Scholars use writing to present what they know to other knowledgeable people. So it should almost go without saying that the things they talk about should be knowable. The actual, after all, is generally possible; if you actually know something then it is possible to know it. Philosophical platitudes aside, the idea becomes a bit more interesting when we consider the position of the reader. When scholars put something in writing, they are implying that you, dear reader, are capable of knowing what they’re talking about too. Ideally, you can come to know what the writer knows merely from reading their book. That is, the writer presumes that you are working under “conditions of possibility” that afford you means to know things about the subject of the book. I want to say a little bit about what that might mean.

It is easiest to see how this works in the highly technical papers of the natural sciences. Here a “result” is presented along with the procedure that produced it. The writer obviously presumes that the reader is capable of understanding how the experiment was done (after reading the methods section) and how the result bears on the current state of the theory. Indeed, the writer should presume that the reader is capable of replicating the experiment, i.e., carrying out the same procedure and arriving at a comparable result. In this way the reader could come to know the result as well as the writer. In practice, however, and on the assumption that there has been no fraud (i.e., that the writer does indeed know what they’re talking about), we usually grant that the reader “knows” the result after reading the paper, even without carrying out the experiment themselves. The assumption is simply that the paper is an honest presentation of what happened in the lab.

This doesn’t mean that we assume that the result is true. There are all sorts of things that can go wrong in an experiment and until many labs reproduce the result and extend the findings into other areas we will not consider the matter settled. The point is simply that there is no difference between the writer and the reader on this point. Whatever knowledge the experiment produced, with whatever degree of certainty, is now equally available to both researchers. After all, even the original researcher will do well to do a replication at some point in the future — and the result of a replication is never given in advance. The reader is in the same position. The reader knows as much as the writer on these questions.

This might seem a very strong position, especially when we consider the social sciences. Imagine a researcher who has spent three years doing an ethnography of a particular company. At some point they write a book on the subject. Surely, we want to say, they know much more about the company than the reader could ever hope to. But let’s think about this more carefully. The reader is defined by whatever book the researcher writes. The claim is not that all researchers know as much about everything as all the others. The claim is merely that the reader of a scholarly book has the capacity to know what the book says as well as the writer. The writer must provide the reader with enough information to support the specific claims made about the company that was studied. It is those claims, and only those claims, that the reader can hope to master as well as the writer.

That’s what qualifies the reader to be a critic of the writer’s work. The reader doesn’t have to just believe everything the writer says. Even though the book is reporting on field experiences that the reader doesn’t have, the claims that the writer is making have to make sense to someone who understands how field work is done and what sorts of claims it can support. The reader (who is a peer) can imagine going into some other organization, observing similar behavior, and drawing similar conclusions. Or not. Or the reader can perhaps remember an organization where exactly the same behavior did not imply exactly those conclusions. The writer cannot simply dismiss this counterveiling experience or imagination by saying “I was there!” To defend the original claim, to deal with the objection, the writer must present more evidence. The critic, then, is criticizing the absence of that evidence in the book.

In his Critique of Pure Reason, Kant proposed to delineate “the conditions of the possibility of our knowledge of objects”. How must the world be, and how must we be, if we are to know things? How must experience be constituted? His analysis was “transcendental” and these days, I suppose, mainly of interest to philosophers. But we’ve come a long way since Kant’s “a priori” conditions and we can now talk about how our “discourse” must be organized, how readers must be related to writers, so that the “order of things” can be known. (Yes, I’m alluding to Foucault’s “historical a priori”.) The important thing in academic or scholarly writing is that these conditions are shared by the reader and the writer. Scholars do not have privileged positions among other scholars from which to stake their knowledge claims. Their peers are qualified to tell them they are wrong.

To be continued…

The other day I was asked directly for my opinion. “It’s hard when you feel compelled to make every email a prose masterpiece,” tweeted David Hoinski. “Just think of it as a couple of tweets,” replied Evan Knäppenberger, paying David a nice compliment on his tweeting. “What do you think[, Thomas]?” he added, and I was happy to oblige. “One definition of beauty is: aptness to purpose,” I quoted Ezra Pound (ABC of Reading, p. 64). I can respect the compulsion to use good prose even in your emails, but the effort must be proportionate to one’s purpose. On this measure, “Let’s meet for coffee at 10:30,” may well be a “masterpiece” all on its own. In some contexts, it’s impossible to imagine a better way of putting it.

