Author Archives: Nick Hopwood

About Nick Hopwood

I am Associate Professor at the University of Technology Sydney (UTS). I am an educational researcher, and have a long interest in doctoral education, research training (though I'm not sure about the word 'training'). I also like to poke fun at academics (myself included), particularly when it reveals things that are important but not often talked about. Follow me on twitter @NHopUTS

In conversation with Prof Peter Sawchuk

I had the pleasure of spending an hour talking with Peter Sawchuk from the University of Toronto. It was part of the Work, Learning & Social Change Discussions: Foundational Voices on Persisting Questions series.

The Work, Learning and Social Change discussion series is designed to discuss learning and work research in an informal context. Our series is actually made of several sets of discussions with early, mid-career and later career researchers.

The discussion series is organized and supported by the Centre for the Study of Learning, Social Economy and Work (CLSEW) at the University of Toronto.

What we talked about

Peter and I discussed a number of talking points:

  • My approach to researching work, learning, and social change, and what makes it distinctive (A lot is about the data! And holding up mirrors so people can see themselves differently, and then do things differently)
  • People, writing and traditions that have inspired my research (Cultural historical theory, practice theory, and the people around me at Oxford, and UTS, plus leading scholars like Anne Edwards, Annalisa Sannino, Anna Stetsenko, Silvia Gherardi, Stephen Kemmis, Theodore Schatzki)
  • Things that have lingered in my mind that I’d like to but haven’t yet really made use of in my research (Power, affect)
  • Emerging trends and issues in the field of workplace learning (Strengthening our notions of the individual while retaining strong notions of the social; decolonising what we know, how we think, and the methods we use in researching work and learning)
  • Advice for research students and early career researchers (I was reluctant to give advice, as my run through privileged scholarships and postdocs as a white male wouldn’t square with many people’s struggles. However, I did reflect on what I think was important and would repeat if I were starting my career all over again – that was reaching out to the best thinkers in the world to nurture my own thinking, and reading what feels good to read).

The video

Here is the video

It was really cool

The questions Peter asked me were really nurturing ones to think through, and the way he responded and talked to me made me think hard – in a fantastic way – about what I’ve done, what I stand for, what I want to do.

Thanks Peter!

I hope those watching enjoy the conversation as much as I did 🙂


6 excellent podcasts

Jen Harrison (she/her/hers) reached out to me recently, sharing the link to a recent digest she published of ‘6 PhD podcasts for surviving your dissertation‘.

There is a companion post on 10 essential dissertation blogs (featuring many greats like Thesis Whisperer, Research Whisper, and yours truly!)

What I really like about the selection of recommended podcasts is the diversity of approaches they represent, but also the diversity of authors and audiences. In particular, Jen’s list includes podcasts written by and for people of colour and women.

I also loved the way Jen foregrounded things in Muzak’s podcast about “writing production “writing and publishing productively, but with an emphasis on avoiding the culture of normalized burnout that is particular detrimental to women scholars”

Food for thought for me

I don’t think I had realised properly how my own blogging and making podcasts/YouTube videos could uphold cultures of normalised burnout – painting a picture of things within reach etc, when often they are not. It makes me think all the things I’ve shared about rejection and failure are even more important, but I also need to do more careful thinking about burnout and the way that associated pressures are not experienced equally by all scholars.

It also made me realise that my middle class, white, male voice might need some intentional balancing out in my blog here – watch this space 🙂

Thank you Jen for reaching out!

Responding to peer review: A guide to producing actionable knowledge to improve your work while keeping control of your research

Peer review is unavoidable in research. Whether in journal publishing, academic book contracts, or formal assessments throughout candidature (like proposal defence).

I find that my default is often to see reviewer comments as immovable truths about my (lack of) competence as a researcher, and a set of commands that I have to follow. I know both of these to be false, but still these creep into my mindset and the work to keep these unhelpful myths at bay is hard.

This blog post is for those of you who, like me, find responding to reviewer comments hard. I explain some strategies that I find useful, and present a downloadable template that you can use and adapt.

The key is to take back control

We need to be in control of two things:

  1. How we pay attention to reviewer comments. I find, at least in the first readings, that I’m not in control at all. It feels like a tidal wave of criticism hitting me from all sides. In later readings I need to wrest back control so I pay attention to what the reviewers wrote in ways that help me.
  2. Our research. Particularly in postgrad research (Masters, Doctorates) but really in all research, we need to be open to criticisms and ready to revise, but ultimately it is our research.

Change your relationship with the reviewer

The review is not some kind of automatic expression of universal truths about your work and how awful it is. It is the result of an interaction between what you wrote and someone who read it (or supposedly read it).

I find it helpful to personalise the reviewer, to see them as a human being just as flawed, tired, pressured, and biased as I am. To take control of how you pay attention to what they wrote, get to know them and put yourself in a position where you get to question and critique them – a more mutual relationship than expert powerful reviewer vs ignorant powerless author.

Reset your relationship with the reviewer to a more symmetrical and empowered one, where you get to know them and have permission to criticise what they wrote

Look for evidence that they might be from your field and really know their stuff (the literature, the methods, the theory etc), or for evidence that maybe they are coming at this from another ‘space’ – which might explain some of their comments.

Look for evidence that maybe they were having a bad day and might have been grumpier than is warranted (particularly in the way they expressed things).

Look for evidence that their writing not might be the most clear text (even while they might be criticising you for lack of clarity!). Yes, some reviews are badly written.

Produce actionable knowledge

Your job is not to figure out how to do everything the reviewer suggested, asked or ‘told’ you to do.

It is to figure out how to use what they wrote to identify changes you can make that you think improve and strengthen your work.

Expand possible meanings of the text

Pay deliberate attention to what the reviewer wrote in ways that enrich it with meaning. For example:

What comments do you find useful? Expand the meaning by reflecting on why – this will tell you something important about your study.

What comments do you find unhelpful? Expand the meaning by reflecting on why you think this, and also why someone else thought the opposite? Something happened there that you need to get to the bottom of.

What comments are ambiguous or unclear? Expand meaning by exploring alternative interpretations, reading between the lines, detecting the subtext.

