Time management as a graduate student is really hard. It’s hard to do things like calendar effectively, set deadlines, manage your time effectively when it’s for a kind of project you’ve never done. Even if you are in a program that is ethical as far as time off, it’s hard to figure out how to use that time for a few reasons.
First, far too many faculty endorse toxic notions about how much people should be working, and advocate irresponsible and unethical relationships to work, talking like we’re a gamer startup or high-powered law firm, and should be grateful to get an afternoon off every couple of weeks. Those people get paid a lot more than graduate students (or faculty) do, and just because there are fields that are unethical and exploitative doesn’t mean we should be.
Not only is that model unethical, it’s unsustainable. The little research there is suggests that people who thrive in academia don’t work sixty hour weeks, sacrifice any life other than work. They make strategic decisions about their time (including deciding to do some things badly).
So, one thing that makes time management as a graduate vexed is that people give bad advice about it.
Second, graduate students were excellent undergraduates, and undergraduates are actively rewarded for having shitty time management practices. It’s conventional in time management to use a process that, I’m told, Eisenhower made famous (but Covey has written a lot about it): thinking about tasks in terms of urgent versus important. In terms of the lives of graduate students it looks like this.
It’s generally considered bad time management to spend most of your time dealing with tasks that are urgent and important and to ignore important but not-urgent tasks till they become urgent, but that’s what undergraduates have to do, and it’s what graduate students have to do while in coursework.
Third, (or maybe this is really part of the first), far too many graduate advisors tell their students they have to do all the things, and do them all beautifully, rather than teaching students how to be strategic about choices. It’s important to understand that faculty, especially in the humanities, are in a terrible position ethically. But that’s a different post. The short version is that a lot of faculty can’t deal with the cognitive dissonance of wanting to have a lot of graduate students (so that we can teach graduate classes, which are hella fun) and the fact that those students are going into debt to get a degree that won’t get them a job. And they resolve that dissonance by telling students that “if you get a magic feather, you will be fine.”
There is a fourth problem, true even in programs with good placement. There are no good studies on the issue of scholarly productivity, as far as I can tell, and that absence of research means that it’s a problem to give specific advice about how much time a person can spend a day writing. Many ethical programs give graduate students a teaching-free semester for completing their dissertations, and I completely support that effort. As I said, no studies to support what I’m saying, but I’ve consistently found that it’s hard for anyone to write more than 3-4 hours a day. In my experience (and I tracked this pretty carefully), writing for 3-4 hours a day in the morning (with breaks) enables about 90 minutes of editing in the afternoon. Graduate students, even ones on fellowship, often feel that they should be writing their dissertation eight hours a day, but I don’t think that’s possible.
The fifth problem is that faculty are too often dogmatic that graduate students must follow a writing process that isn’t actually working for the faculty members insisting on a process. Throughout my career, and at every institution, there have been faculty with wicked bad writing blocks–who haven’t published in years– who insist that students follow the writing process that is clearly not working for them.
My point is that time management as a graduate student is vexed because there are institutional restraints (including, possibly, an advisor with toxic notions about work and writing processes) such that much advice that graduate students are likely to be given is useless.
So, what is my advice for graduate students?
Calendar back from your deadlines, don’t expect to write for more than four hours a day, find your best four hours (which for a lot of people is ridiculously early), have at least one day a week and at least a couple of hours every day when you feed your soul—walk, run, play basketball, hang out with beings you like (and don’t talk about your work), do yoga, cook something interesting, garden, read shitty novels.
In something I have that’s about writing, I have a footnote, and I was asked about this footnote in my advice on writing by a smart person who noticed that I had packed an awful lot into that footnote. And their question was, more or less, whuh? This is the footnote:
“Here you’re in a bind. American writing instructors, and many textbooks, mis-use the term “thesis statement.” The thesis statement is a summary of the main point of the paper; it is not the same as the topic statement. Empirical research shows that most introductions end with a statement of topic, not the thesis. But, our students are taught to mis-identify the topic sentence as the thesis statement (e.g., so they think that “What are the consequences of small dogs conspiring with squirrels?” is a thesis statement). This is not a trivial problem, and I would suggest is one reason that students have so much trouble with reasoning and critical reading. I’m not kidding when I say that I also think it contributes significantly to how bad public argument is. You can insist on the correct usage (which is pretty nearly spitting into the wind), or you can come up with other terms—proposal statement, main claim, main point.”
