The Quick Fix Guide to Academic Writing: How to Avoid Big Mistakes and Small Errors [1 ed.] 1526405881, 9781526405883

Table of contents :
Half Title
Publisher Note
Title Page
Copyright Page
Acknowledgements
Contents
About the Author
Acknowledgments
Summation
Introduction
1 Understanding the “Big” and “Little” Errors in Your Paper
2 What am I Supposed to Do in My Paper?
3 How to Synthesize the Literature
4 How to Develop a Critique of Previous Literature
5 How to Produce a Finding and a Claim
6 How to Write an Abstract, Introduction, Discussion, and Conclusion
7 Conclusion: A Do-It-Yourself (DIY) Model of Social Science Writing
References
Index

Citation preview

The
Quick
Fix
Guide
to
Academic
Writing

The
Quick
Fix
Guide
to
Academic
Writing How
to
Avoid
Big
Mistakes
and
Small
Errors Phillip
C.
Shon

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Publications
Ltd 1
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044 SAGE
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Ltd 3
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Street #10-04
Samsung
Hub Singapore
049483 ©
Phillip
C.
Shon
2018 First
published
2018

Apart
from
any
fair
dealing
for
the
purposes
of
research
or
private
study,
or criticism
or
review,
as
permitted
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the
Copyright,
Designs
and
Patents Act,
1988,
this
publication
may
be
reproduced,
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or
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any form,
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any
means,
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with
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prior
permission
in
writing
of
the publishers,
or
in
the
case
of
reprographic
reproduction,
in
accordance
with the
terms
of
licences
issued
by
the
Copyright
Licensing
Agency.
Enquiries concerning
reproduction
outside
those
terms
should
be
sent
to
the publishers. Library
of
Congress
Control
Number:
2017939850 British
Library
Cataloguing
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the
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Library ISBN
978-1-5264-0588-3 ISBN
978-1-5264-0589-0
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To
my
wife,
the
MSG
of
my
life.

Contents 1.
About
the
Author 2.
Acknowledgements 3.
Summation 4.
Introduction 1.
A
note
on
the
Use
of
the
Reading
Codes 2.
Organization
of
the
Book 5.
1
Understanding
the
“Big”
and
“Little”
Errors
in
Your
Paper 1.
“Big”
Errors 2.
“Little”
Errors 3.
Conclusion 6.
2
What
am
I
Supposed
to
Do
in
My
Paper? 1.
The
Lone
Wolf
Claim 2.
Formulating
a
Research
Question 3.
Types
of
Writing
Assignments 4.
Conclusion 7.
3
How
to
Synthesize
the
Literature 1.
Organizing
your
own
RCOS 2.
Interpreting
RCOS:
A
Student
Example 3.
The
Infiniteness
of
Synthesis 4.
Conclusion 8.
4
How
to
Develop
a
Critique
of
Previous
Literature 1.
Critiquing
Ice
Cream,
Hamburger,
and
a
Movie 2.
Three
Questions
that
Lead
to
an
Appropriate
Critique
of
Previous Literature 3.
A
Haven
for
CPLs
and
GAPs 4.
Conclusion 9.
5
How
to
Produce
a
Finding
and
a
Claim 1.
Differentiating
between
ROF
and
ROA 2.
The
Citationality
of
the
ROF
and
ROA 3.
Building
an
Argument
and
Creating
Main
Sections 4.
The
Scope
of
Claims
in
Non-empirical
Papers 5.
Conclusion

10.
6
How
to
Write
an
Abstract,
Introduction,
Discussion,
and
Conclusion 1.
How
to
Write
an
Abstract 2.
How
to
Write
an
Introduction 3.
How
to
Write
a
Discussion 4.
How
to
Write
a
Conclusion 5.
A
Note
on
Data
and
Methods 6.
Conclusion 11.
7
Conclusion:
A
Do-It-Yourself
(DIY)
Model
of
Social
Science Writing 12.
References 13.
Index

About
the
Author Phillip
C.
Shon received
his
MA
and
PhD
in
Criminal
Justice
from
the
University
of Illinois
(Chicago);
he
also
holds
an
MA
in
Linguistics
and
a
BA
in Philosophy
from
Northeastern
Illinois
University
(Chicago).
He
is currently
a
Professor
of
Criminology
at
the
University
of
Ontario Institute
of
Technology
where
he
teaches
courses
in
Homicide
and Criminological
Theory.
He
is
the
author
of
How
to
Read
Journal Articles
in
the
Social
Sciences
(Sage,
2015),
Language
and
Demeanor in
Police-Citizen
Encounters
(University
Press
of
America,
2008),
and Respect,
Defense,
and
Self-Identity:
Profiling
Parricide
in
NineteenthCentury
America,
1852–1899
(Peter
Lang,
2014).
He
is
a
co-editor (with
Dragan
Milovanovic)
of
Serial
Killers:
Understanding
Lust Murders
(Carolina
Academic
Press,
2006).
Phil
grew
up
in
Chicago. He
no
longer
hides
the
shame
of
being
a
Cubs
fan,
and
has
completely forgotten
Game
6
of
the
2003
National
League
Championship
Series. He
is
patiently
awaiting
the
Chicago
Bears
to
come
up
with
a
sequel
to the
“Super
Bowl
Shuffle”
before
they
return
once
more
to
the Promised
Land.

Acknowledgments I
am
grateful
to
my
former
and
current
students,
especially
at
the
University of
Ontario
Institute
of
Technology,
for
being
open
to
the
idea
of
the
reading codes.
I
know
I
caused
you
a
lot
of
anxiety
and
concern
as
you
worried about
“beating
one
horse”
or
making
other
big
errors.
I
am
especially grateful
to
Ms
Bakshi
for
allowing
me
to
use
her
RCOS
for
purposes
of illustration.
I
would
also
like
to
thank
Jai
Seaman
at
Sage
for
her
enduring support
for
the
current
project. Dr
Kerr,
I
want
you
to
know
that
the
lessons
you
imparted
on
me
over twenty
years
ago
still
live
on.
I
chuckle
every
time
I
scribble
the
grading code
“LMG”
on
the
margins
of
students’
papers.
I
still
turn
pages
of
The Will
to
Power
and
think
of
you,
even
though
it
has
been
over
fifteen
years since
you
passed
away.
I
never
got
to
say
goodbye.
This
is
what
I
would have
said:
Let
the
world
perish,
but
let
there
be
philosophy,
the
philosopher, you.

Summation Most
how-to
books
on
writing
mention
the
various
errors
that
students make
in
their
papers
without
adequately
delving
into
the
origins
and consequences
of
those
errors.
This
book
uses
the
“big”
and
“small”
errors that
students
commonly
make
in
their
papers
as
tools
to
help
them
become more
effective
writers.
In
this
error-based
approach
to
writing
in
the
social sciences,
Phillip
C.
Shon—“Dr.
Phil”—teaches
undergraduate
and
graduate students
how
to
write
their
papers
using
the
information
gathered
from
their reading
of
social
science
journal
articles
as
part
of
the
writing
process.
By showing
how
social
science
texts
are
structurally
and
logically
organized, he
teaches
students
how
to
apply
that
social
science
logic
to
the
various writing
assignments
they
encounter
throughout
their
tenure
at
the university.

Introduction Trying
to
find
a
how-to
book
on
academic
writing
is
a
daunting
task.
If
you are
a
student
who
is
looking
to
purchase
such
a
book,
you
first
have
to figure
out
the
type
of
paper
you
have
been
assigned,
and
then
decide
which book
you
want
to
buy
as
a
reference
guide
before
beginning
your assignment.
As
an
example,
some
how-to
books
teach
students
how
to
write short,
paragraph-length
essays
(e.g.,
Greasley,
2011;
Greetham,
2013; Redman
&
Maples,
2011;
Shiach,
2009;
Shields,
2010),
while
other
books teach
you
how
to
write
extended
texts
such
as
an
honors
thesis
(e.g., Glatthorn
&
Joyner,
2005;
Lipson,
2005).
Some
books
specialize
in teaching
you
how
to
write
traditional
and
systematic
literature
reviews (Fink,
2010;
Jesson
et
al.,
2011;
Machi
&
McEvoy,
2012;
Ridley,
2012)
or Master’s
theses
(Bui,
2009).
The
advice
proffered
in
existing
how-to
books on
writing
is
dictated
primarily
by
the
type
of
paper
you
have
been assigned.
After
you
have
purchased
the
reference
guide
that
is
best
suited for
you,
you
must
then
plow
through
the
often
encyclopedic-length
guides before
you
can
even
apply
the
lessons
you
may
have
learned
into
your current
writing
projects.
A
book
that
teaches
students
how
to
write
cannot be
overly
burdensome
to
readers.
Ideally,
you
should
be
able
to
finish reading
the
book
in
a
sitting
or
two,
which
should
not
interfere
too
much with
other
academic
tasks
you
have
to
complete. Some
how-to
books
on
writing
are
shaped
by
a
student’s
level
of
education, academic
competence
and
other
factors:
some
are
geared
for
English
as
a Second
Language
(ESL)
students
or
postgraduates
(Brandt,
2009;
Wallace &
Wray,
2011),
while
others
are
marketed
just
for
those
who
need
help
with grammar,
vocabulary,
or
style
(Osmond,
2013;
Provost,
1972;
Sword,
2012; Thurman,
2003).
Some
books
provide
advice
that
is
holistic
and regimented,
requiring
a
reconfiguration
in
one’s
lifestyle
in
order
to
become a
productive
academic
writer
(e.g.,
Goodson,
2013;
Silvia,
2007),
while other
how-to
books
mirror
the
aim
of
a
psychoanalysis
session
that
attempts to
resolve
the
emotional
blocks
that
hinder
writing
(Miller,
2009).
If
you want
to
learn
how
to
write
by
following
the
prescriptive
ideal
embedded
in

the
numerous
how-to
books,
by
scrutinizing
examples
of
well-written essays
and
papers
that
reveal
a
linear
path
to
the
successful
completion
of
a paper,
then
the
books
that
are
already
on
the
market
may
work
just
fine. Such
a
deductive
approach
to
learning
how
to
write
academic
papers
is
the conventional
practice.
However,
there
may
be
reasons
to
doubt
the effectiveness
of
such
an
approach. Teaching
students
how
to
write
using
only
an
idealized
model
is
inadequate because
the
task
of
instruction
presupposes
a
subjective
and
indeterminate contingency
on
three
levels:
(1)
students,
(2)
teachers,
and
(3)
the
task itself.
First,
such
an
approach
ignores
the
empirical
reality
of
writing.
I know
that
some
students
often
misunderstand
the
assignments
and
the directions
instructors
provide,
substituting
their
own
interpretation
of
what the
assignment
ought
to
be
rather
than
following
directions.
Consequently, they
will
begin
their
writing
projects
with
a
false
premise
based
on
a misinterpretation.
That
type
of
fundamental
mistake
rarely
leads
to
sound results.
Second,
professors
sometimes
conflate
narration
with
instruction. Telling
someone
to
do
something
entails
giving
verbal
directions
(e.g.,
read the
literature
critically;
be
an
active
reader;
keep
an
open
mind
while
you are
reading
so
that
you
can
critically
engage
the
authors).
Telling
you
to
do something
is
not
the
same
as
teaching
you
how
to
do
something.
The
latter requires
a
very
specific
and
precise
set
of
directives
as
well
as
a
tangible demonstration
of
the
act
that
is
being
taught.
This
lesson
is
especially
true for
undergraduates
who
have
difficulty
translating
well-intended
advice
into a
practical
and
operational
set
of
tasks.
Third,
there
are
so
many
varieties
of academic
assignments
(e.g.,
literature
review,
research
paper,
honors
thesis, “critical”
essays)
that
it
is
difficult
to
discern
what
the
differences
might
be from
a
student’s
perspective.
It
might
be
helpful
to
synthesize
the underlying
logic
of
the
most
important
writing
tasks
in
a
university curriculum,
and
reveal
their
structure
and
form
to
you—the
student—so
that you
do
not
unnecessarily
struggle
with
your
papers. Because
previous
works
begin
with
an
assumed,
idealized
model
of academic
writing,
they
have
neglected
to
treat
the
errors
that
students
make as
a
warrantable
object
of
analysis
and
a
potential
learning
tool.
Such
errors ought
to
be
treated
like
evidence
at
a
crime
scene:
collected,
catalogued,

and
analyzed.
They
are
important
because
they
illuminate
the
origin, structure,
and
path
of
their
faulty
thinking,
reasoning,
and
organizational aspects
of
the
writing
process.
I
have
discovered
that
once
students
really understand
the
logic
of
their
errors
(i.e.,
origin,
persistence,
form),
they
are able
to
write
papers
that
avoid
major
structural
and
conceptual
errors.
One way
to
improve
students’
writing,
then,
is
to
teach
them
the
common
errors they
are
apt
to
make
during
the
writing
process.
We
might
call
such
an approach
an
error-based
approach
to
writing
instruction.
This
book
begins the
process
of
writing
instruction
by
systematically
introducing
you
to
the structural
errors
that
are
common
in
social
science
papers. Those
made
in
social
science
papers
can
be
broadly
categorized
into
two types:
(1)
“big
errors”
or
mistakes
that
are
structural
and
conceptual;
and (2)
“little
errors”
or
mistakes
that
are
stylistic,
mechanical,
and grammatical.
The
two
types
of
error
are
not
equal,
and
should
be
treated differently.
“Big
errors”
tend
to
be
ecological:
the
occurrence
of
one
error logically,
sequentially,
and
necessarily
leads
to
a
series
of
cognate
errors.
As an
example,
“beating
one
horse”
problem
(“BHP”)
leads
to
a
“laundry
list problem”
which
then
leads
to
a
failure
to
synthesize
the
literature
problem. The
“big
errors”
require
a
structural
overhaul—by
the
time
these
errors have
appeared
in
students’
final
papers,
they
are
usually
on
their
way toward
failure
in
the
class,
and
therefore
these
errors
ought
to
be
prevented before
they
occur.
Similarly,
the
“little
errors”
that
students
make
are
not randomly
distributed—they
occur
in
clusters,
with
predictable
regularity and
frequency,
similar
to
the
behaviors
of
homicide
offenders
at
crime scenes.
These
can
be
fixed
with
relative
ease,
and
represent
the
most amenable
objects
of
correction
should
instructors
have
the
time
and inclination
to
fix
such
persistent
mistakes.
Again,
these
types
of
errors should
be
shown
(taught),
not
narrated.
Any
how-to
book
that
attempts
to teach
you
how
to
write
should
address
the
source
of
the
preceding
errors
as well
as
the
remedies.
Otherwise,
the
same
errors
will
persist. Previous
works
already
hint
that
there
may
be
a
pattern
in
the
errors
that students
make
(e.g.,
Goodson,
2013,
p.
67;
Greasley,
2011,
p.
10;
Jesson
et al.,
2011,
p.
90,
95).
However,
these
errors
are
discussed
in
an
anecdotal and
ad
hoc
fashion,
and
not
systematically
analyzed
as
objects
of
analysis.

The
grading
code
sheet
that
I
have
developed
from
fifteen
years
of university
teaching
provides
a
way
for
you
to
learn
and
apply
the
logic
of social
science
writing
by
revealing
the
form
of
the
common
errors
(see Chapter
1).
It
also
provides
an
account
of
the
source
of
those
structural
and conceptual
errors.
This
book
therefore
gives
you
a
genealogical
explanation of
why
student
errors
occur
and
persist.
It
is
my
contention
that
once
you understand
those
errors,
you
will
avoid
making
them.
Furthermore,
the grading
code
sheet
can
be
used
as
a
diagnostic
tool
to
identify
and
fix
these. Teachers
cannot
fix
students’
mistakes
if
they
do
not
know
the
nature
and origin
of
those
errors.
Motivated
students
can
identity
and
fix
these themselves,
should
they
have
the
drive
and
the
motivation
to
do
so.
I
would argue
that
once
you
understand
the
logic
of
social
science
writing,
you
will be
able
to
teach
yourself
the
rest. I
believe
that
I
can
teach
you
how
to
write
social
science
papers
by
first introducing
you
to
what
is
incorrect
in
the
context
of
academic
writing.
It begins
the
task
of
teaching
you
how
not
to
write
by
first
identifying
what are
the
common
errors,
their
sources,
and
their
likely
location
of
occurrence in
the
structural
organization
of
social
science
papers.
After
all,
ideas
about right
and
wrong
approaches
to
writing,
like
morality,
coexist
and
only
serve to
complement
the
other. Papers—in
their
numerous
forms,
structures,
and
lengths—dictate
the
life and
discourse
of
university
life
for
undergraduates
and
graduates
(and faculty
members)
alike
across
disciplines,
from
social
sciences
and humanities
to
education
and
business.
There
are
numerous
types
of
“paper” that
you
have
to
write,
such
as
a
reaction
paper,
position
paper,
term
paper, research
paper,
capstone
paper,
literature
review,
systematic
review,
honors thesis,
thesis,
or
a
dissertation
(see
Landrum,
2008;
Noland,
1970;
Cone
& Foster,
2006).
Depending
on
where
you
are
located,
in
North
America,
the UK,
Australia,
or
Europe,
the
names
given
to
the
preceding
writing
projects will
vary.
Although
there
are
many
how-to
books
that
provide
sound directions
for
how
to
write
an
essay
(Greetham,
2013),
a
literature
review (Ridley,
2012),
or
an
undergraduate
thesis
(Lipson,
2005),
they
do
not address
the
underlying
logic
of
social
science
writing
based
on
the
common errors
that
students
make.

This
book
examines
the
social
science
logic
that
binds
the
papers
that
are written
in
the
social
sciences,
from
research
papers
to
PhD
dissertations. Hence,
whether
an
undergraduate
student
is
writing
a
conceptual
paper based
on
a
synthesis
of
the
existing
literature
or
a
graduate
student
is writing
a
PhD
dissertation,
it
is
my
contention
that
the
underlying
logic
of writing
assignments—what
you
generally
refer
to
as
“papers”—in universities
will
vary
only
in
scale,
scope,
and
depth,
not
in
the
underlying logic
and
form.
This
book
teaches
you
how
to
write
papers
in
the
social sciences
with
this
logic
underpinning
the
writing
tasks.
It
shows
you
how
to organize
and
write
your
own
social
science
papers
using
the
reading
codes that
were
introduced
in
another
work
(Shon,
2015).
Reading
and
writing
are not
separate
acts
as
previous
writers
have
presupposed
(e.g.,
Silvia,
2007). This
book
shows
you
how
to
apply
the
reading
codes
to
the
writing
of
your own
papers
as
a
logical
extension
of
the
reading
process
into
the
writing process.
That
is
what
makes
The
Quick
Fix
Guide
to
Academic
Writing: How
to
Avoid
Big
Mistakes
and
Small
Errors
unique
and
different
from existing
how-to
books. There
are
several
reasons
why
a
general
how-to
book
on
writing
papers
in the
social
sciences
is
necessary.
With
the
exception
of
undergraduate capstone
courses
and
honors
theses,
undergraduate
writing
in
social sciences
often
tends
to
be
left
to
the
discretion
and
idiosyncratic
practices
of course
instructors.
Undergraduate
writing—and
education
in
general—is certainly
not
rewarded
in
any
meaningful
way
for
faculty
members
who teach
it
well
(Haggerty,
2010).
If
undergraduate
writing
is
formally prioritized
on
a
university
level,
there
is
often
a
lack
of
consistency
across disciplines.
Perhaps
with
the
exception
of
honors
colleges
and
programs that
require
the
completion
of
a
major
paper
or
an
honors
thesis (Massengill,
n.d.),
general
undergraduate
writing
tends
to
be
treated
in
a tertiary
way,
overshadowed
by
more
“objective”
assessments
such
as standardized
tests. This
general
neglect
of
undergraduate
writing
in
the
social
sciences
is reflected
in
the
requirements
imposed
on
capstone
courses
that
are
thought to
be
the
culminating
experiences
of
fourth-year
university
students.
The students
in
these
classes
are
expected
to
produce
an
original
research
paper.