Determine what to do next

Now, with this more empowered relationship with the reviewer, and expanded possible meanings of what they wrote, you are in a much better position to decide what to do next, while maintaining control over your research.

Hunt for the existing ‘gems’ – suggestions you have been given for free that actually help make your research better. Yay!

Hunt for things you can turn into gems. It might not be quite what the reviewer had in mind, but if instead of X1 you do X2 (a variation of X1), your work gets better…

Defend. In fact it is a double defence. The first is to be clear about why you’re not doing something the reviewer suggested. The second is to consider launching a pre-emptive counter-strike in your next draft to defend against that same criticism coming again in future. After all if this reviewer thought Y would be a good idea, it’s likely other readers will too.

Fix areas where the reviewer missed the point. You might have thought something was obvious, but the reviewer missed it. You might have thought something was easy or connected, but the reviewer found it hard or unrelated. Meta-text, signposts, and writing more for a general audience (rather than assumed expert in your field) can help.

Self-care when it makes sense. Sometimes it makes sense to make some changes that aren’t exactly what you’d like, but you can see it’s worth it on balance. Provided these don’t derail your research, provided they leave what matters to you intact, you might make changes for the sake of ease. Kind of ‘Sigh, I’m not really into that, but life will be a lot easier if I just do it’. I find I do this a lot of the time when reviewers want me to cite researchers who I don’t think are particularly relevant, but I realise if I don’t, readers will think I don’t know what I’m doing. Turn ‘giving in’ as ‘this is me picking my battles and doing a lovely bit of self-care’.

Over to you

I hope this might help make responding to peer reviews less something that ‘happens to you’ where the problem is ‘How do I do everything they asked?’. Instead, it might become something – still challenging – where the problem is ‘How do I work with the reviewer comments in ways that ultimately make my research better?’.

Key to this is paying attention in particular ways that put you in the driving seat, and bringing your own insights – perhaps helped by others – in figuring out what to do next.

Here is a word document that translates the points I’ve made above into a template that you can fill out. I find it helpful because it means I’m responding to my own words, my digest of what the reviewers said, rather than keep going back to the original reviews which are often: poorly written, vague, not pleasant to read, and by default, devoid of the crucial insights I bring to the process.

You can edit and adapt this (it’s a word document not a PDF).

I would love to hear if you find it helpful!

Strategies for effectively editing and proofreading academic writing

Strategies for effectively editing and proofreading academic writing

When we think of academic writing, we often think of the painful, difficult process of getting words onto the page. But what about when we have a bunch of words down, what next? Does the act of writing get all the glory while we overlook editing and proofreading? Do we think about ourselves as writers too much, and as editors not enough?

Mark Haddon (a Whitbread Award-winning novelist) says of himself: “I’m not a terribly good writer, but I’m a persistent editor” (The Guardian, 2016).

The production of good journal articles, thesis chapters and other scholarly texts very much depends on editing and proofreading. 

I was recently contacted by someone who does these things for a living, who offered to share some tips and strategies. Our dialogue over email and various drafts (yes, we edited and proofread this post!) made me realise I had been underestimating the importance of these linked but distinct processes in writing. And that I was guilty of approaching them in ways that were unlikely to be really serving my needs and resulting in the best possible texts.

I hope what follows is helpful – the professional’s perspective, interspersed with some of my own comments and confessions.

What was most refreshing for me was a reminder that I don’t need to be a good writer. I can write fairly crappy text and bring it up to standard by being a good editor and proofreader. And the ideas of making the familiar strange, needing to take these processes seriously, give them my full attention.

A professional perspective

For researchers and postgraduate students, both editing and proofreading are essential steps in effective academic writing. After you have completed your academic paper, both of these steps are crucial prior to submission of the paper to a journal for publication. Proofreading is more technical, focusing on correcting spelling, grammar, punctuation etc. This is typically done on the final draft of the paper. Editing, on the other hand, is a more formative process that takes place when you are still working on your paper. You might edit several drafts several times before getting to the proofreading stage. Editing can be thought of as helping to make decisions that inform the development of a draft. Editing can focus on broader structure, flow, coherence of ideas, match between (sub)headings and content, paragraphing, cutting words, and clarity of expression (sentence structure, concise phrasing, use of terminology). It might also involve checking or adding meta-text – features of your writing that provide signposts to a reader as to what to expect, how to navigate your text. Editing involves making choices about what to include, what to take out of the next draft, what to say more about, and what to say less about. It is part of how the writing comes to be, and can be considered as formative. Proofreading, however, is more corrective than formative, focusing more on grammar and syntax rather than semantics and logic. 

Nick: I find that distinction helpful. Editing is about the journey to producing a better text. Proofreading is about technical corrections. When the idea for this post was first suggested to me, I was reminded how important proofreading is. Not so long ago I got comments from journal reviewers saying my paper should be checked by a native speaker of English because it was so riddled with errors. As a native speaker of English myself this was pretty wounding to read. I had been so occupied with the ideas, and done some editing (for flow, coherence), but not full editing (for clarity) and certainly had neglected the proofreading side.

Authors often edit their own work (kind supervisors might also help out). Proofreading might be done by a range of people:

  1. By you, the author! Before you submit any articles for publication or theses for examination, authors are normally expected to do their own proofreading to the best of their ability.
  2. By members of a publisher’s production team. After an article has been accepted for publication, publishers typically conduct a further proofreading service and send queries to authors before publication.
  3. In some case, professional proofreaders can be employed prior to submission, but this is dependent on funding being available, which is often not the case. They would perform a close and in-depth check on the paper to ensure the ideas discussed are easy to follow and the writing contains no major errors. 

Learning to edit and proofread your own work is important, but presents a number of challenges

Both editing and proofreading involve looking at a text with fresh eyes. If you’ve spent a lot of time drafting something, it can be hard to step away. Our concentration can lapse, our brains can complete sentences because we know what’s coming, it can be very easy to skip to the end of a paragraph or page.

Fresh perspective: making the familiar strange

Basically, both editing and proofreading need to you to be able to make something familiar (your own writing) strange (in the sense looking at it as something new).

