On Teaching Writing

Posted by Helen Kara

quill pen writing woman I love to teach writing. I have taught writing for research in various contexts: to voluntary sector practitioners, statutory sector managers, and postgraduate students. Next weekend, for the first time, I will be running a writing course for doctoral students with Katy Vigurs at Staffordshire University. I can’t tell you how much I’m looking forward to this – I’ve had so much fun already, just doing the preparation.

There is a school of thought that considers writing can’t be taught. I’m afraid I think that’s utter rubbish. For sure, there’s an element of ‘you can lead a horse to water, but you can’t make it drink’, as the saying goes. Ultimately, however much teaching someone has, there comes a point where they have to get on with the writing for themselves – and there are people who continually struggle at that point. Writing is particularly hard, I think, for people who don’t like writing but have to do it anyway. I’m lucky that I like writing, and I’m confident I can pass on some ways to make it less onerous and more fun – or at least more productive.

Writing isn’t easy to teach, and it’s difficult to learn, but there are lots of tricks of the trade which the more experienced writer can pass on. Some people can learn from written advice, whether on blogs like that of the estimable Pat Thomson, or in books by people like Pat or Rowena Murray. But for many, there is no substitute for time in a classroom with a group of other learners and a skilful tutor or two.

I learned a lot, years ago, from attending courses myself. I went on three Arvon courses, and a doctoral writing workshop at the University of the West of England (UWE). Two of the Arvon courses focused on novel writing and were useful for my fiction work. The other Arvon course, and the workshop at UWE, both focused on the permeability of the boundary between fiction and non-fiction, and the way some writing techniques can be used for both.

I attended these two courses during my doctoral studies and they were inspirational. I’d already been grappling with ideas around truth versus authenticity, the function of creativity in research, and the role of storytelling in human communication. I had read Sol Stein’s book Solutions for Writers: Practical Craft Techniques for Fiction and Non-Fiction which also suggests that fiction writing techniques can benefit non-fiction writing, and vice versa. This concept has been a huge influence on my work ever since. I have written about it in academic journals and books, and now I’m going to teach it, properly, for the first time.

Among the learning outcomes I’ve set for my students are: writing non-fiction is a creative process, writing is hard even when you’re skilled and experienced, and thinking and writing are inextricably linked. I have also promised them that they will come away from the weekend with between 1,000 and 5,000 new words of their thesis, depending on how far advanced they are in the process. The group includes students at every stage, from those who have only recently begun to those in their final months. I would expect students to write more slowly at first, more quickly in the later stages.

They will be doing creative writing exercises. Not just for fun, though I hope there will be some of that too. The exercises are designed to teach students about overcoming resistance to writing, the purpose of rewriting, how writing helps thinking, and voice. There will also be a number of ‘shut up and write’ sessions where we will all write together, as well as plenty of time for questions and discussion, not to mention cake. And in the evenings we will, as writers often do, patronise a nearby hostelry.

It may be a working one – but I am so looking forward to the weekend!

Putting Research Ethics Into Practice

Posted by Helen Kara

ethics Doing research ethically is not about finding a set of rules to follow or ticking boxes on a form. It’s about learning to think and act in an ethical way. How ethical an action is, or is not, usually depends on its context. Therefore, everything must be thought through as far as possible, because even standard ‘ethical’ actions may not always be right. For example, many researchers regard anonymity as a basic right for participants. However, if your participants have lived under a repressive regime where their voices were silenced, they may feel very upset at the thought of being anonymised, and want any information they provide to be attributed to them using their real names. In such a context, claiming that they must be anonymised because of research ethics would in fact be unethical, because it would cause unnecessary stress to your participants.

In my role as ethics lead for the UK’s Social Research Association, I’ve been helping a group of people from the Academy of Social Sciences who have been developing some common ethical principles for social science. This has involved a long and multi-faceted consultation process, during which a number of people spoke in favour of ‘virtue ethics’, or the idea that a good person will be an ethical person.

I fundamentally disagree with this position. As demonstrated in my last post, we are all subject to cultural conditioning which is bound to influence us as researchers. We are also all vulnerable to cognitive biases such as confirmation bias (giving more weight to views or phenomena that support what we already believe) and hindsight bias (seeing events as having been predictable when they happened). Given this, it doesn’t matter how virtuous we are, we’re not going to be as ethical as we could be if we put some simple steps in place.

The first step is to acknowledge, and try to identify, your own cultural conditioning, and to learn about the cognitive biases that may affect you. Although we’re notoriously bad at identifying our own cognitive biases, we are better at spotting other people’s, so if you’re working with others it can be helpful to look out for each other’s biases.