The
problem
is
that
the
coursework
related
to
the
completion
of
such
a
task may
have
been
your
general
research
methods
courses,
and
by
the
time
you get
to
the
fourth
year
those
lessons
may
have
been
forgotten.
Simply
put, you
may
not
be
adequately
prepared
to
undertake
an
original
research
paper on
your
own
because
you
have
not
been
sufficiently
trained
in
the
practice of
social
science
reading
and
writing.
Furthermore,
the
courses
that
you generally
complete
between
research
methods
and
a
capstone
course
may not
have
exposed
you
to
the
logic
of
social
science
writing
in
a
principled way.
A
concise
book
that
teaches
you
the
logic
of
social
science
writing
as you
undertake
upper-year
courses
is
therefore
necessary.
The
Quick
Fix Guide
to
Academic
Writing
meets
that
goal. Although
some
students
may
undertake
intensive
writing
projects
that
are based
on
analyzes
of
empirical
data
(e.g.,
senior
thesis,
honors
thesis)
in their
undergraduate
years
(Lipson,
2005;
Massengill,
n.d.),
most
“papers” that
are
written
after
the
first
year
in
a
university
do
not
warrant
such empirical
requirements.
Instead,
most
writing
assignments
involve
a critique,
application,
or
development
of
a
theory
in
some
way—primarily conceptual
and
theoretical.
While
the
empirical
and
conceptual
papers
tend to
be
treated
discretely,
it
is
my
contention
that
both
types
of
writing projects
share
one
underlying
logic.
This
book
teaches
you
how
to understand
the
logic
that
permeates
social
science
texts.
Once
you understand
this
logic,
I
believe
that
you
will
be
able
to
write
social
science papers
that
are
empirical
or
theoretical
without
undue
struggle,
for
you
will have
mastered
the
essence
of
scholarly
writing—the
production
of
a claim/argument/finding
that
emerges
from
a
critique
of
the
existing literature. There
is
also
a
lack
of
consistency
and
clarity
about
the
various
terms
and procedures
involved
in
the
writing
process
that
are
used
across
textbooks. For
example,
the
term
“dissertation”
generally
means
a
doctoral-level document
in
North
America,
but
something
else
in
the
UK
(see
Shields, 2010).
Similarly,
the
term
“thesis”
or
“thesis
statement”
is
used
in
confusing ways
as
well:
it
is
used
to
indicate
a
conclusion
(Machi
&
McEvoy,
2012),
a main
idea,
and
the
actual
text
itself
(see
Lipson,
2005).
Perhaps
most importantly,
previous
works
do
not
disambiguate
how
research
questions

are
formulated
in
the
first
place,
often
providing
students
with
vague directives
to
“brainstorm”
for
ideas
based
on
topical
interest.
How
to
Read Journal
Articles
in
the
Social
Sciences
(Shon,
2015)
introduced
students
to critical
reading
as
a
prelude
to
writing;
this
book
teaches
you
how
to remedy
the
shortcomings
that
you
have
identified
from
your
readings.
The Quick
Fix
Guide
to
Academic
Writing
thus
synthesizes
and
integrates
the points
of
similarity
and
differences
across
existing
textbooks—and terminology—into
one
simple
and
usable
book
that
illuminates
the
logic
of social
science
writing. There
are
other
books
that
teach
you
how
to
write,
from
grammar
and
other general
writing
tips,
to
essays,
theses
and
dissertations,
and
literature reviews.
The
existing
how-to
books
on
the
market
are
constrained
by
the specific
types
of
assignments
and
documents
that
are
produced.
For example,
a
book
on
how
to
write
a
Master’s
thesis
is
only
marketable
to those
writing
a
Master’s
thesis;
a
book
on
how
to
write
an
essay
is
only marketable
to
those
writing
an
essay;
a
book
on
how
to
write
a
literature review
is
only
marketable
to
those
writing
a
literature
review.
Simply
put, the
market
for
how-to
books
is
restricted
by
the
scope
and
vision
of
the assignment—the
paper
that
you
are
writing.
None
of
the
previous
how-to books
capture
the
logic
of
social
science
thinking
and
writing
that
binds
the papers
that
are
written
in
the
social
sciences.
Rather
than
instructing
you
on how
to
do
a
specific
assignment,
this
book
teaches
the
logic
of
social science
writing
that
informs
most
social
science
papers,
from
literature reviews
to
PhD
dissertations.
Therefore
it
is
applicable
to
most assignments,
not
just
one
type.
It
teaches
you
how
to
write
papers
using
the reading
codes
(see
Table
1). This
book
is
best
used
as
a
supplementary
text
to
other
research
methods books
rather
than
as
a
freestanding
work
(although
it
can
be).
It
should
be used
as
the
logical
extension
of
the
first
step
in
the
writing
process:
reading. As
the
second
step
in
the
writing
process,
it
teaches
you
how
to
translate and
apply
the
notes
from
your
Reading
Code
Organization
Sheet
(RCOS) into
usable
components
of
a
social
science
paper
of
your
own.
For
example, even
established
how-to
books
provide
imprecise
directions
in
the
initial stages
of
planning
a
research
paper,
instructing
readers
to
“ask
a
question

worth
answering
…
that
you
might
not
be
able
to
focus
your
topic
until after
you
start
reading
about
it”
(Turabian,
2010,
pp.
12–15).
Being
able
to enumerate
just
how
much
you
need
to
read
about
a
topic
before
you
can
ask and
refine
a
research
question
is
one
way
to
reduce
your
anxiety
about
the writing
process
and
avoid
common
pitfalls
in
academic
writing
(e.g., plagiarism).
Using
the
reading
codes
I
have
developed,
along
with
the Reading
Code
Organization
Sheet
(RCOS),
this
book
provides
a
quantified estimate
of
when
you
will
begin
to
“see”
the
recurring
patterns
in
the literature,
begin
to
formulate
a
tentative
critique
of
the
literature,
which
then leads
to
the
formulation
of
your
own
research
questions. I
know
some
students
struggle
with
asking
a
research
“question
worth answering”
because
that
step
requires
a
fundamental
understanding
of
the logic
of
social
science
texts
and
a
tremendous
amount
of
preparatory
work. This
first
step
that
some
have
simply
presupposed
without
a
detailed accounting
of
how
to
arrive
at
this
juncture
is
one
of
the
mysteries
of
the research
process
that
has
yet
to
be
illuminated
in
previous
works.
Doing
so entails
an
explanation
of
the
logic
of
social
science
reading
and
writing.
The method
I
have
developed
for
reading
and
notetaking
provides
an
accurate estimation
of
the
amount
of
time
you
will
have
to
spend
on
the
prewriting stages
in
order
to
ask
a
research
question,
see
patterns
in
the
literature,
and formulate
your
own
arguments.
You
are
therefore
introduced
to
a
much more
realistic
illustration
of
the
research
and
writing
process.
Once
you understand
the
logic
of
social
science
thinking
and
writing
after
reading
this book,
you
will
be
able
to
undertake
any
social
science
writing
project
on your
own
with
confidence.
Teaching
you
how
to
write
using
the
reading codes
is
what
makes
this
book
unique. It
is
directed
at
upper-level
undergraduates
and
graduate
students.
Both have
to
write
numerous
types
of
papers
throughout
their
student
careers.
Its primary
aim
is
to
be
used
as
a
supplementary
text
in
senior-level
capstone courses
as
well
research
methods
courses.
However,
programs
that
are innovative
may
even
use
it
in
their
first-year
courses
that
introduce
students to
social
science
writing.
Undergraduate
honors
thesis
supervisors
and directors
of
teaching
and
learning
centers
in
colleges
and
universities
will also
find
it
helpful
in
preparing
their
students
to
write
various
papers
in

social
science
disciplines.
It
should
be
useful
in
first-year
professional seminars
for
graduate
students
as
well. A
book
like
The
Quick
Fix
Guide
to
Academic
Writing
will
be
particularly helpful
for
some
students
who
are
writing
papers
that
are
non-empirical.
In these
types
of
non-empirical
papers,
the
onus
is
on
the
student
to
produce an
original
claim,
a
claim
that
is
equivalent
to
a
“finding”
in
empirical papers.
Most
undergraduates
will
not
undertake
a
two-semester
sequence thesis
writing
course,
but
they
will
have
to
complete
a
culminating experience/capstone
course.
For
students
enrolled
in
the
non-thesis
track,
a paper
that
requires
an
original
claim
through
synthesis,
critique,
and
sound argumentation
and
inference
should
be
an
achievable
goal.
This
book teaches
you
how
to
produce
such
claims
in
your
papers. While
both
this
book
and
the
preceding
one
(Shon,
2015)
were
intended
for social
sciences,
feedback
from
How
to
Read
Journal
Articles
in
the
Social Sciences
has
been
received
from
all
academic
disciplines—from
education and
social
work
to
business
and
marketing.
The
appeal
probably
arises
from the
fact
that
reading
critically
is
necessary
across
disciplines;
it
is
not unique
to
criminology
or
sociology.
If
the
idea
of
finding,
developing,
and remedying
a
gap
in
the
literature
loses
its
significance,
then
the
practice
of asking
research
questions
to
improve
knowledge
becomes
irrelevant
as well.
The
Quick
Fix
Guide
to
Academic
Writing
will
appeal
to
disciplines that
require
their
students
to
write
papers. Another
appealing
point
here
is
that
it
builds
upon
a
previous
work,
and tackles
the
next
logical
step
in
the
writing
process:
making
the
transition from
reading
to
writing.
It
shows
you
how
to
use
the
reading
codes
to
write your
own
papers,
from
literature
reviews
to
honors
theses
and
dissertations. It
therefore
builds
on
an
already
accepted
learning
tool
(reading
codes)
to make
the
logical
next
step
rather
than
inventing
an
entirely
new
framework for
teaching
writing.
Readers
who
have
found
the
reading
codes
useful
will find
the
application
of
the
reading
codes
and
the
grading
codes
helpful
as well.

A
Note
on
the
Use
of
the
Reading
Codes The
reading
codes
used
here
were
developed
in
a
previous
work
(Shon, 2015)
in
order
to
simplify
and
organize
the
reading
process
so
that
students do
not
engage
in
what
I
called
“meandering
reading.” “Meandering
reading”
occurs
when
you
mechanically
read
through
a
text before
becoming
lost
in
it;
after
about
ten
minutes
of
aimless
reading,
you find
yourself
asking,
“What
did
I
just
read
for
the
past
ten
minutes?”
I argued
that
those
moments
arise
because
readers
are
not
engaged
with
the text
in
active
ways.
They
are
simply
pulled
along
by
the
words,
sentences, and
paragraphs
on
a
page
in
passive
ways
rather
than
dictating
the
reading process
in
active
ways.
Ridley
(2012,
p.
66)
advises
students
to
read silently,
to
avoid
tracing
the
lines
of
a
text
as
one
reads
the
text
but
to
“run your
finger
down
the
left
hand
margin
of
the
text
to
encourage
quicker movement
of
your
eyes
down
the
page.”
The
purpose
of
such
a
vertical movement
is
to
“increase
your
reading
speed
overall.”
She
then
advises students
to
“practice
as
often
as
possible
under
timed
conditions
and complete
comprehension
questions
and/or
write
summaries”
in
order
to ensure
they
have
understood
the
text. In
the
preceding
reading
method,
readers
necessarily
have
to
sacrifice comprehension
for
speed.
However,
there
is
nothing
wrong
with
slowing down
the
reading
process.
If
you
cannot
get
through
the
readings
because you
have
too
much
of
them,
then
you
need
to
prioritize
your
life
so
that
you can
devote
the
appropriate
amount
of
time
to
your
studies—not
move fingers
up
and
down
pages
to
increase
your
reading
speed.
It
is
much
better to
read
slowly
and
actively.
The
insertion
of
the
reading
codes
at
the
left and
right
margins
is
meant
to
actively
engage
you
in
that
dialogue
with
the text.
While
it
is
difficult
to
reproduce
in
a
section
what
I
spent
an
entire book
doing,
it
is
worthwhile
to
spend
a
few
minutes
going
over
the
terms that
I
will
be
using
throughout
this
book,
for
the
reading
codes
represent
the nuts
and
bolts
of
my
approach
to
writing.
Of
course,
if
you
find
this
rather truncated
discussion
woefully
inadequate,
I
would
highly
encourage
you
to put
this
book
down
and
read
my
book
on
reading
first
(Shon,
2015).
Here,
I will
try
to
explain
as
best
as
I
can
what
I
mean
by
the
reading
codes.

The
reading
codes
describe
the
textual
function
of
various
sentences
and paragraphs
within
the
context
of
social
science
journal
articles.
Social science
journal
articles
(SCJA)
are
not
organized
in
formless
ways;
they
are organized
in
predictable
and
expectable
ways.
Once
you
understand
how
a social
science
journal
article
is
structurally
organized
and
the
work
done
in it,
you
will
be
able
to
understand
the
content
of
the
readings
and
avoid meandering
reading.
For
example,
most
SCJAs
contain
an
abstract, introduction,
literature
review,
data
and
methods,
results,
discussion
and conclusion,
and
a
reference
section.
The
ten
reading
codes
described
in Table
1
do
not
appear
randomly.
They
occur
in
predictable
places,
often repeated
at
least
two
to
three
times
within
one
SCJA. For
example,
the
ROFs
(Results
of
Findings,
the
main
findings
of
a
SCJA) appear
in
three
places:
abstract,
results
section,
and
the
discussion
and conclusion
section.
They
are
repeated
three
times
within
one
paper
because they
represent
the
most
important
part
of
a
SCJA—they
are
the
“golden nuggets”
so
to
speak,
for
they
represent
what
the
article
is
“about”
and because
the
results
dictate
the
citational
authority
of
a
paper
(see
Chapter

5).
One
primarily
cites
an
author
based
on
her
main
findings/results,
not other
parts
of
the
paper. Similarly,
WTDs
(What
They
Do)
appear
in
abstracts
and
introductions. This
reading
code
is
very
easy
to
spot
within
the
context
of
SCJAs
for
the simple
reason
that
almost
all
SCJA
have
sentences
that
begin
with
“This article
examines
…
”
or
“The
purpose
of
this
paper
is
…
”
A
WTD
simply describes
what
the
authors
of
a
paper
do
in
their
papers.
The
odd
consonant cluster,
again,
is
a
testament
to
how
I
attempted
to
understand
the
SCJAs when
I
was
trying
to
understand
and
explain
these
to
my
own
students
in Indiana
years
ago.
WTDs
appear
in
the
abstract,
introduction,
and
in
the past
tense
in
discussion/conclusion
sections
(WTDD,
What
They
Did).
This code
captures
the
main
research
question
that
the
author
is
posing
in
the text. Summary
of
Previous
Literature
(SPL)
describes
the
sentences
and paragraphs
that
summarize
the
existing
findings
of
the
literature
on
a
given topic.
For
example,
if
I
publish
a
journal
article
on
the
topic
of
“weapon usage
in
parricides
in
preindustrial
South
Korea,”
then
a
student
who discusses
this
paper’s
findings
(ROFs)
would
have
to
treat
this
paper
and
its findings
as
an
SPL.
SPLs
are
the
work
that
others
have
already
done.
In fact,
in
almost
any
SCJA,
SPLs
will
be
the
most
frequently
occurring
code in
the
literature
review
section—
about
70–80%
of
any
competently executed
literature
review.
The
other
20–30%
will
be
composed
of
a Critique
of
Previous
Literature
(CPL).
CPLs
point
out
the
shortcomings
in the
existing
literature
(e.g.,
the
literature
on
a
given
topic
is
incomplete; something
is
missing
in
the
literature;
the
knowledge
on
the
given
topic
is missing
something).
They
highlight
that
missing
component,
and
logically illustrate
a
GAP
or
a
shortcoming
within
the
literature. If
something
is
missing
in
the
literature
(GAP),
then
what
are
the implications
of
this
shortcoming?
Why
is
this
GAP
significant?
How
does this
absence
affect
the
state
of
the
literature?
Why
should
anyone
care
about the
topic
you
have
selected
and
the
GAPs
in
research?
The
answers
to
those questions
constitute
the
Rationale
or
RAT.
In
well-written
papers,
these RATs
appear
in
the
introduction
in
a
coordinated
list.
Appropriately
situated

RATs
in
an
introduction
are
sublime:
they
explain
to
the
reader
the significance
of
their
work
in
a
forceful
way
(see
Gershenfeld,
2014
for
an example). I
stated
that
ROFs
are
the
golden
nuggets
of
any
SCJA.
In
addition
to
the citational
authority
of
a
paper,
an
SCJA’s
discussion
and
conclusion
hinge on
the
ROFs
in
the
following
ways.
After
the
authors
of
SCJAs
have presented
their
findings,
they
must
then
interpret
and
contextualize
their findings
in
the
context
of
the
work
that
others
have
done.
There
are
two interpretive
possibilities:
the
current
ROFs
are
consistent
with
the
literature (RCL)
and
support
existing
findings,
or
they
are
inconsistent
with
the literature
and
the
results
are
to
the
contrary
(RTC).
RCLs
and
RTCs
do
not appear
in
introductions
and
literature
reviews;
they
appear
in
the
rear sections
of
SCJAs
in
discussions
and
conclusions.
The
same
pattern
applies to
Recommendations
for
Future
Works
(RFW);
they
appear
in
the
very
last sections
of
SCJAs. The
ten
reading
codes
appear
in
non-random
ways
in
various
sections
of SCJAs.
The
four
reading
strategy
codes
may
or
may
not
appear,
but
these illustrate
the
advanced
reading
strategies
that
readers
will
invariably
deploy. For
example,
you
may
come
across
a
finding
that
you
think
is
incorrect
in one
of
the
readings;
that
error
you
have
found
becomes
a
Point
of
Critique (POC);
a
POC
becomes
the
basis
of
your
CPL
of
the
literature.
Let’s
say that
you
are
reading
a
discussion
section
in
an
SCJA
and
a
connection between
an
ROF
and
an
SPL
was
overlooked;
that
omission
becomes
an MOP
or
a
Missed
Obvious
Point
that
could
be
turned
into
a
POC.
(If
this paragraph
seems
a
bit
overwhelming,
don’t
fret
too
much.
By
the
time
you finish
the
book,
you
will
have
a
much
better
idea
of
what
the
codes
mean.) My
main
argument
is
that
you
can
be
taught
to
write
social
science
papers more
effectively
if
you
used
the
reading
codes
to
read
the
SCJAs,
to organize
your
notes
in
the
form
of
reading
codes
(RCOS),
and
to
use
the RCOS
to
write
your
paper.
I
will
spend
the
remaining
chapters demonstrating
how
that
task
can
be
accomplished.
Once
you
learn
to
read using
the
codes,
you
will
be
able
to
differentiate
between
well-written SCJAs
and
not-so-well
written
SCJAs.
You
will
see
the
difference
between

well-synthesized
paragraphs
and
paragraphs
written
by
a
lazy
author.
Once you
are
able
to
identify
the
difference
between
good
and
bad
texts
as
you read,
you
will
become
a
better
writer
due
to
that
newly
acquired
knowledge. And
once
your
eyes
have
been
opened
to
the
logic
of
social
science
texts, you
will
not
be
able
to
go
back
to
reading
and
writing
blindly.

