The 17-Step Plan: An Update

(photo credit)

I am trying very hard to adopt writing habits that make writing less stressful. If you'd like to feel as anxious and squirmy as I do when I think about my writing habits, feel free to read back on the post where I detailed the old system: it's here.

In the last piece I produced for my supervisors, I tried my best to adopt an approach that wasn't necessarily quicker, but one which didn't feel so harried.  After writing my last post, I remembered a useful post by Dr. Nadine Muller in which she suggests a way to get over the fear of the blank page. I should state unreservedly here that I LOVE this approach because it means my work plan now looks like this:

1. Plan argument for essay, paragraph-by-paragraph
2. Collate evidence/sources for each paragraph
3. Write first draft: include references as you're writing
4. Review first draft: annotate each section, then type up annotations.
5. Review second draft.
6. Add any additional references
7. Final proof-read
8. Send it off.

The process is now 8 steps, rather than 17. I don't even feel anxious writing it out or anything.

Apart from making the initial act of sitting down to write, this approach had benefits the whole way through the writing process: it meant that references were always to hand, and that I always knew which part of my argument should be coming next. This meant that I was able to side-step any tangents, and resist the urge to cram in just a little more information than was strictly needed. (A chronic habit.)

Having references to hand also made it much easier to give broader context to my arguments (because the quotes/paraphrases I needed were right there). Having references to hand also makes it easier to distinguish between areas where more evidence is needed, and areas where you just need to insert one reference. Ultimately, this results in better writing (if I do say so myself - I'm yet to see if my supervisors agree).

For me, another key element was pacing. I always want to do things as quickly as possible: it's my default setting. (It's also largely the reason that I have so many bruises, cuts and scrapes and any one given time: speed doesn't always equal safety.) Pacing myself meant a few practical steps. It meant pausing to choose the correct phrase, rather than rushing to get something down. It meant working in short bursts, punctuated by long breaks. It meant dedicating nearly three hours to collating all the references I needed. It meant taking some of the pressure off. It meant a happier writing experience.


I can't say this approach was quicker, or less intense.  If you include the time that I spent collating references, I spent over 28 hours producing 4900 words. I don't know if producing that many words in that length of time is 'good' or 'bad.' 

Increasingly, I don't care: adopting this approach meant an intense week, but one that felt -- ultimately -- fulfilling. I haven't yet met with supervisors to discuss this piece. I know it won't be perfect. But taking more time to write means that I now have enough distance to start appraising my own work. 

And for an arch-perfectionist, that objective space is a huge step forwards.

"It's just a platform for narcisists" and other twitter myths

I’ve been using twitter for just under a year. I started using it pretty reluctantly, because I needed to teach sessions on social media and my lack of knowledge about Twitter made me less credible. I was sceptical that it could be useful, insightful, or in any way a part of my life.

And I was so wrong.

Twitter isn’t perfect. Mostly because it’s used by real-life people, and real-life people aren’t perfect. But it continues to surprise me.

1)      “You can’t post anything meaningful in 140 characters, so why bother?”

The 140-character limit is a challenge, I’ll admit. I find myself re-phrasing what I want to say and abbreviating words. Does this have a detrimental impact on what I want to say?  Not really. But mainly because I don’t use twitter to post anything deeply meaningful.

So, no, I won’t be composing 140-character summaries of late medieval gender practices. Nor will anyone else. But what they might do (and what I like to do) is use twitter a signpost to something that doesn’t have a 140-character limit: a blog post, an article, a study. 

Before I started using twitter, I thought of it as a self-contained platform. Now I think of it more as a series of signposts to all sorts of interesting, useful, challenging resources. 

2)      “It’s just a platform for narcissists.”

Before I signed up to using twitter, the concept of individual feeds (rather than walls as you have on facebook) seemed absurd. Surely, twitter was the online equivalent of a bunch of people in a room, each with a megaphone, each broadcasting their own opinions?

Well, yes and no.