Then articulate the value base for your research. If you’re working alone, you need to devise this for yourself; if in a team, produce it collectively. And don’t just write a list of words; think through the meanings of the values you choose. For example, if you want your research to be ‘honest’, what does that mean in practice? We all tell lies all the time, even to ourselves, and research is no different. For example, researchers think it’s perfectly OK to lie in the interests of maintaining participant confidentiality. So if you want your research to be honest, you need to consider how honest you think it can actually be.

Try to identify your own assumptions. While it’s important to try not to make assumptions about other people, research is usually based on some assumptions, and it helps to act ethically if you know what these are. For example, are you assuming that your research is not intrusive? Or that it will be as high a priority for others as it is for you? Are you assuming that your sample is representative? Or that your data is accurate? Why are you making each assumption? What are the implications of your assumptions for your research?

Grounded theorists Strauss and Corbin suggested watching out for absolutes as a useful way to guard against biases and unhelpful assumptions. So if you find yourself, or a participant, using words like ‘never’ or ‘always’, or phrases like ‘couldn’t possibly’ or ‘everyone knows’, take time to work out what is behind the statement. You may well discover an obstructive bias or assumption, and then you can begin to search for a way to counteract that bias or assumption.

As social scientists, we try to include a wide range of people as research participants, but we can forget to take the same approach to literature. So another step is, when you’re reading, try to find relevant work by people with different backgrounds and perspectives from yours. This could include people from different nationalities, disciplines, genders, professions, and so on. Then, when you’re writing, try to draw on the work of a wide range of people too – though only if that work is relevant and worth citing, otherwise you are being tokenistic which is not ethical.

It is of course impossible to write a full set of ethical guidelines in a blog post. However, following these suggestions will lead you to a wider, more fully ethical approach to your research. If you want to delve further into the whys and wherefores of ethical research, there is plenty of material online. Here are some useful links:

Economic and Social Research Council (ESRC) Framework for Research Ethics – the ESRC is one of the UK’s biggest research funders, and this Framework was updated in January 2015.

The Research Ethics Guidebook – actually a website with a wealth of information, linked to the ESRC principles.

Association of Internet Researchers Ethics Guide – a wiki containing useful pointers for doing ethical research online.

Who Might Your Next Co-Writer Be?

Posted by Helen Kara

Have you ever done any collaborative writing? If so, you might recognise one or more of these co-writers. And if not, this will help to prepare you for the collaborators you may meet.

The One Who Works From Home: ‘I know I said I’d do it today, but Annie is off school sick so she needs my attention quite a bit. Our electrician’s here doing something important, apparently, but he keeps asking me to make decisions about plug sockets and things. I must make a dent in the laundry mountain, Annie got through two sets of bedding last night, then I’ll try to get to our draft if she and the electrician will leave me alone for a minute.’

The Global Networker: ‘The problem is, I’m doing a keynote in Helsinki next week, then after that I’m chairing in Jo’burg, then there’s the convocation in Boston. Straight from there to Rio, where I’m chairing again, then another keynote in Sydney. Not sure after that, can’t think that far ahead, but I suspect it’s more of the same. So it may be a while before I’m able to look at our paper, but I’ll do what I can.’

The Amazingly Unrealistic: ‘I know I took on more teaching this year but I didn’t realise that would mean lots of preparation and marking, I can’t believe how long it takes, and all the meetings! I simply don’t have time for anything else. So I won’t have time for our paper till the holidays, but I’m sure I’ll be able to get it done while I’m with the family at Center Parcs or else while we’re in Austria ski-ing.’

The Poorly Poppet: ‘It’s this back spasm, it’s agony, I can’t get up off the floor so it’s really hard to use the computer. I’m writing this on my phone, though I shouldn’t really be using that with my eyes the way they are, they hurt like hell, I’m sure I’ve got a migraine starting, or maybe it’s a brain tumour. I simply can’t work at the moment but I’ll be back to our paper as soon as I’m on the mend, I promise.’

The International Fieldworker: ‘I’ve come into the city and I’m in this hotel where I can buy wi-fi for an hour, honestly the price is exorbitant, must get through all my emails if I can. Then I’m off back to the village, won’t be on line again for a fortnight, sorry, I really am committed to this paper but there’s no electricity in the village let alone an internet connection so I’m going to be late with my draft.’