Organization
of
the
Book Chapter
1:
Understanding
the
“Big”
and
“Little”
Errors
in
Your
Paper. This
chapter
begins
with
the
origins
of
the
grading
code
sheet.
It
chronicles how
the
various
“big
errors”
and
“little
errors”
students
made
in
their writing
assignments
gave
rise
to
the
creation
of
the
grading
code
sheet
as
a haphazard
attempt
to
teach
students
the
mechanics
of
writing.
In
particular, it
examines
in
close
detail
one
of
the
cardinal
sins
of
most
social
science papers—
“BHP”
that
occurs
in
literature
reviews.
I
show
in
this
chapter how
this
one
“big
error”
leads
to
other
structural
errors.
By
introducing
you to
the
major
and
minor
errors
that
commonly
occur
in
papers,
this
chapter provides
strategies
to
avoid
them
in
your
own
writing. Chapter
2:
What
am
I
Supposed
to
Do
in
My
Paper?
This
chapter
begins
by introducing
you
to
the
genealogy
of
a
claim.
It
then
explains
how
claims emerge
from
the
research
questions
that
are
asked,
questions
that
shape
the structure
of
your
papers.
This
chapter
provides
a
tentative
estimate
of
the amount
of
reading
you
must
complete
before
you
can
ask
a
meaningful research
question.
It
then
discusses
the
various
writing
assignments
that instructors
routinely
assign
to
students
and
their
underlying
logic.
I
argue that
the
core
component
of
social
science
writing
involves
the
notion
of criticism,
and
devising
ways
to
remedy
shortcomings
in
the
literature.
This fundamental
essence
of
social
science
writing
suggests
that
social
science papers
vary
only
in
scope,
scale
and
sophistication,
not
in
their
logic
or form. Chapter
3:
How
to
Synthesize
the
Literature.
This
chapter
begins
by showing
you
how
to
organize
your
own
Reading
Code
Organization
Sheet (RCOS).
Using
an
actual
student’s
example
of
an
RCOS,
it
teaches
you

how
to
interpret
the
codes
you
will
use
in
your
own
papers.
As
a
prelude
to writing
your
own
papers,
this
chapter
teaches
you
how
to
prepare
an
outline for
a
literature
review
through
a
synthesis
of
the
Results
of
Findings
(ROFs) and
Summary
of
Previous
Literature
(SPLs),
again
using
a
sample
RCOS.
It also
examines
the
logic
of
creation
that
suffuses
the
practice
of
synthesis
in the
literature
review. Chapter
4:
How
to
Develop
a
Critique
of
Previous
Literature.
This
chapter examines
the
logic
of
negation
that
underwrites
the
Critique
of
Previous Literature
(CPL).
It
looks
at
how
criticism
differs
from
the
expression
of opinions
and
preferences
and
teaches
you
to
ask
three
questions
as
you
read SCJAs
as
a
way
of
developing
a
critique
of
your
own,
culminating
with reducing
your
CPLs
into
one
succinct
sentence.
Other
heuristic
ways
of critiquing
social
science
journal
articles
are
discussed.
You
are
also
taught to
mine
your
RCOS
for
critiques
for
your
own
purposes
using
an
actual RCOS. Chapter
5:
How
to
Produce
a
Finding
and
a
Claim.
This
chapter
examines the
body
of
any
social
science
paper:
the
main
claim.
While
empirical papers
in
social
sciences
have
the
option
to
discuss
their
findings
in quantitative
or
qualitative
ways,
non-empirical
and
conceptual
papers
lack this
alternative.
Consequently,
the
claim
has
to
emerge
from
a
source.
The chapter
introduces
you
to
a
social
science
model
of
a
claim—a
claim
that emerges
genealogically
and
syllogistically.
It
also
teaches
you
how
to produce
a
claim
in
the
most
expedient
way
using
your
own
RCOS
and shows
you
how
to
make
the
transition
from
a
shortcoming
to
a
claim. Chapter
6:
How
to
Write
an
Abstract,
Introduction,
Discussion,
and Conclusion.
This
chapter
teaches
you
what
to
do
with
a
claim
once
you have
formulated
one
in
the
results
section
or
the
main
body
of
the
paper:
to connect
your
main
claim
to
the
rest
of
the
literature
(RCL
or
RTC).
It
also shows
you
how
to
write
the
most
difficult
part
of
a
social
science
paper— the
introduction—by
having
you
answer
the
“so
what?”
question
(RAT). Here
you
will
learn
how
to
critique
your
own
work,
thus
leading
to
RFWs in
the
conclusion
section
of
your
papers.
Finally,
you
are
taught
how
to
use

the
reading
codes
to
structure
your
own
abstracts
(i.e.,
SPL,
CPL, ROF/ROA,
WTD). Chapter
7:
Conclusion:
a
Do-It-Yourself
(DIY)
Model
of
Social
Science Writing.
English
departments
and
writing
centers,
whose
staff
are
trained
in modes
of
analysis
and
writing
that
differ
in
noticeable
ways
from
the
social sciences,
have
been
responsible
for
delivering
writing
instruction
to students
in
most
universities.
This
chapter
shows
how
social
science students
(or
anyone
who
wants
to
learn)
can
apply
the
reading
and
writing lessons
from
this
book
to
their
own
lives
in
order
to
maximize
their
learning experience.
It
presents
a
“DIY”
model
of
social
science
writing
that
you
can adopt
by
introducing
the
benchmarks
that
can
be
used
as
measures
of
your own
achievement.

1
Understanding
the
“Big”
and
“Little”
Errors
in Your
Paper The
errors
that
students
make
in
their
papers
are
not
the
same
and
should not
be
treated
equally.
One
type
of
error
is
structural
and
systemic:
these “big”
errors
cannot
be
fixed
easily;
they
require
a
lot
of
time
and
energy
to fix,
and
it
is
best
to
avoid
making
them
in
the
first
place.
The
second
type
of error
is
grammatical,
mechanical,
and
stylistic:
these
are
easier
to
fix
than “big”
errors—they
are
the
“not-so-big”
errors
or
“little”
errors.
They
are different
types
of
mistakes
that
students
tend
to
make
in
their
papers,
from
a relatively
typical
research
paper,
to
literature
reviews,
integrative
reviews, and
drafts
of
Master’s
theses
and
PhD
dissertations.
In
fact,
“big”
and “little”
errors
persist
into
professional
writing
as
well;
professors
who submit
papers
to
be
published
in
academic
journals
also
make
variations
of the
“big”
and
“little”
errors
(at
least
I
do).
There
is
no
context
in
which academic
life
is
free
of
writing
and
judgement.
In
this
chapter,
I
provide
an overview
of
some
of
the
“big”
and
“little”
errors
that
permeate
students’ papers.

“Big”
Errors The
notable
point
about
errors
is
that
they
are
not
randomly
distributed.
Big errors
occur
in
particular
locations
within
social
science
journal
articles (SCJA);
little
errors
occur
in
clusters
and
repeat
throughout
a
paper.
First, the
big
errors.
Table
1.1
lists
some
of
the
notable
big
errors
that
students tend
to
make
in
their
social
science
papers.
You
may
or
may
not
have
made these
errors
yourself,
but
my
guess
is
that
you
probably
have.
Although
the names
attached
to
the
erroneous
practices
are
unique,
the
various
errors— big
and
little—are
already
well
known
to
composition
teachers.
For instance,
Redman
and
Maples
(2011)
note
that
“poor
structure”
and
“poor use
of
social
scientific
skills
(such
as
handling
theory
and
evidence)”
are rather
common,
as
is
lack
of
clarity
and
faulty
organization
(see
also Goodson,
2013).
While
almost
all
how-to
book
writers
agree
that
poor

grammar
and
language
are
their
pet
peeves,
even
the
errors
they
describe, along
with
the
big
errors
in
Table
1.1,
suggest
that
structural
errors
differ from
grammar
errors.

For
example,
“beating
one
horse”
or
BHP
describes
the
practice
of discussing
one
author
throughout
the
course
of
one
paragraph.
This
error
is the
first
one
listed
because
it
affects
the
rest
of
the
paragraphs
in
ecological ways.
If
you
are
wondering
about
this,
let
me
illustrate
what
a
BHP
looks like
when
represented
as
a
block
of
text:

Excerpt
1:
paragraph
#1 Smith
(2009)
states
that
killing
is
wrong.
Smith
(2009)
asserts
that using
a
firearm
to
kill
another
person
is
punishable
by
death.
Some claim
that
the
death
penalty
and
killing
are
wrong
(Smith,
2009),
even if
it
is
done
by
the
state.
One
could
claim
that
the
death
penalty
is wrong
(Smith,
2009). If
instructors
ask
fourth
year
and
graduate
students
if
they
have
ever
written paragraphs
that
look
like
excerpt
1,
about
nine
out
of
ten
students
will
raise their
hands.
Anyone
who
has
not
raised
their
hand
is
not
telling
the
truth. The
students
then
chuckle
without
much
prompting.
It
is
almost
as
if
they intuitively
understand
the
moral
depravity
connoted
in
excerpt
1.
They

know
only
too
well
that
taking
one
author
and
discussing
that
author throughout
the
course
of
one
paragraph
violates
their
instructors’
directions. Even
without
this
direction,
I
have
noticed
that
students
will
wince,
shift
in their
seats,
and
look
at
their
friends
when
excerpt
1
is
displayed
on
the projection
screen.
Indeed
you
may
be
experiencing
a
slight
discomfort
now as
I
am
calling
attention
to
paragraphs
like
excerpt
1.
That
slight
knot
in your
stomach
is
there
for
a
reason:
your
intellect
suspects
what
your intuition
already
knows.
Some
part
of
you
already
knows
that
paragraphs that
resemble
excerpt
1—the
ones
you
have
been
writing—are
wrong.
Now it
is
time
to
figure
out
why
it
is
wrong
to
compose
a
paragraph
like
the
one above. First,
it
is
not
wrong
in
an
absolute
sense,
i.e.,
it
would
not
be
wrong
to compose
paragraphs
that
mirror
excerpt
1
in
other
sections
of
a
social science
paper.
However,
in
a
literature
review,
paragraphs
like
excerpt
1
are unequivocally
wrong.
I
would
dare
to
call
it
a
sin.
That
is
because
“beating one
horse”
would
lead
to
a
serious
logical
problem.
If
you
discuss
nothing but
Smith
(2009)
in
the
first
paragraph,
then
what
will
you
do
in
the
second paragraph?
This
question
is
a
logical
one
as
literature
reviews
generally exceed
one
paragraph.
Literature
reviews
can
be
anywhere
from
2
to
30 pages.
Therefore,
if
Smith
(2009)
is
discussed
to
death
in
the
first paragraph,
what
then?
Suppose
you
were
to
write
the
following
sentences
in paragraph
#2.

Excerpt
2:
paragraph
#2 Jones
(2010)
states
that
killing
is
not
wrong.
Killing
by
the
state
and by
an
individual
is
different
(Jones,
2010).
Jones
(2010)
declares
that killing
is
okay
if
Rick
James
does
it,
but
wrong
if
Wayne
Brady
does it.
In
fact,
killing
should
be
avoided
period
(Jones,
2010).
However, according
to
Jones
(2010)
Rick
James
can
do
whatever
he
wants because
he’s
Rick
James!

An
astute
reader
will
see
the
obvious
flaw
with
excerpt
2.
Paragraph
#2
is
a mirror
image
of
paragraph
#1
in
terms
of
its
structure.
Aside
from
the content,
one
author
has
been
mentioned
and
discussed
ad
nauseam—again. Instructors
hate
this
pattern
of
writing,
i.e.,
not
reading
widely
enough
and “relying
on
one
or
two
reference
sources”
(Greasley,
2011,
p.
35).
Smith (2009)
is
elaborated
to
death
in
paragraph
#1
and
Jones
(2010)
is
similarly discussed
in
paragraph
#2.
Imagine
if
this
pattern
was
repeated
throughout the
course
of
15
paragraphs.
Paragraphs
like
excerpt
1
and
2
should illustrate
the
systemic
nature
of
BHP
errors.
One
error
leads
to
the
next
one and
that
is
why
these
types
of
error
are
difficult
to
fix
in
one
sitting.
If paragraphs
#1
and
#2
are
repeated
for
the
next
3
to
15
paragraphs,
such
a pattern
would
exemplify
a
“laundry
list
problem”
(LLP). A
laundry
list
simply
lists
each
item
(author)
one
by
one,
in
sequence.
The “laundry
list
problem”
resembles
another
common
error
found
in
students’ papers,
the
annotated
bibliography
error
(Jesson
et
al.,
2011).
An
annotated bibliography
is
a
common
assignment
that
upper-level
undergraduate
and graduate
students
receive.
They
are
usually
asked
to
survey
the
literature
on a
given
topic,
but
rather
than
taking
the
full
step
and
synthesizing
the literature,
instructors
stop
one
step
short.
Consequently,
students
summarize each
article,
note
potential
critiques,
and
other
notable
points
in
one paragraph,
and
then
move
on
to
another
author
in
the
next
one.
In
other words,
annotated
bibliographies
structurally
look
like
LLPs;
annotated bibliographies
are
“laundry
list
problems”
that
instructors
have
authorized. It
is
not
that
BHP
and
LLP
are
inherently
wrong
in
themselves;
however they
are
wrong
in
the
context
of
literature
reviews
because
they
culminate in
a
fatal
error—students
failing
to
synthesize
the
literature. Failure
to
synthesize
the
literature
(FSL)
is
the
“official”
charge
that professors
levy
against
students
who
have
not
organized
their
literature review
in
an
integrative
way.
This
error
occurs
in
undergraduate
writing, Master’s
students’
theses,
doctoral
students’
dissertations,
and
even
in
some professional
journal
publications
when
there
is
no
thematic
coherence
to
the literature
review—i.e.,
rather
than
presenting
the
literature
in
some principled
and
systematic
ways,
such
as
recurring
points
of
theoretical, methodological,
or
analytical
similarity
or
differences,
using
several
sources

to
group
a
theme
or
topic
into
a
paragraph
(Greasley,
2011),
the
literature
is presented
in
a
disjointed
way,
such
as
author
by
author,
year
by
year.
This type
of
organization
tells
the
reader
that
the
author
has
not
thought
through the
literature
in
a
serious
way;
a
laundry
list
presentation
intimates
that
the authors
have
slapped
the
paper
together
without
much
thought.
Or
worse yet,
that
by
putting
together
these
types
of
paragraphs
in
a
literature
review they
are
showing
their
incompetence.
From
the
perspective
of
someone trying
to
teach
you
how
to
avoid
this
outcome,
it
is
important
for
you
to
be aware
that
in
order
for
FSL
to
occur,
LLP
and
BHP
will
precede
it;
LLP
is
a precondition
to
FSL,
as
is
BHP
to
LLP.
The
structural
errors
shown
in
Table 1.1
are
interconnected.
That
is
why
certain
errors
should
be
avoided
at
all costs.
BHP
leads
to
other
major
errors
that
culminate
in
the
failure
to synthesize
the
literature
error
(FSL): BHP→
LLP→
FSL For
the
last
several
years,
I
have
been
trying
to
figure
out
why
students write
paragraphs
that
resemble
excerpt
1
and
2.
Here
are
some
of
my guesses.
First,
some
students
are
not
able
to
synthesize
the
literature because
they
have
not
read
enough.
If
they
have
to
read
only
five
to
seven social
science
journal
articles
on
a
topic
and
review
the
literature
in
just
as many
pages,
then
“beating
one
horse”
is
an
expectable
course
of
action.
In fact,
professors
often
assign
various
papers
that
require
somewhere
between five
and
seven
peer-reviewed
journal
articles
as
source
requirements.
If students
had
to
summarize
five
journal
articles
in
a
literature
review,
then by
all
means,
an
author-by-author,
year-by-year
discussion
of
those
five authors
is
absolutely
the
logical
thing
to
do.
In
a
way,
students
are
not
at fault
for
producing
this
undesirable
outcome;
the
instructors
are
responsible for
not
teaching
them
how
to
avoid
those
types
of
paragraph
and
for creating
the
conditions
that
facilitate
the
problematic
outcome. Alternatively,
those
students
may
never
have
paid
much
attention
in
class— or
they
just
forgot.

Second,
students
may
have
read
20,
30
or
more
journal
articles
as
sources for
their
papers,
but
are
not
able
to
synthesize
the
information.
There
may be
multiple
causes
behind
a
failure
to
synthesize,
but
some
may
be instructor
induced.
Course
instructors
may
have
assigned
annotated bibliographies
as
writing
projects
rather
than
a
traditional
literature
review. Others
may
arise
from
the
students
themselves,
i.e.,
they
may
become
so overwhelmed
by
the
sheer
size
of
the
task
facing
them
that
they
just
cower and
fall
back
on
what
they
know—“beating
one
horse.”
It
has
worked before,
so
there
is
no
reason
to
doubt
that
it
will
not
work
again.
And
unless an
instructor
calls
you
into
the
office,
shows
you
excerpt
#1
and
tells
you that
this
type
of
paragraph
is
incorrect,
that
literature
reviews
should
be thematically
organized
and
synthesized,
you
will
never
learn
the
correct way
to
do
a
literature
review.
What
my
own
students
throughout
the
years have
told
me
is
that
they
look
at
the
comments,
then
the
letter
grade received,
and
repeat
the
same
error
again
in
other
classes. Third,
some
students
who
compose
paragraphs
that
resemble
excerpt
1
and 2
may
not
have
been
taught
to
organize
the
literature
thematically.
Let
me repeat
this
part
because
perhaps
you
will
agree
with
me
on
this:
your professors
told
you
that
you
needed
to
synthesize
the
literature,
that
you should
look
for
similar
themes
and
group
them
together
when
you
work
on your
literature
review.
You
very
well
may
have
been
given
this
type
of
a directive.
However,
as
I
said
earlier,
being
told
to
do
something
is
not
the same
as
being
taught
to
do
something.
A
synthesis
requires
a
combination of
things
and
in
the
context
of
a
literature
review,
there
are
two
sources
that have
to
be
incorporated:
the
main
findings
(ROFs)
of
the
journal
articles, books,
and
other
texts
that
you
have
read
and
previous
summaries
(SPLs)
of others’
works.
Students
often
become
confused
because
they
cannot differentiate
between
SPLs
and
ROFs.
This
conflation
is
expectable
when they
have
not
been
taught
how
to
read
social
science
journal
articles properly. Finally,
some
students
may
be
writing
paragraphs
that
mirror
excerpt
1
and 2
because
that
is
what
their
high
school
teachers
and
instructors
at
the university
taught
them.
Students
generally
do
not
like
to
snitch
on
other professors
in
one-on-one
meetings,
but
on
one
occasion
I
was
so
frustrated

at
seeing
repeated
BHPs
that
I
bluntly
asked
the
student
where
she
had learned
to
write
her
paragraphs.
I
told
her
that
I
wasn’t
angry,
that
I
had been
trying
to
figure
out
the
cause
of
this
error
for
quite
some
time.
She admitted
that
this
was
the
way
her
high
school
English
teachers
had
taught her
to
organize
multiple
authors;
she
also
admitted
that
one
of
her
course instructors
at
the
university
had
taught
her
the
same
lesson.
When
I
checked with
other
students
I
received
similar
answers,
and
when
I
checked
with high
school
English
teachers
they
confirmed
those
responses.
Students
may be
reproducing
this
incorrect
approach
to
synthesis
because
that
is
what their
teachers
told
them
to
do.
Simply
put,
they
were
not
properly
taught. So
far,
I
have
argued
that
BHP,
LLP
and
FSL
are
closely
related.
There
are ways
in
which
other
“big
errors”
are
intertwined.
For
example,
I
have
found that
students
really
struggle
with
formulating
research
questions
in
the paper
writing
process.
Students
who
struggle
with
formulating
research questions
do
so
because
they
are
attempting
that
task
too
early
in
the
paper writing
process:
they
sit
like
a
yoga
guru
in
transcendental
meditation, staring
at
their
belly
button
and
chanting
“ohm
…
ohm,”
praying
that
a question
will
magically
pop
out
of
thin
air.
Or
they
follow
the
advice proffered
in
numerous
how-to
books—to
brainstorm,
to
connect
to
the broader
historical,
cultural,
and
political
context
of
the
topic
and
yada
yada yada.
That
type
of
advice
is
correct
for
a
seasoned
academic,
but
novice undergraduate
students
and
beginning
graduate
students
need
something more
concrete.
Before
you
can
ask
a
meaningful
research
question,
you need
to
read
enough
of
the
literature,
grasp
a
broad
understanding
of
what the
topic
is
about,
and
formulate
a
critique
of
some
sort.
This
part
is
not easy.
You
will
struggle
here
because
you
are
trying
to
do
all
three
preceding tasks
after
having
read
five
journal
articles
or
a
handful
of
encyclopedia entries.
That
is
not
enough. When
writing
literature
reviews,
students
are
able
to
summarize
the previous
literature
(SPL)
fairly
well;
they
do
it
well
because
it
is
consistent with
what
they
have
already
done
in
the
past—in
their
high
schools
and English
composition
classes
where
they
have
had
to
write
book
reports disguised
as
“research”
papers.
What
students
have
trouble
doing
is developing
a
critique
of
the
literature.
What
is
missing
in
the
literature?