It’s perfectly possible to use twitter purely as a platform for your own ideas. (That is, stand in the room shouting into your megaphone.) However, what has pleasantly surprised me is that it’s just as easy (and seemingly socially-acceptable) to respond to what other people are saying. (That is, it’s perfectly okay to hear someone else shouting into their megaphone, tap them on the shoulder and say ‘good point’ or ‘I disagree.’) And that's where things get interesting.

3)      “There aren’t going to be people like me using it.”

This is the one that seems most absurd in hindsight. There are so many PhD students, early career researchers and established academics using twitter. Hashtags like #phdchat #phd #acwri and #withaphd are platforms for reflection on the day-to-day experience of doing a phd, but also platforms for broader discussion. Although I don’t always agree with what other people are saying while using these hashtags (don't get me started on #phdweekend), hearing their voices gives you a certain sense of solidarity.

In my professional life, the same is true: most senior people at some of the most relevant organisations are on Twitter. Following them means I can develop my knowledge of this industry. Interacting with them (often through conference hashtags) means adding to debates and conversations that are happening in real time.

4)       “I don’t have anything to say.”

I’ve always had pretty wide-ranging interests, but this was a big worry at a time where I worked full-time and my only hobby was swimming. What would I tweet about? My walk to work? My lunch? How many lengths I’d done?

My life has changed a lot in the last six months. I now work and study in two interconnected industries. I also do a lot more in my free time (and in my city) than I used to. Because I’m pursuing so many different things that I’m interested in, it means that I can use my twitter to take part in several different conversations at any given time.  

(On a sidenote, it means I always feel sorry for new followers: if they’re following me for one thing, they’ll only be getting it about 30% of the time.)

5)       “Even if I did have something to say, who would care?”

In hindsight, this worry sits awkwardly alongside  2). On the one hand, I was worried that everyone else on twitter would be a narcissist. On the other, I was worried that my amazing, pithy, brilliant quips wouldn’t deserve the attention(and followers) they so obviously deserve(!).

In truth: I don’t have many followers. I often tweet things that don’t get replies. But that doesn’t really matter that much to me at this point in time. I'm still new to all the areas I tweet about: although I can pitch in with my opinions, I'm more interested in listening (or, reading) and learning.

This is the first social network I’ve used where I’ve been more focused on engaging with people  than trying to get attention for myself. And I think that’s a large part of why I enjoy using it so much.

6)      “What use is it to me, anyway?”

Given that before I got into it, I thought twitter was a haven for narcissists to [humble] brag, I would never have anticipated the generosity of spirit, time and expertise that you can find on twitter. 

People using #imc2015 meant that even though I couldn’t go to the conference, I could get some idea of what was being discussed. People using storify to record the discussions around certain sessions  (for example, the much-debated #s1041).

People like Jennifer Polk (@FromPhdtoLife) who curates twice-monthly PhD chats.

People like Dr. Inger Mewburn (@thesiswhisperer) and Dr Nadine Muller (@Nadine_Muller) who offer advice and practical guidance on how to tackle the shady beast that is the PhD process.

All of these people take time and effort to provide guidance or provoke discussion. 

The last thing you could call them is narcissists. 

The 17-Step Plan

I've come into this PhD with a determination to try and write often. This is for two reasons: mainly because I want to hone my outcome (my writing). But this determination is just as much because I want to refine the process (how I go about writing).

Here's how my writing process looks at the moment.  After I finish all my reading, and make all my notes, I:

1. Make a brainstorm of criticism and my ideas;
2. Group ideas and number this. Use this as basis for my paragraphs;
3. Wait until tomorrow, because you can't possibly start writing in the middle of the day;
4. Add headers;
5. Crack out 2,000+ words in less than 4 hours;
6. Print off first draft;
7. Wait until tomorrow, because you can't possibly write and proof-read in the same day;
8. Read first draft;
9. Scribble notes all over it;
10. Despair because I have so much editing to do;
11. Spend 3+ hours making corrections/editions and refining my argument;
12. Print off second draft;
13. Wait until tomorrow because you can't possibly write and proof-read in the same day;
14. Despair because I don't want to read it again;
15. Palm it off on husband to proof read;
16. Make corrections as quickly as possible because I don't want to look at it any more;
17. Send off to supervisors with a feeling of dread because it's drained me so much; then
18. Spend the time until my next supervision berating myself for being bad at this writing lark.