The Very Important Person: ‘I got a bit tied up in Brussels with Kofi, then Angela wanted a hand with her new strategy, and now I’ve had a summons from the White House which is such a drag but I’ll try to get something done on the plane.’

So what about you, Helen, you might well ask? Are you Dr Perfect, then?

But of course! And I doubt that endears me to my collaborators, either. Here’s how I think they would describe me:

The Insufferably Irritating: ‘Well of course I met my deadline.’ *folds arms, taps foot, looks smug*

Writer’s Paralysis

Posted by Helen Kara

All sorts of things can cause paralysis in a writer – failure, success, a blank page – but at the root of each, I think, is fear. Writing is scary, partly because it has an alchemical relationship with thinking which is poorly understood. Through writing, you can learn things you didn’t know before, and that includes things about yourself. fear of writing Those things can be uncomfortable, upsetting, daunting. No wonder so many people are scared of writing to the point of paralysis.

This even happens to experienced writers. It happens to me. It’s been present over the last couple of weeks, since my previous blog post was picked up by the LSE Impact Blog and was widely circulated on Twitter. How can I follow that, I thought? What should I write next? I’ve been completely unable to decide: I started one post, then another, but nothing seemed right.

I remembered a young man I encountered a while ago who was determined that every year of his life should be better than the last: more fun, higher achieving, superior in every way to the previous year. So far, he’d managed it, and he was convinced he could continue in that vein for the whole of his life. Only if you die young, I thought to myself, but I didn’t say so; it would have been a shame to shatter his illusions. But I don’t believe it’s possible. If he lives long enough, a year will come when he gets his heart broken, or someone very important to him dies, or he is diagnosed with a crippling illness – or just has a mediocre year. That’s life. Ups and downs. fear of writing overcome

And that’s the writer’s life, too. Thinking about that young man, I understood that in a way I was trying to emulate him, and it wasn’t possible. Then I realised afresh what in fact I’ve known for many years: the only cure for writer’s paralysis is to write. Don’t give in to the fear. Put some words on the page. It doesn’t matter how good or bad they are – that never matters – the point is to have some words to work with. Forget the failure and the success: cover that blank page, and the fear goes away. Never completely, at least not in my experience, but the more you write, the more you can keep it at bay.

Peak Research Experience

Posted by Helen Kara

Sometimes my career as an independent researcher delivers ‘ beyond my wildest dreams’ experiences. Last Tuesday was one of those times.

I spent much of last year working as independent research adviser to a national Commission on the Future of Third Sector Infrastructure, set up and resourced by NAVCA. For those outside this field, the ‘third sector’ includes charities and social enterprises, community groups, co-operatives, community interest companies, and so on – everything that isn’t the ‘private sector’ (profit-making companies for personal gain) or the ‘public sector’ (tax-funded public services). The ‘infrastructure’ of this sector is made up of the organisations and functions that support charities, community groups, and other organisations in setting up, managing, and when necessary winding down their businesses. This is particularly important for charities which, in the UK, must all – by law – be run by groups of unpaid volunteers. As there are over 160,000 officially registered charities in England and Wales, and over half of those have an annual income of £10,000 or less, most are not in a position to pay for the support they need. It is also essential for community groups, most of which have no funding at all.

If you’ve lost interest by now, you’re not unusual. Although third sector organisations fulfil a lot of our society’s needs, they, and particularly their infrastructure, are often all but invisible to the naked eye. Of course people will see charity shops, will know about the big hitters – Macmillan Cancer Support, Oxfam, Red Cross, etc, as well as their local ‘friends of the park’ or ‘lads and dads footie’ on a Saturday morning. But all the work that goes on behind the scenes, much of it by organisations such as Councils for Voluntary Service, Volunteer Centres, and Rural Community Councils, is rarely talked about, thought about, or understood, even by people working in the sector.

This has interested me for a long time, so I was delighted to be asked to work with the Commission. And it was a privilege to be present at their discussions. They are a group of intelligent, knowledgeable, independent thinkers. And last Tuesday, the Commission’s report – based on the research I led, and which I was heavily involved in writing – was launched at a House of Commons reception hosted by Nick Hurd MP.

