becoming friends with theory


I’m currently reading some theory that I’ve not read before. It’s in a field associated with mine, but the two areas are rarely brought together. I’m reading because I am wondering whether there is something in this new theoretical resource that might be helpful to my work. And this is how writing with theory usually starts. With reading.

Some theory reading is done early in the PhD. In some disciplines and for some types of research, a theoretical framework is developed as part of the proposal. And some doctoral studies are all about theoretical development and so all of the reading done early on, and later, is theory.

But when you start reading new theory, as I am doing now, it is often hard work. It’s hard for three key reasons.

  • Connection

As everything is new, you have nothing much to hang the theory onto. You have to find ways to connect the new theory with something  – empirical or theoretical – that you already know. It is this connection that will help you make sense of the new line of thinking.

The benefit of finding a connection with ‘your own stuff’ underpins the advice often given to PhDers –  first look at some papers in your field which use the theory, then go to the theoretical texts themselves. Or PhDers are advised to get one of those “Big Theorist for Dummies” books which make the connections for you, as well as translating key ideas into more accessible terms.

This is good advice, but there is a caveat. When you read other people’s versions of the theory you are interested in, you are reading their interpretations. They make connections with their stuff, not yours. So their interpretations may seem to range from very helpful to highly idiosyncratic to way-off-piste. Some of them will be clearly relevant, and some not so much. Don’t give up if the connection is not immediately obvious – just keep looking until you find the papers that chime for you.

And when you do go to the actual source – the primary theoretical writings – it is good to use your own interpretations of the material you read first and reflect back on the ways that the theory has been used by others. Your evaluation of their approach may lead to you taking a different tack – and this will then be one of your contributions.

  •  New language and ideas

Any theory that is new to you is bound to introduce new terms that you haven’t heard before. The new terminology is precisely the reason you are reading the theory – each term encapsulates a particular mesh of concepts/ideas. Some of the new language may even be drawn from other theories, so you are actually encountering not one new theory, but quite possibly a whole new family tree of thinking/theorising.

New ideas take time to absorb. You can’t bring a complex theory into your way of thinking and talking straight away. You have to live with it. Become familiar. While you are doing this, you might have to develop a bit of a glossary that you can keep handy while you are reading, so that you don’t get tripped up by a term and idea you haven’t yet conquered.

And that newness means that some of the language and ideas might feel a bit peculiar or pretentious at first. I am sure many of us have had the experience of saying particular words aloud for the first time and feeling a bit silly – particularly if we aren’t sure how they are pronounced.

But familiarity and slowness are the keys here. Taking the time necessary to work through the new material pays off.

And writing, in your own words, what you think the theory means, and then what it means for your work, can be a very helpful step in the process of becoming friends with theory.

  • Difficulty

It is often hard at the outset to pick the difference between theoretical texts that are well written but difficult to read because they are new to you, and theoretical texts that are difficult because they are badly written.

It is very easy to dismiss theoretical writing as obscure, obtuse jargon, rather than as text which has precise terms for particular ideas. It is equally easy to dismiss a text which requires you to read slowly as something deliberately dense. It is also easy to dismiss work in translation as being badly written when in reality it comes from a different tradition of academic writing than the one you are used to.

Unfortunately, the reality is that there is theoretical writing out there which is obtuse and hard to follow. So poorly written, yes. Sometimes. But equally, some of it isn’t. Good theoretical writing doesn’t stay hard to grasp. The difficulty in good theoretical writing arises from its complexity and novelty. The more you read it, and use it, and make it your own, the more comfortable the reading becomes.

And do remember that encountering new theory isn’t confined to the PhD. Dealing with connection, newness and difficulty is exactly what I’m doing now in my new reading. Wondering how it’s relevant, and how to write with the new stuff is also on my mind. This is the ongoing work of scholarship. Theory is us.

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what’s a framework? – as in, conceptual or theoretical framework


Whenever people talk about concepts or theory, they usually add on another word – framework. And ‘framework’ can be as confusing as the concept or theory word that goes before it. (Check this recent post for the difference between concept and theory.)

So what does this ‘framework’ actually mean?

It’s actually easiest to think about a frame, as we all know what one is. And then the work that the frame does.