What
are
the
shortcomings
that
exist
in
the
literature?
What
are
the
Points of
Critique
(POC)
that
the
student
author
has
noted
during
their
reading? failure
to
critique
the
literature
(FCL)
has
tremendous
implications,
for
it will
lead
to
an
incomplete
and
incoherently
shaped
statement
of
the problem,
the
question
that
is
being
asked
in
a
writing
project.
More importantly,
FCL
will
lead
to
a
failure
to
state
the
rationale
(FSR).
You
have to
explain
why
your
paper,
your
topic,
and
the
problem
you
are investigating
are
important.
The
significance
of
the
paper,
the
topic,
and
the shortcoming
in
the
literature
that
is
leading
up
to
the
formulation
of
the research
problem
must
be
stated
in
the
introduction
somewhere.
Once
you have
explained
what
is
missing
in
the
literature
and
why
the
shortcoming
is significant,
then
you
should
be
able
to
tell
the
reader
What
[you]
They
will Do
(WTD)
in
your
paper.
You
will
need
to
include
something
like
the following
in
any
paper
you
write:
“In
this
paper,
I
will
examine
…”,
“The purpose
of
this
paper
is
to
argue
that
…”,
“This
paper
examines
…
”
Not having
this
type
of
explicit
statement
of
purpose
constitutes
a
major
error (NOWTD). After
you
have
reviewed
the
literature,
identified
the
shortcomings
in
it,
and proposed
a
way
to
remedy
that
gap
in
research
through
original
data collection
or
a
reinterpretation
of
existing
published
works
in
a
conceptual paper,
you
will
have
to
say
something
new-ish,
i.e.,
you
will
have
to produce
a
claim
that
differs
sufficiently
from
what
others
have
said
before. A
bigger
problem
occurs
when
no
claim
is
made
in
a
paper,
when
it
just rehashes
what
others
have
already
said
in
a
few
paragraphs
that
have
been strung
together
without
“describing
the
context
or
comparing
or
contrasting the
findings”
(Jesson
et
al.,
2011,
p.
90).
Students
make
this
major
error because
they
do
not
know
what
a
claim
is;
they
do
not
know
why
a
claim
is being
made
and
where
it
originates.
And
because
they
do
not
understand
the genealogy
of
a
claim,
they
are
clueless
as
to
how
to
produce
one
of
their own—failure
to
state
your
results/arguments
in
thematic
terms
(FRE).
This code
also
refers
to
arguments
that
are
illogical,
incoherent,
poorly developed,
or
not
developed
at
all.
Simply
put,
nothing
has
been
said
in
the paper—nada.
Whether
the
claim
emerges
from
a
reanalysis
of
others’ arguments
or
whether
the
Results
of
Findings
emerge
after
analysis
of
the data
you
have
collected,
the
onus
is
on
you
to
produce
a
claim
or
a
finding.

In
this
day
of
multiple
plagiarism
detection
software,
packaging
a
claim
as your
own
is
not
easy.
In
social
science
papers,
claims
and
findings
are organized
into
major
and
minor
sections
with
headings.
The argument/finding
section
should
be
clearly
distinguished
from
the
data
and methods
section
and
literature
review
sections.
Failure
to
do
so
constitutes
a major
error
(FMS).
This
type
of
error
is
a
major
one
because
if
the
person reading
and
passing
judgement
on
it
is
not
able
to
make
sense
of
your paper,
it
becomes
a
big
error. Once
you
have
produced
an
argument
or
an
empirical
finding
of
some
sort, you
must
then
contextualize
your
results/argument
against
the
literature. Does
your
argument/finding
support
(RCL)
or
refute
(RTC)
the
existing works?
When
you
fail
to
connect
your
current
findings
to
past
research (FCC),
you
will
have
made
a
big
error.
That
is
why
I
have
maintained
that the
literature
review
is
so
important:
it
connects
social
science
papers
in
the front
and
rear
of
texts
(Shon,
2015).
The
literature
and
its
shortcomings shape
the
questions
that
you
ask;
the
literature
can
be
organized
in
ways that
give
it
shape
and
form;
the
literature
dictates
how
your
own
findings are
interpreted
in
the
discussion
and
conclusion
sections.
That
is
why
the literature
review
is
so
important
in
social
science
writing.
Failing
to
connect to
it
in
the
discussion
and
conclusion
section
is
a
major
error. There
are
other
“big”
errors
that
are
a
bit
different
from
the
ones
discussed so
far
though
the
next
set
are
more
related
to
administration.
For
example,
if your
instructor
asks
that
a
paper
fall
somewhere
between
4,500
(about
16 double-spaced
pages)
and
6,000
words
(about
20
double-spaced
pages), then
your
paper
needs
to
meet
that
expectation
(Redman
&
Maples,
2011,
p. 9).
If
you
submit
a
paper
that
is
2,000
words
(about
10
double-spaced pages),
then
you
have
not
met
one
of
the
requirements.
If
your
instructor
is asking
for
a
social
science
paper
that
is
20
pages
in
length,
my
guess
is
that there
is
an
additional
set
of
requirements
(e.g.,
literature
review,
production of
an
argument,
etc.)
that
must
be
met
within
those
20
pages.
Your instructors
have
arrived
at
that
page
requirement
for
a
specific
reason.
Only inexperienced
and
oafish
instructors
assign
20,
30,
and
50
page
“papers”
to undergraduate
students
without
spending
some
time
explaining
what
it
is they
want
students
to
accomplish
in
their
papers.
Those
types
of
instructors

assign
long
papers
as
punishment,
and
do
not
know
the
difference
between a
university
and
a
prison.
Similarly,
if
your
instructor
requires
that
you
read and
incorporate
20
up-to-date
sources
as
part
of
a
literature
review,
and
you only
read
and
incorporate
eight
journal
articles,
then
you
have
not
met
the paper’s
expectations.
Big
error
codes,
such
as
FUS
(failure
to
meet
source requirements),
FZZ
(paper
does
not
meet
expected
length),
and
FRS
(failure to
read
sufficiently),
would
be
applicable. There
is
a
reason
why
failing
to
meet
length
requirements,
not
reading enough,
or
failing
to
meet
source
requirements
constitute
“big”
errors
rather than
“little”
errors.
In
order
to
effectuate
changes
to
papers
that
do
not
meet the
aforementioned
shortcomings,
a
substantial
amount
of
time
must
be spent.
Simply
put,
the
preceding
changes
cannot
be
completed
in
two
to three
hours;
they
require
a
lot
more
time
to
complete
(exactly
how
much time
is
required
will
be
discussed
in
Chapter
2).
You
may
think
you
can crank
out
these
types
of
major
changes
to
a
paper
in
a
few
hours
or
so,
but the
only
way
that
is
possible
is
if
you
take
shortcuts.
That
is
one
of
the
main characteristics
of
“big”
errors:
they
take
time
to
fix.
I
am
certain
that
I
have not
even
covered
all
the
major
errors
that
other
instructors
routinely
see
in the
papers
they
receive.
However,
I
am
sure
that
whatever
other
big
errors your
instructors
have
noted,
they
would
not
be
amenable
to
revisions
within a
short
amount
of
time.
Students
usually
have
about
12
to
16
weeks
to
start and
complete
a
typical
research
paper
in
a
semester;
they
should
use
that time
wisely
and
plan
things
out
judiciously.
The
“big”
errors
cannot
be fixed
that
easily.
Based
on
the
works
of
others
(e.g.,
Goodson,
2013;
Jesson et
al.,
2011;
Redman
&
Mapales,
2011;
Shields,
2010)
and
from
my
own experience,
I
have
found
that
students
who
do
not
do
well
on
their
papers tend
to
make
the
major
errors
noted
above.
Other
errors
can
be
fixed
more easily.

“Little”
Errors As
an
undergraduate
student,
I
had
three
philosophy
professors
who
really made
an
impression
on
me.
One
of
them
was
a
bit
more
influential
than others.
I
took
more
of
his
courses
as
they
were
required
for
philosophy

majors.
He
had
a
monotone
voice,
cracked
dry
jokes
during
class,
and carried
around
a
coffee
mug
in
the
shape
of
a
human
skull;
he
was
learned but
carried
himself
in
the
most
unpretentious
way.
His
examinations
and papers,
however,
were
legendarily
tough.
Those
of
us
who
were
enrolled
in the
history
of
ancient
philosophy
and
later,
history
of
modern
philosophy, had
to
have
read
Bertrand
Russell’s
A
History
of
Western
Philosophy (1945),
in
addition
to
primary
works;
on
midterms
and
finals,
he
would select
a
quotation
from
one
of
the
nearly
1,000
pages
of
the
text;
then
we had
to
identify
the
selected
quotation
by
the
author’s
name,
and
write
one paragraph
explaining
what
the
quotation
meant
in
the
context
of
the author’s
overall
ideas.
He
called
those
types
of
examination
questions “quote
identifications.”
My
fellow
students
and
I
called
them
something else.
All
of
us
dreaded
them.
I
even
failed
a
midterm
in
one
of
his
courses. If
the
answers
to
one
of
those
questions
were
not
satisfactory,
the philosophy
professor
would
write
“largely
magnified
generalities”
next
to the
inadequate
sentences.
Later
when
I
became
a
teacher,
I
too
noticed
that students
would
try
to
“BS”
their
way
through
an
answer
by
saying
nothing at
all.
Rather
than
writing
out
“largely
magnified
generalities,”
I
called
them LMGs
in
my
grading
code
scheme.
The
original
source
here
is
my philosophy
professor,
Dr
Stanley
Kerr.
I
owe
that
one
to
him.
Notice
how the
LMG
is
similar
to
what
Shiach
(2009,
p.
12)
describes
as
“waffling”:
“it is
when
a
student
attempts
to
hide
that
they
[sic]
have
nothing
much
to
say about
a
subject
by
making
generalised
statements,
empty
statements
that could
apply
to
a
whole
range
of
topics,
but
which
manage
to
say
nothing relevant
in
answer
to
the
question.”
In
addition
to
the
preceding
type
of error,
I
also
noticed
that
students
were
making
the
same
errors
over
and over
again
throughout
their
writing
assignments
(see
Goodson,
2013,
p.
67). I
initially
thought
that
if
I
simply
pointed
out
the
errors
to
students,
they could
go
look
up
the
correct
answers
and
fix
the
grammatical,
mechanical, and
stylistic
problems
on
their
own.
Rather
than
writing
out
lengthy sentences,
I
started
reducing
student
errors
into
alpha-numeric
codes
and then
inserted
them
in
the
margins
of
students’
papers.

Readers
will
notice
that
the
“little”
error
code
sheet
begins
with
an
odd cluster
of
consonants
(e.g.,
AWK,
AMB,
SP),
then
switches
to
SSW– followed
by
numbers.
That
transition
in
the
codes
is
evidence
of
my
sincere attempt
to
improve
students’
writing
before
becoming
overwhelmed
and exasperated
at
the
task
before
me,
and
then
rediscovering
the
simple
yet effective
beauty
of
Strunk
and
White.
Before
I
say
anything
else,
let
me confess
that
I
adore
Strunk
and
White
(1979).
There
is
no
other
word
that does
justice
to
the
way
I
feel
about
their
work.
I
have
slept
with
that
book on
top
of
my
chest,
with
both
of
my
hands
clasped
neatly
on
top
of
it
so
that it
does
not
slip
off,
hoping
that
the
book’s
spirit
would
trickle
into
my
heart. I
have
used
The
Elements
of
Style
as
a
pillow
hoping
that
their
directives would
enter
my
head
through
osmosis.
Sometimes,
I
would
just
hold
the book
between
my
hands,
and
flip
through
the
pages,
allowing
a
phrase
here and
there
to
glide
across
my
face
from
the
breeze
produced
from
the
turning of
pages.
No,
it
would
not
be
an
understatement
to
say
that
I
am
fanatic about
Strunk
and
White.
I
still
believe
that
if
students
tattooed
the
lessons contained
in
that
book,
there
would
be
no
need
for
another
book
on composition,
grammar,
and
punctuation.
Even
to
this
day,
when
I
have
to explain
grammar
and
mechanics,
I
still
pull
out
The
Elements
of
Style
as
a gunfighter
pulls
out
a
revolver.
I
am
still
debating
whether
I
should
get
the word
“semicolon”
tattooed
somewhere
on
my
body.
In
fact,
the
code
SSW stands
for
See
Strunk
and
White
(SSW)
in
Table
1.2.
The
first
number
is
the chapter;
the
decimal
point,
the
section.
I
really
thought
The
Elements
of Style
could
fix
everything.
I
often
likened
it
to
duct
tape
or
crazy
glue.
Once I
started
grading
students’
papers
using
these
codes,
I
started
to
notice
a pattern
in
their
errors
(see
Goodson,
2013). The
first
observation
was
that
students
made
the
same
errors
over
and
over again,
i.e.,,
they
did
not
make
52
independent
errors,
but
made
a
particular error
repeatedly
throughout
the
course
of
one
paper.
Second,
students usually
did
not
make
one
error
but
made
them
in
clusters.
Although
I
do
not know
which
codes
will
be
clustered
according
to
traditional
sociological variables
(except
some
international
students),
I
am
sure
that
the
errors
will be
clustered
in
some
way.
Third,
I
can
explain
the
code
SSW
1.5
(or
any other
code)
till
I
am
blue
in
the
face,
but
students
will
not
understand
the

error,
see
it,
or
care
to
fix
it
until
I
show
it
to
them.
Let
me
illustrate
what
I mean
with
an
example.

Excerpt
3 Incorrect:
Killers
return
to
the
scene
of
the
crime
to
relive
the
feeling of
godlikeness
they
experienced,
killers
tend
to
be
self-centered
and egotistical
persons
who
are
able
to
only
think
of
their
own
needs. Just
so
there
is
no
mistake,
you
should
know
that
the
sentence
in
excerpt
3 is
incorrect.
It
is
wrong
because
it
violates
one
of
the
fundamental
rules
of punctuation
and
grammar.
Students
write
sentences
like
this
using
incorrect punctuation
marks
because
they
do
not
know
what
a
semicolon
is
and
when it
is
used.
They
also
do
not
know
the
17
different
usages
of
a
comma
(Truss, 2003).
Because
students
are
unsure
of
when
to
use
a
semicolon
and
a comma,
if
you
write
a
sentence
like
the
one
in
excerpt
3,
other
sentences that
bear
this
error
structure
and
form
will
appear
throughout
your
paper, and
the
error
will
repeat
itself.
The
key
to
ensuring
that
this
type
of
error does
not
appear
again
is
knowing
the
rules
for
semicolon
usage.
A semicolon
is
used
to
connect
two
independent
clauses
together.
An independent
clause
is
like
a
sentence;
it
can
stand
on
its
own. In
excerpt
3,
“Killers
return
to
the
scene
of
the
crime
to
relive
the
feeling
of godlikeness
they
experienced”
is
an
independent
clause,
a
sentence
on
its own.
Similarly,
“killers
tend
to
be
self-centered
and
egotistical
persons
who are
able
to
only
think
of
their
own
needs”
is
also
an
independent
clause. Those
two
sentences
have
to
be
connected
together
using
a
punctuation mark
that
is
intended
for
the
job.
Two
will
work.
As
the
two
independent clauses
are
sentences,
they
can
be
connected
using
a
period.
An
alternative would
be
to
connect
them
using
a
semicolon.
There
are
ways
to
get
fancy (e.g.,
coordinating
conjunction
preceded
by
a
comma),
but
a
period
and
a semicolon
would
be
the
most
robust
way
to
connect
the
two
sentences. These
two
moves
are
fundamental
to
basic
writing;
they
are
the
equivalent of
a
single-leg
and
double-leg
takedown
in
wrestling.
They
are
two
moves

that
all
writers
have
to
master
if
they
are
to
perform
at
a
university
level.
If a
comma
is
used
to
connect
the
two
independent
clauses/sentences,
a comma
splice
error
will
have
been
made.
That
is
why
excerpt
3
is
incorrect. A
correct
usage
of
the
semicolon
would
be
the
following.

Excerpt
4 Correct:
Killers
return
to
the
scene
of
the
crime
to
relive
the
feeling
of godlikeness
they
experienced;
killers
tend
to
be
self-centered
and egotistical
persons
who
are
able
to
only
think
of
their
own
needs. You
need
to
understand
why
the
semicolon
is
needed
rather
than
a
comma in
excerpt
4
and
in
other
structures
similar
to
it,
and
that
you
cannot
rely
on those
blue
squiggly
lines
to
tell
you
whether
a
sentence
or
a
clause
is
not grammatical.
You
should
learn
to
become
self-reliant
rather
than
becoming dependent
on
the
features
of
a
word-processing
software.
Otherwise,
you will
continue
to
write
sentences
like
the
following.