The reception was in the Terrace Pavilion, the strip of white you can see in the photo which is actually a marquee right by the river. As the visitors’ entrance is on the other side of the House of Commons by Parliament Square, we had to walk through lots of halls and corridors: first a huge mediaeval hall, then big Gothic passages with ornate tiled floors and doors ten feet high, then smaller corridors with green carpets and dark wood-panelled walls. When we arrived, we found that afternoon tea had been set out as a buffet: crustless finger sandwiches, scones with jam and cream, and a selection of gorgeous cakes. The Pavilion soon filled up with people happily munching and chatting. When everyone was there and had had time to eat and drink, there were five short speeches: from Sara Llewellin, Chair of the Commission (who is also chief executive of the Barrow Cadbury Trust); Nick Hurd, who was formerly the Minister for Civil Society; Rob Wilson MP who is currently the Minister for Civil Society; Lisa Nandy MP, Shadow Minister for Civil Society; and Caroline Schwaller, Chair of NAVCA. It was so encouraging to hear all three MPs praise the work of the Commission and endorse the recommendations of the report. And it didn’t seem like just a pat on the head; they all spoke knowledgeably and intelligently about the issues raised. This was truly heartening, because it means there is a good chance the work we’ve done will make a real difference to charities and communities in the difficult years ahead.

And my research and writing was praised to the skies! By two of the speakers, and several Commission members who sought me out to congratulate me on my work. David Brindle, public services editor of the Guardian newspaper, made my day – perhaps my year, possibly even my decade – by telling me what a good job of writing he thought I’d done. That meant so much coming from him, a very experienced and highly talented journalist, and no mincer or waster of words.

I didn’t expect any of that when I took the job, or ever. I couldn’t stop grinning after the event. I went to sleep grinning, woke up at 3 am grinning, and had to replay the whole thing in my head before I could get back to sleep again. And that made me grin even more! It was a once-in-a-lifetime experience, and one I’ll never forget.

The importance of self-care

Posted by Helen Kara

Very unusually for me, I don’t feel like working. I have a list of my current projects, all of which are interesting, and usually I’d look at the list and decide what to focus on next: either the most urgent, or the most appealing. But right now – and this hardly EVER happens – none of them are urgent. And, oddly, I’m finding it hard to motivate myself to work on any of the non-urgent ones either. Even though they do need doing, and will become urgent if I don’t do them at some point.

I love my work and am usually highly motivated. Also, I don’t work well under deadline pressure, so prefer to finish tasks with time to spare. I’m not ill, and I don’t have any difficult personal stuff going on. So I’ve been asking myself: why this unusual lack of interest in, or motivation to do, my work?

I think the answer is simply that I need a few days’ break. I’ve had such a busy year, without much downtime: a ten-day holiday in France in June, a handful of long weekends, and a week in Wales in October when I was finishing the second draft of my book. Talking of which, the book has taken up a huge amount of time this year, and I’ve also been working on several papers and a couple of book chapters, with one of each accepted for publication. I spend quite a bit of time, most weeks, on Board work for the UK’s Social Research Association, and editorial board work for the International Journal of Social Research Methodology also takes up time. Then of course there’s my paid work: I’ve had two big and demanding national research projects to work on with clients, and several smaller projects. As a result of all this, I rarely work fewer than six days a week, though I do try hard to have one full rest day each week.

I find it hard to take more time off, partly because I love my work, and partly because I find the gear changes difficult to manage. It’s not easy to wind down, and equally problematic to rev up again. Sometimes it feels simpler just to keep going. But that’s not sensible, is it?

If anyone else was telling me this story, I’d be saying: for goodness’ sake, you fool, take a break! For once I’m telling myself that – and I’m listening. My plan is to have complete rest and recreation for the rest of this week, when I’m at home with no big commitments. I hope then I’ll be ready to rev up the following week, and get some of the tasks on my list done before they become urgent.

There seems to be a lot of it about this year. Hugely productive researchers and writers like Pat Thomson and Raul Pacheco-Vega are advocating self-care in general and taking time off in particular. I know this can be particularly difficult for PhD students – several of the doctoral students I interviewed for my last book, Research and Evaluation for Busy Practitioners: A Time-Saving Guide, spoke about the difficulty of taking time off when your head is full of your thesis. Other forms of writing can also have this effect; it’s hard to pick up a piece of work if you put it down for too long, whereas writing ‘little and often’ can help you to maintain the essential flow of ideas. But even if you’re doing a PhD, or have publishers’ deadlines – try to have at least the occasional rest day here and there, and ideally a proper break. Really, this is I an ethical requirement: certainly for researchers, who won’t produce good quality research if they’re exhausted and stressed. And I believe it’s important for writers too. If you’re working seven days a week, try reducing it to six, and having a proper rest day on the seventh. I bet you’ll get as much work done and be less exhausted. But whatever you decide, I wish you a happy holiday, and I’ll be back in 2015.