So… Think of a house. A house usually has a frame, often built of wood or steel. This frame is a skeleton around which the rest of the house is built. The frame provides a basic structure – houses built using the same frame might vary a lot, but they still follow the same underpinning design and logics.

A house built around a frame has been pre-planned. The frame makes the plan solid. A planned house differs from a house where rooms are just added on higgledy-piggledy. That’s because the plan has a kind of logic about where things go – the bathroom here, the bedrooms there.

The layout has been designed with a particular kind of everyday life in mind. Thus, most houses – and their frames – support multiple zones of activity and there’s a pleasing flow from one area to another.

The house frame also provides stability. The frame stops the house wobbling about, keeps the roof in one piece.

Thinking about a house frame then prompts us to think about structure, stability, flow, zones of activity.

There are other kinds of frames too that are helpful to research thinking.

A picture frame is something that you put around the outside of something – the frame creates a border, differentiating what’s inside the frame from what’s outside. The frame gives the whole a finished appearance.

The picture frame has particular component parts – a rim, and a front and back cover. So the frame is a kind of solid casing which stops the contents moving about. It also allows the whole – picture and frame – to be hung, stored, stacked for instance – it completes the package.

Thinking about the picture frame also generates some helpful ideas – borders, solidity, parts which fit together, portability, wholeness.

These things – structure, stability, flow, zones of activity, borders, solidity, parts, portability, wholeness – are essentially what a conceptual or theoretical framework does for research and a thesis. A conceptual or theoretical framework provides:

  • a structure that is used to design a study, generate data and analyse it
  • borders which allow you to say what is included and what is not
  • a basis for connecting to other research, for example comparing the results generated by your framework with others
  • a linked set of parts, ideas which guide the writing and help to create the red thread of argument and
  • a potentially re-usable approach which can be duplicated with other topics and/or data.

A conceptual or theoretical framework is therefore, as you can see, a big component of what gives coherence and focus to a research project and the subsequent thesis/report/papers. It’s no wonder that supervisors are anxious that PhDers get one.

But.. there’s always a but… Different disciplines and different supervisors have different ideas about when you need to build your conceptual or theoretical framework. Different topics and different methodologies also lend themselves to different temporalities.

There are three common approaches to timing the framework, conceptual or theoretical. These are:

  1. the framework grows organically with the research – the benefit of this approach is that the framework is bespoke to the particular topic and data. One risk with this approach is that the research ends up being more like a higgledy-piggledy house that is retro-fitted with a framework that perhaps doesn’t quite work. Or that you end up with a framing which is clearly OK, but where you haven’t got quite the data you need to make it hang together and flow.
  2. you arrive at a framework somewhere in the middle of the project, when you have enough data to know what is needed but not so much that you are committed to the higgle and piggle. The benefit with this approach is that you have time to consider what might work best for your particular topic and you can make sure that you do generate the necessary data. The risks include generating at least some data which doesn’t fit and being distracted from the actual data you are generating by the continued pressure to arrive at a suitable framework.
  3. the conceptual or theoretical framework is developed at the outset of the project and is used to guide data generation as well as the subsequent analysis and writing. Two benefits of this approach are that you make sure that you have the kind of data that you need, and you have a very clear approach to analysis. A risk is that the early framing eliminates important information and becomes as much a set of blinkers as it does a support.

It is really important to consider these timing possibilities at the start of your research. If you are a doctoral researcher it’s good to talk early with your supervisor about these timing possibilities, with their attendant benefits and risks.

And do hang onto the fact that constructing a house frame or picture frame takes time and planning. A frame can’t be constructed in a flash. Regardless of when you do it, whether its made up from theory or concepts, you may have to have several goes before you get the right framing structure for your very specific work.

Photo by Devon Janse van Rensburg on Unsplash

Posted in academic writing, coherence, conceptual, flow, framework, theory | Tagged , , , , , | 7 Comments

theory fright – part two


Theory is explanation. Last post I suggested that this understanding might help to reduce fear of theory. This week, another piece in the fright reduction puzzle.

Something else that might help reduce fear of theory is the understanding that not every piece of research uses theory. But all research, regardless of its aims and objectives and its discipline, works with key concepts. And key concepts have to hang together coherently. As a framework. A conceptual framework.

Let me give you an example.