Here are some suggestions for practical strategies you might use.

Proofread and edit at a time when you are most focused and alert. This helps to ensure you are focused completely on the paper. If you are a morning person, it would be advised to work on it first thing. If you are a night owl, then spend the evening working on it. This means recognising that editing and proofreading are not afterthought activities, but high-stakes ones that deserve your full attention.

Nick: I confess I’m often guilty of doing some editing, and particularly proofreading, late in the day when I’m tired, bored, wanting to finish. I should come at it when I’m fresh, which for me is first thing in the day before I’ve switched my emails on and got distracted by the rejections of whatever other nasty surprises lie in wait.

Take a break from the text. Since you have written the text yourself, you are familiar with the content and this makes it harder for you to spot errors. Setting a text aside for a day or more, then coming back to edit or proofread it can help give you the distance you need from the text to engage with it as something strange (new) rather than familiar.

Nick: I often forget this, because there’s usually pressure to meet a deadline. However when I have had a break from a text (even if a forced break) I do find I can come at it differently. I feel less attached to the words that I’d spent so much time getting onto the page in the first place. So I’m much more ready to make the changes I need to.

Take a break from the task. This relates to the point about being focused and alert. Depending how long the text you are editing or proofreading is, it might not make sense to do it all in one go. 

Nick: Guilty again. I’m usually so ‘over it’ by the time I get to editing or proofreading I just want to be done. I need to be honest with myself that my brain-power is not up to the taxing tasks of editing and proofreading for long chunks of time. At least not if I want to do them well.

Use a hardcopy of the paper. Consider printing the paper out when you edit or proofread. This seems strange, but you would be surprised as to how much harder it is to spot errors on the screen compared to reading the hardcopy. Looking at something on paper rather than on screen can help it feel different and unfamiliar.

Nick: This works very well for me. So many times my draft exceeds a journal word limit and I need to cut hundreds of words. I try on screen and end up adding! And I know things need to change in terms of structure, content and flow, but for all the technological ease of cutting and pasting, I find an inertia. The text doesn’t want to change. But when I print off and get my pen out, somehow that distance between me and the text. I cut whole paragraphs. I spot sentences of 35 words that could convey the same information more clearly in 15 words. I end up drawing long arrows all over the place showing where I need to move the text. 

Nick again: I have noticed that a professional editor and proofreader whose desk is near mine at work always prints out in hard copy. He also uses a rule and goes through line by line. I’d describe his approach as meticulous and methodological. It isn’t quick, but he spots everything! I think the ruler could be really helpful when proofreading: it stops you skipping ahead.

Read it out loud. By reading the paper out loud, you force yourself to slow down the pace. You are also engaging with the text in a different way, making it unfamiliar. All sorts of issues can come up when you read aloud that might otherwise be missed.

Nick: Absolutely! Awkward as it is, reading aloud does work well for me. I am just bad at forcing myself to do it. When I have done it, I’ve noticed things like repetition stand out much more than they do reading silently (I realise I’ve said the same word or phrase many times). Sometimes using the same word is important and deliberate, but I find my early drafts tend to over-do this to the point of sounding like a scratched record. This also inflates my word count. Even more than repetition, I find reading aloud helps me notice long and clunky sentences. I find I run out of breath reading a sentence. The message: if you can’t read it aloud easily, the reader won’t be able to follow it easily either. And you don’t want tired, frustrated readers. (Reading aloud is one of the 10 tips suggested in The Writer magazine, too).

Read it backwards. This is especially valuable for proofreading. It may seem silly, but reading your text backwards will force you to go word by word, to really take things out of context. This would allow you to focus more on the words rather than the ideas, and helps to spot any sentence fragments and spelling errors. 

Nick: I sometimes use this, when I finding it hard to focus. I start with the final paragraph. That way I’m less carried along by the flow of the text and can see the sentences as technical entities in need of a technical check.

Edit or proofread one issue at a time. Editing, say, for flow (the order of ideas, information and rhetorical moves across a text) requires your full attention. Doing this while also looking for over-long sentences, unclear expression, dodgy paragraphs etc is likely to mean you do none of these tasks well. The same goes for proofreading. There might be some errors you know tend to creep into your writing that you can go through one by one (e.g. looking for your use of commas or semi-colons; looking for double or single spaces). You might proof looking for singular and plurals, or use of tenses. The key point is not only to separate editing and proofreading, but to divide each of these up into even more focused tasks. This helps with focus, and is another way of making your familiar text strange.

Nick: I think there is a really good discipline here, because it suggests that before you start any exercise in editing or proofreading, you decide what aspect of that process are you going to focus on. This makes it a deliberate and intentional task, and can help to remind you of the different things involved. Too often I’ve just approached editing as a vague, all-encompassing ‘improve my text while cutting words’ scenario, which hasn’t served my needs well. 

Do what works for you

You might find some of these tips and strategies more helpful than others. The point is not that there are any general rules that must be followed, but that it is worth being explicit and thoughtful about how you approach editing and proofreading. Ask yourself: are my current practices serving my needs well, giving these activities the attention and thought they deserve? If not, consider approaching them in a different way and see if it helps!

The guest contributor to this post is a proofreader at PM Proofreading Services.

Theory as a lens, tool, or musical instrument?

How to work with theory in research is something I am often asked about. It is still one of the things I find hardest.

Intro to literary theory
Theory as a lens from Leonie Krieger

We often here people talking about theory as a lens – kind of like a microscope or telescope that enables you to ‘see’ things you couldn’t otherwise see.

We look ‘through’ the theory at data or the world.

We also hear of theory as a tool – something you use, or put to work.

These are both metaphors of theory use. I find them both helpful in some ways, but increasingly I am troubled by them. Recently a colleague of mine David Kellogg mentioned an alternative – theory as musical instrument – which I found fascinating.

David has kindly written this post in which he explains this idea a bit more, giving extra background on metaphors and language. After David’s post I will offer a few of my own thoughts as to why I think theory as musical instrument is such an exciting and useful metaphor.

