Blog and Podcast Announcement
Over the next few months, the Writing Center staff will not be updating the Writing Center Blog or the WriteCast podcasts with new posts and episodes. Instead, we are investing our time and efforts into hiring and training a number of new Writing Center staff! We are excited to expand our team, as this will allow us to offer more paper review appointments and to better serve Walden students. We will resume posting to the blog and publishing new podcast episodes later this year, and we will share more information about the new additions to our Writing Center team. In the meantime, you can find writing help in the blog archive and podcast archive.
Thank you for your patience during this very exciting time for the Writing Center!
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Anne Shiell is a manager of writing instructional services at the Walden Writing Center.
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Where, Oh Where, to Begin? Expert Advice on Starting Your Proposal
This month on the blog, we're featuring a guest post by dissertation editor, coach, and author Noelle Sterne.
You’ve
reached the first dissertation milestone—approval of your prospectus. Great! And
you can’t wait to plunge into the next step, writing the proposal. But now, somehow,
it’s not working. With all the best intentions and surrounded by all the
scholarly materials, you may be spending long fruitless hours in your study or
the library. The days are slipping away, your friends are out eating pizza, and
your family wonders what you’re really doing in all those solitary hours. You
feel paralyzed.
To
cheer yourself up, you remember that the
proposal becomes the first three chapters of the real dissertation or doctoral
study. But this fact offers little consolation. A completed proposal seems
like a sky-high wall with not even a step stool in sight. Where is that danged
first step?
Break the Rules
Here is one remedy. Contrary to the
King's advice to the White Rabbit in Alice’s
Adventures in Wonderland, you don't have to
start at the beginning and keep going until you reach the
end. If you follow this dictum, you may only increase your fears
and tremors.
In my academic coaching practice, I
advise clients not to start at the beginning--that is, with Chapter 1, the introduction. Why? This chapter requires a
concise overview of your topic and the
literature. You must be highly
familiar with both. But many students don't get to know what they're really
writing about until they've been living with their capstone for
several months.
How to Start
So, here’s first trick to break your
paralysis: Make separate files for each chapter. Use the university’s requisite
chapter names and headings (from the capstone manual or handbook), or the
templates in the capstone section of the
university website. Once you create the files
you’ll feel more organized. You’ll also gain a sense of accomplishment. You can
keep throwing notes into these files as new materials surface and brilliant
thoughts occur to you for each chapter.
The second trick: Start writing by choosing
something relatively straightforward. No doctoral divine lightening will strike
if you start in the middle, or later. I
often recommend that students start with Chapter 3: Methods. In this chapter
you describe who's in the study and how you will study
them—your population and sample, and what you're going to put them through (experiments,
questionnaires, or interviews). Your writing style
here should be direct, with precise descriptions of the steps you'll take
to gather information for your later conclusions.
Dissertation Brownies
It's kind
of like a recipe for dissertation
brownies—as in this example student’s paragraph:
First, I will create a flyer for recruiting students to complete my questionnaire on their most effective study habits. Then, I will seek permission from the Office of Student Affairs to post the flyer on campus bulletin boards. When students respond to my contact information, I will send them the letter of introduction to the study and the informed consent to participate. Next, I will . . .
In the margin of the
paragraph above, the student's chair commented, "What's your authority for bypassing the
university's institutional review board?" The student hastened to add this
information in the next draft. What you write may not be the final draft, and
shouldn't be. Accept this, and recognize that you’ve made progress in writing
something.
The Advantages
Writing anything loosens your fear-frozen
mind so you think more creatively about
the steps you need to take. Let’s say you were writing the example paragraph from
above—you need to think about where to recruit, who to recruit, when, and many other considerations. As you visualize the actual steps, think about
what your actual recruitment flyer and
letter of intro to the study will say. This is a great opportunity to actually
draft the flyer, letter, and informed consent form—you're going to need them as appendices. Then, possibly to your elated
shock, you'll have written more!
When you see the paragraphs
mounting, you will feel greater confidence to keep writing. A
few days after I guided my client Rod to start with his third chapter, he
emailed me: "I finally got to a double digit page numbers! A
miracle!" I congratulated him for reaching page 10. Practice makes progress.