Imagine you want to research, say, how to publish a journal article – oh, hang on that’s me, let me start again. Imagine I want to research how to publish a journal article. I would have to work with concepts. I might want to see academic publishing as an asynchronous conversation. That’s a concept I’d need to explain as it’s not the only way to understand publishing. But following that, I could see a journal article as a contribution to a conversation. That second idea is easier to grasp once you get the first one.

So now I am working with two concepts – academic publishing as conversation and the journal article as one contribution to it. These two complementary concepts make a very simple framework that I can use to design my research on academic publishing. And I can also use it to underpin some writing that I want to do on how to write a journal article.

Right, but what kind of research am I designing? Here’s the rub.

If my research is simply to look at how many contributions there have been to a particular academic conversation – let’s say I’m interested in papers that are written about open access publishing – then I probably don’t need anything other than the two linked concepts I’ve outlined. Or if want to look at what kind of empirical work has been done on open access publishing and what methods have been used, I still don’t necessarily need anything more than this initial conceptual framework.

But if I decide that I want to look at rejections in open access publishing then I could decide that I need to theorise the notion of ‘a conversation’, explaining who gets to speak and who doesn’t and why. I might then call on the theorisation of a ‘discourse community’. A discourse community has norms, conventions, border keeping practices and so on. Alternatively, if I decided to look at the economics of open access publishing then I might turn to political theory related to public and scholarly good compared to profit-making. Or, if I chose to look at how peer review might work differently in open access publishing, I could call on ethical theory in order to ground a conversation about new norms of academic writing-related behaviour.

So you see, while we all research with concepts and a conceptual framework, not all research question explicitly uses theory. Whether we use explanatory theory or not is in part related to the purpose of the research  – are we interested in ‘what works’ or ‘what is’ – or are we trying to understand why something is the way that it is?

I recently saw a really clear example of a turn to theory in order to understand something – it was in the journal Teaching in Higher Education. The author, Jon Nixon, begins his paper, ‘Becoming ourselves’( 2018)  by recounting a particular interaction which took place in an interview.

In the course of conducting the study I interviewed a number of teachers and students, but the comment of one teacher in particular has stayed with me over the years. ‘It’s not just that expectations need raising ’ argued this teacher,‘ It’s that our pupils need to see that they can achieve’. Then the interviewee added:‘ There’s some sort of subtle difference there I think.’ (p. 902)

Nixon goes on to say that he has ‘pondered’ for a long time on what that subtle difference might be. He writes that the teacher’s statement raises a ‘fundamental pedagogical question: how to translate aspiration into functioning capability?

I’m sure that Nixon’s question resonates with many of us. I’m sure Nixon is not the only one to ponder over teaching in under and postgraduate classrooms.

But then Nixon goes on to say…

I have found Martha C. Nussbaum’s work particularly helpful in thinking through –and working through –that question. Her specification of what she terms the ten ‘central capabilities’ has in the past provided me with a very helpful framework, not withstanding what some would see as its colonialist and/or universalist bias (criticisms that Nussbaum robustly counters). (See Nussbaum 2000, 78–80; 2011, 33–4). Hans-Georg Gadamer’s later work on ‘applied hermeneutics’ has also provided me with some hugely important insights into what he calls ‘the primacy of the question’ in the development of understanding both within the humanities and more generally. More recently I have come across Paul Gibbs’s (2017) work on happiness and contentment, which has helped me approach the question from some interestingly dierent angles. (p. 902-3)

The paper goes on with Nixon explaining his take on Gibbs which he then brings to the question of pedagogy, and students’ ambitions.

There are three things about Nixon’s introduction that are notable. Nixon

  • makes his need for theory very clear. He wants to understand something that he hasn’t been able to let go of. It’s nagged at him, so he turns to theory to help make sense of it. This is not theory for its own sake. This is calling on theory for a specific reason.
  • makes very explicit the thing that he needs to explain. The ‘problem’ that he wants to answer is expressed crisply, briefly, and in a way that makes sense to the reader (well it did to me and I hope to you too)
  • indicates that the theory he is going to use isn’t his only choice – he has considered others. He wants to use Gibb because, he suggests, it offers something new and interesting.

These three points are very important. It is very helpful for a reader to know why theory is being used and to what ends. It also helps if they are assured at the start that the writer is using theory as a resource to think with, and they have made a conscious choice about what the particular theory they have chosen will do.