David Kellogg | Sangmyung University -
David is Assistant Professor of English Education, Sangmyung University.

David’s thoughts on metaphors for working with theory

At a recent Summer School, Nick presented us with the following bit of data, written by a child who feeds using a tube (rather than orally). Nick shared it to show how amazing things can happen despite challenges in life – in this case, challenges associated with tube-feeding.

Everybody, with the possible exception of the child, realized that this sentence means a great deal more than it intends; it was a long moment before the presenter could continue [Nick: I get rather emotional]. I too am somewhat susceptible to tears, and to distract myself, I found myself looking rather carefully at the spelling of ‘favrote’. I decided that it was not a deliberate pun—on the past tense of “eat”. It was only a misspelling based on the typical pronunciation, in Australian English, of the word “ate” when it is not being stressed. It sounds a lot like “it”.

So there is a sense in which all language use is really metaphor, because you are asking something (some sounding or some spelling) to stand for something else (the wording of a meaning, or the meaning of a wording, depending on whether you are doing the speaking or the listening). But after a few years, a child has done so much of this that it loses its novelty, and it will only regain it when the child learns foreign languages. This loss of novelty occurs at the lexical level as well; very few of us, listening to someone speaking of how to run a business, imagine that this is a metaphor of a footrace and few of us would be surprised to learn that “run a business” is much more common than “run a race”. [Nick: this makes me realise how saturated our everyday communication is with metaphors!]

When the child begins to learn school language, one of the hardest nuts to crack (so to speak) is to recognize that there are grammatical metaphors—that teachers often take meanings which by rights ought to be worded as verb phrases, like “to grow”, and manufacture abstract pseudo-entities, like “growth”. They do this in order to measure them, construe them as subjects, and discuss them as if they were objects you could hold at arms-length in the palm of your hand and examine through a magnifying glass. In high school, these grammatical metaphors become marked with Latin and Greek: “speed” is replaced by “velocity”. Anytime you have some less canonical wording replacing a more typical one, we can rightfully speak of a metaphor.

Now imagine a conference… we are likely to hear phrases like “In this paper, I will use Vygotsky’s theory as a lens to excavate the layers of formation of moral imagining in First Nations adolescents” or “The cultural historical tool kit allows us a wide range of instruments for examining emergent agency in toddlers.” 

If we have the temerity to propose that metaphors like this would actually sound better the other way around, with the lens used to examine and the tool kit used for excavation, we are rightly accused of pedantry and faux naïvete. We are not naïve: the metaphors have long since lost their novelty, the meaning of “lens” no longer has much to do with seeing, and “tool” is just as likely to be used on an idea as on a material situational setting. The metaphor has been naturalized (like running a business).

But what do we do when lenses grow too foggy to function heuristically, and tools are too blunt to cut our way through the withered vines that block new theoretical modeling? We make up new metaphors, at once weirder and more apt. 

And how does this happen? A personal example. While I was complaining about the overuse of “lens” and “tool” at the summer school, it suddenly occurred to me to consider a class in jazz music I have been asked to teach as a lens or a tool for fresh thinking about my own subject, linguistics. Riffing, I suggested that we could sharpen our metaphorical tools by thinking of theory as a musical instrument: a traditional tool with indefinite creative potential that is sometimes, and in this instance, better served by improvisation than composition.

Nick has asked me to write about the background of this metaphor. As far as I can tell, there isn’t any: it’s another instance of improvisation, although like most improvisations that stick it has doubtless been done before. Moreover, I suppose that strictly speaking musical instruments are not really metaphors for theory, because they form an integral part of music theory itself. They are synecdoches: a part that is a metonym for the whole. 

There is another way to make metaphors dangerous again, should we wish to. Un-do them: rise to the concrete, and de-metaphorize them. Even small children know that that grammatical metaphor can go different ways: “because” can be reconstrued concretely as a process “to cause” or more abstractly as an entity, “causation.” 

This child whose favrote [sic] room is the kitchen is acquiring the potential to say “my favor-ate place” and collapse in a dessert of sweet giggling and knowing laughter.

Nick’s reflections on David’s idea: theory as a musical instrument

Jacqueline du Pré interview: 'You must have spontaneity and too much study  destroys that' | Gramophone
Jacqueline du Pré playing the cello

The thing that bothers me about theory as a lens, is that it can be a bit passive, and a bit pre-determined. By passive, I mean (thinking literally about the metaphor!), that if I switch from one pair of goggles to another, what I see changes, but I don’t have to do the looking any differently. The lens does the work for me. That doesn’t feel right to me when thinking about how theory works in analysis.

I also am wary of the risk that using theory as a lens closes off on possibilities, and sort of pre-determines the answer. Imagine, say, Foucault’s theory of power was like a pair of green goggles. I put them on: whoa! everything is green! Yes, but that was always going to be the case if you look through green lens.

Looking Through The Green Sunglasses On The Liberty Bridge In.. Stock  Photo, Picture And Royalty Free Image. Image 105233815.
Will the wearer see anything other than green?

What about theory as a tool? Better, maybe, because at least this implies some active effort on behalf of the tool user. I also like the idea that tools are designed and most valuable for particular purposes: a hammer is great for banging in nails, less good if you want to saw through a log. Same with theory – the match between theory and purpose is really important. But I also think of the power tools – the electric screwdriver. They are there to save us effort. That is not how I understand working with theory. Theory doesn’t make analysis easier. Doesn’t save us effort.

So why do I like the theory as musical instrument metaphor better?

I like David’s improvised metaphor because:

  1. It points to both effort but also creativity in the act of working with theory. Just like the musician performs a piece that does not ‘live’ in the instrument, so the researcher offers something beyond the theory itself.
  2. It points to the need to practice – musicians learn their scales, breathing techniques, bowing techniques, etc. You don’t just pick up an instrument and produce glorious tone and melody. Same with theory: it takes effort, practice, work. Working with theory is something you (can) get better at.
  3. It retains the idea of ‘match’: if you want to create a sustained, low-pitched melody, a snare drum might be less useful than a cello. Same with theory: what do you want to be able to do? That may, in part, govern the relevance of one theory or another
  4. Finally, it suggests that the quality of the outcome is not built-in. Yes, some musical instruments are ‘better’ than others. But, you could give me the world’s best viola and I’d still make only a mediocre sound with it at best. It is not the instrument itself, or the player alone, but the combination of both that creates a good sound. Same with theory: any value theory brings to research lies not fixed in the theory itself, nor in the researcher alone, but in how the two come together – metaphorically how the researcher plays the theory.