As you keep going, you'll likely
find that related ideas pop up. Say you’ve decided to study the study habits of
red-headed students over six feet tall. You suddenly realize that another study
could be done on the study habits of enrolled redheads under six feet. Here's
where you click to your largely empty file of Chapter 5: Discussion,
Conclusions, and Recommendations, and type the new idea under the subhead of suggestions
for future research. You’ve written more!
Starting your proposal with
something easier isn't a black mark on your moral fiber. It's
simply a way to get moving. So, choose a section or subsection that feels
doable, even obvious. Tell yourself, "It's all got to get done anyway."
Now . . . start writing.
For 30 years, dissertation editor, coach, and author Noelle Sterne, Ph.D. (Columbia University) has helped doctoral candidates complete their dissertations. Her new handbook addresses their overlooked but crucial nonacademic difficulties: Challenges in Writing Your Dissertation: Coping with the Emotional, Interpersonal, and Spiritual Struggles (Rowmand & Littlefield Education, September 2015). Visit her website at trustyourlifenow.com.
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How "That" Can Improve Word Flow in Your Writing
What does the phrase word flow
mean to you? It is a difficult metaphor to pin down because words don’t
literally flow like a river or a
stream. So, the definition of word
flow can vary for each student, teacher, and writing instructor.
As a writing instructor, I had a few specific identifiers for
word flow when reviewing a student’s
essay:
- Simple, clear sentences that communicate in active voice.
- Limited rhetorical phrases or words.
- No dramatic grammar usage.
This last one may seem strange, so I want to lead with an example and anecdote. The last time I wanted to buy a rug, I visited my local IKEA store. When I approached the checkout counter, there was a sign posted that read: “It’s OK, to change your mind” with a little heart next to it.* I would like to give the folks at IKEA the benefit of the doubt and presume the comma is a translation issue from Swedish to English. However, my first assumption is that the comma was included for dramatic effect. In other words, a dramatic pause after the reassuring phrase “It’s OK.”
Eliminating that excess comma would improve word flow
immensely! Take a minute to read these sentences out loud:
- “It’s OK, to change your mind.”
- “It’s OK to change your mind.”
Hear the difference? That’s word flow.
* Side note: Apparently some Ikea store signs have better word flow:
 |
| IKEA: it's OK to change your mind... by Feeling My Age | Flickr (CC by 2.0) |
A quick tip that you are sure to like:
Quite often, many of us write with the same inflections
found in our speech. And while it is true for all writing that there should be
a distinct scholarly voice versus an informal voice, this distinction is
especially true for APA where the proofs are founded on scientifically proven
measurements.
Lucky for all of you wonderful readers, I have a quick tip
to help improve word flow and your scholarly voice. It is as easy as
finding just one word that you might be using unnecessarily throughout your
writing: which.
The word which
introduces what professional writing gurus refer to as a nonrestrictive clause. This particular
clause includes information that can be eliminated from your sentence without
changing the meaning of your sentence. The issue is that we often use the word which, which introduces unnecessary
information, when the word that will
suffice.
By contrast, the word that
introduces a restrictive clause. In
other words, a clause that—you guessed it—is necessary to the sentence and
changes the meaning if it is removed. The catch is that the word which requires a comma before it, and
the word that does not. That comma
interjects a short pause into your writing, which is quite often unnecessary.
Let’s take a look at some examples:
- Here is a quick tip that you are sure to like.
- Here is a quick tip, which you are sure to like.
Which is correct? Well, both are correct because the phrase you are sure to like is additional information and can be removed from the sentence without altering its meaning. However, the first example does not contain a pause. And the absence of that pause helps increase word flow.
Here’s a trickier example:
- My dentist only accepts Melba Dental Care Insurance, which is great for me because I am covered by Melba.
- I have strawberry or orange candy; which do you prefer?
Which is correct? Both are correct! The first example is a nonrestrictive clause, but it is useful information for your reader or listener. The second exemplifies another function of the word which: the word which indicates a choice between objects.
What I would like all of you to do is open the latest
document that you are working on. Go ahead, I’ll wait. OK. Now, use the find
function (ctrl+f or command+f) and find the word which throughout your document. Here’s the test: When you find the word which in your document, determine if the information that follows
it is relevant and necessary to the sentence.