It is possible for me to write, but I can't help that feel this isn't the most efficient way to do it: just typing out this 17-step process has made me feel drained, and anxious. However, typing out the process is making me think about which particular elements of this make the process so hard. I'm going to try and suggest a few changes for the next time I write. I might do a follow-up post to see how they go.

Firstly, it takes a few consecutive days. Which as part-timer, I don't have. The intensity of the process (along with my natural tendency to procastinate) means that by the time I finish one stage (usually within a few hours) I run out of motivation to keep going. There are two solutions to this: stop procrastinating (yeah, right) and allow the process to take longer: I'd rather spend 6 hours writing at a manageable pace then spend 3 working flat out and then be drained.

Secondly, my argument changes between my first and second draft. Not majorly, but it often changes in focus or tone. Often I add more evidence. Often I remove points entirely because they suddenly seem weak. I know this isn't unusual; in fact, it's the whole point of editing. But it happens so often, with so many points that it makes me doubt my academic judgement in including them in first place. With the next piece I write, I want to have my ideas clear and present in the first draft, then keep most of the there.

Thirdly, that last draft almost always involves making bitty corrections to references. This one is simple, I think: I need to do my references as I write! More to the point, I need to start using the bibliography function on Microsoft Word. Or finally figure out EndNote...

I'm finally coming up with ideas that I'm proud of, and I think might go somewhere. I'm hoping that if I sort out these areas, I can actually focus on my ideas, not the strain of getting them down on paper.

Of course, in the meantime, I'd love to know what writing blocks you've faced, and how you cope with them.  

7 Thoughts on Leadership

You may remember a few weeks ago, I wrote a blog post about attending the Aspire Trailiblazing Leadership conference. You don't remember? Don't worry: it's here. If it isn't evident from that post, I went to the conference with very clear professional goals that I wanted to explore. But I couldn't do justice to everything I learned. So, instead, here are 7 things I learned from the conference.

1) Everyone is Terrified of Failure

For me, one of the most powerful exercises was early on in the first day. We were paired off, and asked to share with a partner our biggest fear, and accept it.

All the women I spoke to about this exericse said fear of feeling like a failure was at the heart of their fears. What varied is what will trigger that feeling of failure. For me, it would be failing this PhD. For another, her charity not getting funding. For another woman, it was failing to get a promotion. For another woman, it was not keeping a roof over her kids' heads.

But all these fears are necessary if you want to finish a PhD, run a charity, be promoted, house your children. Leaders are the people who welcome the fear, brave the possible bad outcomes. They risk feeling like a failure. But they also risk doing great things.

2) Leaders Start From the Inside Out

One thing that concerned me with this conference was the fear that, really, I'm not a leader. I don't line manage anyone at work (and never have). I'm only four months into a PhD - I haven't organised anything, and don't really know my way around the system.

What was stressed throughout the two days was that leadership is a ripple effect. You lead yourself, then your immediate circle. Maybe then you lead your organisation. Maybe then you lead the world. But those outer circles require self-leadership. Or - as I like to think of it - getting sh*t done. Leaders find something they care about and they motivate themselves to do something about it.

And sometimes, these actions get them titles, or accolades. But often, their actions change things, including the people around them. And so, at the ripe old age of 26, I feel comforted that getting sh*t done is a good start.

3) One Goal Doesn't Negate Another.

As I mentioned above, my aim was to go in, figure out all my professional aims and find people who could help me with them. And then, things about family started coming up. In every exercise I did, my relationship with my family kept coming up. I hadn't even been thinking about it when I went in.  A voice in my head told me to focus on what I was there for. I ignored it, and I've been putting some of what I learned into practice. And it's already improving my overall happiness and - by extension - my desire to work on my thesis.