What do you think?

What metaphors have you come across for using theory?

Which ones work best for you, why?

Delivering on what research says is needed… an activist action research initiative

Beyond description: an activist approach to research

This blog post is about an action research study. It aimed initially to produce a new website for families of children who cannot feed orally, so use tube. We deliver our promise – – but as is typical in action research, the more we listened to families, the more we realised needed to be done. So, we have launched a fundraising campaign to raise the $10,000 we need to take the next step and make a bigger, positive difference to families of children who tube feed. If you want to skip straight to the end, here’s the link to the fundraising page. Please consider sharing the link with people you think might be interested to donate!

Introducing the SUCCEED study

The SUCCEED Study is funded by Maridulu Budyari Gumal / Sydney Partnership for Health, Enterprise, Research and Education. Our purpose is to use collaborative research, where families, clinicians and researchers collaborate, with equal input and ownership of the project.

Summary of SUCCEED Study video produced with our funders Maridulu Budyari Gumal

The first thing we did was listen to families. We heard stories of what it is like parenting a child who is tube fed. We heard how important it is to maintain social activities – playdates, picnics, birthday celebrations, and physical activities (kids who tube-feed can run, jump, and swim!). We also heard how difficult this can be, not just because of the logistics of tube feeding, but because of the way members of the public often react to tube feeding.

What’s wrong with her? Oh gosh, how awful, how long does he have?

That’s the kind of thing parents told us other people have said to them. They also told us how they can end up isolated from friends, because their friends worry their own kids might hurt the ‘fragile’ (so they think) child who tube-feeds.

It wasn’t all doom and gloom! Parents told us a lot about the MacGyver-type strategies they use to get out of the house, help their children join in social activities with others, and respond confidently and positively when the public are curious (or worse) about the tube.

So, the next thing we did was build a website: This is full of content that came directly from parents, sharing their tips and tricks for everyday life, how they navigated important decisions, and also presenting their Real Stories – showing how every tube-feeding journey is different.

We also did things like organise Australia’s first tube-feeding picnic, which was featured on Channel 7 News. This was a chance for families to get together and celebrate. Many people offered support to make this happen, including a bubblemakers and group of superheroes who came all the way from Newcastle to bring some extra special joy to children at the picnic!

SUCCEED’ Irene and Connor, and our Tube Feeding Picnic on Channel 7 News

But our job is far from done. Parents tell us time and time again that it would make a really big difference if tube feeding was everyone’s business. Many people have never met or even seen a child who feeds using a tube. Tube feeding is often unfamiliar, scary and confronting.

Parents have asked us to work with them put together a public awareness campaign. This will be based on positive values, helping to normalise tube feeding, and showing that kids who tube feed can be happy, healthy and thriving as can their families.

Instead of tube feeding being something horrible that happens to other people, we want tube feeding to be something that everyone understands and can respond appropriately to: not with shock, fear or pity, but with a sense of connection, positivity and that they can do something be part of happy, thriving lives for kids and families.

That’s what we need $10,000 for. We’ve set up a (totally legitimate!) fundraising drive through UTS Causes. People have been incredibly generous so far, but we have a long way to go. And if we exceed our target, we will simply do more of what parents tell us we should be doing!

So please: consider donating – every cent counts! If you can’t or prefer not to donate, you can still help by sharing this link – on facebook, twitter, with people you know:

Everything I do on this blog is done in my own time. Everything on it is freely available to anyone with an internet connection. If you’ve ever read something on this blog and found it useful, this is a cool opportunity to give back – not to me, but to a cause that I care dearly about 🙂

Reclaiming rejection from the shadows of silence and shame

It is almost three years since I posted a picture of my Rejection Wall on Twitter. That started a whole series of events, blogs, and videos. I thought it might be time to revisit and reflect. Importantly, this update post includes heaps of links to what others have been doing in to reclaim rejection from the shadows of silence and shame.

Rejection walls

Since then more than 285,000 people have seen it. Seems like the thing I’m best known for is being rejected.

The response has been overwhelming! Lots of people are saying the feel encouraged, heartened, perhaps when facing rejection themselves.

There’s a list of links to interviews and blog posts relating to the rejection wall below (right at the bottom of this post!). Including a video explaining why I did it and why I think it matters.

People are joining in the ‘reclaim rejection’ movement by ‘confessing’ their own rejection histories.

@RoseGWhite: I’m sure I could cover a whole corridor like this!

@JRobinHighley: I would start my own display, but not sure I have a wall big enough

Similar comments from @Liam_Wagner @SimmsMelanie @TrevorABranch @naynerz @mathewjowens @SJC_fishy @RobHarcourt

@AlexaDelbosc posted a picture of her own rejection wall on twitter

People are advancing the ‘reclaim rejection’ movement through crazy, wonderful ideas

Max Mueller has told us about a rejection garden – not just reclaiming rejection, but doing some good for the environment and greening spaces we inhabit and work in as we go!

Caitlin Kirby attended her PhD Viva exam in a dress made from the rejections she’d had along the way. What a fabulous way to reclaim – to embody the reality of rejection!

@roomforwriting told us about a #wallofcourage in a writing workshop in Brazil, inspired by the rejection wall. I love the framing of reclaiming rejection around courage.

Reclaiming rejection: In the style of Mean Tweets

After the rejection wall I was asked by UTS if I would join a group of academics reading out their rejections on video. Kind of like the way some celebrities do with #meantweets

How cool is it that I work for an institution that values and celebrates rejection in this way, and that I have colleagues who are ready to shake off the shame and go public!