Excerpt
5 Incorrect:
Killers
return
to
the
scene
of
the
crime
to
relive
the
feeling of
godlikeness
they
experienced;
which
is
fairly
typical. The
first
clause
is
a
sentence,
an
independent
clause
that
can
stand
on
its own.
However,
is
“which
is
fairly
typical”
a
sentence?
Is
this
phrase
an independent
clause
that
can
stand
on
its
own
or
is
it
dependent
and subordinate,
therefore
necessarily
incomplete?
Dependent
clauses complement
the
main
clause
in
some
way.
Actually,
you
don’t
even
have
to understand
the
latter
in
order
to
use
a
semicolon
properly.
Almost
all students
know
that
“which
is
fairly
typical”
cannot
stand
on
its
own;
they know
it
is
not
a
sentence.
Heck,
it
doesn’t
even
sound
like
a
complete sentence.
When
I
ask
if
it
sounds
like
a
sentence,
almost
all
students
know

it
is
not
a
sentence.
So
when
I
ask
them
why
they
used
a
semicolon
to connect
a
clause
that
is
not
an
independent
one
to
another
one
that
is,
their answer
is
unequivocal:
they
were
not
sure
about
the
semicolon
rule.
If
I spend
five
minutes
pointing
out
every
instance
in
which
this
same
error occurs
throughout
a
single
page,
and
show
students
clauses
that
are
the equivalent
of
“which
is
fairly
typical,”
they
become
experts
at
spotting
that particular
error
toward
the
end
of
the
session.
Once
students
are
“shown” this
error
and
the
proper
rule
using
the
sentences
that
they
themselves
have composed,
I
usually
find
that
they
already
know
or
at
least
suspected
they were
not
using
it
properly.
However,
they
continue
to
do
it
because
no
one has
shown
them
how
not
to
make
the
error.
Once
this
session
is
over,
I
find that
I
do
not
have
to
explain
the
same
rule
again. The
recurring
pattern
is
unmistakable.
A
student
has
committed
semicolon abuse.
However,
that
error
does
not
exist
independently
and
in
isolation. Students
abuse
semicolons
for
the
following
reasons:
(1)
they
do
not
know the
rule
regarding
its
usage;
(2)
they
do
not
know
what
a
sentence
is;
(3) they
do
not
know
what
a
dependent
clause
is;
(4)
they
do
not
understand when
to
use
a
comma.
There
are
probably
other
reasons
that
can
be included
here,
but
the
numerous
ones
noted
above
support
my
argument that
little
errors
tend
to
occur
in
clusters.
The
same
phenomenon
occurs
in the
behavior
of
serial
killers.
A
serial
killer
is,
by
definition,
someone
who has
killed
at
least
two
or
more
victims
in
30
days
or
more
(Morton
et
al., n.d.).
If
someone
has
already
killed
two
victims,
then
chances
are
good
that the
killer
is
a
male
who
has
targeted
a
female
victim.
If
there
is
evidence
of sexual
assault,
the
use
of
restraints
and
blindfolds
to
control
a
victim,
then the
preceding
characteristics
highly
suggest
the
presence
of
a
predatory serial
offender
(Salfati,
2003).
Those
atypical
behaviors
tend
to
co-occur. A
similar
principle
applies
to
the
way
students
make
errors.
Students
who misuse
semicolons
will
also
make
comma
usage
errors
(e.g.,
a
comma splice;
unnecessarily
disrupting
the
flow
of
a
sentence);
they
will
compose fragments
and
believe
that
they
have
written
grammatical
sentences
that
can stand
on
their
own.
Students
who
do
not
understand
or
appreciate
the beauty
and
sublimity
of
a
semicolon
are
also
likely
to
abuse
its
often mistaken
cousin,
the
colon.
This
interrelatedness
of
little
errors
is
what

makes
teaching
students
the
nuts
and
bolts
of
writing
such
a
difficult
and challenging
task.
Even
when
one
item
is
particularly
problematic
(e.g.,
the semicolon),
there
are
at
least
three
other
things
that
have
to
be
explained
in the
process.
Simply
telling
students
to
go
fix
them
is
not
enough.
I
tried
for a
number
of
years.
It
did
not
work.
Identifying
the
problem,
giving
it
a name,
and
telling
them
to
look
up
a
certain
page
in
Strunk
and
White
(1979) also
will
not
work.
I
tried
for
a
number
of
years
and
that
did
not
work either.
If
teachers
want
their
students
to
write
sentences
that
are grammatical,
and
connect
those
sentences
to
form
a
coherent
paragraph, then
they
have
to
show
them
how
to
do
it,
line
by
line,
word
by
word.
That is
teaching. If
you
want
to
learn
how
to
write
grammatical
sentences,
you
should
ask your
teachers
to
teach
it
to
you,
not
lecture
you
about
how
to
write
them.
Or if
you
really
want
to
learn
this,
you
can
teach
yourself.
Here
is
one
trick
I learned
from
a
world-class
literary
critic:
read
the
sentences
aloud.
This advice
means
actually
reading
a
sentence
out
loud,
not
silently
moving
your lips
as
if
you
are
pretending.
For
most
native
speakers,
if
a
sentence
does not
“sound”
right,
it
generally
is
not
right.
If
a
sentence
does
not
sound
like a
sentence,
it
usually
is
not.
When
you
slow
down
the
reading
process,
not only
does
it
lead
to
better
comprehension
and
appreciation
of
well-written sentences,
it
also
facilitates
proofreading.
You
should
not
have
to
rely
on
a “friend”
to
help
you
proofread
your
paper
when
they
are
no
more knowledgeable
than
you.
There
is
nothing
wrong
with
a
hefty
dose
of
selfreliance. I
would
like
to
go
through
each
and
every
one
of
the
little
errors
to
show you
that
fixing
these
is
not
as
onerous
as
you
may
think.
However,
that
task is
not
logistically
possible.
Besides,
there
are
already
lots
of
well-written books
that
can
help
you
master
those
basic
skills
(Strunk
&
White,
1979; Truss,
2003).
What
I
have
attempted
to
do
in
this
chapter
is
to
show
the
two different
types
of
mistake
that
students
tend
to
make
in
their
social
science papers.
One
of
these
requires
more
substantial
work
to
fix
than
the
other.
To fix
the
little
errors,
the
important
task
is
to
identify
the
patterns
that
exist
in the
errors
you
are
making.
You
don’t
need
to
go
through
an
entire
paper
to get
an
idea
of
what
you
are
doing
wrong.
A
sample
of
3
to
5
paragraphs

should
yield
sufficient
errors
to
discern
a
pattern
in
the
errors
that
you
are making.
The
errors
you
make
will
be
thematic
and
clustered.
In
this
initial
3 to
5
paragraph
review,
an
error
range
of
0
to
3
represents
the
low
end.
This pattern
means
that
you
are
making
anywhere
from
0
to
3
distinct
errors, errors
that
repeat
themselves
within
3
to
5
paragraphs.
Once
you
identify what
those
errors
are,
then
you
should
consult
how-to
grammar
books
in order
to
fix
whatever
it
is
that
you
are
doing
wrong
(Strunk
and
White would
be
an
excellent
source).
A
range
of
4
to
8
represents
the
average.
I have
found
that
most
students
fall
into
this
range
and
therefore
have
a
bit more
work
to
do;
the
assistance
of
writing
specialists
at
teaching
and learning
centers
is
recommended,
although
students
can
fix
the
little
errors themselves
should
they
be
motivated
to
do
so. For
students
who
make
9
or
more
distinct
little
errors,
the
assistance
of
a writing
specialist
is
a
must.
It
has
been
my
experience
that
those
who
fall into
this
range
have
serious
problems
in
their
writing,
and
are
generally underprepared
for
university-level
work.
The
code
FRAG
almost
always appears
in
this
range
because
students
seem
to
lack
fundamental
skills,
such as
the
ability
to
write
a
grammatical
sentence.
Students
are
not
able
to
write a
grammatical
sentence
because
they
do
not
know
what
a
sentence
is.
They are
not
able
to
differentiate
between
a
noun
and
a
verb,
a
direct
object
and an
indirect
object.
The
code
FRAG
tends
to
co-occur
with
the
code
UG
and AWK
because
students
who
do
not
know
what
a
sentence
is
will
write ungrammatical
and
awkward
ones
that
I
cannot
even
describe,
much
less explain
how
to
fix.
Some
students
may
not
be
able
to
compose
a grammatical
sentence
because
they
suffer
from
dyslexia
and
may
not
be aware
of
their
condition.
If
that
is
the
case
for
you,
your
instructor
should be
helping
you
to
connect
with
an
academic
specialist
at
your
school
who
is trained
to
respond
to
such
needs
in
the
classroom.
Some
students
who
are not
able
to
craft
a
sentence
continue
for
different
reasons.
I
have
an
idea about
how
students
make
it
to
their
fourth
year
of
a
university
while
not being
able
to
write
a
simple
sentence. It
is
the
same
reason
that
a
heavy-handed
police
officer
makes
it
through
the police
academy,
field
training,
and
probationary
period
and
remains
on
the force
for
years:
no
one
wants
to
take
responsibility,
and
dumps
the
problem

police
onto
someone
else—until
several
years
down
the
road
when
the
same officer
uses
excessive
force
against
a
citizen
and
is
recorded
by
an unwitting
one
who
is
trying
out
his
new
camera
for
the
first
time (Independent
Commission
on
the
Los
Angeles
Police
Department,
1991). The
reason
students
who
are
not
able
to
write
a
basic
sentence
move
on
to further
university-level
work
occurs
for
similar
reasons.
I
know.
There
were times
when
I
was
so
overwhelmed
by
the
magnitude
of
the
task
before
me that
I
recommended
the
student
visit
the
writing
center,
and
simply
washed my
hands
of
the
messy
affair
as
Lady
Macbeth
had
done
before.
I
knew those
students
never
followed
up.
On
such
days,
I
had
trouble
looking
at myself
in
the
mirror
because
I
felt
like
a
fraud.
Every
teacher
has
these moments.
I
promised
myself
that
I
would
fix
that
condition
someday. Conversely,
if
you
are
on
the
other
end
of
that
advice,
and
you
know
you need
help,
you
should
go
find
it.
If
you
know
you
are
one
of
those
who
is just
getting
by,
you
should
rethink
your
options.
You
may
think
you
are getting
a
free
pass
because
you
made
it
through
a
university
without
anyone finding
out
that
you
can’t
write
a
sentence;
but
if
you
don’t
seek
help
by asking
someone,
you
are
the
one
missing
out.
A
university
is
the
last
place where
people
are
there
to
help
you.
Once
you
leave
it,
no
one
will
take
the time
to
explain
when
to
use
a
semicolon,
how
to
write
and
fix
a
sentence, and
how
to
structure
an
argument.
Your
bosses
will
simply
assume
that
you already
know
how
to
do
those
tasks,
and
when
they
discover
you
cannot, they
will
give
you
an
ass-chewing
that
you
will
never
want
to
experience again
if
they
are
nice,
or
just
fire
you
if
they
are
typical.
You
are
enrolled
at a
university
for
a
reason;
make
the
most
of
it.

Conclusion In
this
chapter,
I
have
presented
and
discussed
the
two
types
of
error
that students
tend
to
make
in
their
papers,
what
I
have
referred
to
as
“big”
and “little”
errors.
Big
errors
should
be
avoided
from
the
start
for
the
simple reason
that
they
take
time
to
fix
and
require
a
structural
overhaul.
They cannot
be
easily
corrected
by
shifting
paragraphs
around
or
replacing
a sentence
here
and
there.
The
mistakes
are
systemic
and
structural
changes

to
the
paper
are
needed
in
order
to
fix
this
type
of
error.
Little
errors,
on
the other
hand,
are
more
amenable
to
correction
as
the
changes
can
be
made relatively
easily.
The
difficult
task
in
fixing
little
errors,
however,
is identifying
the
unique
thematic
patterns
that
exist
in
the
errors
you
are making.
Figuring
out
this
pattern
is
the
most
consequential
step
in remedying
the
little
errors
that
occur
in
your
papers.

2
What
am
I
Supposed
to
Do
in
My
Paper? In
the
last
chapter,
some
of
the
“big”
and
“little”
errors
that
students
make in
their
papers
were
discussed
at
length.
I
argued
that
the
two
types
of
error were
qualitatively
different
and
ought
to
be
treated
differently
from
one another.
One
reason
why
I
introduced
you
to
the
common
errors
before
I presented
an
alternative
way
of
writing
was
that
I
wanted
you
to
learn
what not
to
do
before
you
attempted
to
write
your
own
papers.
In
this
chapter,
I again
want
to
begin
with
what
not
to
do
in
the
context
of
general
social science
writing
before
we
examine
the
first
step
in
the
writing
process: formulating
the
research
question.
After
I
explain
how
to
formulate
a research
question,
I
will
discuss
the
various
types
of
writing
assignments
in order
to
determine
their
requirements
and
the
logic
behind
them.
But
first, let’s
go
through
some
of
the
initial
errors
students
make.

The
Lone
Wolf
Claim Undergraduate
and
graduate
students
stumble
in
similar
ways
when
they receive
directions
and
guidelines
for
their
research
papers.
Third
and
fourth year
undergraduate
students
who
have
to
write
an
honors
thesis,
an independent
study,
or
a
research
paper
in
their
capstone
courses,
and graduate
students
who
have
just
started
their
coursework
in
a
graduate program,
have
a
bit
of
difficulty
differentiating
between
a
topic,
a
thesis
and a
research
question.
As
already
noted,
some
of
that
confusion
is
explained by
the
way
the
term
‘thesis’
is
used
in
multiple
ways.
We
will
clarify
those terms
in
later
chapters,
but
for
now,
let
me
illustrate
what
I
mean
by
the conflation
of
those
terms. Since
I
teach
courses
in
criminology
and
criminal
justice,
all
the
papers
that students
are
expected
to
write
have
to
be
related
in
some
way
to
the
reasons people
break
rules
or
commit
crimes
(criminology),
or
the
workings
of
the criminal
justice
system
(i.e.,
police,
courts,
corrections).
Any
topic
within the
aforementioned
subfields
of
my
discipline
would
generally
be
an appropriate
topic
for
a
research
paper
or
a
graduate-level
thesis.
However,
if

you
asked
me
if
you
could
write
about
the
role
of
fatigue
in
doctors’ misdiagnosis
in
patients’
emergency
room
visits
or
the
efficacy
of mentoring
programs
in
urban
high
schools,
I
would
tell
you
that
the preceding
topics
would
not
be
appropriate.
If,
however,
you
wanted
to
write about
the
effect
of
social
hierarchy
and
hospital
culture
on
the
emergence
of serial
killers
in
healthcare
settings
or
how
high
school
teachers
manipulate their
authority
to
commit
sex
offenses
against
students,
I
would
tell
you
that the
topics
you
selected
are
appropriate
and
then
tell
you
to
proceed
to
the next
step. It
is
imperative
that
you
understand
what
is
a
topic
before
we
further differentiate
between
a
thesis
statement
and
a
research
question.
Examining the
role
of
fatigue
on
a
doctor’s
misdiagnosis
of
a
patient’s
illness
is
not
a topic
that
is
related
to
criminology
in
any
way.
Perhaps
that
subject
is appropriate
for
sociology
of
health,
nursing,
or
medical
education,
but
it
has little
to
do
with
criminology
or
criminal
justice.
Similarly,
examining
the effectiveness
of
mentoring
programs
is
a
topic
that
might
be
pursued
in education
or
educational
leadership,
but
it
has
little
to
do
with
criminology. However,
looking
at
how
the
culture
and
hierarchy
within
hospitals contribute
to
the
emergence
and
persistence
of
predatory
offenders
in
a healthcare
environment
is
a
warrantable
topic
for
criminology
because
such a
study
ultimately
asks
questions
pertinent
to
the
study
of
crime
(e.g.,
how does
social
structure
or
culture
shape
criminal
behavior?).
Similarly,
asking how
high
school
teachers
use
their
power
and
authority
to
perpetrate
sex crimes
against
their
students
would
be
an
appropriate
topic
of
study,
for
an examination
of
how
sex
offenders
commit
their
offenses
against
victims
is
a topic
for
criminology,
not
education. Notice
that
we
have
taken
the
exact
same
settings
(i.e.,
healthcare environment,
classrooms)
that
could
be
the
focus
of
research
in
disciplines such
as
nursing
and
education,
and
managed
to
use
them
to
frame
research topics
that
are
relevant
for
criminology.
In
the
context
of
health,
medical education,
and
education,
the
research
questions
asked
in
those
disciplines are
ostensibly
different
from
the
ones
in
criminology.
Criminology
is
the study
of
crime
and
rule-breaking
behavior.
The
topics
of
papers
that
you
are expected
to
write
have
to
be
related
to
the
main
questions
and
issues

pertinent
to
a
discipline.
Your
instructors
are
experts
in
their
respective areas,
not
outside
of
it.
There
are
disciplinary
canons
and
doctrines
that must
be
adhered
to
when
formulating
research
questions
and
conducting research—unless
one
is
trying
to
be
interdisciplinary. That
is
why
it
is
important
to
clarify
what
topic
you
want
to
pursue
in
your papers
first.
This
distinction
also
means
that
police,
courts,
and
corrections can
also
serve
as
topics
of
interest
for
other
disciplines.
For
example,
how police
and
correctional
officers
cope
with
stress—or
do
not—might
be
a relevant
topic
of
study
for
nursing,
human
resources,
or
counseling psychology.
Similarly,
trying
to
find
the
most
effective
way
to
teach criminal
law
and
procedure
and
use
of
force
options
to
adult
students
from diverse
backgrounds
may
be
a
topic
worthy
of
further
pursuit
for educational
studies.
Those
types
of
questions
are
unique
to
the
disciplines just
discussed. There
may
be
ways
to
combine
fields
as
a
way
of
doing
interdisciplinary work.
For
example,
there
may
be
parallels
in
the
way
doctors
misdiagnose
a patient’s
illness
to
the
way
a
patrol
officer
“misreads”
a
call
for
service. There
may
be
a
common
link
in
the
way
workers
“misread”
signals
that lead
to
adverse
consequences.
There
may
also
be
connections
that
can
be made
between
mentoring
programs
in
universities
that
attempt
to
recruit and
maintain
students
of
color
to
ensure
success,
and
police
departments’ efforts
to
recruit
and
retain
minority
and
female
police
officers.
The
setting, locale,
and
the
people
are
not
as
important
as
the
research
questions
that
are derived
from
the
preceding
contexts,
questions
that
are
internal
and constitutive
of
a
discipline.
The
canons
that
constitute
the
discipline
are what
you
learn
in
the
courses
related
to
your
major.
An
important
precursor to
writing
a
“research”
paper
in
the
social
sciences
involves
selecting
an appropriate
topic.
The
dynamics
of
underwater
basket-weaving
as
a
paper topic
for
criminology,
education,
or
nursing
probably
will
not
work. Once
you
have
picked
a
topic,
the
next
step
involves
reading
enough
of
the literature
on
it
in
order
to
be
able
to
formulate
a
research
question. However,
students
often
make
a
big
error
by
jumping
to
the
main
thesis
or claim
of
a
paper.
For
example,
rather
than
reading
through
the
literature
on

a
topic
first,
students
will
decide
on
a
topic
and
take
a
‘position’
for
their paper.
As
a
result,
they
will
say
things
like
“I
want
to
look
at
prisons,
and argue
that
prisons
should
be
reserved
for
violent
criminals”;
“I
am
going
to look
at
the
violent
childhoods
of
serial
killers
and
argue
that
abuse
caused them
to
become
serial
killers”;
“I’m
going
to
argue
that
discrimination
and racism
explain
the
overrepresentation
of
minorities
in
the
criminal
justice system.”
The
preceding
statements
may
be
appropriate
for
papers
where students
have
to
assume
a
particular
position
and
advocate
it
(i.e.,
position papers),
but
as
the
beginning
steps
of
a
research
paper,
these
statements would
be
incorrect
because
the
main
thesis,
claim,
or
a
conclusion
is
stated upfront
before
any
work
has
been
done.
A
fundamental
error
will
have
been made
if
they
jump
from
a
topic
to
a
claim. That
jump
from
a
topic
to
a
claim
assumes
that
the
outcome
of
a
research project
is
guided
solely
by
topic;
it
assumes
that
the
paper
will
be “interesting”
if
the
topic
is
“interesting.”
We
do
not
know
why
the
paper
is important
and
significant
as
a
topic;
we
do
not
know
what
shortcoming
in the
literature
the
main
argument/claim
is
trying
to
fix;
the
main argument/claim
is
stated
before
any
literature
has
been
reviewed
or
before any
shortcomings
have
been
identified.
We
might
call
this
type
of
approach a
lone
wolf
model
of
a
claim. Figure
2.1
Lone
wolf
model
of
a
claim

Lone
wolf
claims
are
improper
because
they
provide
no
connection
to
the previous
literature,
and
because
no
connection
to
the
prior
literature
has been
made,
the
claim
that
is
made
is
ahistorical
and
decontextualized.
We might
even
label
such
claims
as
being
solipsistic
for
they
are
made
by
an author
based
on
his/her
own
“thinking.”
These
types
of
claims
smack
of narcissistic
tendencies:
stating
that
“I
want
to
look
at
prisons,
and
argue
that prisons
should
be
reserved
for
violent
criminals”
is
obtusely
simple.
First, numerous
scholars
have
made
those
kinds
of
claims
before,
and
in
much more
sophisticated
and
complex
ways;
second,
framing
the
claim
as
a unique
one
that
is
being
presented
ignores
the
contributions
others
have already
made
(e.g.,
Alexander,
2010),
thereby
making
the
student’s
claim appear
to
be
based
on
nothing
more
than
his/her
narcissistic
thinking. Similarly,
claiming
that
“I
am
going
to
look
at
the
violent
childhoods
of serial
killers
and
argue
that
abuse
caused
them
to
become
serial
killers”
is
a

bit
cliché
these
days;
this
type
of
a
statement
is
something
that
a
television character
might
utter
in
one
of
the
hundred
fictional
crime
shows
related
to criminal
profiling.
Putting
that
sort
of
claim
in
papers
may
have
worked
in high
school,
and
perhaps
in
first-year
writing
courses
taught
by
instructors who
were
trained
in
non-social
science
disciplines,
but
by
third
and
fourth year
in
a
university,
those
types
of
claims
really
have
no
place.
In
the context
of
social
science
education,
arguments
and
claims
emerge genealogically. Figure
2.2
The
genealogical
model
of
a
claim

The
claims
that
are
made
in
social
sciences
are
historical
and
contextual because
they
are,
first
and
foremost,
connected
to
the
previous
literature. Claims
have
to
emerge
from
shortcomings
in
the
literature;
claims
should

not
emerge
out
of
the
blue
and
independent
of
connections
to
previous scholars.
The
best
way
to
define
a
claim
is
to
say
that
it
is
a
statement
that
is proclaimed
as
being
true
(Brandt,
2009);
a
claim
is
similar
to
a
conclusion, a
thesis,
and
an
argument
(Lipson,
2005;
Osmond,
2013).
In
fact,
the preceding
terms
are
used
interchangeably,
which
probably
adds
to
students’ confusion.
In
most
social
science
papers,
there
is
a
main
point—what
the paper
is
about.
This
main
point
is
the
“result”
or
a
“finding”
if
data
have been
collected
and
analyzed;
the
main
point
is
called
a
“claim,”
a
“thesis,” or
an
“argument”
if
no
data
are
used
and
the
main
point
is
derived syllogistically
and
deductively.
Whether
data
are
used
or
not,
the
main
point of
a
paper
is
called
a
conclusion,
a
claim,
a
thesis,
and
an
argument. Students
become
confused
because
a
‘thesis’
is
slightly
different
from
a “thesis
statement”;
a
“thesis
statement”
is
completely
different
from
a “thesis”
which
refers
to
the
document
itself.
That’s
right:
the
term
“thesis” is
used
in
three
different
ways.
Similarly,
an
“argument”
is
synonymous with
“conclusion”
but
it
could
also
be
used
to
mean
evidence
that
is
used
as a
way
of
supporting
a
conclusion
(i.e.,
a
claim,
thesis,
argument).
In
a vernacular
sense,
it
could
also
mean
a
spat
or
a
disagreement
(Antaki, 1994).
That’s
right:
the
term
“argument”
can
be
used
in
three
different ways.
No
wonder
students
become
confused
at
the
mind-numbing
array
of terminology.
There
is
no
consistency.
If
we
assume
that
a
claim,
conclusion, and
thesis
mean
the
main
finding,
the
main
point,
then
we
are
at
a
common starting
point
to
declare
that
this
claim—main
point,
main
argument— cannot
and
should
not
be
made
at
the
very
beginning
of
a
research
paper. Claims
cannot
be
made
at
this
phase.
To
put
forth
a
claim
at
the
start
is
to make
a
lone
wolf
claim.
To
avoid
making
a
lone
wolf
claim,
you
should
ask a
meaningful
question
related
to
your
research.
So
how
do
you
go
about doing
that?

