Rough Theory

Theory In The Rough

Category Archives: Writing

National Research Writing Month

Via Sarapen: a LiveJournal community dedicated to people who are trying to finish research theses. I gather the concept is to use the community to post commitments and progress updates on thesis writing, in the theory that the combination of group support and public accountability will decrease procrastination. The community is currently set to operate through the month of November, then recess for the holidays, and then resume in the new term.

Probably not my personal thing – I tend to terrify myself into meeting deadlines by scheduling… er… other deadlines: presentations, guest lectures or similar that will require me to prepare a chunk of what I need to write. I seem to need the “objectivity” of a real deadline, and I also get an extra productivity boost if I’m committed to something that will inspire guilt about what might happen if I don’t prepare adequately for something on which someone else depends… ;-P So I search for “opportunities” like this, if I’m feeling the lure of procrastination too deeply…

I have, though, been quietly trying to keep a personal commitment to posting or presenting something dissertation-related at least once a week, which I suppose is a similar concept…

But I thought someone out there might find the group useful (and, now that Sarapen has taken the plunge, it can properly be considered “International” Research Writing Month)…

Open Time

It’s suddenly hit me that this will be my final day of teaching for four months. While my schedule is not exactly empty – there’s a grant to begin to manage, a conference panel to organise, a couple of papers to write, and that small matter of finishing my fieldwork and doing some very intensive dissertation writing – still, I’ve been so heavily scheduled for the past four months that the amount of time that’s being cleared up feels like a veritable chasm of unstructured life awaits – I experience vertigo just thinking about it.

It’s an interesting thing, the level of overbooking I’ve engaged in during the past several months: I work intensely efficiently when forced and, for the past several months, I’ve literally needed to be… purposive about every waking moment (not to mention considerably condensing the sleeping moments…) to get everything done. It’s felt a bit like an endurance race, and getting to the end of this period, I now feel like the person from the folk tale – the one who complains that his home is too small, and receives the advice that he should move his in-laws into the house, then the cow, then the pig, the chickens, the goat, etc., until, when he can stand it no more, he is advised to evict everyone, and he then finds himself revelling in all this open space… It almost feels decadent, this sudden influx of disposable time…

We’ll see how long this sensation lasts, before I lose the perspective provided by this intensely busy term…

Theoretical Fragments

I don’t quite have a complete post on either of the following points, but thought I’d toss them up as free associations for the day…

(1) Thinking What We Know

One of my recurrent struggles, in writing about social theory, is communicating how someone’s formal theoretical system often doesn’t “allow” them to think things that, in practice, they “know” are true.

My recent conference paper, for example, gestured at some of the problems that derive from trying to define capitalism in terms of the institutions of the market and private property: my argument is that, once you accept this definition, you lose the ability to explain theoretically certain things about capitalism that many people assume are true – e.g., that capitalism is global in scope, or that the rise of capitalism and the rise of “modernity” are intrinsically bound together in some meaningful way. The market and private property are not appropriate concepts to enable us to ground these sorts of insights or intuitions into capitalism – they are simultaneously too expansive in their historical scope (“markets” of various kinds have existed well back into history) and too narrow (private property has been suspended or diminished in importance at various points in recent history without this undermining other trends that we would regard as “capitalist”).

It may, of course, be the case that the definition is correct – that capitalism should be defined in terms of the market and private property – and that it is our historical intuitions that are wrong: perhaps we shouldn’t be trying to capture the “globalness” of our contemporary history, or the distinctiveness of modernity, via a concept such as capitalism.

I am interested, though, in the issue of how we could ground these sorts of historical intuitions – what kinds of theoretical concepts might make it possible to grasp and make sense of these sorts of historical insights. I am also interested in preventing the sorts of conceptual mistakes that I think sometimes occur when people move, often without realising it, from what their theoretical categories logically allow them to say, into broader claims that are grounded on historical intuitions that cannot be grasped within their theoretical system.

I find it very difficult, though, in practice to convince someone that a theoretical system in fact does not ground insights that are historically plausible for other reasons. I find myself in situations where, for example, I will note that the common definition of capitalism can’t really make sense of the mid-20th century as capitalist, where my interlocutor will respond, e.g., that of course they know that the mid-20th century is capitalist – what gives me the impression they aren’t aware of this, etc. I’m trying to work out a better vocabulary for expressing that my critical target is the logical implications of the theoretical categories, rather than the historical awareness of the theorist…

(2) How Do We Value Labour?