Three things. Need, problem, a deliberate choice.

That’s a good lesson for all of us I think. Be clear about when and why to turn to theory.

Now, not everyone is as clear as Nixon about why they are working with theory. You and I can be forgiven for thinking that sometimes people work with theory for its own sake.

But usually the issue we have with theoretical texts comes because writing with theory is hard. And the complexity and difficulty of writing with theory might also be related to theory fright.

And hey – that’s my next post.  Another take on theory fright. Writing.

Photo by Lucas Ludwig on Unsplash

Posted in academic writing, aims, explanation, research decisions, research question, theory | Tagged , , , , , , | 3 Comments

theory fright – part one

sam-rudkin-millichamp-619630-unsplash.jpgLots of doctoral researchers worry about the Th word, Theory. When said aloud, you can often hear the capital T. It must be important. Theory.

And perhaps because of the capital T, the question “What’s your theoretical framework?” can reduce doctoral researchers to a state of near panic.

Now, theory is a term which often gets mixed up with another scary word – concept. Sometimes people use them interchangeably. Or they bracket the two together in a way that suggests there is a difference – as in “What’s your conceptual or theoretical framework?” – but then don’t explain what the difference is.  Nor do they say whether it’s better to have a theoretical or a conceptual framework!

Doctoral researchers frequently worry that they don’t yet have what’s required – Theory and/or framework – or they worry that they don’t have a good enough grasp of the theory or framework they have. They are concerned that they will be found out, found wanting. Or they worry that they have made the wrong theoretical choice and someone will notice.

If you worry about Theory, strap yourself in now, because we’re going to talk about theory for the rest of this post. And the next one.

You see, the first thing in countering theory fright is to understand what a theory is.

A theory is just a way of explaining, of saying how things relate to each other, why they are the way that they are, and how they relate to other things.

Explaining, that’s not so terrifying. Most of us use theories all the time in our everyday lives as we make sense of the world. And we use concepts too. Let me take a pretty prosaic example – a seat belt.

As we all know, a seat belt is a couple of straps. They fasten around your body to stop you lurching forward when the car stops suddenly.  The term seat belt is a kind of shorthand; we can generally say seat belt to someone without having to explain what it is.

Now a seat belt is also a concept – it was something a designer dreamt up and was probably even initially called ‘a new concept’ in car safety.

But if you wanted to explain how a seat belt actually worked, you’d draw on some theory. You might say for example that your body keeps going forward even after the car has stopped. And you could make this statement more Theory-like by referring to something more general and abstract like, say, the work energy principle and conservation laws. These two theories draw on and link together multiple concepts – work, energy, power and conservation.

Here’s another example – textwork/identitywork. This term is something Barbara and I literally cobbled together to save us having to consistently explain one of our key ideas about academic writing. We used textwork/identitywork in our books as shorthand to stand for the idea that scholars form a scholarly ‘identity’ – who they are and what they stand for – through their writing. So textwork/identitywork is a concept.

But when we wanted to explain the concept, to say how and why it is that writing is a way of forming an identity, and how and why writing is framed and limited, then we had to turn to theory. More than one theory as it happens. We had to bring theories together in ways that made sense of our textwork/identitywork concept. We had to draw on theory about identity, and theory about text.

And if you were to go back through our books – and I’m not suggesting that you do – but you would see that, while we consistently use the idea of textwork/identitywork, we have different ways of theorising it. In fact we’ve used three different theories in three different books to explain the one concept.

Now, before you say that we were just indecisive, let me say in our defence that we used different theories to highlight different aspects of the concept textwork/identitywork. If we were talking to doctoral researchers about why academic writing was the way it was, doctoral researchers who weren’t familiar with social science, we often used ‘communities of practice’. The theory of communities of practice draws attention to what people do and who they are within discipline communities. Sometimes we used the idea of discourse to connect writers and writing with questions of subjectivity, power and knowledge. But if we wanted to emphasise the capacity of the writer to make decisions about their writing, we chose to talk about identity theory which focuses on the writer, text and audience. Depending on who we were talking to, and what we were trying to do, we drew on different theoretical resources.

Theory. Horses for courses.

And just to make things even more complicated, it’s important to recognise that not all theory is the same. Theories are of different orders, and they have different status.

Let’s go back to the seat belt.