On Twitter, I tried out an analogy that I’m still quite pleased with. “Some people make a truly great cup of coffee every morning,” I said. “They don’t labor at it much longer than those who make an ordinary one.” It isn’t actually hard to make a good cup of coffee; you just have know what you’re doing (and, indeed, how you like your coffee.) So their secret isn’t very hard to understand, though their example may not be easy to emulate.

Every morning, year in and year out, they simply cared how their coffee turned out. They tried various things (choice of beans, fineness of grind, water temperature) until the result satisfied their standard of beauty. But on the mornings when it didn’t come out right, they didn’t (except in extreme cases) throw out the pot and start over or make do with no coffee at all. And even the most compulsive perfectionist can’t spend much more than 15 minutes brewing coffee — most of which is spent waiting for the water to boil and the coffee to brew or for the machine to do whatever your machine does. The few things you have to do just have to be done right, with care. After years of careful attention to the process, every morning produces a little masterpiece. Or that’s how I imagine it anyway.

A similar kind of care can be taken with your emails. You can resolve to pay attention to what you’re doing when you’re writing them. Sit up straight; read the mail you’re answering slowly; compose your response in a relaxed and deliberate fashion; read it through once or twice at the end; check the address and subject line before sending. That sort of thing. You won’t write an error-free mail every time, but over time you will develop a natural feel for the medium. You will learn to pay a proportionate amount of attention to the task. You will learn to reliably produce mails that are apt to their purpose. And it will be good for your prose.

It’s important to maintain that sense of proportion. The perfectionist doesn’t put off their morning coffee until evening because they’re working on a masterpiece. When the time for coffee arrives the requisite effort is simply made, a few careful minutes of deliberate attention are devoted to the task. Likewise, it may take a few minutes longer for you to compose your mails like little masterpieces, but it shouldn’t make the task impossible or your life harder. At the end of the day, you’re giving yourself the time to enjoy the craft. If you keep this in mind, it’s altogether reasonable to pursue mastery of a limited function like email.

“Do not worry. You have always written before and you will write now. All you have to do is write one true sentence. Write the truest sentence that you know.” (Ernest Hemingway)

To know that tomorrow I will write is happiness. I don’t mean that thinking, or hoping, or wishing to write tomorrow is happiness. I mean really knowing that I will write. And to know that you will write you must know both what you will write and when you will write. To vaguely intend to write something, sometime tomorrow is not to know that you will write tomorrow. Knowing means knowing when you will start writing, on which paper, in defense of which claims, and when you will stop writing.

It’s a writer’s happiness, of course. But, then again, your happiness as a writer is periodically the greatest happiness that is available to you. There are periods when your unhappiness as a writer is the foundation of your mood in all things. A writer is someone who needs to write; and a scholar is sometimes more acutely a writer, whether writing or not, than any other thing. There are also periods when your writing has little to do with your happiness, when you are happy or unhappy regardless of whether you are writing. But those periods are not what I’m talking about this morning.

I felt this writer’s happiness last night. I had not yet decided what this morning’s blog post would be about and I was acutely aware of having to make that decision. I was not happy. Being back on a schedule means that I am writing, that I’m a writer, that my happiness depends on whether or not I write. I knew when I would write, but not yet what I would write. So I was not yet happy. I got ready for bed and got under the covers with Book I, Part III, of Williams’ Paterson. It begins: “How strange you are, idiot!” And ends: “Earth, the chatterer, father of all/speech . . . . .” And it has some sharp words along the way for “the university”. A good tonic. And then I knew what I would write about.

I got up and sat at the table with my notebook, jotting down a long and clumsy version of what is now my opening sentence and a few loose thoughts. Then I went to bed and slept. From the moment I closed the notebook, to the moment I fell asleep, I was happy.

When do you feel this happiness? How often? For how long? Happiness is not writing but knowing that tomorrow you will write. You may know, while you are writing today, that you will also write tomorrow. Or you may know at the moment you stop writing that you’ll write again tomorrow. Then you will be happy for the rest of the day. You, the writer. (Like I say, there are times in your life when nothing can make you miserable if the writer in you is happy and nothing can make you happy if the writer is miserable.) Sometimes, however, you will finish your writing for the day and you will have to wait until later in the day to know that you will write again tomorrow. Or you will know that you won’t write tomorrow, because you have planned not to write tomorrow. Why did you rob yourself of this happiness?