- If it is not relevant, and you want to keep the information, then make certain to add a comma before the word which.
- If it is relevant and you want to increase your word flow, then try exchanging the word that for the word which and eliminating the comma.
This test is great for becoming accustomed to the distinction between that and which. However, my rule for scholarly writing and word flow is pretty simple: I always prefer that over which. And that, ladies and gentleman, is how that can quickly improve word flow.
This month, we're discussing word choice on the blog and podcast. To catch up on what you missed, check out WriteCast Episode 24: Why Word Choice Matters, Matt's post on abolishing imperatives, and Hillary's post on writing meaningful and worthwhile sentences.
Shawn Picht, formerly a Writing Center writing instructor, is the manager of faculty support in the Academic Skills Center. In his free time he likes to jog, jump rope, read literature and philosophy, write about his travels, and play Rolling Stones and Dylan songs on a blue acoustic guitar.
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Tips for Writing Meaningful and Worthwhile Sentences
It’s the summer of ’15, and the song “Things Happen” by Dawes is getting significant airplay on my local radio station. If you haven’t heard it, tune in to the video at 1:31, 2:18, and 3:09:
The song settled in my brain beside the memory of an old Dunkin’ Donuts advertising campaign. Check out the commercial below. The jingle “doing things is what I like to do” is similarly catchy but also meaningless. What are these things? Why does the writer/actor/Dunkin’ Donuts coffee drinker like to do them?
Then I thought of Taylor Swift’s “Shake It Off,” with the redundant
line “players gonna play, play, play, play, play and haters gonna hate, hate, hate, hate, hate.”
While there might be a purpose for these hollow phrases in
pop culture, in academic writing, they just cause frustration and confusion.
After all, in an essay, you do not have the amazing vocal range,
instrumentation, or attitude; you just have words on a page that should
resonate with readers and compel them to continue. If readers start to think Huh? or—worse yet—Duh! after a particular sentence, then you have lost them and your
essay won’t get the attention it deserves.
In the Writing Center, we often talk about the paragraph as
the unit of power in an essay. Today I want to take that discussion even
narrower, to sentences and to individual words. A paragraph is only as
meaningful as its parts. Let’s look at some examples.
Sentences that are too broad
In today’s society, education is an important topic.
This sentence is likely the first one in a student’s paper.
The student wants to guide the reader into the essay’s subject matter
carefully, with some background. I can see that. However, in this case, the
sentence is just too general. What exactly
is “today’s society”? Sure, education is an important topic, but what aspect of education? The keys for revision are to (a) determine a
subtopic and (b) make the reader care.
Possible revision to
narrow the focus: Because of the steady decline in U.S. high school
graduation rates over the past 10 years
(Smart, 2015), New York school administrators have developed greater retention
efforts.
I used a variety of counseling tools on many occasions.
Like the previous example, this sentence does not tell me
much. What are these tools? How were they
used, and when precisely? As a reader, I want to grab hold of an idea and
sink my teeth into it. This kind of sentence leaves me gnawing at air.
Possible revision to
narrow the focus: As a counselor, I used active listening, open-ended
questions, and eye contact in my initial interviews with clients.
Sentences that are unnecessary
Nurses have a plethora of knowledge about nursing.
The student in this example is essentially saying that nurses nurse (similar to Swift’s “haters
gonna hate”). In a revision, more specific aspects of nursing should be
conveyed so that the reader sees the true power of this nursing knowledge.
An employee is defined as “a person who works for another person or for a company for wages or a salary” (“Employee,” 2015, para. 1).
Chances are, an educated reader will already know what an
employee is, so this definition is not needed. Sometimes it can be hard to
determine what kind of knowledge a reader brings to your material. You should
trust that a reader will understand common concepts in everyday adult life.
Imprecise words to watch out for
Thing and stuff. These words can refer to such a wide
range of circumstances and contexts that you should eliminate them.
Many or most. How many is many? Replacing these
adjectives with numbers aids precision.
Nowadays. This
term can mean 2015, the past 20 years, or sometime in between. In revision,
pick a precise year or time frame.