Let’s say that the theory that explained the seatbelt was the work energy principle; this is a ‘little’ theory which is part of a much bigger theoretical framework. This ‘little’ theory is generally agreed by the scholarly scientific community as the best explanation possible for particular, observable phenomena – bodies continuing forward after the car stops.

And it is an explanation, a theory, that hasn’t yet been replaced by a better one. ( I’m anticipating that someone is going to tell me in the comments of the debates about Newtonian physics, and that’d be all good because it would support the notion that theories aren’t writ in stone, they can change. Theories are plausible explanations that we accept at the moment.)

But when we get to very complex phenomena, where bigger and more ambitious explanations are needed, theories are often highly contested. There is no agreement about the best approach. People think of examples that don’t fit the theory. Theoretical explanations are, we might say, partial.

So if we were to examine a theory about the nature of reality – string theory for instance – we would find an explanation which doesn’t cover all circumstances and isn’t accepted as being good enough. String theory is still being worked on, worked over and worked out – and may at some point be abandoned altogether for simply not having enough explanatory capacity.

And in social science and the humanities, theory is generally of this less agreed kind – it is contested and partial. That’s because people and social life are complex. And because of this complexity, scholars have invented a variety of theories to explain social phenomena, to explain the world. Different disciplines can have very different takes on the same thing. So, it’s not at all unusual to find, in the social sciences and humanities, theories being subject to debate, development and change.

And because a theory used in research might be one of the many possible, doctoral researchers usually have to discuss their approach to theory, and write about theoretical debates, in their thesis. They may even, as Barbara and I did, use more than one theory at a time, or choose a partial theory despite its limitations.

The important thing is not to see theory as Theory – something mysterious, something arcane, beyond the understanding of most people.

A theory is just a particular explanation with a history and loads of applications. Theory is simply the best we can do with the data we have in hand.

It is of course important to think about what you are trying to explain and why it is important to explain. What difference does it make to your research and your claim to a knowledge contribution to have a good theory to offer?

And on that question, I’ll leave off till the next post.

Photo 1 by Sam Rudkin-Millichamp; Photo 2  by rawpixel, both on Unsplash

Posted in academic writing, concept, explanation, theory, theory chapter | Tagged , , , , | 6 Comments

getting to grips with ‘the paragraph’


I was recently asked how I felt about paragraphs. “Well you know, all the feels” I might have replied. But I didn’t, largely because I don’t usually think about the paragraph. The question made me wonder whether I take the paragraph for granted.

Paragraphs sit way below my consciousness a lot of the time. But paragraph awareness rises to the surface when I am reading something where the writer doesn’t appear know what the paragraph is. I pay attention to paragraphs when I expect to see them and they aren’t there. I notice their absence rather than their presence.

A caveat. I don’t expect to see a paragraph if I am reading a text intended to break the conventional academic prose mould. Something that is written evocatively, or as a montage or as prose poetry or as a stream of consciousness. It would be silly to expect deliberately ‘artful’ prose to follow the same conventions as your ‘standard’ academic English. Nor do I expect to see paragraphs of a uniform length. Paragraphs can be of varying lengths, even, on occasions, single sentences.

But I am always jolted when I see a page – or more – of academic writing that isn’t broken up somehow. Broken up into, yes, paragraphs.

So what is it about the mega-paragraph that alarms me?

Well, it’s not simply that it’s easier for the reader -me – to engage with the writer’s ideas if the prose is subdivided.  That’s certainly true. But I also get concerned because I have come to associate the monster paragraph, particularly in academic writing, with a muddle of ideas.

As a frequent reader of theses and academic papers, I understand that an over-inflated paragraph isn’t usually the result of a writing problem. It’s not that writers don’t know the basic principles of composition. That they haven’t a clue what a paragraph is. Well, yes, occasionally that might be the case. But more often than not, the swollen and distended paragraph comes from a writer who doesn’t quite know what they are trying to say.

The elongated paragraph very often signals a writer not yet able to choreograph the development of an overall idea. We might say that lengthy paragraph writers have a thinking-writing – not a technical-writing – problem.

Puffed up paragraph writers have got all of their stuff together, but they don’t yet know which of the bits they’ve accumulated are more important than others. They don’t yet know what order the bits should come in. They can’t construct the steps which lead the reader through their argument. They have no red thread, as my Nordic colleagues would say.