On Friday afternoon, I should mention, “tomorrow” means Monday. Consider the implications: a little bit of planning, a little bit of determination can make you happy all day long for weeks. Every day, you make a decision about when and what you will write tomorrow. You make that decision merely by looking at your writing plan. And you always do what your plan tells you to do. Or you change the plan for tomorrow, at the latest today. That is, you know you will not change your mind tomorrow morning when you are supposed to write. The writer in you has learned to trust the rest of you. When the writing is finished for the day, the rest of you takes over, first making a promise to bring you back to the desk tomorrow.

And that, again, is happiness.

_____

*I wrote this post back in 2011 on my old blog. This is a lightly edited repost.

Pace Eric Hayot

“Write from the center of your strength,” I often say. This usually amounts to picking your audience and your argument in a way that makes it easy for you, as a speaker, to strike a “rhetorical balance” between them. You should know both what you are talking about and who you are talking to, and you should have something on your mind to tell them. Importantly, you should be interested in what they think of your views. You should be ready to adjust your stance to theirs when they make it known. So you should begin in a determined but relaxed posture, feet apart, shoulders down. Set up your writing moment so that you start out feeling comfortable with the situation.

Now, someone has probably told you that it’s important to move “out of your comfort zone” every now and then. Sometimes we’re more or less forced to. We feel pressure to write about a topic that we haven’t yet made up our minds about, or we feel pressured into speaking to a particular audience. These sorts of exigencies are quite normal in school when we’re given assignment by a teacher. In such situations we begin “off balance” and we sometimes think that that’s the point. Sometimes, our teachers tell us that that was the point! But remember that the point, ultimately, is to teach to you regain your balance, to find your center again. The point is not to be be uncomfortable for long periods of time.

In fact, a good assignment will only push the unprepared mind seriously out of balance. If you haven’t been keeping up with your reading and attending class then, yes, reading the prompt can be a jarring experience. You have a vague sense that you should know what is being asked of you, but you simply don’t know what the words mean, what you’re supposed to be doing. If you are familiar with the subject, on the other hand, the assignment simply sets you up for a series of moves that you’ve already practiced during your “training”, i.e., while reading, thinking, and talking about the subject of the course, and while working on your own prose. A well-designed assignment will immediately make all that preparation seem worthwhile. “Let’s see how we do,” you say say to yourself.

Whether you’re practicing or performing, the trick is to pull whatever challenges you face towards the place where you have resources to deal with them. When writing, always decide the day before what you will say, and don’t make this decision on the basis of some external pressure to say some specific thing, as if there’s a right answer, something you must say. Make the decision on the basis of how well you understand something. Choose something you know well enough to write at least six sentences about, i.e., a paragraph. I recommend you choose something you knew already last week. And then give yourself half an hour the next morning to write that paragraph, calmly and deliberately from the center of your strength. Show yourself what you’re capable of when you’re at your best.

Just looking at your key sentence the day before should be a comfortable experience. The prospect of composing the paragraph after a good night’s sleep should be a pleasant one. If it isn’t, you should choose something else to write about. The idea that writing should always be a groping forward in the darkness at the edge of your abilities is not helpful. Writing should be a time of relative comfort, of comfortably knowing how smart you are. At least a great deal of the time.

I was about to tear into Hugh Kearns over a tweet of his, but then did what you should always do before engaging, and clicked through to the post at the LSE Impact Blog he had summarized. It turns out that his advice is entirely sensible. There’s a small point I’d like to take issue with, but I’ll leave that to the end.

“The write-up period is a delusion,” write Kearns and Gardiner (and tweeted Hugh), “People say ‘I’ve done all the other bits, I just have to write it up.’ Just have to write it up! Like it was just a minor task. Writing is probably the most intellectually challenging part of the process.” The point is that you should be writing from the beginning — there is no “write-up period” after the “research period”. Not having completed any one part of your research process is no reason not to be writing. There is always something you can be writing. And it’s certainly not a matter of “just” writing, as though it’s an insignificant part of the process of getting a PhD. “It’s hard work so you need to start writing as early as possible. Write as you go. Start writing now.”