I’ve recently been playing with alternative definitions of capitalism, trying to stumble across a good vocabulary for describing what I suspect is best understood in terms of a long-term, unintended pattern of social practice – a pattern that can be (and, historically, has been) replicated via a range of concrete social institutions, and that therefore should not be defined in terms of any specific configuration of concrete social institutions.

In recent papers, I’ve been toying with describing this long-term pattern of social practice in terms of “growth”. For many reasons, though, I’m not particularly enamoured of this term – among other things, it troubles me to use a “fashionable” term of critique (not because I have some principled objection to fashionable concepts, but because fashionable concepts tend to become freighted with a blurry range of meanings, increasing the chances for someone to read extraneous content into what I’m trying to communicate – and my concepts are fuzzy enough as it is, without loading them with a range of unintended meanings…), and I’m finding that, in practice, some readers are inclined (not unreasonably) to interpret my references to “growth” in terms of quantitative expansion – of stuff, of population – and thus to assume that I’m making some kind of argument about the psychological consequences of exposing humans to quantitatively more and more, e.g., wealth, population, etc. – when what I’m actually after are the qualitative dimensions of the pattern: a better understanding of how our perceptions and thoughts are shaped in specific qualitative directions through our practical exposure to this dimension of our historical experience.

Ironically, I’ve gotten myself into this situation by trying to avoid speaking in terms that I thought would be even more freighted – specifically, to avoid what might otherwise be a tempting move to reappropriate and reinterpret the phrase “labour theory of value”. This move would be tempting because, I suspect, one useful way to describe the long-term pattern of social practice that characterises capitalism would be in terms of social pressures and incentives to reconstitute the expenditure of human labour, regardless of how high productivity or material wealth becomes. From this standpoint, one can then examine particular institutional configurations of capitalism to, e.g., identify the feedback loops and incentives that, in a particular context, help to perpetuate this pattern – but one can also abstract from concrete feedback loops and incentives, recognising that it is theoretically possible to transform a wide range of social institutions and practices while retaining “capitalism” – as long as capitalism is understood in terms of the underlying pattern of practice…

I’m by no means the only person who has suggested that the “labour theory of value” might mean something like this. But the overwhelmingly more common interpretation of the phrase “labour theory of value” sees the term as a claim about how, in spite of appearances, labour inputs have some determining role in the creation of material wealth or in setting the prices of goods – and that then sees critique as a process of “unmasking” these misleading appearances, in order to reveal the true social centrality of the working classes. It would be something of an understatement to say that I find such claims empirically problematic and, in any event, I am not generally trying to construct an “unmasking” or debunking critique – I therefore regard this conventional vision of the labour theory of value as beside the point for my work, and have avoided using the term to prevent my claims from being distorted by the conceptual gravitational field exerted by this much older and better known theoretical tradition.

Still, the question remains as to whether, in trying to avoid the particular historical freighting of terms like “labour theory of value”, I’ve fallen into an even more loaded terrain by invoking the fashionable, but fuzzy and ill-defined, notion of “growth”…

Holy Moses!

I’ve been intending to point readers to this BBC article on Amanda McKittrick Ros. I was too busy to put a post together in a timely fashion, though, and I now notice that many other bloggers have fun posts up on Ros and other creators of almost demonically inspired bad writing. The BBC article promotes a Belfast literary festival that has issued a challenge for “lovers of awful literature”: the festival will hold a competition to see who can read the longest passage from Ros’ work without laughing. Sound easy? See how well you go with these selections:

Visiting Westminster Abbey

Holy Moses! Have a look!
Flesh decayed in every nook!
Some rare bits of brain lie here,
Mortal loads of beef and beer,
Some of whom are turned to dust,
Every one bids lost to lust;
Royal flesh so tinged with ‘blue’
Undergoes the same as you. (via Wikipedia)

Or this piece on the death of a lawyer:

Beneath me here in stinking clumps
Lies Lawyer Largebones, all in lumps;
A rotten mass of clockholed clay,
Which grown more honeycombed each day.
See how the rats have scratched his face?
Now so unlike the human race;
I very much regret I can’t
Assist them in their eager ‘bent.’ (via fastlad)

Or perhaps you prefer more of a prose selection:

Every sentence the able and beautiful girl uttered caused Sir John to shift his apparently uncomfortable person nearer and nearer, watching at the same time minutely the divine picture of innocence, until at last, when her reply was ended, he found himself, altogether unconsciously, clasping her to his bosom, whilst the ruby rims which so recently proclaimed accusations and innocence met with unearthly sweetness, chasing every fault over the hills of doubt, until hidden in the hollow of immediate hate. (from Irene Iddesleigh via Oddbooks)

Oddbooks has an online shrine devoted to Ros’ work, for those who would like to learn more. You may also want to read the historical precedent for the Belfast Literary Festival event – attempting to read Ros without laughing was apparently a leisure activity for the Inklings.