Formulating
a
Research
Question The
trouble
with
coming
up
with
a
research
question
is
that
students honestly
do
not
know
how
to
come
up
with
one.
I
know
because
I
have asked
that
question,
literally,
hundreds
of
times
to
hundreds
of
students,
and

most
have
had
difficulty
answering
it.
I
am
not
sure
if
they
had
ever
been taught
how
to
formulate
a
research
question
or
if
they
had
simply
forgotten in
order
to
free
up
brain
space
for
other
things,
but
they
genuinely
seemed not
to
know.
My
guess
is
that
first,
second
and
third
year
university-level courses
may
not
have
demanded
that
they
formulate
research
questions
of their
own
as
part
of
a
research
paper
from
start
to
finish.
It
takes
a
lot
of work
to
even
be
able
to
ask
a
research
question.
Here
is
why
even
the
howto
books
are
of
limited
help
when
students
are
struggling
to
formulate
a research
question. The
advice
that
how-to
book
authors
provide
is
benign.
They
tell
the students
to
begin
with
a
general
topic,
then
to
“explore,
read
widely,”
and then
to
pick
an
aspect
of
that
topic
that
is
of
interest
to
them—then
to formulate
research
questions
(Jesson
et
al.,
2011,
p.
19).
Other
books
warn students
to
pose
questions
that
can
actually
be
answered
within
the
time allotted
for
a
project
(Lipson,
2005,
p.
71)
or
to
carve
out
a
“manageable piece”
of
a
topic
(Turabian,
2010,
p.
14).
In
the
context
of
a
systematic review,
students
are
advised
to
develop
review
questions
by
identifying
a topic
of
interest,
“focusing
ideas
to
define
the
scope
of
the
review
…
and finalizing
review
questions”
in
order
to
develop
an
inclusion
criteria (Cherry
&
Dickson,
2014,
p.
20).
Cherry
and
Dickson
(2014,
p.
21)
offer
a really
useful
piece
of
advice:
“published
research
studies
frequently
contain a
section
that
outlines
future
research
questions;
it
can
be
useful
to
read these
to
see
if
your
proposed
review
question
is
mentioned
…
if
this
is
the case
then
it
is
a
good
sign
that
there
is
a
gap
in
the
research
evidence
that your
review
could
fill.”
(You
will
see
why
the
preceding
advice
is
so beneficial.)
Previous
authors
state
that
whittling
a
topic
down
to
a manageable
portion
might
not
be
feasible
until
reading
begins
and
“that takes
time,
so
start
early”
(Turabian,
2010,
p.
15). Students
also
complain
at
this
stage
to
their
professors
that
they
have
not been
able
to
find
any
pertinent
literature
on
a
topic
they
have
selected.
This condition
is
usually
inaccurate
as
students
tend
to
complain
about
it
after
a cursory
search
of
the
topic
rather
than
an
extended
search;
sometimes,
they do
not
fully
understand
the
process
of
asking
a
research
question.
Let
me illustrate
this
typical
problem
that
students
report
in
my
discipline.
Let’s
say

that
you
are
interested
in
writing
about
“Heiseniceberg,”
a
fictitious
new drug
that
has
appeared
on
the
street
in
the
last
year
across
Europe
and
North America.
“Heiseniceberg”
is
so
new
that
no
academic
research
exists
on
the topic.
Searches
do
not
result
in
any
hits
in
the
usual
academic
search engines
(e.g.,
PsychInfo).
“Heiseniceberg”
is
so
new
that
only
newspaper articles
chronicle
the
death
and
destruction
it
leaves
behind
across
various cities
and
towns
where
drug
usage
has
been
reported.
Google
is
of
limited help
in
finding
scholarly
articles
related
to
it.
You
want
to
write
about “Heiseniceberg”
for
your
research
paper.
So
how
do
you
go
about
writing
a research
paper
on
it? If
“Heiseniceberg”
is
so
new
that
no
scholarly
literature
exists,
then
you will
have
to
make
a
quarter
turn
and
look
at
findings
from
parallel
research. For
example,
there
is
quite
a
bit
of
literature
about
the
social
organization
of dealing,
selling,
and
using
drugs
such
as
marijuana,
cocaine,
crack,
and crystal
meth,
as
well
as
the
techniques
that
users
and
dealers
employ
to evade
detection
from
the
police.
Therefore,
your
Point
of
Critique
(POC) could
very
well
be
that
although
previous
scholars
have
examined
how dealing
crack
(or
other
established
drugs)
is
organized
as
a
social
activity,
it remains
unknown
if
a
similar
social
process
applies
to
“Heiseniceberg.”
Or, you
may
notice
that
the
sentencing
guidelines
for
“Heiseniceberg”
users
and dealers
remain
unaddressed
by
policymakers,
and
its
consequences
have
yet to
be
determined.
For
your
research
paper,
you
are
wondering
what
type
of criminal
justice
policies
should
be
legislated
and
implemented
to
deal
with the
rise
of
usage
in
“Heiseniceberg.”
Again,
while
no
scholarly
articles
may exist
in
relation
to
the
punishment
that
users
and
dealers
of
“Heiseniceberg” may
have
received
from
the
courts,
there
is
adequate
literature
on
the punishment
that
users
of
other
drugs
have
received
(e.g.
crack).
It
just
may be
a
matter
of
applying
the
known
findings
from
one
area
to
another
area where
findings
are
unknown.
Therefore,
the
absence
of
literature
on
a
topic does
not
mean
that
your
choice
for
a
paper
topic
is
a
bad
one.
It
just
means that
you
have
to
look
at
parallel
research
to
formulate
your
critique
and
then a
corresponding
research
question
from
the
known
findings.
Although
I have
used
illegal
drugs
as
an
example
of
the
typical
difficulties
that
students experience
in
my
discipline,
I
am
certain
that
a
comparable
dilemma
exists

in
other
disciplines.
The
process
of
generating
a
research
question
from parallel
research,
however,
remains
the
same. Massengill
(n.d.,
pp.
6–7)
provides
two
options
for
arriving
at
a
research question.
In
an
idealized
model
of
formulating
a
research
question,
students are
advised
to
“read
lots
of
books”
and
find
a
question
that
no
one
has
asked before
(a
gap),
find
data
to
answer
this
question,
and
then
analyze
the
data. In
a
much
more
pragmatic
model
of
formulating
a
research
question, students
are
advised
to
decide
on
a
topic,
“brainstorm
lists
of
questions,” read
books
and
articles,
then
revise
the
research
questions
until
an appropriate
one
is
found.
The
essence
of
asking
research
questions
entails finding
“holes
in
existing
research”
(Massengill,
n.d.,
p.
7).
But
as
Ridley (2012,
p.
36)
states,
even
shortcomings
do
not
serve
as
a
sufficient
rationale (RAT)
for
one’s
work.
Students
should
be
able
to
provide
good
reasons
why the
research
papers/theses/dissertations
they
are
writing
and
the
research questions
they
are
asking
are
important
and
worth
doing. There
are
notable
points
to
contemplate
and
adopt
from
the
advice
that previous
authors
have
provided,
as
well
as
advice
that
should
be disregarded.
First,
research
questions
are
revised
several
times
throughout the
initial
reading
process.
Although
some
have
claimed
that
there
are research
questions
“that
just
pop
into
a
researcher’s
mind
with
no
hint
of where
they’ll
lead,
sometimes
about
matters
so
seemingly
trivial
that
only the
researcher
thinks
they’re
worth
answering”
(Turabian,
2010,
p.
13),
that is
not
how
research
questions
are
generally
formulated.
The
research questions
that
are
asked
in
the
academy
by
professors
and
students
alike emerge
from
the
literature.
One
of
the
first
tasks
you
will
have
to
complete in
the
research
process
will
be
to
find
out
if
someone
has
already
asked
a similar
question
in
prior
works
(Turabian,
2010).
There
is
no
way
to
do
this task
without
reading
enough
of
the
previous
literature.
That
is
why
the advice
to
pick
a
topic
of
interest
and
then
to
formulate
research
questions
is not
quite
correct.
You
will
have
to
decide
on
a
topic,
then
read
sufficiently to
determine
if
the
potential
question
you
are
thinking
of
asking
has
already been
asked.
That
is
why
Massengill
(n.d.)
claims
that
research
questions will
need
to
be
revised
and
refined.

Second,
there
is
absolute
agreement
amongst
previous
scholars
that research
questions
are
shaped
by
shortcomings
in
the
literature
as
well
as
a project’s
feasibility
(Lipson,
2005).
You
should
not
“just”
come
up
with
a research
question
to
answer
(thereby
falling
into
the
trap
of
a
lone
wolf claim).
The
research
question
that
is
asked
emerges
logically,
inevitably, and
ineluctably
from
the
literature
and
from
the
reading
process.
All academic
disciplines
are
motivated
by
one
goal:
to
advance
the
literature. Social
sciences
are
no
different.
In
order
to
move
the
literature
forward, original
research
that
makes
a
contribution
to
the
field
has
to
be
conducted. By
definition,
original
means
something
others
have
not
done
before.
The highest
accolades
in
academia
are
reserved
for
those
who
make
the
most innovative
and
one-of-a-kind
contribution
to
the
knowledge
base,
the literature.
And
doing
something
others
have
not
done
before
means
asking
a question
that
others
have
not
asked
before.
“Holes
in
existing
research” (Massengill,
n.d.,
p.7)
is
another
way
of
saying
there
is
a
gap
or
a shortcoming
in
the
literature.
That
is
why
there
is
a
logical
connection between
a
research
question
and
a
gap:
they
both
emerge
from
a
Critique
of Previous
Literature
(CPL)
that
highlights
a
missing
element
in
the knowledge
base.
Students
who
write
various
“research”
papers
in
social science
courses
may
not
be
expected
to
shift
paradigms,
but
there
is
an expectation
of
sufficient
originality—“new-ish.” Before
we
move
on
to
the
third
reason,
it
is
important
to
clarify
Lipson’s (2005)
advice
to
students
writing
their
undergraduate
theses
because
it
is applicable
to
most
research
papers
in
the
social
sciences,
i.e.,
you
have
to pose
questions
that
you
can
“actually
answer”
within
the
time
available. This
is
a
really
important
point
that
other
writers
have
glossed
over,
and worth
elaborating
further.
You
may
find
holes
in
existing
research
and
the research
questions
that
you
derive
from
that
gap
may
be
entirely
valid
and correct.
But
can
the
project
be
realistically
completed
within
a
semester
or two?
Let
me
illustrate
this
question
with
an
example.
Let’s
say
that
most
of the
previous
studies
of
delinquency
(or
health,
reading
competence,
etc.) have
used
cross-sectional
surveys
of
teenagers
in
high
schools
as
measures (of
delinquency,
health,
reading
competence,
etc.).
If
the
preceding assertion
represents
the
current
state
of
the
literature
(SPL),
then
on
what grounds
could
you
critique
(POC)
the
literature?
What
are
the
“holes”
that

exist
(CPL)
in
such
a
state
of
the
literature?
If
cross-sectional
designs
have been
used
in
the
past,
then
others
will
have
overlooked
longitudinal measures.
That
criticism
of
the
state
of
the
literature
would
be
correct.
Now here
is
the
key
determinant
of
whether
to
undertake
this
project
or
not:
can you,
who
has
critiqued
the
literature
on
the
lack
of
longitudinal
studies, remedy
that
shortcoming
by
conducting
a
longitudinal
study
of
teenagers and
delinquency
(or
health,
reading,
etc.),
and
can
this
project,
despite
its originality
and
innovativeness,
be
realistically
accomplished
in
one
or
two semesters?
My
guess
is
that
your
answer
would
be
no.
This
means
that
the critique
of
the
literature
you
have
found,
and
the
research
question
that could
be
posed,
although
correct,
are
not
appropriate.
And
the
question would
not
work
because
it
cannot
be
completed
in
a
timely
manner.
You should
therefore
move
on
to
research
questions
that
you
can
reasonably
and realistically
answer. Third,
previous
how-to
books
on
writing
have
recommended
that
the
topic of
your
research
paper
should
be
something
you
are
excited
about
or
at
least in
which
you
have
a
general
interest
(Cherry
&
Dickson,
2014;
Jesson
et
al., 2011).
This
is
the
point
that
I
find
a
bit
confusing.
If
students
have
to
write
a “research”
paper
in
a
first
year
English
composition
class
(as
most
North American
students
in
a
liberal
arts
education
model
have
to
do),
then
the advice
is
meaningful
since
students
in
composition
classes
have
a
wide latitude
in
the
topics
they
might
pick.
However,
most
social
science students
write
papers
in
substantive
courses
within
their
majors;
they
do
not pick
a
topic
that
they
are
particularly
excited
about
because,
by
definition, that’s
what
a
major
represents;
you
don’t
pick
a
major
that
puts
you
to sleep,
a
major
that
you
absolutely
detest;
you
pick
that
major
because
you think
it
is
interesting—it’s
fun.
You
may
even
be
thinking
about
a
career related
in
some
way
to
the
major
you
have
selected.
Ideally,
there
should
be a
good
reason
why
you
have
picked
one
major
over
another.
Otherwise,
you might
as
well
go
watch
ice
melt
or
wait
for
the
Chicago
Cubs
to
try
to
win another
world
series
(which
they
did
four
months
after
I
wrote
the preceding
sentence). If
you
are
a
criminology
major
and
you
do
not
think
the
discipline
provides you
with
a
buffet
of
exciting
topics
for
you
to
choose
from,
whether
they

are
related
to
police
misconduct,
prison
culture,
or
the
various
forms
of homicide,
the
reasons
for
their
fluctuation
and
offense
characteristics,
then by
golly,
you
have
selected
the
wrong
field
of
study.
Similarly,
if
you
are
in education,
surely
you
can
find
topics
related
to
how
race,
class,
and
gender affect
educational
achievements;
or
you
can
examine
how
schools
and prisons
mutually
reinforce
one
another
so
that
education,
like neighborhoods,
becomes
another
code
for
the
criminal
justice
system (Wacquant,
2000).
If
you
can’t
find
an
exciting
and
passionate
topic
to
write about
in
the
time
that
you
spend
at
a
university
on
a
course
of
study
that you
yourself
have
dictated,
if
you
cannot
find
the
joy
that
learning
brings (Lewis,
1955)
and
that
sense
of
awe
and
majesty
that
reading
provides (Lewis,
1958),
then
the
fault
is
within
you,
not
anyone
else.
Don’t
blame others,
just
own
it
and
then
figure
out
a
way
to
move
on.
After
about
ten years
as
a
student
and
more
than
sixteen
years
as
a
professor,
I
still
get excited
about
criminology
and
the
questions
that
are
asked
within
it;
my heart
still
tingles
when
I
read
a
good
book
or
a
good
journal
article;
I
feel happy
for
a
week
when
I
write
a
sentence
that
I
particularly
like. Universities
are
filled
with
people
like
that;
they
are
called
“knerds”— knightly
scholars
who
have
embraced
their
inner
nerdiness.
If
you
can’t
find that
excitement
in
your
studies,
perhaps
it
is
time
for
you
to
find
another university
where
the
instructors
can
bring
out
that
excitement
in
you. Another
option
is
for
you
to
generate
that
excitement
on
your
own
through a
do-it-yourself
approach
to
learning
(see
Chapter
7). Fourth,
we
have
been
dancing
around
this
topic
for
several
paragraphs
now, and
it
is
time
to
settle
this
question.
Even
previous
authors
who
have correctly
stated
that
sufficient
reading
precedes
the
formulation
of
research questions
have
used
vague
quantifiers
(“a
lot”)
or
left
out
quantifiers altogether
(“read
books
and
articles”).
Books
are
good
places
to
start,
and they
tend
to
be
an
author’s
culminating
work.
The
only
difficulty
for
you might
be
that
you
might
not
be
able
to
read
a
sufficient
number
of
books
in the
time
allotted
for
a
project
in
order
to
realize
their
intended
effects.
In
a 12
to
16
week
semester,
it
is
just
not
logistically
possible
to
read
a
lot
of books,
in
addition
to
the
reading
load
that
you
already
shoulder.
Journal articles
are
different;
they
are
far
shorter
than
books.
A
social
science journal
article
is,
on
average,
about
14
to
20
pages
in
print.
An
average