And it’s each one of the steps which should constitute each one of the paragraphs. Every separate paragraph is a move towards the overall idea.

The most common way to think about the paragraphs used in academic argument is to see them as made up of three elements:

  • A sentence at or near the beginning which presents the step in the argument. This is often called a topic sentence because it states what the paragraph is about – its ‘topic’.
  • A set of sentences which explain, evidence and qualify the topic. As the very orthodox  Strunk and White put it, He (sic) may make the meaning of the topic sentence clearer by restating it in other forms, by defining its terms, by denying the converse, by giving illustrations or specific instances; he may establish it by proofs; or he may develop it by showing its implications and consequences. In a long paragraph, he may carry out several of these processes.
  • A final sentence which re-emphasises the topic in some way, often through a consequence, and which leads on to the next step.

Now, if you google ‘paragraph’, you’ll find lots of different mnemonics for these three elements, all of them designed to help writers with the conventional academic paragraph. I quite like the acronym MEAL – I’ve found it helpful for anyone who doesn’t ‘get’ the paragraph:

  • Main idea: A sentence which introduces the concrete claim made in the paragraph
  • Evidence: Support for the claim made as the main idea
  • Analysis: Explanation and evaluation of the evidence for the claim
  • Link back/Lead out: Conclusion of the idea and preparation for the next step

But, as I said, there’s lots of ways to talk about paragraphs, and you need to find the one that makes most sense for you. And I’ll repeat the caveat here too – not all types of academic writing use this kind of paragraphing – it is a very ‘English’, read white Western, way of thinking about academic argumentation.

However, paragraphing is important for many of us. Academic readers expect to see them. So that makes them something to consider. But for me, the first point of knowing about paragraphing is not about mnemonics, but about the writing.  You see, we writers can use our understandings of the paragraph to help refine both our drafting and revising.

Because the paragraph is a lens through which to manage the thinking-writing, the development of ideas, it can be very helpful to:

  • Use topic sentences to plan a section of writing

Rather than simply writing a bullet point list of the ‘stuff’ you are doing to write about, use topic sentences as your outline. This may mean that you have to generate a bullet list first, and then turn it into topic sentences. And in turn, this may mean that you have to do some re-ordering. And you may find yourself sub-dividing some bullet points into smaller points and sentences. Hooray. It is at the very point where you subdivide a bullet point that you lessen the risk of writing giant, muddled, page long paragraphs your reader can’t make head nor tail of. And once you have the topic sentence of each paragraph sorted, you can then write your paragraphs according to the MEAL moves – or not.

  • Use topic sentences to revise your draft

List the topic sentences that you have already written in your draft. The start of each paragraph. Once you’ve got them listed you can see whether they are in the right order and/or whether any steps are missing. Do the topic sentences in themselves make a coherent and logical argument? What needs to be done to make the steps in the argument work? This process is sometimes called making a reverse outline.

Just in case you do find yourself writing pages of stuff without any paragraphs, you might like to try these two strategies to see if they help. Stop and topic sentence. Or read through and extract the topic sentences as a check.

Do that and readers like me won’t be aware of your paragraphs when they read your revised writing.

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Posted in academic writing, argument, drafting, outline, outline by sentences, Outline move, paragraph, revision, revision strategy, topic sentence | Tagged , , , , , , | 1 Comment

revising with a reader in mind – ten questions


Academics write for different kinds of readers. We are often accused of writing only for each other, but this is no longer true. Many of us now write for many different kinds of readers – or audiences, as they are sometimes called.

But you know, even when we do write for each other, we are not all the same. Different academic readers have different expectations, experiences, interests and disciplinary traditions. And while all academic readers will be looking to see that your writing is well evidenced and argued, they may also approach your writing differently. An examiner, a reviewer of a niche journal, a more general interdisciplinary audience interested in the book of your thesis, or readers of an academic blog may each be looking for slightly different things from your writing.

So, when revising your first draft, one of the key thing to consider is – your reader.

You probably wrote the first draft largely for yourself. You had to get the ideas out onto the page and in roughly the right order. You made decisions about structure and perhaps style.  You put in the kinds of examples and supporting literatures that were to hand and which seemed most relevant at the time.