Reclaiming rejection through Shadow CVs

I love the idea of Shadow CVs. I just updated mine (May 2020)with extra-special new additions – more grants not awarded, more journals rejection my papers, and some juicy new sections bringing other failings and failures out into the light. A rejection extravaganza!

I also wrote a post about all the ‘non-academic’ jobs I’ve had along the way (troubling the idea of an ‘academic’ career).

The Shadow CV is a growing genre and an important thread in the move to reclaim rejection. Other examples I’ve come across include

Devoney Looser asks: What would my vita look like if it recorded not just the successes of my professional life, but also the many, many rejections?

Jeremy Fox 2012Bradley Voytek 2013 | Princeton Professor @JHausfoher 2016

Reclaiming rejection through reflecting on our experiences and responses

I’ve tried to address the issue of rejection from different angles. Sometimes it is about the overt story that it happens. Sometimes it is more about how we feel and respond when it does. Some posts you might enjoy include:

Follow-ups to the rejection wall

The rejection wall triggered quite a bit of activity – people asking for interviews, other blog posts. They share a common, core, message.

The lovely people at UTS also came to my office and helped make this video


Reclaim rejection from the shadows of silence and shame!

I would love to hear from you about things you or others are doing to help reclaim rejection! How are people normalising rejection? Responding to rejection?

Please get in touch – comment below or send me an email!

Why journal abstracts are really high stakes, and why they are (and should be) really hard to write

If you find writing abstracts easy, you are not writing good abstracts.

An uncomfortable truth?

This is something I was convinced of by Barbara Kamler a few years ago. I didn’t like it. But I was persuaded it is true.

Before then, and (worryingly!) since, I have been guilty of writing abstracts that aren’t great.

If you’re more of a video person you can watch a summary of the key points on the video below. If you’re more a words and text person, scroll down and read on!


Why abstracts matter

I’m talking those for journal articles (but also  book chapters, which increasingly have their own abstracts these days).

These abstracts are really really high stakes. A lot rides on them. They can do a huge amount of positive work, adding value, widening readership. But a poor abstract, or even a mediocre one, can undermine good work in the full paper.


  1. Abstracts are generally available to anyone with an internet connection. Full papers are often (at least for now) behind paywalls. Yes, lots of university libraries offer access, but this doesn’t cover all readers – by a long shot. Your abstract – those 200-250 words – might be the whole of your interaction with a reader. Every word, every sentence, every idea matters.
  2. Plenty of people might cite your work based only on reading the abstract. Hands up if you’ve cited something based on the abstract alone. I certainly have. And will do again. Not crucial texts, but things I need to have a passing knowledge of. If your abstract meets certain criteria (see below), people might just cite you based on it.
  3. Abstracts influence peer review, significantly.
    1. Editors get a first impression, and often make a preliminary judgement based on the abstract (perhaps to desk reject, perhaps to send for review and who might be a good reviewer). They might then dip into the full paper, but the abstract is their first contact and preliminary feelings might be hard to change (particularly if negative, eg feeling a paper is out of scope, offers nothing new).
    2. Reviewers agree or not to review based in part on the abstract. The abstract is usually all they get to see before saying yes or no. If it is written in a clear, engaging, persuasive way, promising something interesting and new, a review is more likely to say yes. And you want reviewers to say yes, because the more who say no, the further down the list of potential reviewers you fall, and this means they are likely to be less ‘ideal’, less well-placed to review your paper, and more just who says yes.
    3. Then if you do get a reviewer saying yes, your abstract has set up their expectations. If your paper drifts away from it, they are likely to get grumpy and be less favourable, less tolerant of minor errors – because they have given up their time, for free, based on a mis-sold premise. A lie.
  4. Abstracts can persuade readers to read the full paper (download it, contact you, look for a free version in an institutional repository).


So, abstracts are far from a summary of a larger text for the time-short reader. They really, really matter. So, we should be aiming to write really really good abstracts. Not just okay ones.

To understand why good abstracts are hard to write, we have to first understand the work that abstracts need to do.


What do abstracts need to do?

A good abstract:

  1. Captures your argument, message, or point – leaving readers with a clear understanding of what you are saying – while also encouraging people to read the whole paper.
  2. Communicates why this argument is important and distinctive; not leaving them to figure out what the novelty is here; nor leaving them to figure out why it matters.
  3. Persuades readers why this argument is robust – why they should take it, and take you, seriously. This often relies on methodological details.
  4. Sets up expectations so when people read the full paper, they get what they were hoping for.


Abstracts as tiny texts

One thing that Barbara Kamler said in the workshop I attended, was that abstracts are tiny texts (an idea she has written about with Pat Thomson; Pat has also written about an expanded version of the idea here).

My understanding of this is that abstracts are not simply a cut and paste shorter version or summary of a longer piece.

They are a genre of their own. They have their own rules, logics, criteria for excellence.


"Good papers have good abstracts behind and in front of them"


As tiny texts abstracts can do work not just for your readers, but for you. The thinking that goes into writing a really good abstract (or as Pat says, a range of tiny texts) can make the ‘full’ writing better. I think a good abstract underpins good paper-writing. But it can also lead it, be out ahead of it. Which is why I would advocate putting some serious time into writing an abstract, with a particular journal in mind, before starting to write the whole paper. (And then revising the abstract to make sure the two are aligned with one another).


Why are abstracts so difficult to write?

Abstracts are, and should be, hard to write. If you’re finding it hard because you are struggling over word choice, sentence structure, flow and other things amid the tight word economy of the abstract: yay! It means you’re in with a chance of writing a good one.

Abstracts are inherently dense texts, that should be experienced by readers as clear, logical and persuasive.

No reviewer ever said ‘that abstract was too clear’.

The trick – one of the key demands and difficulties – is to convey a lot of information (meeting all those needs mentioned above), while leaving readers thinking it was easy to read, understand and follow.

Dense does not often sit effortlessly alongside easy and clear when we describe writing.


Semantic waves

An idea I find really appealing and helpful here is the semantic wave. An abstract has to have both general, abstract (!) content, as well as specific, concrete content. The semantic wave is about smooth movement between these two. I find it useful to look at my abstract drafts and try to find where I am in one part of the wave, where I’m in another, and how I move between them. No rough, sudden breaks.