I wrote it badly (I said “most paragraphs end….rather than most introductions”). It’s now corrected. Still and all, what did I mean? I was saying that we should distinguish between thesis statements and other kinds of contracts, but why does that distinction matter? Before I can persuade anyone that it matters, I have to persuade people there is a distinction to be made.
Many teachers and textbooks tell students that “the introduction has to tell ‘em what you’re gonna tell ‘em, or your reader won’t know what the paper is about.” And they identify the thesis statement (the last sentence in a summary introduction) as the way to do that. Certainly, there is a sense in which that is good advice. You can see that students who have followed that advice get excellent scores on the SAT. Here are two sample “excellent” introductions for the SAT:
“In response to our world’s growing reliance on artificial light, writer Paul Bogard argues that natural darkness should be preserved in his article “Let There be dark”. He effectively builds his argument by using a personal anecdote, allusions to art and history, and rhetorical questions.”
“In the article, “Why Literature Matters” by Dana Gioia, Gioia makes an argument claiming that the levels of interest young Americans have shown in art in recent years have declined and that this trend is a severe problem with broad consequences. Strategies Gioia employs to support his argument include citation of compelling polls, reports made by prominent organizations that have issued studies, and a quotation from a prominent author. Gioia’s overall purpose in writing this article appears to be to draw attention towards shortcomings in American participation in the arts. His primary audience would be the American public in general with a significant focus on millenials.”
Those are summary introductions, with the thesis statement (that is simultaneously a partition ) very clearly stated. Thus, as far as helping students get good SAT scores, it’s pretty clear that teachers and textbooks are right to tell students to write summary introductions, and land that thesis hard in the introduction. I would say, based on my experience, that, although college teachers make fun of the “five-paragraph essay,” a non-trivial number of them do still want a summary introduction with that thesis landing hard, and a paper that is a list of reasons. Given that the thesis-driven format for a paper is rewarded, it might seem that I’m being a crank to say there is a difference between a thesis statement and a topic sentence (or, more accurately, a “contract”). So, am I?
Or, to put it the other way, are teachers and textbooks who insist that “good” writing has a summary introduction right? Is the SAT testing “good” writing?
One way to test those hypotheses is to look at essays that are valued in English classes, such as Martin Luther King, Jr.’s “Letter from Birmingham Jail” or George Orwell’s “Politics and the English Language.” Here’s the introduction from King:
“My Dear Fellow Clergymen: While confined here in the Birmingham city jail, I came across your recent statement calling my present activities “unwise and untimely.” Seldom do I pause to answer criticism of my work and ideas. If I sought to answer all the criticisms that cross my desk, my secretaries would have little time for anything other than such correspondence in the course of the day, and I would have no time for constructive work. But since I feel that you are men of genuine good will and that your criticisms are sincerely set forth, I want to try to answer your statement in what I hope will be patient and reasonable terms.”
Here is the introduction from Orwell: “Most people who bother with the matter at all would admit that the English language is in a bad way, but it is generally assumed that we cannot by conscious action do anything about it. Our civilization is decadent and our language — so the argument runs — must inevitably share in the general collapse. It follows that any struggle against the abuse of language is a sentimental archaism, like preferring candles to electric light or hansom cabs to aeroplanes. Underneath this lies the half-conscious belief that language is a natural growth and not an instrument which we shape for our own purposes.