First Peer Review – And Pizza

Posted by Helen Kara

I’ve just done my first ever proper grown-up peer review of an article which had been submitted to a research methods journal. It was an interesting intellectual and emotional experience.

The article’s title was enticing and promised new insight into an aspect of research methods. I looked forward to reading it and learning about a point I hadn’t previously considered. And the content did deliver new insight – but it delivered it really, really badly. It was such a disappointment, like getting the pizza you ordered an hour late, cold, and with your favourite ingredient missing.

I felt such empathy for the author. He or she had obviously put in a fair amount of effort, and was going to be bitterly disappointed by my review. I could feel that pain. But it wasn’t a borderline decision; the article needed a lot more work. Key references had been left out – imagine an article on psychoanalysis that doesn’t cite Freud or Jung, and you’ll get the picture. Also, the argument made was woefully under-theorised, and with very little interpretive analytic work either.

I had prepared carefully, reading the journal’s guidelines for reviewers, the COPE guidelines for reviewers, and Pat Thomson’s posts on reviewing journal articles, while reflecting on my own experience of receiving reviews. So I wrote as constructively as I could, giving praise where I thought it was merited, specific references to help the author build the context, and suggesting some questions they might consider at the interpretive stage. I was quite relieved to find I was up to the job. But I still felt bad for the poor author.

I also felt bad for the entire research profession, because the argument being made was a really important one which needed to be heard. So much so that I thought I might have difficulty keeping it confidential. It was one of those points which, once stated, seemed blindingly obvious. And we all read so much. I was determined to maintain my professional standards and protect the author’s intellectual property – yet I could imagine, a few months on, absent-mindedly saying, ‘Oh yes, I read something somewhere, can’t quite remember where, but it made this really good point…’ I wonder how often that happens.

Then I had an idea. I hopped onto the web and did a quick search – and lo and behold, an article was published just a couple of months ago, making the same point. Whoopee! I could talk about it after all! But oh no… my poor, poor author…

Actually, it’s not a disaster, because there is more than enough room for two articles making this point in different journals. So I added that reference, too, to my review, and ended with some words of encouragement. I truly think this is an important article in the making, and with a little more work, the author could deliver his or her argument in an article which is more like a warm, fragrant, appetising pizza, made from good ingredients in the right proportions.

When To Stop Reading

Posted by Helen Kara

I wrote a post, a while ago, about the difficulties I experienced in letting go of a piece of writing. I can also find it difficult to let go pile of books of reading.

One of the things I’ve been doing for #AcWriMo this year is working on an article for an academic journal, about the role carers can play in mental health research. The role service users can play is fairly well established now (which is not the same as it all being plain sailing) but there is clear evidence that service users’ participation will benefit the research itself and everyone involved. There is no such evidence for carers, who are often ignored or sidelined by service providers, researchers, and others, yet I believe that carers also have a unique and valuable role to play in mental health research.

According to the literature, so do a few others. I’ve found some articles which are directly relevant, primarily from the Australian region of Victoria, and some others which are peripherally relevant, from various places. I’ve probably found enough. But there’s a niggling anxiety that maybe, just maybe, there’s a crucial, seminal article somewhere which I just haven’t found yet.

When I did my PhD, I read from two bodies of literature: work on emotion (huge, over more than a century, no chance whatsoever I could read it all) and partnership (comparatively small, over a decade or two, I could definitely read most of it). That was an interesting experience. I read as much of the partnership literature as I could lay hands on, and a more targeted selection of the emotion literature. One key emotion text was published during my doctoral studies, and I didn’t find out about it until I was close to the end. I read it swiftly, and banged in a few references, but my examiners turned out to be dastardly clever and very much on the ball. They pulled me up for not having considered the writer’s arguments with sufficient care, and made me go back and read and cite her work again.

This has left me with a dread of reading inadequately and being found out. And there is so much out there to read! Journal articles, grey literature, chapters, whole books, and more being published every day. I can end up spending hours devising new search terms that might just uncover one more relevant piece of text. For a journal article it’s not possible to review all the literature, as you might for a doctoral thesis. But reviewers and editors will expect a writer to have a good understanding of the literature in the field, and to be as familiar with recent developments as with the seminal pieces of work.

And that’s my guideline. Do I have a good understanding of the literature, which includes recent developments as well as key texts from longer ago? If the answer is ‘yes, I think so’, then I can stop reading. While I may still have missed something relevant, it’s over to the reviewers, then, to point that out. And after all, if I carry on reading for ever, I’ll never get any writing done, and what use would that be?