When I read really good abstracts I am struck by how particular words work, and the work they do. Words like ‘essential’ or ‘vital’ attach value. Words like ‘So…’ convey logical flow (I’ve written about that elsewhere). Words that announce novelty and originality are key. Words that assert a position and voice, especially in the conclusions and argument, can make all the difference.

In a tight word economy, it is easy to be occupied with the number of words. But the choice of words is so important, too.

And in this economy, I would argue that every sentence should say something about your study (perhaps excluding a very short opener about a general topic). Sentences 100% about existing work are risky: they communicate nothing about your work. Consider the difference between:

  • Existing research shows that poor abstracts are a common reason for rejection in academic publishing.
  • This paper builds on evidence that poor abstracts are a common reason for rejection in academic publishing.

The second one is only two words longer, but says something (valuable) about the study.


Structure and flow

What (rhetorical) moves are you making? Are they in the best order? Do you leave readers in doubt and then fix it later? (not good, I’d argue). Does your final comment resonate and echo your opener?


Some things that really annoy me in abstracts

I read a lot of abstracts. As an editor, as someone who is asked frequently to review for other journals. I probably read more abstracts than any other kind of academic text.

And I see patterns. And I develop reactions to things (justified or not). Here are some things that particularly irritate me.

  1. “Findings will be presented and implications discussed”. No sh!t Sherlock. I see statements bordering on this from time to time. Utterly vacuous (except perhaps if you’re writing for a conference and don’t know your findings yet, but still, it’s a cop-out).
  2. “Four themes were identified and will be outlined”. What four themes? I am not going to cite someone because they found four themes. The number is irrelevant. I need to know what they are so I can judge their relevance, interest and novelty.
  3. “I will save my argument for people who can (afford to) access the full paper”. I don’t see this directly, but I do read plenty of abstracts that don’t give the final argument and landing point. That is essentially withholding key information and messages for a select group of people. Unfair on the others, and damaging to your chances of being cited.


So that is why I say:

If you find writing abstracts easy, you are not writing good abstracts. But it is really worth the effort to meet the many demands of good abstract-writing.






What do ‘academic careers’ look like? Part 1: Dirty laundry

I was prompted to write this by a series of tweets in which people currently working in academia shared their first 5 jobs.

These included things like: McJob, Deserted Hotel Barman, Arthouse Cinema Dogsbody (@marklester), street musician, software quality assurance (@3blue1brown), cat caretaker, garden centre plant arranger, golf course bartender (@acapellascience), children’s theatre actor, chocolate store employee, bagel slinger, museum specimem preparator (@ehmee). You get the feel.

Two things struck me:

  1. I didn’t see anything that went: school > undergrad > masters > PhD > postdoc > full time / tenure track > permanent job.
  2. Even my own path, which I’d always thought to be pretty academic, wasn’t actually that way.


Why is this important?

Because, like our Shadow CVs (the CV with all the jobs we didn’t get, all the funding refused, articles never published) – see mine here – they give us a fuller, more realistic, picture of academic work and careers.

Because, they make us more human. Academics are like everyone else. Struggling at times, or perhaps all the time. Taking opportunities, including unglamorous ones. It reminds me of the wonderful title of Steven Shapin’s book: Never Pure: Historical Studies of Science as If It Was Produced by People with Bodies, Situated in Time, Space, Culture, and Society, and Struggling for Credibility and Authority.


So what does my ‘academic’ career look like? 

First, a caveat: while I am currently employed in a full time, ‘permanent’ job (though we can all still get fired or made redundant, or have our departments close etc), I am not at the end of my career. I have no idea what will become of it, and whether at the end of the day, it will merit the word ‘career’.

The point here is not to list all the ‘academic’ bits of my working life but the other bits.

So here it is. I hope it makes academic careers seem like the fuzzy, unglamorous mess that they really are.

Job 1: Looking up articles on microfiche for my mum. 

When I was 16 my mum got me 2 weeks’ work going to the library to find articles and copy them from microfiche to paper. This is important because it says something of the often invisible privilege that has powered the glass escalator I have ridden in many aspects of my life. Even before I had finished school, I knew what journal articles were, some of them even had my mum’s name as an author. At the time my dream job was to be a roller coaster designer, and I had no idea that this was normalising and introducing me to a world that would become my job for decades!

(As a side note, mum and I have since published a paper together!)


Job 2: Brushing up off-cuts from the floor in a flower shop

My best friend’s parents ran a flower shop. At Christmas they were crazy busy. They gave me a job sometimes sweeping the floor. To be honest, it felt like a fun way to be with my mate, and get some free money in the process.


Job 3: Temp for an agricultural charity.

I failed at doing a mail merge in my test at the temp agency, so I couldn’t get a decent office job. But I did get 7 days work at a charity for farmers. For a couple of days I was phoning vets for references so we could send out money to help farmers (it was at a time of crisis with Foot and Mouth disease). After that, I was in the basement shredding documents. All. Day.


Job 4: Working at a party and joke shop

‘Celebrations’ in Oxford was an institution. Sadly it closed down in 2019 😦

I walked in one day and the owner, who was not quite as tall as me (by a long way), asked if I could reach a mask of Tony Blair down off a high shelf. I did so. She asked if I was interested in working for them, and I said yes.

I think I got just over 4 pounds an hour, in a little brown envelope on the last shift I did each week. I kept this going during my Masters and PhD, often working Saturdays, but also the odd morning or afternoon during the week.

Halloween was crazy fun. We had people queuing out of the door all day. Other memorable moments included the day we got to try on the new costumes for hire and have our photos taken for the ‘catalogue’ (which was a scrappy album we gave to customers to help choose a costume). I also got to explain the three different types of fake turd we had in stock (straight, curly, and floating), and workshop trickier costumes like ‘jellyfish’. Then there were shifts when I didn’t ring the till once. I just counted the minutes in a tally chart.


Job 5: Teas, coffees & biscuits (and washing up) for my Department

I don’t remember how I got this one. Probably because I got on well with the admin staff, and they saw me around all the time.