“Now, it is clear that the decline of a language must ultimately have political and economic causes: it is not due simply to the bad influence of this or that individual writer. But an effect can become a cause, reinforcing the original cause and producing the same effect in an intensified form, and so on indefinitely. A man may take to drink because he feels himself to be a failure, and then fail all the more completely because he drinks. It is rather the same thing that is happening to the English language. It becomes ugly and inaccurate because our thoughts are foolish, but the slovenliness of our language makes it easier for us to have foolish thoughts. The point is that the process is reversible. Modern English, especially written English, is full of bad habits which spread by imitation and which can be avoided if one is willing to take the necessary trouble. If one gets rid of these habits one can think more clearly, and to think clearly is a necessary first step toward political regeneration: so that the fight against bad English is not frivolous and is not the exclusive concern of professional writers. I will come back to this presently, and I hope that by that time the meaning of what I have said here will have become clearer.
“These five passages have not been picked out because they are especially bad — I could have quoted far worse if I had chosen — but because they illustrate various of the mental vices from which we now suffer.”
Neither of those is a summary introduction, and neither has a thesis statement in it.
When I point this out to people who advocate the “you must have your thesis in your introduction,” they say that “I want to try to answer your statement in what I hope will be patient and reasonable terms” and “they illustrate various of the mental vices from which we now suffer” are thesis statements. But they aren’t, or, more accurately, it isn’t useful to use “thesis statement in such a broad way.” A “thesis statement” is (or should be used for) the statement of the thesis—that is, the sentence (or, more often, series of sentences) that clearly states the main argument the author is making.
If we use it that way, then it’s clear that neither King nor Orwell have the thesis in the introduction. King doesn’t have a single sentence that summarizes his argument. It’s a complicated argument, but stated most clearly in eleven paragraphs almost at the very end of the piece (from “I have traveled” to “Declaration of Independence”).
Orwell looks as though he’s giving a thesis, but he isn’t—he gives a really clear partition. (“These five passages have not been picked out because they are especially bad — I could have quoted far worse if I had chosen — but because they illustrate various of the mental vices from which we now suffer.”) He gives a kind of hypo-thesis (“Now, it is clear that the decline of a language must ultimately have political and economic causes”), something much less specific than what he actually argues. His thesis is most clearly stated at the end (from “What is above all needed” through his six rules).
I could give other examples (and often do) of scholarly articles, even abstracts, long-form journalism, discourse oriented toward an opposition audience of various kinds that show that clever rhetors delay their thesis when what they’re saying is controversial. That’s Cicero’s advice—if you have a controversial argument, delay it till after the evidence.
But if “I want to try to answer your statement in what I hope will be patient and reasonable terms” is not a thesis statement, what is it? It’s more accurately called a topic sentence, but some people call it a “contract.” It states, very clearly, what the topic of the letter will be. It establishes expectations with the reader about the rest of the piece.
At this point, it might seem that I’m being a pedant to insist on the distinction, but I think it makes a difference (one I can’t go into here). Here, I’ll just make a couple of other points. This advice—“tell ‘em what you’re gonna tell ‘em”—isn’t just presented as a way to write a particular genre (teachers and test writers like that genre because it is extremely easy to grade); it’s presented as “good” writing. And it isn’t. No one would read the sample student introductions and think, “Oh boy, I want to read this whole paper” unless we were being paid to read them. But we’d read King or Orwell. So, it isn’t good writing—it’s easy to grade writing.
What I’m saying is that there is a genre (“student writing”) that is not the same as writing we actually value. We’re teaching students to write badly.
I have sometimes taught a course on how high school teachers should teach writing. At one point, I had a class of genuinely good people but who were very focused on enforcing prescriptive grammar and the genre of student writing regardless of my trying to tell them about the problems with prescriptive grammar and the genre of student writing. I don’t have a problem with people teaching students how to perform the genre of student writing, but I do have a problem with people teaching anyone that that genre is not just about student writing, but about “good” writing. And that’s what this group of students kept doing.
So, I gave them a passage of writing, and asked them to assess it, and they all trashed it. It didn’t have a summary introduction, it didn’t start with a thesis, it didn’t have paragraphs that began with main claims. They agreed that it was badly written. And then I told them that they were the high school teacher who told James Baldwin he was a bad writer.