For you, it might not be family. But I firmly believe that everyone is more than just the sum of their wordcount, their paygrade, or their title. And that working on one area doesn't detract from your desire to work on another: in fact, it's neccesary.

4) If Something Seems Like Second Nature to You, it's Probably Because You're Pretty Good at it.

On Day 2, we split up into groups of 10 and instructed to ask for exactly what we needed to achieve our goals. Again, I thought What can I offer? No one is going to need help interpreting romances, or identifying episodes of the Simpsons by opening scene. Either side of me, women were saying the same. What do I know? But as people shared what they needed, we each realised we did have skill or knowledge to contribute: we just didn't value them because we were already good at them.

I offered my email address, and am already helping people out. And those same women who said they had nothing to offer, they're helping me, too.

5) Surrounding Yourself With the Right People is Vital.

Every person I spoke to was open, interested and engaged. Yes, plenty of us were nervous, but this was the first conference I've ever been to where I felt that people were interested in me. And I can't separate the work I've done (and will do) as a result of this conference from that atmosphere.

As PhD students, we can often be cynics. And I understand why: a PhD is grueling, requires a lot of sacrifice, and the outcomes are becoming less and less certain (oh what, you want a tenured position? ha!) The mental health issues and financial insecurities don't help, and are often not discussed at all.

But, the way we interact is so often based on low-level scepticism about the administration's latest blunder, or the replacement of chairs in the common room. We don't even talk about the big things. And I can't be alone in finding this constant, low-level skepticism tiring, can I? And I can't be alone in finding that my best ideas and aspirations don't come when I'm complaining about the department's foibles, can I?

6) There is another way for conferences.

Here's what the Aspire conference lacked:

• Name tags
• Rows of seats (think circles of 10)
• Formal sessions (more circles)
• A formal conference dinner
• Powerpoint (mostly)
• Jargon (entirely!)

These very simple, very deliberate steps meant people spoke to each other honestly and openly. The sessions were interactive. They invited discussion (and not the kind with destructive, self-focused questions). And, with minimal powerpoint, we focused on the speaker. No formal roundtables. No confrontational questions. No awkward people who came alone and are shut out of cliques.

I know that a professional development conference is aimed at a difference audience. And I know that the ExCel centre is very different from your Postgraduate centre. But all I can think about now is, what would an academic conference look like if we deliberately planned it to be more open?

7) You don't need always second helpings.

No-one needs two fudgy chocolate brownies. You will just feel sick.

On Balance (or off it)

This week will be the first week since the start of June that I've been able to divide my time equally between my PhD and all the other commitments I've racked up. And to be frank, the lack of balance has been throwing me off recently.

This isn't really a complaint: I've done amazing things since the start of June that I never would have thought would be achievable in the next three years, let alone within four weeks. (If you're wondering how the Aspire conference went - it was amazing. I've actually not blogged about it yet because I want to do it justice.) But the lack of balance has been worrying me: suddenly my PhD seemed a remote idea; something quaint and loose and not pressing; something removed from my everyday life.

As a part-time PhD student and sufferer of imposter syndrome (you too? Wow! Great! We should talk.) this had been really worrying me over the last two weeks. If I can go a month doing barely any PhD work and not really minding, does that mean I care enough? Should I even be doing this? Who was I kidding, I'm not made for PhDing - I love public speaking and coaching and innovation...maybe this is a sign. Maybe I'm wasting my time!

And so on.

But, I also know that I need to be forgiving. I need to make the same allowances of myself that I do of everyone else. And I need to remember that having other elements to your identity, to your life, doesn't invalidate your identity as a researcher. (Even if the consistent noise on twitter about wordcounts and editing progress make me think every other PhD student doesn't sleep.) This isn't because I'm a special snowflake: even the most dedicated stay-in-the-lab-till-midnight PhD student is more than just that.