book
has
about
180
to
200
pages
in
print.
For
every
book
you
read,
you should
be
able
to
read
about
8
to
10
journal
articles.
The
ratio
is
about
8 (10)
to
1.
There
is
another
reason
why
your
background
readings
prior
to the
formulation
of
research
questions
should
begin
with
journal
articles. Before
books
are
published,
authors
“test
out”
their
ideas
in
peer-reviewed journal
articles;
all
the
cutting
edge,
exciting
ideas
unfold
within
the
pages of
professional
journals.
Even
John
Rawls
published
important
components of
his
A
Theory
of
Justice
(Rawls,
1971)
in
several
philosophy
journals
(see Rawls,
1951,
1955,
1957,
1963).
For
students
who
need
to
become immersed
in
a
particular
literature
quickly,
journal
articles
are
the
best places
to
start
(Harris,
2014).
The
next
question
that
I
am
sure
you
must
be wondering
is
“how
many
journal
articles
do
I
have
to
read
in
order
to formulate
a
basic
research
question
of
my
own?” Thirty
peer-reviewed
journal
articles.
In
social
sciences,
that
is
how
many journal
articles
you
will
need
to
read
before
you
will
have
a
minimally competent—not
hesitant
and
tentative—command
of
a
topic.
Let
me elaborate.
Before
you
can
formulate
a
research
question
of
your
own,
you will
need
to
have
a
fundamental
grasp
of
what
the
topic
is
about.
Having
a firm
grasp
means
being
able
to
“see”
the
recurring
patterns
in
the
literature or
what
I
have
referred
to
as
SPLs
(Shon,
2015).
This
insight
emerges
after reading
between
12
and
15
journal
articles.
Let’s
say
that
you
want
to
write a
research
paper
on
juvenile
homicides,
and
you
have
found
12
to
15 journal
articles
published
after
the
year
2000;
you
will
begin
to
see recurring
patterns
in
the
literature
after
you
have
read
12
to
15
articles.
You will
begin
to
see
that
the
literature
review
sections
of
journal
articles
are organized
in
a
very
predictable
way.
Once
you
have
completed
reading
22 to
25
journal
articles,
you
will
begin
to
see
a
ghost. After
you
have
read
22
to
25
articles,
you
will
begin
to
“see”
what
has
not been
done
in
the
literature.
What
has
not
been
done
is
a
negation;
you cannot
see
that
which
has
not
occurred,
that
which
has
not
been
done,
but that
is
exactly
what
you
will
“see”;
that’s
why
I
said
you
would
see
a
ghost. How
and
why
does
that
occur?
Between
reading
the
twelfth
and
fifteenth article,
students
are
able
to
see
the
thematic
structures
of
any
given
topic; these
foundational
structures
are
the
SPLs;
they
are
the
theories
and

definitions
related
to
a
particular
phenomenon,
as
well
as
the
extent
and appeal
that
are
usually
associated
with
a
topic;
the
seminal
figures
appear
in the
citations.
Furthermore,
those
12
to
15
articles,
in
addition
to
SPLs,
will have
claims
and
ROFs
of
their
own;
these
ROFs
become
synthesized
into the
literature
so
that
the
ROFs
reappear
as
SPLs
in
subsequent
readings. Like
any
research
topic,
you
will
begin
to
see
that
the
current
of
research travels
in
a
particular
direction.
You
will
see
that
most
studies
measure
a phenomenon
in
similar
ways,
different
only
in
degrees;
you
will
see
that most
of
the
findings
tend
to
be
expectable.
And
because
you
will
have
seen what
previous
researchers
have
done
22
to
25
times,
the
literature
will
have become
predictable:
you
will
begin
to
see
what
has
not
been
done.
When you
can
articulate
what
has
not
been
done
in
the
literature
on
a
given
topic, then
you
are
able
to
find
a
Point
of
Critique
(POC)
which
becomes
your own
Critique
of
Previous
Literature
(CPL).
Reading
the
twenty-sixth
to thirtieth
articles
is
agonizing
because
it
means
reading
through
the
same literature
and
findings
for
the
umpteenth
time;
honestly,
that
is
a
bit nauseating;
there
is
no
point
in
reading
the
last
four
to
five
articles—except sheer
discipline
and
mastery.
Despite
the
desire
to
not
to
read
these remaining
articles,
you
must
do
so
anyway.
You
will
need
to
have
read sufficiently
so
that
your
command
of
the
literature
becomes
like
a
reflex; you
will
have
to
be
drilled
over
and
over
again
so
that
you
will
be
able
to recall
the
most
frequently
occurring
left
margin
thematic
codes
(Shon, 2015;
also
Chapter
3).
Reading
those
extra
articles
is
akin
to
throwing
a punch,
a
kick,
or
a
block
hundreds
of
times
to
achieve
basic
minimal competence.
If
you
do
not
attain
this
basic
competence
on
the
topics
that you
have
chosen
for
a
research
paper,
you
will
feel
insecure
about
what
you are
doing
throughout
the
process.
Once
you
have
read
through
30
articles and
have
completed
the
Reading
Code
Organization
Sheet
(see
Chapter
3), you
will
experience
an
emotional
state
that
you
have
rarely
experienced prior
to
writing:
confidence.
Reading
30
articles
is
like
the
“wax
on”
and “wax
off”
part
of
Mr
Miyagi’s
karate. You
will
need
this
confidence
in
order
to
state
your
critique
of
the
literature; and
it
is
this
gap
in
the
literature
that
will
shape
the
form
and
content
of your
research
question.
If
you
read
30
journal
articles
on
serial
murder,
you will
notice
that
serial
killers
who
operate
in
healthcare
environments
have

been
compared
to
“con”
men,
the
killing
process
a
confidence
game (Lubaszka
et
al.,
2014).
If
you
read
30
articles
on
healthcare
serial
killing
as part
of
your
literature
review,
you
will
have
noted
that
previous
authors have
not
examined
how
the
work
conditions
within
hospitals
and
the
work culture
in
them
may
facilitate
ripe
conditions
for
serial
killers
to
operate with
impunity.
If
the
preceding
statements
are
illustrative
of
CPLs
(Critique of
Previous
Literature),
how
do
we
turn
those
CPLs
into
research questions?
The
first
step
consists
of
rephrasing
these
into
declarative sentences;
you
must
use
the
ghosts
you
have
“seen”
from
your
readings, which
probably
exist
as
amorphous
and
unarticulated
assertions
in
your head,
and
turn
those
jumbled
thoughts
into
a
well-formed
sentence.
I
can assure
you
that
this
task
is
not
easy.
In
fact,
if
you
find
that
this
single sentence
turns
into
multiple
sentences
at
this
moment,
you
have
not
done something
right
(see
Chapter
4).
The
second
step
involves
turning
the declarative
sentences
into
interrogatives.
Here
are
some
sample
research questions
from
various
disciplines:
(1)
How
does
dark
humor
that
hospital staff
routinely
use
mask
the
presence
of
serial
killers
in
healthcare environments?
(2)
Do
mentoring
programs
achieve
their
intended outcomes?
(3)
What
is
the
meaning
of
feedback
in
the
classroom? I
stated
that
research
questions
are
closely
related
to
CPLs
and
gaps
in
the literature.
I
provided
explicit
CPLs
for
serial
murder,
but
did
not
provide
the critiques
that
preceded
the
research
questions
related
to
other
disciplines. But
if
you
were
to
work
backwards,
what
would
the
CPLs
that
precede
the research
questions
asked
have
to
be?
(1)
Previous
literature
has
not examined
how
dark
humor
can
hide
the
presence
of
serial
killers
in healthcare
settings.
(2)
Previous
literature
has
not
examined
if
mentoring programs
achieve
their
intended
outcomes.
(3)
Previous
literature
has neglected
to
examine
the
meaning
of
feedback
in
the
classroom.
The research
questions
that
you
ask
emerge
from
the
CPLs
you
have
identified in
the
literature.
The
research
questions
and
CPLs
that
precede
them
are very
specific.
Research
questions
are
asked
because
others
have
not
asked them
before;
you
know
that
others
have
not
asked
because
in
your
reading of
up-to-date
journal
articles,
you
did
not
find
anyone
who
had
asked
that question.
Simply
put,
there
is
a
gap
in
the
literature.
To
arrive
at
this
basic level
understanding
of
a
topic
in
order
to
be
able
to
ask
research
questions,

you
ought
to
have
read,
at
minimum,
30
articles
(even
the
torturous
5). Once
you
have
“waxed
on”
and
“waxed
off,”
and
you
have
painted
the fence
up
and
down
and
side
to
side,
you
are
at
least
competent
enough
to block
a
punch
or
a
kick.
It
is
my
contention
(argument)
that
once
you understand
this
social
science
logic,
the
numerous
types
of
writing assignments
that
are
commonly
found
in
social
sciences
will
vary
only
in scope
and
sophistication,
and
you
need
not
be
intimidated
by
papers
of
any kind
or
length.

Types
of
Writing
Assignments Whenever
students
are
given
writing
assignments,
the
first
question
is always
related
to
length,
i.e.,
how
long
does
this
assignment
have
to
be? The
same
applies
to
graduate
students;
whenever
they
know
they
will
have to
write
a
Master’s
thesis
or
a
PhD
dissertation,
the
first
question
asked
is always
related
to
length.
That
question
is
legitimate.
For
any
student
who
is writing
a
substantial
paper
for
the
first
time
length
would
be
of
primary importance;
knowing
the
final
destination
provides
a
goal,
an
end—a measure
of
security
against
the
indeterminacy
and
insecurity
of
the unknown.
In
addition
to
its
length,
however,
I
would
like
you
to
think
about the
papers
you
write
in
other
ways.
I
also
want
to
persuade
you
that
the research
papers
you
write
need
not
intimidate
you
in
undue
ways.
Before we
do
so,
it
might
be
helpful
to
take
a
panoramic
glance
at
some
of
the writing
assignments
that
are
commonly
used
in
colleges
and
universities. There
are
literally
dozens
of
writing
assignments
that
instructors
use
across colleges
and
universities.
Most
students
would
have
probably
encountered the
assignments
listed
in
Table
2.1;
some
however
may
not
have
done
so. My
guess
is
that
most
would
have
written
‘reflective/reaction
papers’
of some
kind
at
one
point
in
their
undergraduate
schooling.
Reflective/reaction papers
involve
taking
an
assigned
reading
or
a
significant
experience
and exploring
the
meaningful
connections
between
the
activity
and
the
readings in
expressive
ways.
These
papers
are
opinion-based
and
generally
do
not require
well-rehearsed
arguments.
Likewise,
most
undergraduate
students probably
have
had
to
assume
a
certain
position
or
perspective
(e.g.,
the

death
penalty
should
be
abolished
or
should
be
reinstated)
and
argue
for
or against
those
perspectives
in
“position
papers.”
They
also
may
have
been asked
to
assume
the
role
of
a
particular
person
(e.g.,
a
big
theorist
in
a
field [Durkheim,
Plato,
Rawls]
or
an
official
[warden,
police
chief,
principal, budget
officer])
and
then
project
how
the
preceding
figures
would
have addressed
a
particular
problem
or
an
issue
that
is
pertinent
to
the
class. These
types
of
“critical
persona
papers”
force
students
to
think
creatively and
intersubjectively
by
having
them
assume
another
perspective.

The
papers
that
graduate
students
write
also
tend
to
be
similar
and
different from
the
undergraduate
ones.
For
example,
graduate
students
have
to
write one
page
summaries
of
all
the
assigned
readings
for
the
week. Consequently,
if
there
are
six
journal
articles
and
a
book
that
have
been assigned
as
readings
for
a
given
week,
that
adds
up
to
seven
one-page summaries
due
at
the
beginning
of
class.
Most
graduate
students
will
have done
these;
they
are
not
thrilled
with
this
type
of
busy-work.
Like
reaction papers,
instructors
will
rarely
grade
these
assignments,
content
only
to check
that
they
have
been
completed
and
submitted.
Most
graduate
students will
probably
have
had
to
write
a
literature
review
or
an
annotated bibliography
for
a
course;
most
will
probably
have
had
to
complete
a
thesis or
its
equivalent
as
part
of
their
degree
requirements;
both
entail
a
novel contribution
to
the
literature
through
original
data
collection
and
analysis
or argumentation
and
claim. Table
2.1
shows
25
writing
assignments
and
projects
that
are
commonly found
across
colleges
and
universities.
This
list
has
been
compiled
from
my own
experiences
as
well
as
after
consultations
with
other
instructors;
I
also perused
available
online
sources.
For
example,
the
University
of Maryland’s
English
department
website
lists
over
35
writing
assignments that
are
commonly
used;
it
is
a
fairly
complete
list
of
the
“typical”
writing assignments
used
across
universities
(Melzer,
2003).
What
is
the
aim
of
the writing
assignments
that
are
found
in
colleges
and
universities?
Researchers have
shown
that
the
aim
of
academic
papers
can
be
classified
into
three types:
(1)
transactional
assignments
that
require
students
to
summarize
and inform
(informative
writing)
or
to
persuade
someone
by
assuming
a position
(persuasive
writing),
such
as
literature
reviews
and
traditional research
papers;
(2)
expressive
assignments
that
ask
students
to
think
and convey
their
feelings,
opinions,
and
emotions
through
their
responses
and reflections
to
the
assigned
readings
or
life
experiences,
such
as
reaction papers,
reflective
papers,
and
journal
entries;
(3)
poetic
writing
that
is creative,
such
as
writing
poems
and
short
stories.
Based
on
analyzes
of syllabi
across
universities,
it
has
been
found
that
over
80%
of
assignments tend
to
be
transactional
(Melzer,
2003).
Expressive
papers
(63%)
tend
to
be used
in
conjunction
with
transactional
ones
while
poetic
writing
is
the
least used
(Grauerholz
et
al.,
2013).

University
instructors
assign
papers
of
some
sort
(over
90%);
nearly
half
of the
instructors
use
short
reflection
papers
that
fall
between
4
and
6
pages (Grauerholz
et
al.,
2013;
Graves
et
al.,
2010).
Longer
papers
that
tend
to
fall between
11
to
15
pages
are
seldom
assigned
(about
10%)
while
major empirical
papers
are
rarely
assigned
(about
1%).
Hence,
even
in
the
most prevalently
used
transactional
assignments,
informative
writing
assignments (73%)
are
far
more
common
than
persuasive
(11%)
ones
(Melzer,
2003). Simply
put,
students
are
being
asked
to
report
on
what
is
already
known.
Is there
an
alternative
way
to
understand
the
assignments
in
Table
2.1,
besides the
distinction
between
informative
and
persuasive?
It
is
my
contention
that once
you
have
understood
the
logic
of
social
science
writing,
you
will
be able
to
undertake
your
writing
projects
with
confidence,
i.e.,
you
do
not need
to
be
so
tentative
and
hesitant
in
your
relationship
to
the
text
that
you will
create;
instead,
try
to
“see”
and
understand
the
writing
assignments
you will
encounter
using
the
three
criteria
that
I
describe
below. First,
where
do
the
questions
that
are
being
asked
in
the
writing
project come
from?
Some
writing
assignments,
such
as
reflective
and
reaction papers,
do
not
even
contain
a
question;
they
solicit
opinions,
emotions,
and feelings
and
it
is
impossible
to
grade
or
critique
papers
that
are
based
on those
criteria.
The
same
applies
to
summaries
and
book
reviews;
you
are asked
to
report
on
something
and
summarize.
The
preceding
assignments do
not
contain
questions
so
there
is
no
reason
to
be
so
intimidated
by
the tasks.
Position
papers,
comparison
papers,
exploratory
essays
and
others marked
with
an
‘X’
in
the
column
‘question
is
supplied
by
the
instructor’ have
in
common
the
fact
that
the
questions
are
already
provided
by
the instructors.
In
these
essays,
you
are
expected
to
provide
answers
to questions
already
posed.
Moreover,
the
papers
where
questions
are embedded
in
the
assignment
already
provide
a
structure
for
the
way
you should
treat
the
issues
and
the
abilities
your
instructors
want
you
to demonstrate
(Greetham,
2013).
Consequently,
you
will
see
verbs
such
as discuss,
analyze,
compare,
contrast,
judge,
explore,
reconcile,
etc.
The completion
of
the
assignment
involves
fulfilling
the
tasks
the
verbs
are asking
you
to
complete.
Papers
that
fall
into
this
category
do
not
involve “research”
in
the
usual
empirical
and
theoretical
sense.

Second,
notice
the
difference
between
the
short/medium
papers
and
long papers
such
as
research
papers,
capstone
papers,
integrative
reviews, advanced
literature
reviews,
theses
and
dissertations,
and
professional journal
papers.
In
long
papers,
the
questions
that
are
asked
in
the
“papers” are
self-generated;
your
instructor
does
not
tell
you
what
research
question to
ask;
your
instructor
does
not
provide
you
with
a
set
of
guidelines
for
how to
relevantly
address
a
particular
problem,
nor
do
they
give
you
any
hints about
the
abilities
they
want
to
see
in
your
paper.
What
your
instructor wants
to
see
are
original
results
of
some
sort.
Your
task
is
entirely
selfdriven
and
autonomous.
There
are
two
ways
in
which
the
“original
results” requirement
is
satisfied
in
the
social
sciences:
empirical
work
or argumentation.
In
empirical
papers,
you
will
have
to
collect
data
of
some sort
(e.g.,
surveys,
interviews,
documents,
ethnographies,
letters,
etc.)
and then
analyze
them;
that
is
what
makes
your
project
empirical.
In
conceptual and
theoretical
papers,
you
will
use
existing
published
works
as
“data”
of sorts
and
craft
an
argument
from
the
previous
writings.
You
will
not
be collecting
data;
that
is
what
makes
this
project
theoretical
and
conceptual rather
than
empirical.
These
are
the
two
principal
ways
in
which
originals claims
are
made
in
the
social
sciences. Third,
before
findings
and
claims
are
presented,
the
reasons
the
findings
and claims
are
being
proclaimed
have
to
be
made
explicit.
Results
and
claims are
not
made
independently
and
without
context;
findings
and
claims
push against
something.
The
precedents
to
claims
have
to
be
spelled
out,
and
that involves
critique
and
criticism.
A
claim’s
genealogy
warrants
that
its
reason be
articulated,
and
a
Critique
of
Previous
Literature
that
leads
to
a
gap provides
that
reason.
The
presence
of
this
critique
is
what
separates short/medium
papers
from
long
papers.
It
exists
as
a
precondition
to
the findings
that
are
presented
through
data
collection
and
analysis
and
claims that
are
made
through
argumentation.
In
order
to
arrive
at
a
critique,
you will
have
to
read
enough
of
the
literature
to
critique
it
on
some
grounds (POC)
and
to
remedy
that
gap
by
asking
research
questions.
The
research questions
will
then
help
to
overcome
those
shortcomings
in
the
literature. That
is
why
literature
reviews,
despite
an
absence
of
research
question,
are such
important
stepping
stones
to
just
about
every
persuasive
transactional

assignment
(Melzer,
2003).
Without
a
critique
to
push
against,
all
claims become
lone
wolf
claims. As
some
scholars
have
found,
papers
that
require
an
original
claim
or
a finding
seem
to
be
diminishing.
Researchers
have
found
that
about
half
of university
courses
required
short
reflection
papers
such
as
book
reports, group
project
reports,
or
essays.
A
study
of
one
Canadian
university
found that
about
half
of
all
assignments
consisted
of
four
pages
or
less
(Graves
et al.
,
2010).
As
Grauerholz
et
al.
(2013)
note,
these
shorter
assignments
may be
preferred
because
they
are
easier
to
grade
and
less
demanding
for instructors.
There
may
be
disciplinary
differences
in
approaches
to
writing as
well.
Assignments
in
the
social
sciences
demonstrate
a
greater
variety whereas
there
is
much
more
consistency
in
the
humanities
(Graves
et
al., 2010).
For
example,
some
criminology
programs
have
implemented
writing activities
such
as
prison
letters
(writing
letters
to
inmates
in
prisons), courtroom
observations,
interviews,
and
learning
logs
as
a
way
of
adding “excitement
to
the
act
of
writing”
(Rounds
&
McCullough,
1998,
p.
158), believing
that
novel
tasks
bring
excitement
to
the
act
of
writing
rather
than the
process.
In
the
humanities,
it
has
been
found
that
one
type
of
assignment still
prevails:
the
“paper”
(Graves
et
al.,
2010,
p.
312–313). The
“paper”
or
a
research
paper,
“is
the
most
common,
complex
and
–
if well
executed
–
accomplished
piece
of
writing
an
undergraduate
student
of history
is
likely
to
produce”
(Conolly-Smith,
2007).
In
ten
double-spaced pages
or
more,
students
are
expected
to
find
a
topic
of
interest
and
to
come up
with
research
questions
that
the
paper
will
answer
by
using
primary
and secondary
sources
in
order
to
“prove
your
argument.”
A
research
paper
of the
many
varieties,
shapes,
and
forms
is
truly
a
self-directed
study
from beginning
to
end;
it
requires
synthesis,
critique,
and
integration
as
a
way
of making
a
claim.
That
aim
is
similar
across
the
social
sciences
and humanities.
Writing
assignments
that
require
students
to
generate
their
own questions
are
similar
to
the
venerable
“paper”
for
this
reason. The
three
criteria
that
I
have
noted
are
applicable
to
“research
papers”
that undergraduates
write
as
well
as
to
the
senior
theses
that
honors
program students
have
to
produce,
which
is
similar
to
the
Master’s
theses
and