But now, now it’s revision time – time to re-read your first draft thinking about your reader.

Imagine that reader. Are they your supervisor? An examiner? A journal reviewer? A book publisher you hope will sign you on? Before you even start re-reading your work, it might be good to make a list of the things you think your particular reader will expect to see. Use this list as a ‘critical lens’ for re- reading your work.

Now, you don’t have to make up your re-reading list entirely on your own. I can offer a bit of help about some of the kinds of things you need to look at. Here’s a start – some general pointers that most academic readers look for in more formal texts – theses, papers, scholarly books and chapters.

These pointers are of two kinds. Two because there are two things that academic readers generally notice – what the writing is about, and how the text is written. So it’s important that when you read-like-your-reader you look for both of these things.

So here’s my list of ten points to check out for your reader.

Reading for your reader – the substantive content

(1) Purpose

  • Do you make it clear to the reader right at the start why they should want to read your writing? ( see warrant)
  • Have you an explicit statement about what you are writing about and why it matters?
  • Does your title state what the writing is about? ( see title)

(2) Point

  • Do you have a clear point that you want the reader to understand? Is this signalled in the title?
  • Do you set up the introduction so that the reader knows the point is to be explored and argued in the writing to come?
  • Do you succinctly summarise – crunch – the point at the end of the text?

(3) Comprehension

  • Do you provide enough information about the context for the reader to understand your argument?
  • Do you provide explanations about any key words and code words that you have used?

(4) Credibility

  • Have you provided enough evidence for your reader to trust your argument?
  • Have you anticipated multiple perspectives? Have you thought about the kinds of objections or counter arguments your reader might make?
  • Will your reader see how you have located yourself in the field?
  • Do your citations signal that you are familiar with the field and its concerns? Do they suggest that you are narrowly or well read?
  • Do your citations match your aims –  for example, are you wrtiting for an international audience and only citing from your location? Are  you writing about social justice and citing only white men with the same cultural positioning?

(5) Connection

  • Does the topic you are discussing connect with your reader’s interests?
  • How do you signal this in your introduction, discussion, examples, citations?

(6) Authority

  • Will the reader find you in the text?
  • Will they see the stand you have taken and argued for? (See hedges)

Reading for your reader- the text you have presented

(7) Map

  • Do you provide a map for the reader so that they know what is coming up? Most academic readers in English language traditions expect to see signposts to the organisation of a paper or chapter or book right at the start.
  • Does the paper have a clearly recognisable structure? ( see IMRAD and its others)

(8) Guidance

  • Do you provide enough guidelines for the reader throughout the text?
  • Do your headings and subheadings work to show the reader what they are about to encounter?
  • Do you need to restate where you are up to at any point (where, how often) and anticipate what is coming up?

(9) Tone

  • Are you using the level of formality the reader expects? Have you been too casual? Have you used lists and questions appropriately?
  • Are there any points where you have been sarcastic or humorous  – and will your reader get the joke? Are you at the right level of seriousness?

(10) Readability

  • Do you have too many long sentences with lots of clauses and modifications? Or very short sentences? Remember that sentence variety helps your reader to stay awake.
  • Is there a lot of passive voice and very complex language (nominalisation? )
  • Do your paragraphs each address one idea?
  • Do reader fall down a crevice between some paragraphs? (Look at transitions and the argument’s red thread. Try a reverse outline to pinpoint the problem)

And there it is. A starting list of ten things an academic reader might look for in your text.

There are more than this ten – take a deep breath – because of course, you do need to particularise this list so that it suits the specific reader that you are writing for. But it’s worth taking the time to go through the list thoroughly. You may have to read your draft several times. And don’t worry if you do, re-reading your draft from several angles is A Good Thing to do.

However, the time put in now, the time spent anticipating your reader, will mean that your actual reader, when they get your revised text, will be able to spend time enjoying what you have to say.

So now let’s get ready. Sharpen that pencil, print out your draft – and revise for your reader.

Photo by Tim Wright on Unsplash

Posted in academic writing, audience, reader, readership, revision, revision strategy, thesis revision | Tagged , , , , | 3 Comments

from description to analysis – a revision strategy


PhDers are often told by their supervisors that their work needs to move from description to analysis. But what does this mean?  Have you just wasted your time doing all that describing? Well, in short, no.