I suppose that for a part-timer, you have to prioritise all those other bits at the very least because otherwise you don't have money for food. But the last few weeks have done more than that: rather than seeing my enthusiasm for other times as a weakness, I'm trying to remind myself that I LOVE enthusiasm. I love it in others, and I love it in myself. And having more of that, for more things, surely can't be bad?

And speaking of enthusiasm, guess what?

I can't WAIT to get back to research later this week. 

On Panels

Last week, I was lucky enough to be invited to speak on a panel as a student panellist.  Having seen the verbal mauling that can happen at academic panels, I was nervous (read: terrified). But I said yes: I need to get over this fear, and what amazing opportunity to do it.

I was lucky - the panellists were supportive, the audience posed interesting questions, and I was able to answer them! Here are a few things I learned from my first ever panel.

1. Prepare, prepare, prepare.

With other types of public speaking, I actually try to go in feeling that I don't know everything. This gives me wiggle room, so I can respond to the people in the room rather than reading off my script. But normally when you do public speaking (a talk, a training session, a briefing) you control the content; a panel is audience-led.

Fearing the hostile questions, I read. A lot. I summarised articles for myself, wrote down key facts. This meant I was able to go in with bullet points of things that I wanted to mention in response to the areas of discussion. If anything, I wish I'd prepared more. When asked to introduce myself, I didn't have a pithy, witty summary like the other panellists. And a few questions threw me off.

2. Meet the panellists (and the chair) before the start of the panel.

As I mentioned, the other panellists were great. I met them briefly before we went on and had a quick chat. This helped me remember names and made me feel more comfortable going on to the stage. It meant I had a feel for who I could bounce off in the discussion. (Which it turns out is great if you're a bit stuck for an answer!)

But since the panel was right at the start of the conference, we didn't have much time beyond introductions. Given more notice, and more time, I think I would make sure I had longer to get to know people.

3. You're allowed to make jokes.

I am a chronic wise-cracker.  I am perfectly capable of speaking in public without making a joke, or a wry comment, or a witty riposte, or a humorous barb....but I hate it.  So, going into a very formal industry panel, I was desperately trying not to be light hearted.

Of course, I cracked. Trying to be po-faced just made me more nervous: it was another thing to trip up on. It isn't anything like me. And, really? It was fine. A few people laughed (ok, I got a chuckle or two). But, the point is that in actually acting like myself, I was much more relaxed. Of course, I wasn't doing a stand up set, or being inappropriate. But just that touch of levity was well-received (I think) and more to the point: stopped me freaking out.

4. Be prepared for people to introduce themselves.

This was the most pleasant surprise of all. I expected that I'd get up, say my bit and get on with my day. But throughout the day, people were introducing themselves, commenting on the panel and picking up on some of the discussions we'd been having.

For someone like me who hates small talk, this was perfect. It was a great way to meet lots of people, to talk with them about something consequential, and then introduce ourselves. And more than that: people were really sincere in taking an interest in what I'd said: that was incredibly heartening.

5. It's like riding a rollercoaster.

When I've been on rollercoasters, I think it's a great idea. I get all excited. I queue for ages. I get in my seat. And as soon as the safety gear comes down, something in me changes. "Why I am I doing this? This is terrifying. This is really happening. Oh god, we're moving. Oh Christ, we're all going to die. This is awful it's too late to get off. Oh god, we're at the top, oh no, oh no oh - WOOOOOOHEAYEAHEYEAYH!!!! Oh. Is it over? Oh.......LET'S GO AGAIN!!!"

The same was true of the panel. First comes excitement. Then comes blind panic. Then comes adrenaline-fuelled excitement.  And, much like my first go on a roller coaster, my first experience of a panel has taught me that you just have to ride it out.

Trailblazing Women 2015

(Isn't it just the way? Not long after I resolve to start posting on a weekly basis, things get busy and I get behind. It’s not strictly PhD-related, but I wanted to use this post to talk about a conference I’m attending soon. I should be back to PhD-relating things soon.)

