 18, 19 Physicality of writing. See body (and writ-
International students, 15, 18, 19, 40, 42, ing)
120, 136, 190 Places for writing, 47, 54, 57, 59, 70, 74, 88,
89, 179, 197
Plagiarism, 118, 120–124, 193
J Planning writing, 71. Seealso scheduling
Jargon, 64, 94, 95, 161, 197 writing
Professional help with doctoral writing
Pronouns, 105, 107, 115
L Publication, 4, 5, 21, 29, 34, 35, 38, 46, 60–
Learning advisors, 1, 9, 20, 21, 27, 29, 47, 62, 77, 82, 95, 104, 120, 123, 128,
181 140, 141, 154, 155, 161, 168, 169,
Lexicon. See word choice 171, 173, 177–179, 181, 182, 184,
Lists, 13, 38, 44, 45, 47, 59, 75, 79, 94, 99, 187, 189, 191–193, 195–197
102, 103, 112, 115, 119, 136, 137,
140, 143, 147–149, 157, 159, 169,
173, 174, 184, 196, 197 R
Literacy, 2, 18, 20, 22, 36, 37, 98, 196, 197 Reading as part of writing, 18, 39, 63, 72,
Literature review, 20, 21, 47, 64, 77, 106, 78, 96, 122, 161
132, 134, 135, 141, 142, 145, 149, Resilience, 3
153, 159, 160, 162, 163, 171, 172, Reviewing. See scholarly reviewing
178, 199 Revising writing, 85, 113

M S
Managing productivity, 4, 5, 51 Scheduling writing, 71
Managing supervisor, 8 Scholarly reviewing, 44, 182, 183
Mental health, 37, 38, 66 Self-management, 7
Metadiscourse, 61, 100, 101 Sentence length, 96
Mind map, 109 ’Shut up and write’, 34, 51–55, 88, 89
Monograph thesis, 4 Social media, 3, 11, 54, 58, 128, 181, 195,
Mother. See parental responsibility 197. Seealso social networks
Motivation, 17, 22, 40, 51, 69, 78, 81, 99, Social networks, 55
145 Social relationships. See social networks
Moves, 16, 18, 34, 40, 62, 65, 77, 84, 94, Story. See narrative
101, 109, 127, 138, 140–142, 147, Submission. See final stages
152, 156, 160, 161, 165, 167, 181, Supervisor development, 7, 122
198 Supervisor feedback, 28, 29, 33, 34, 73
Index 219

Supervisor’s perspective, 26 Virtual supervision, 28

Supervisor training. See supervisor develop- Viva. See oral examination
ment Vocabulary. See word choice
Voice, 4, 16, 18, 26, 30, 36, 45, 53, 61, 81, 93,
96, 97, 100, 101, 103–106, 111, 112,
T 114–118, 151, 158, 159, 163, 168
Team supervision, 32, 33
Thesis by publication, 5, 29, 60, 82, 95, 120,
140, 141, 168, 171, 173, 179, 189 W
Thesis chapters, 41, 109, 159, 168, 178, 196 Word choice, 4, 93, 94, 102, 105, 108
Thesis structure, 69, 140, 142, 159 Writing and identity, 1, 7, 81, 115, 192
Thesis writing as project management Writing for publication. See publication
Writing practices, 3, 4, 62
Writing productivity, 52, 54–56, 71, 73
V Writing retreat, 4, 21, 51–53, 55–58, 60, 82,
Verbs, 19, 94, 96, 97, 108–113, 146, 158 139