The important thing here is to see writing as a part of your life, your day-to-day. It should be one of the many things you “show up for” on a regular basis. We don’t put off teaching until we know everything about a subject. And we don’t stay away from seminars just because we haven’t read the paper(s) being discussed as closely as we would have liked. We contribute continuously to the variety of functions that being an academic implicates us in. We do the best we can with the class on the day it is scheduled; we contribute to the seminar as best we can, or at least get as much out of it as we are able. And, anyway, our research, our learning process, is never really finished (as Kearns and Gardiner also point out), so if we’re waiting for a distinct “write-up period,” we could in principle be waiting forever.

How to decide what to write will depend a little on the sort of research you’re doing. On the classic approach, you’ll be developing your methods and procedures within the framework of a reigning theory. If that’s how you do things, you should be able to write much of your theory chapter while you’re collecting your data. After all, you couldn’t have worked out your method without knowing a great deal about the theories you’ll use to analyze the data after you have it. You should also be in a good position to write major portions of your background chapter. By a similar token, by the time you’re analyzing your data you should be able to write clearly and honestly about how you collected it, i.e., your methods chapter. The general point is that you’re not conducting your research in a vacuum of total ignorance that you at some point fill with air. In order to get into the doctoral program you had to demonstrate that you’re a knowledgeable person. You’ve got a lot of things on your mind already. You’re doing what you’re doing, seeing what you’re seeing, learning what you’re learning, on the basis of a vast amount of knowledge that you’ve already acquired.

My advice is to remind yourself that, however much you still have to learn, there are many things you already know. In fact, much of what you will know by the time you submit your thesis, you already knew last week. So just pick something you knew last week to write about tomorrow. Write at least one thing you know (and at most six) every day, five days a week, four times a year, eight weeks in a row. It doesn’t matter what you’re doing the rest of the day — reviewing the literature, collecting data, analyzing it, or thinking through its implications — or teaching a class or contributing to a research proposal or even planning your wedding. We’re just talking about a half hour of writing about something you know. Get it done. Get on with your day.

Don’t wait for “the writing-up period”. Don’t delude yourself into thinking it’ll all come together at the end. And don’t imagine you can’t concentrate on a single thing you know “with all this other stuff going on”. Pick one thing this evening. Write about it tomorrow. You’ll be surprised. What ultimately “comes together” is the three or four hundred paragraphs you managed to write while you were doing all those other things.

So far, I think Hugh, Maria and I agree. But there’s one thing in their post that doesn’t sit well with me. “Writing is probably the most intellectually challenging part of the whole process,” they say. “Writing is where you do the deep thinking; making sense of all the reading you’ve done; interpreting the data you’ve collected; and trying to communicate what it all means.” This is of course true for many researchers and especially those that leave the writing to the end. These are people who spend far too long not writing and hope to accomplish far too much in far too little time. (At the extreme, they’re waiting for a “secret miracle”.) Also, they believe Hugh and Maria (and many, many others before them) when they say that writing involves “deep thinking”, “making sense” and “communicating meaning”. So by the time they get to the writing they’re out of shape and way too demanding (of themselves). They want their writing to do the heavy lifting that should already be long behind them.

If you think about it, it can’t be right that writing is the “most intellectually challenging” aspect of research. Maybe a novelist can make this claim, but surely the hard part of research is actually making discoveries — reading difficult texts, collecting representative data, and carrying out complex analyses. Not to put too fine a point on it, but if you think writing is the “hard part” maybe you’re not working hard enough at your research. (I’m sure Hugh and Maria don’t think their research is “easy” and, I suspect they meant it as hyperbole, so I hope neither they nor you take offense at this way of reminding you of the real difficulty.) There’s a difference between not putting your writing off until after your research is done and conflating your writing process with your research process.

The “write-up period” may well be a delusion, but there’s very definitely such a thing as “writing down” what you know. If you know what you’re talking about, and you’ve trained yourself, day by day, to write down things you know for the purpose of discussing them with other knowledge people, writing isn’t the hard part. It’s still hard, but it’s not the bulk of the challenge. I think that’s important to keep in mind.