These problematic sentences and words might be easier to
locate in other people’s writing than your own. That is because you approach
others’ text without any specialized knowledge or attachment. Eventually, though,
with practice, you will be able to assess your own writing for these overly
broad or unnecessary sentences.
Practice: I challenge you to write a rough draft of your next assignment and then leave it on your computer for a day or two. Return to the document with fresh eyes and scrutinize the phrasing, looking for some of the indicators I have addressed in this post. How could you infuse those sentences with greater power? Share your thoughts and findings in the comments!
Hillary Wentworth, a writing instructor and the coordinator of undergraduate writing initiatives, has worked in the Walden Writing Center since 2010. She enjoys roller-skating, solving crossword puzzles, and basking in the summer sun. She lives in Minneapolis.
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For the Good of All Humanity, Imperatives Must Be Abolished
As a Walden
student, you likely have an interest in using your research to make a positive
change in people’s lives—most Walden students do, and the university strongly
supports efforts to apply scholarship that might otherwise remain abstract and
theoretical to concrete, real-world situations. This is, on balance, a good
thing. Sometimes, though, students’ enthusiasm for social change can overwhelm
their writing, introducing biases that could lead a reader to question their
objectivity as researchers and doubt the validity of their results.
Let’s look
at two examples of what I’m talking about:
• Teachers
must use differentiated instruction because students deserve to benefit from
the best instructional methods available (Erickson, 2014).
• This
prenatal education program should be implemented to help mothers in developing
countries avoid disease.
Both of
these statements are grammatically sound, and readers can easily comprehend
their meanings. However, they are both imperatives, or statements that
implore the reader to do something because it is essential or fundamental in
some way. Imperatives can powerfully underscore a writer’s overall point and
convince the reader to take action. Imperatives, though, do not really belong
in your scholarly writing as a Walden student because in the social sciences,
your arguments must be based (as much as possible) on logic and evidence.
You may
have heard, in an English or writing course, of the three classical modes of
persuasion: pathos, ethos, and logos, which basically mean
persuading via emotion, authority, and logic, respectively. These are all
effective ways of persuading a reader, and you can see them in your everyday
life: Look at any television commercial, political ad, or opinion column, and
you’ll likely find some or all of these persuasive appeals at work, making you
desire a product, trust a respected official, or believe in the significance of
a piece of data.
Imperatives,
by appealing to our sense of right and wrong, are a potent application of
pathos, and they can profoundly affect our judgments. Sometimes imperatives
serve us well: When world leaders argue to take action to prevent atrocities
like genocide or slavery, they often use imperatives because they’re appealing
to our sense of compassion and decency. They’re not arguing that preventing
these crimes is true; they’re arguing that it is right. In other
cases, though, imperatives are misused to bolster arguments that lack evidence
or logical coherence (a quality aptly captured by the term truthiness)
and lead readers to draw false conclusions. In those situations, imperatives
distract us into believing something is right without concern for
whether it’s true.
Our
susceptibility to pathos is one reason why scientific research is based on the
principle that we should not trust a judgment unless we can verify it with
objective observations of the world around us. Consequently, social scientists
avoid—and are skeptical of—appeals to our emotions or morals; social scientists
use logos (and ethos, to some degree, by doing things like citing
sources and maintaining a scholarly tone to establish their credibility) to
articulate their research. Put another way, using imperatives in
social-sciences writing is akin to sculpting marble with a bulldozer: It's the
wrong tool for the task at hand, and it can destroy the very thing you’re
trying to create.
With this
in mind, let’s look at revisions of my two examples:
• In
several recent studies, differentiated instruction has been identified as a
more effective method than more traditional instructional techniques (Erickson,
2014).
• If
implemented, this prenatal education program could help new mothers in some
developing countries minimize the risk of their children being born with
nutrition-related health problems.
Even though
I might personally feel strongly that all students deserve to benefit from the
best teaching methods available or that we should fund health education
programs in developing countries, those sentiments don’t belong in my
social-sciences writing. Limiting your claims to only what your evidence and
analysis will support will make your arguments more precise and more compelling.
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Matt Sharkey-Smith is a writing instructor and the coordinator of graduate writing initiatives at the Writing Center says, "It's at once paradoxical and commonsensical, but it's true: You get better at writing by writing."
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