The good news is that most analysis, whether it is of numbers, words or images, starts with description. You have to write long, in words, what you think you actually have in hand and what you now know.

Description is usually concerned with what some people call “facts and figures” – this is possibly not the most helpful term. Let me try another approach. Description is usually concerned with your data and particular information you’ve selected – information that’s necessary to develop an answer to your research question.

And the description of your selected data/information could be about:

  • what happened, when and to who/what;
  • what something looks or feels like;
  • a series of events;
  • an explanation about how something was or might be done;
  • a summary of a text;
  • a list of something (components, options, methods, theories etc)
  • a timeline;
  • a set of themes or key words;
  • a sketch of important details…

Description of these kinds of data allows you to become clear about what ‘stuff’  you have.  It’s a necessary, but not sufficient, step.  Now you just need to take another one in the process of making sense. Analysis moves on and away from your description.

Here’s a tip that might help you to do that. Imagine your analytic self taking a step back, metaphorically putting on an evaluative hat, and looking again at the description you’ve written to see what can be made of it. Your analytic self picks out the larger shapes in the landscape, moves beyond the detail. ( As per the image at the top of this post.)

In order to find bigger patterns, your analytic self approaches your description with a question – or two or more – in mind.

And, where do these questions come from? Well, you may need to go back to your research aims and objectives, or to your reading, in order to help you work out what you want to know from your description. But I can offer a bit of help.

Common analytic questions include:

  • Who is this person? What makes them the way they are? How have they got to be life this? Why do they do what they do?
  • How does this text work? What is communicated through word, number and image?
  • What claims are made in this text?
  • What reasons and evidence are provided in this text? Are they plausible? Trustworthy? Current? Decontextualised? (etc)
  • What are the key elements of this process? (without these it won’t work)
  • What sequence of events lead to this outcome?
  • What caused this to happen? What was most important and what was of secondary importance?
  • What larger patterns are in this description of data?
  • What is most significant here?
  • How do things (in the description) compare with each other? What seems to be most important about the differences/commonalities?
  • What are the strengths and weaknesses in this/of this?
  • What does this add up to?

You can see that these questions go to bigger and more abstract ideas – core qualities, principles, underpinning processes, causality, key characteristics, evaluation. It’s these larger abstracted patterns that we produce through analysis.

Now, I’ve made that sound simple. But of course it’s not.

Description often feels like a pretty low risk activity. You’re summarising what’s already there. But analysis is jumping into the unknown. No-one has analysed precisely the same set of descriptive data as you. And it’s down to you to make sense of it. Yes, it’s all yours to sort out from here on in.

Asking analytic questions means that your analytic self has to be brave, let go of the certainty of description and make your own judgments. Obviously you can be guided in those judgments by your reading, and discussion with your supervisor. And if you work in a team, then your team is likely to do some analysis together and check out each other’s interpretations.

But ultimately it is you – your analytic self – who moves away from the safety of the descriptive known and moves into a new knowledge territory. You have to decide what you can draw out of your description.

And then it’s revision.

You’ve got your first draft. It took you ages and it’s great that you’ve done it. But you know its not enough. You now want to find any troublesome descriptive places before your reader/supervisor.

Your revising self needs to look for all the spots where you have described something: what happened when and to who/what; what something looks or feels like; a series of events; an explanation about how something was or might be done; a summary of a text; a list of something ( components, options, methods, theories etc); a timeline; a set of themes or key words; a set of important details… Ah, deja vu. it’s the same list as before. But there’s a point to repeating myself .

Ask yourself now, when you see one of these descriptions in your draft, whether it’s OK or not. Is this a place where some further analysis would be helpful.

Ask yourself – Do I need to do more work on this before I go on to offer an explanation? Is this description sufficient for me to answer my research question fully? Are there big patterns here? Principles? Causes? Qualities? Processes? Evaluative judgments? What can I do to this description to get to the point where I can make claims about my results? Should I leave my description in and add analysis, as in ethnography, or change the description to analysis – what would help the reader most?

And if the answer is I can do more, I need to do more? Well, when the time is right, switch from revising self into analytic self and move on….

Photo by Droneflyer Nick on Unsplash

Posted in academic writing, analysis, crappy first draft, data analysis, description, empirical analysis, revision, revision strategy | Tagged , , , , , | 5 Comments