When my Department had a function, I would get an instruction like this: TCBx50 out 1030 clear 11. I would get the keys to the kitchen cupboards, and get the cistern going for the tea and coffee, and put the biscuits out. Sometimes I would take deliveries from other providers for lunch. I would top up the water if needed. And when everyone went back to their work, I would clear it all up and doing the washing up.

Glamorous? Not really. Academic? Not quite. But did give me extra contact with some senior people in my Department, and ‘soften’ some of those academic relationships. And that mattered.



I nearly got to the end of my PhD without being paid a penny to do anything academic at all. The closest I got was a couple of one-off tutoring gigs (for a couple of hours).

Since then I had an Research Assistant job, Postdoc, then a lectureship.

But I have also worked as a freediving instructor on weekends.

All these jobs were part of how I have become me, and have woven into the fabric of my working life in some way. They’ve all appeared on my CV at some point (though not all of them would be listed now!).

So there you go. My academic ‘career’ isn’t so academic after all.

My next post will be about how I’ve tried to make the more ‘academic’ bits of my so-called ‘career’ work.


Why (qualitative) analysis is like catching findings with a net, not building a wall of evidence

This is a short post using a the idea of a fishing net to think about qualitative data analysis. It’s not a practical strategy in itself, but it can help cope with some of the common difficulties in analysis.

I say (qualitative) analysis but qualitative analysis is what I have most experience of. But I have a feeling the same might apply to quantitative analysis too, or at least aspects of it.

[And for the environmentally minded among you, consider the fishing referred to here as very sustainable, selective fishing, not mega-trawlers catching everything! I’m thinking of the small nets a person might throw into the ocean by hand seeking a modest catch.]

What are the relevant features of a fishing net?

Here is a picture drawn by Kate Hughes (and used with her permission). Think of a fishing net. It is a series of thin strings tied together.  The net is not a solid sheet of material. Most of it is actually holes.

Despite being way more ‘gaps’ than substance, a net can catch and hold lots of fish.

Indeed, nets can only work because they are mainly holes. You couldn’t drag a solid sheet through the water.

The Net.jpg

What does this have to do with qualitative data analysis?

A common struggle I see qualitative researchers confronting is a feeling that they  don’t have enough ‘proof’ for the claims they want to make.

Now, of course it is good intellectual hygiene to doubt one’s claims, asking: Could it be otherwise? What other interpretations might be possible? How could I challenge this claim? etc.

But is often not healthy to feel that to make any claim you have to build up a solid wall of evidence if this means everything you claim has its direct match in the data.

Yes, I know this sounds odd. Stay with me.

The point of analysis is to do something with the data. To go beyond the data. To find new meanings. To say something that the data themselves don’t say directly. Otherwise you are just (selectively) reporting. In which case, you might as well just publish your transcripts, observation notes (etc.) in raw form.

I am not advocating a free-for-all where you can claim anything. We remain bound to some degree by what we can and can’t say because of what is and isn’t in the data.

But I do think it helpful to imagine analysis being like tying threads together to catch ideas and insights.

Some ideas and insights, like the tiny fish that pass happily through the net, won’t hold. They may be slippery, stable meanings,  confident insights or robust claims might evade us.

Some might just be too much. Like the big, heavy fish that could break the net, some claims might be more than the data and any analytical method can bear.

But the ones that work will be like the fish the net is designed to catch. Big enough to get caught, not too big to break the net.


Yes, but what does this mean?

Well, it means in analysis, and its writing up, we are not trying to prove everything with a direct quotation from data. That’s a symptom of quotitis, and not a good thing.

What we are trying to do is to find strong threads that can withstand the forces needed to keep the insights or interpretations (fish) in place. And strong knots to keep the holes in the right shape so it doesn’t all slip about.

I like the net idea because a net is not rigid. It moves, flexes, bulges, sways. Just like our analysis should. But it also holds tight. Firm but flexible. Robust not rigid. The threads might be bits of data, or lines of questioning we apply to the data. The knots might be theories or conceptual frameworks that allow us to tie this data to that data, this meaning to that meaning.

When you think about it, imagine how heavy a net is when you first throw it in. Not heavy at all – light enough to pick up and throw. Now, think about when it is full of fish. Much heavier. But still what a person might (with some effort) pull in and feed off.

The same about analysis. Being able to haul in great claims is not about big heavy machinery. It’s about using agile, efficient tools. The right kinds of questioning, theory and procedures (including play – see Pat Thomson on this!) and be just enough.

The fisherperson doesn’t use the biggest possible net or the thickest, strongest possible line. They do not tie the strongest, most complex possible knots. They choose the optimal balance between size, weight, strength and stretch.

I find this a refreshing way to think about analysis. It’s about weaving and tying threads together, just enough to hold things in place so you can haul out your claims, based on rich insights.

Just like the fisher chooses the net, using materials that are available, adaptable and suitable, you, the analyst choose your threads and knots. There is nothing automatic about this. Nothing given.

If you’re after very detailed, up-close findings, you’ll need an analytical approach to match. The fisher would choose a net with small holes. Conversation analysis strikes me as one of those very fine-grained approaches to analysis, where every um, and ah, and pause etc is transcribed. A fine analytical weave indeed.

If you’re after grander claims, about big social phenomena, then a different approach might serve you better. Other kinds of discourse analysis might allow you to ‘see’ things like racism, sexism, injustice – catching larger fish – but your net will be quite okay with relatively large spaces between the knots.

Of course there are heaps of theories around, and heaps of analytical approaches, and they don’t match simply to scale in the way I’ve suggested above. But hopefully you get the point!

In summary

Evidence or data can only ever be provisional, a pattern of well woven strings that hold up a bulkier mass, rather than a seamless continuous entity. Analysis is more like weaving threads to make a net than building a wall of evidence. Agile, flexible, light and strong. Not immutable, rigid and opaque.

Let me know

Do you find this idea useful? The opposite? How do you think about analysis in ways that allow for agility and escaping the burden of needing to ‘prove’ everything with a quote or extract from data?