Want to See Something Really Scary?

Scott Eric Kaufman over at Acephalous is blogging about dissertation fears again (for the record, he and I have had this conversation before).

Scott started things off with four of his fears; others have added theirs – as of this posting, the list is up to 16 (with two different contenders for #15). My main fear has remained constant now across several research degrees: that I am working on something that is completely obvious to everyone else, and that, when I finish, everyone will look at me and say, “You’ve spent three years on this?! Everyone knows this!”

From the Acephalous thread, I particularly enjoyed #8: “If you re-read your own work, you will discover you haven’t been writing in complete sentences.”

A warning, though, before you hop over and have a look: one recent commenter has complained, “Ya’ll certainly know how to dampen the (apparently naive) enthusiasm of a first year grad student.”

Becoming the Teachers We Didn’t Have

Like parents who want to spare their children the worst experiences from their own childhoods, academics often choose pedagogical strategies in the hope of sparing their students from their own worst university experiences. A post from See Jane Compute reminded me of this issue. Jane reports:

The story of how I teach intro courses has to start with my own first experience with a programming class in college. In short, it was a complete disaster. Now, I was not a complete newbie–I had taken a few computer courses in junior high and in high school, although none on the “serious programming content” or AP level, so I at least knew a bit about how computer programs worked. And for the first few weeks, everything was fine. But about halfway through the class, we were introduced to a concept–and I don’t even remember exactly what it was anymore–that I just could not understand. Unfortunately, programming courses build heavily on previous material, and so this pretty much sealed my doom. Also, the class picks up steam and more material is covered in the second half, so I quickly found myself drowning. On top of everything, the professor was one of those brilliant types that have no business teaching undergrads (i.e., couldn’t teach you if you weren’t already a programming genius), the TA spoke little English, and I was intimidated by the fact that all of my classmates either (a) seemed to get things much faster than I did, or (b) cheated their way through the class. By some miracle, I got a B in the class–to this day, I have no idea how I pulled it off. But the damage was done: I now *hated* programming, an activity that had only brought me joy in the past.

She then goes on to say:

This experience, more than any other experience I had as an undergrad, colors the way I approach teaching. My number one goal in teaching intro courses is to make sure that my students’ first experience with programming is overwhelmingly positive (or as positive as possible). I remember the despair I felt, and I keep that in mind as I introduce concepts, make up homeworks, and talk to my students in class and in office hours. I try to make sure that my interactions with students, and what I do in the classroom, encourages them rather than discourages them.

I have a similar undergraduate memory that haunts my teaching practice. Read more of this post

What Happened Next

My high school “world history” teacher began her class with a line I’ve (unfortunately) never been able to forget:

The earth formed in a ball of gas and dust. It cooled. It rained. Humans evolved. This year, we’re going to study what happened next.

Without going into specifics, can I just say that somehow her spirit has found its way to Australia, and is now haunting the essays of many of my otherwise talented undergraduates…

Just a small plea, if anyone is reading: yes, I have suggested that you use your first couple of sentences to link your essay to a broader context, so I realise I’m the proximate cause of this particular problem. So let me explain what I mean. The strategic point of contextualising your paper is not to demonstrate that your argument is of world historical import. References to world history, human evolution, global thermonuclear holocaust, or other Powers and Principalities are unecessary and – trust me on this one – usually counter-productive.

The goal, instead, is much more modest: write for the sorts of people who will eventually read your professional or academic writing – busy people, who might have a general background in what you’re discussing, but who aren’t intimately familiar with what you are about to say. Use your first couple of sentences to ease your reader into your thought-space, and to prime them for what you are about to argue. And, most importantly, take pity on your instructor, and don’t give me traumatic flashbacks to my world history class…

Design a site like this with WordPress.com
Get started