The Aspire Foundation aims to create a world ‘where women and girls are empowered and authentic leaders in both the developing and developed world for the sake of equality, justice, balance and success.’ They’ve worked with over 1 million women since they were founded by Sam Collins in 2001: as part of their aim to reach even more women, they’re running a two-day Trailblazing Leadership event. Which I am absolutely honoured to have managed to secure a scholarship for.

At this point I should give a shout out to Karen, my former colleague (hi!). Without her insistent encouragement, I would never have heard of Aspire. Last year, she suggested I attend an Aspire webinar. I was starting to get cold feet about the prospect of quitting my job, moving across the country, taking on 6 years of self-funded study and then having no guarantee of security afterwards. (Can you blame me?) I think the webinar was ‘Strategic You 2015.’ The aim was to discuss what goals you had in mind for the year ahead, how to implement them and how to balance them. That webinar really helped me: by the time that hour was up, I felt this quiet, diamond-hard certainty that I was ready to take this chance.

Between then and now, I’ve learned a little more about academia. And I wasn’t comfortable with everything I learnt. Some of that diamond-hard certainty was being undercut by the feeling I’m getting (at this early stage) that academia isn’t for people like me. 

So, when I got an email about the ‘Trailblazing Leadership’ event in March, I naturally thought “that sounds great, but it isn’t for me.” I don’t think of myself as a leader. And I certainly didn’t have enough money to fund my attendance. But the more I read about the conference, the more it seemed to me that people like me are exactly the sort of people who don’t have a voice in academia. And when I heard that Aspire were offering scholarships, I felt that same diamond-hard certainty that I should at least apply.  So I sent an email. I was invited to apply. And I did.

I applied because I’ve had female mentors for most of my academic career. These people took an interest in me. They challenged me. They held me to account. My personal and intellectual development has been thanks to them. The only problem is that there seem to be fewer and fewer women available to lead, or to mentor. I’m very lucky that I like and respect my supervisors immensely, but academia doesn’t encourage a culture of mentoring outside of that supervisory relationships. If I look to my peers (fellow PhD students) we’re all competing for finite resources: funding, conference papers, jobs. And I don’t think that this intense culture of peer competition and lack of mentoring makes for happier graduate students, better researchers, or improved academics. In fact, I feel the opposite is true.

I applied because the whole thing about this PhD thing is that I’d quite like to be an academic. (I know, I know. It’s unlikely. But I could post a whole other post about my issues with that. So humour me for now.) So, I’d like to be an academic. Which means I’m effectively training for a career that favours people who aren’t like me.  Peer reviewers will assume my work is biased because I'm a woman. So, this means that when I am trying to publish and get a permanent job I'm less likely to get a permanent, full-time contract than a male. And if I do have children, I’ll be seen as less productive than my male colleagues: in fact, they’ll gain a net benefit from having kids.

 

I applied because this is all depressing and awful. But it isn’t just a broad political point. For me, it’s also intensely personal: my husband is an academic. And he’s a brilliant academic. (Again, I could write an entire post singing his praises but I’ll save that.) He’s an innovative, supportive, dedicated teacher. He’s a flexible, incisive researcher. He’s an engaging, personable presenter. All of these things mean that – as far as I’m concerned – he should have all the accolades in the world. But he should get them because of his qualities, not because of his gender. But as things stand, no matter how much we support each other, he is likely to do better because of something he can’t control.

And that’s not fair. So I applied. 
And I was accepted.

And now I’m nervous! At first, it was about what to wear (business casual? Conference wear? What are either of those things? I can’t afford to buy new clothes!! Will people know if I wear second hand stuff? What do I do??)  Luckily, Aspire have clarified that there’s no formal dress code, smart casual is fine. 

 So now I have to be nervous about the usual things. Like the fact that I’m awful at remembering names, and there are no name tags. Like the fact that when I get nervous I talk a lot. And a lot of it’s nonsense. But I’m also nervous about something specific to this conference: all these women are contributing amazing things to the world. And me? I’m contributing a potential thesis that I don’t have a research question for. What can I contribute?

I hope to find out that answer to that question at this conference. And I’d love to let you know how it goes, if you’re interested.

Photo credit.