doctoral
dissertations
that
PhD
candidates
have
to
complete.
A
fourth
year student
may
only
have
to
read
30
journal
articles
to
come
up
with
a
research question,
and
a
doctoral
student
may
have
to
read
300
journal
articles
and 100
books
in
order
to
understand
a
topic,
critique
the
literature,
formulate
a research
question,
and
design
a
project
to
remedy
the
shortcoming
in
the literature;
however,
the
logic
underlying
the
research
process
is
identical. PhD
students’
projects
are
bigger
in
scope
and
more
sophisticated
than Master’s
projects,
and
Master’s
projects
are
a
bit
more
complex
than
an undergraduate
senior
thesis;
a
senior
thesis
is
a
bit
more
complex
than
the venerable
“research
paper.”
However,
the
logic
underneath
the
process
is the
same.
Research
projects
of
varying
sophistication
attempt
to
remedy
a shortcoming
in
the
literature;
this
shortcoming
shapes
the
research questions
that
are
asked
as
well
the
rationales
(RAT)
that
accompany
the projects.
Research
papers
that
require
an
original
claim
and
an
empirical finding
have
similar
origins. Although
overlooked
in
previous
how-to
books
on
writing,
reading
is
just as
important,
if
not
more,
than
the
writing
process
itself.
I
refer
to
this
as
the Jedi
model
of
writing.
I
call
it
Jedi
writing
because
papers
write
themselves. When
you
have
read
enough,
you
are
able
to
see
order
and
structure
where none
existed
before
(SPL);
when
you
have
read
enough,
you
are
able
to
see things
that
are
not
really
there
in
the
texts
(POC
and
CPL);
when
you
have read
enough,
the
research
questions
that
need
to
be
asked
will
literally
jump off
the
page
and
scream
at
you,
begging
you
to
remedy
the
obvious shortcomings
that
others
have
neglected.
When
you
have
read
enough,
you will
begin
to
have
dreams
about
the
literature
and
the
readings
you
have done;
you
will
become
a
character
in
the
pages
of
the
journal
articles
you have
been
reading.
You
will
be
a
medium
through
which
the
literature moves
forward.
In
this
model
of
writing,
there
is
no
more
intimidation
and fear
of
“papers”
of
various
length
and
type,
for
you
will
have
understood the
logic
of
social
science
texts.
You
will
have
understood
and
put
into practice
the
lesson
that
the
act
of
writing
begins
with
the
act
of
reading. Before
even
thinking
of
writing
a
sentence,
much
less
a
paragraph,
you
will need
to
have
spent
a
far
more
substantial
amount
of
time
reading
the
works that
others
have
written.
That
is
the
key
to
writing
papers
in
the
social sciences.

Conclusion This
chapter
introduced
you
to
the
research
process
by
teaching
you
what not
to
do.
It
began
by
advising
you
against
starting
your
papers
with
a presupposed
claim
prior
to
any
review
of
the
literature.
Before
a
claim
is presented,
you
must
first
read
through
the
literature
on
a
topic,
find
a
Point of
Critique,
and
then
find
a
way
to
remedy
the
deficiencies
through empirical
work
or
syllogistic
argumentation.
This
chapter
also
provided some
heuristic
ways
of
understanding
the
various
writing
assignments
you might
encounter;
rather
than
solely
focusing
on
length
and
page
numbers,
I suggested
critical
ways
of
assessing
the
source
of
the
questions
asked
in
the assignment
as
well
as
their
rationale
(RAT).
One
of
the
key
differences between
various
writing
projects
in
the
social
sciences
is
figuring
out
a critique
as
a
prelude
to
a
claim.
Once
you
have
understood
this
distinction, and
the
logic
that
guides
it,
the
various
papers
you
may
have
to
write
need not
intimidate
you
in
undue
ways.

3
How
to
Synthesize
the
Literature In
Chapter
1,
I
discussed
some
of
the
major
errors
that
students
make
in their
research
papers,
undergraduate
theses,
and
PhD
dissertations.
I
argued that
one
ecological
error
in
particular
(BHP)
logically
leads
to
another major
error
(FSL).
In
Chapter
2,
I
estimated
the
amount
of
reading
required in
order
to
command
a
minimally
competent
grasp
of
a
topic
as
a
prelude
to asking
intelligible
research
questions.
I
argued
that
in
order
to
ask
a research
question,
one
of
the
fundamental
tasks
that
must
be
resolved
is generating
a
Point
of
Critique
(POC)
that
leads
to
a
Critique
of
Previous Literature
(CPL)
which
then
leads
to
a
specific
shortcoming
in
the
literature (GAP).
I
argued
that
this
critique
of
the
literature,
on
some
justifiable grounds,
and
the
scale
and
scope
of
the
remedy
are
what
differentiate
the various
research
projects,
from
a
“research
paper”
to
a
PhD
dissertation, i.e.,
that
while
the
size,
scale,
and
sophistication
of
research
projects conducted
at
various
stages
of
higher
education
differ,
the
underlying
form and
logic
behind
social
science
projects
are
remarkably
similar. In
this
chapter,
I
examine
the
logic
behind
one
of
the
most
elementary writing
assignments
that
precedes
other
academic
writing
projects
and
most academic
research
in
general:
the
literature
review.
A
competent understanding
of
the
literature
is
necessary
in
order
to
work
on
thesisrelated
projects
and
to
complete
some
of
the
creative
writing
assignments that
require
you
to
assume
a
particular
role
(e.g.,
police
chief,
principal, hospital
administrator,
etc.).
My
point
in
Chapter
2
was
that
in
order
to
be able
to
apply
theories
and
abstract
concepts
to
the
practical
problems assumed
in
various
assignments,
you
first
need
to
have
a
thorough understanding
of
the
literature.
I
have
argued
that
reading
and
writing
are not
discrete
acts,
but
interrelated
ones—that
you
must
learn
how
to
read properly
in
order
to
write
academic
papers.
This
chapter
explains
how
to organize
the
information
gathered
from
your
readings
to
create
your
own Reading
Code
Organization
Sheet
(RCOS)
and
then
apply
it
to
your literature
review.

Organizing
your
own
RCOS Whether
you
are
writing
a
30
or
50
page
literature
review
chapter
for
a book
or
a
PhD
dissertation,
or
a
5
page
one
as
part
of
a
written
assignment for
a
course,
the
logic
behind
a
literature
review
is
essentially
the
same.
I suspect
you
will
find
that
assertion
difficult
to
digest,
especially
as
an undergraduate
or
fledgling
graduate
student
who
may
have
been
informally socialized
to
think
that
research
is
somehow
this
“magical”
and
exclusive act
carried
out
by
professors
in
ivory
towers.
But
it
is
my
thesis
that research
varies
only
in
its
scale,
scope,
and
sophistication,
not
in
its
logic. The
same
point
applies
to
literature
reviews.
A
literature
review
covers
the ideas
on
a
particular
topic
in
some
principled
way,
whether
it
is
a
50
page chapter
in
a
PhD
dissertation,
a
6
to
8
page
literature
review
as
part
of
a research
paper,
or
an
8
paragraph
literature
review
in
a
professional
journal article.
Whether
written
by
a
distinguished
university
professor
or
a
fourthyear
undergraduate
student,
the
form
and
structure
of
a
literature
review will
usually
look
like
that
in
Figure
3.1. Figure
3.1
Outline
of
a
literature
review

A
competent
literature
review
covers
the
research
that
has
already
been carried
out
on
a
given
topic;
we
might
refer
to
this
portion
of
a
literature review
as
a
Summary
of
Previous
Literature
(SPL)
for
the
writer
is
simply reporting
the
work
that
has
already
been
done.
An
SPL
refers
to
the
ROFs from
a
previous
study.
The
best
way
to
report
this
previous
information
is
to do
so
in
a
principled
and
methodical
way,
organized
according
to
some criteria.
For
example,
you
will
notice
that
the
outline
of
a
literature
review in
Figure
3.1
is
organized
according
to
“themes.”
These
eight
themes represent
the
results
of
your
synthesis
of
the
literature
(you
can
always
have more
or
less
themes
as
you
see
fit).
When
your
instructors
tell
you
to “synthesize
the
literature,”
what
they
really
want
you
to
do
is
to
read
that literature
on
a
given
topic
(e.g.,
homicide,
neurosis,
education
and
nutrition, aging
and
housing,
etc.),
and
then
summarize
the
work
that
has
already been
done
in
a
thematic
way—not
author
by
author,
year
by
year.
Other how-to
books
will
tell
you
to
look
for
key
concepts,
theories,
approaches, ideas
and
other
“useful
categories”
(Craswell
&
Poore,
2012).
That
advice is
correct.
They
are
telling
you
to
organize
your
literature
according
to
a

particular
or
recurring
theme
from
the
readings
you
have
done.
Even
so, there
is
a
structure
and
a
form
to
the
organization
of
the
themes
in
most literature
reviews. Ideally,
literature
reviews
ought
to
be
organized
in
the
shape
of
a
funnel, i.e.,
ideas
that
are
abstract,
general,
and
“big”
should
be
covered
early
on
in a
literature
review
(Denney
&
Tewksbury,
2013).
You
might
want
to mention
the
various
theories
that
have
been
discussed
in
relation
to
a
topic upfront
(e.g.,
Craswell
&
Poore,
2012).
Some
examples
of
big
ideas
might be
the
definitions
used
in
a
particular
topic
or
its
history.
Using
parricide
as an
example,
the
term
“parricide”
was
once
used
to
define
the
killing
of
a close
relative
such
as
a
grandparent,
uncle,
and
aunt;
however,
it
is primarily
used
to
refer
to
the
killing
of
biological
and
stepparents
today. Theory,
definition,
history—these
themes
illustrate
the
“big”
and
general aspects
of
a
topic.
If
I
were
to
mention
the
percentage
of
firearms
used
in the
killing
of
parents,
then
I
would
no
longer
be
talking
about
“big”
and abstract
things,
but
concrete
and
specific
things.
Similarly,
if
I
started discussing
the
recidivism
rates
of
parricide
offenders
or
the
percentage
of parricide
offenders
who
have
a
prior
history
of
criminal
violence,
I
would be
talking
about
concrete
matters
rather
than
abstract
ones.
It
is
important that
you
“see”
this
difference
between
what
is
general
and
abstract
and specific
and
concrete.
You
should
be
able
to
visualize
this
reverse
cone
that resembles
the
shape
of
a
funnel
in
the
way
that
a
literature
review
is organized.
Whether
you
are
in
education,
health,
or
sociology,
you
should move
from
general
to
specific
and
abstract
to
concrete
in
your
literature review.
A
much
more
complex
task
for
you
is
how
to
figure
out
the
themes that
ought
to
be
included
in
your
literature
review. Figuring
out
which
“themes”
should
be
included
in
your
own
literature review
(as
part
of
a
research
paper,
Master’s
thesis,
or
PhD
dissertation)
is challenging
for
a
number
of
reasons.
First,
after
you
have
begun
reading
on a
particular
topic,
you
will
find
that
there
is
a
lot
of
material
to
cover.
You will
experience
“knowledge
overload”
and
this
excessive
knowledge
that you
have
acquired
will
seep
into
the
literature
review.
This
tendency
to
be as
inclusive
and
expansive
as
possible
as
a
way
of
demonstrating
one’s knowledge
is
a
common
trap
for
student
writers
who
are
embarking
on
a

literature
review
for
the
first
time,
i.e.,
some
may
not
yet
understand
that good
writing
is
not
measured
in
length
but
in
its
brevity.
Moreover,
you
will have
a
finite
amount
of
space
to
accomplish
your
objectives;
rambling
on about
a
topic
that
excites
you
will
not
work.
Like
most
things
in
life,
there is
a
limit
and
restriction
imposed
on
the
activity
you
are
undertaking.
Let’s say
you
wanted
to
write
a
literature
review
that
is
1,000
pages.
Who
would read
this
and
give
you
feedback
on
it?
I
am
pretty
sure
that
your
instructors would
make
you
do
it
over. Second,
students
have
a
tendency
to
ramble
on
in
literature
reviews
because they
confuse
prior
literature
with
the
current
findings
from
their
readings, i.e.,
some
will
confuse
SPLs
and
ROFs
and
treat
the
former
as
the
latter. This
error
is
a
significant
one,
as
they
will
incorrectly
report
the
state
of
the literature
and
misattribute
SPLs
as
results
and
claims.
If
you
cite
an
SPL
as an
ROF,
then
you
are
actually
attributing
the
work
of
one
to
another,
and this
is
tantamount
to
academic
misconduct.
This
distinction
is
important
and should
be
clarified.
Any
confusion
should
be
fixed
at
the
reading
level,
not in
the
writing
stages.
That
is
why
proper
coding
during
the
reading
process, and
the
thematic
codes
that
are
entered
into
the
Reading
Code
Organization Sheet
(RCOS),
are
so
important.
They
prevent
the
conflation
of
a
common source
of
misunderstanding.
In
order
to
organize
your
own
RCOS,
it
is important
that
you
see
what
this
looks
like
and
how
it
functions.
The
RCOS is
important
because
once
it
is
completed
you
will
literally
“see”
a
visual representation
of
the
literature,
along
with
an
understanding
that
will
enable you
to
ask
research
questions
that
others
have
not
asked
and
create
your own
outline
of
a
literature
review.

Interpreting
RCOS:
A
Student
Example The
RCOS
in
Table
3.1
is
an
actual
one
that
one
of
my
students
(LB) created
as
part
of
her
coursework
in
one
of
my
classes
(Bakhshi,
2014). Although
the
complete
RCOS
has
more
than
30
entries,
I
have
included only
the
first
12
entries
for
the
purposes
of
illustration.
Each
row
represents one
journal
article
that
has
been
read,
coded,
and
entered
into
the
RCOS; according
to
students’
estimates,
it
takes
anywhere
from
1
to
1.5
hours
to

read
one
journal
article
(including
left
and
right
margin
coding);
it
takes
an additional
5
to
10
minutes
to
complete
one
RCOS
entry.
So
the
completion of
1
row
and
8
columns
represents,
using
a
very
conservative
estimate, about
1.25
to
1.5
hours
of
work.
Using
that
conservative
estimate
for
30 journal
articles
results
in
about
40
to
45
hours
of
work—reading,
coding, and
entering
the
codes
into
RCOS
so
that
the
finished
product
resembles something
that
looks
like
Table
3.1. Columns
1
and
2
contain
the
article
number,
the
author(s)
names
and
the year.
Column
3
is
the
“golden
nugget”
so
to
speak;
it
contains
the
Result
of Findings
(ROF)
of
a
study,
the
primary
findings,
the
main
points—what
the article
is
about.
It
represents
the
main
findings
distilled
into
one
to
three sentences.
Thus,
Anderson’s
(2004)
main
finding
is
that
playing
violent video
games
increases
aggressive
thoughts
and
physiological
arousal,
which leads
to
decreases
in
altruistic
behavior.
This
is
Anderson’s
main
claim;
this main
finding
is
Anderson’s
primary
citable
point.
Similarly,
one
of
Gentile et
al.’s
(2004)
findings
is
that
students
whose
parents
monitor
the
ratings
of video
games
tend
to
argue
less
with
one
another
and
have
less
fights.
Again, this
main
finding
is
one
of
Gentile
et
al.’s
(2004)
primary
citable
points.
All the
authors
listed
in
column
2
can
be
cited
on
the
main
points
(ROFs)
listed in
column
3.
In
fact,
they
should
be
cited
only
in
relation
to
the
claims
and findings
in
column
3.
They
cannot
and
should
not
be
cited
in
relation
to column
4.
Why
is
that
you
ask?
What
is
the
difference
between
column
3 and
4? Column
4
represents
the
thematic
codes
of
the
literature
review
that
each author(s)
in
column
2
completed
for
their
own
papers.
It
represents
the authors’
reading
and
synthesis
of
the
literature;
it
does
not
represent
their own
work
or
finding
(ROF)
in
any
way.
For
example,
in
Gentile
et
al.’s (2004)
literature
review,
there
were
eight
themes
that
made
up
their literature
review
(row
1,
column
4);
Gentile
et
al.
read
through
the
literature on
video
games
and
violence
and
distilled
their
reading
of
the
literature
into eight
themes.
The
first
theme
they
discussed
was
‘high
sales’,
followed
by ‘gender
differences’
and
‘violent
content’,
and
ending
with
‘GAM
model’. In
the
paper
Gentile
et
al.
published
in
2004,
they
are
covering
the
SPLs
on video
games
and
violence
in
their
literature
review;
those
eight
thematic

codes
do
not
represent
their
own
results
or
findings;
the
thematic
codes
are a
synthesis
of
the
readings
the
authors
carried
out
as
part
of
the
literature review
for
their
2004
paper.
Consequently,
they
cannot
be
cited
on
the propositions
stated
in
column
4.
Column
4
is
not
their
own
work;
it
is
the work
of
others
that
is
being
reported
by
Gentile
et
al.
The
questions
you should
be
asking
are
(1)
how
did
the
student
(LB)
who
composed
the
RCOS in
Table
3.1
come
up
with
those
terms
used
in
column
4,
and
(2)
how
did Gentile
et
al.
come
up
with
those
thematic
categories
in
column
4
as
part
of their
literature
review?

To
answer
the
first
question,
LB
read
Gentile
et
al.’s
(2004)
paper,
and
as LB
was
reading
their
literature
review,
LB
assigned
a
thematic
code
to
each paragraph.
Simply
put,
as
LB
was
reading
each
paragraph
in
Gentile
et
al.’s literature
review,
LB
reduced
one
paragraph
into
one
or
two
words
that captured
the
essence
of
that
paragraph.
This
task
is
called
the
“left
margin thematic
code
insertion.”
It
is
called
that
because
it
is
only
done
at
the
left margins.
It
differs
from
the
“right
margin
reading
code
insertion”
in
that
the reading
codes
that
are
inserted
at
the
right
margins
are
selected
fromthe
10 reading
codes
and
4
reading
strategy
codes
(e.g.,
SPL,
CPL,
RAT,
MOP, RPP;
see
Shon,
2015).
The
left
margin
codes
are
entirely
reader
generated; that
means
you
have
to
read
a
paragraph,
and
then
figure
out
how
to
distill the
entire
paragraph
that
has
been
read
into
one
or
two
meaningful
words. There
is
no
reading
code
to
look
to;
there
is
no
one
to
ask
if
you
did
it
the right
way
or
not.
It
is
entirely
up
to
you
to
read
a
paragraph,
figure
out
what it
means,
and
then
reduce
it
to
one
or
two
words. It
is
important
for
me
to
emphasize
here
that
there
is
no
right
or
wrong answer
in
left
margin
thematic
code
insertions;
there
is
only
a
meaningful answer,
for
you
will
have
to
recall
and
use
those
thematic
codes.
They
will be
meaningful
to
no
one
else
but
you.
They
have
been
designed
to
save
you time
by
not
having
to
read
an
article
all
over
again
during
the
writing process,
so
that
you
can
simply
observe
and
these
will
jog
your
memory about
what
you
had
read
in
the
first
place.
Therefore,
if
you
haphazardly

come
up
with
a
one
word
summary
of
a
paragraph
and
insert
that
code
into the
RCOS,
then
that
mistake
is
what
you
will
have
to
use
later.
And
if
that one
word
has
no
meaningful
connection
to
the
paragraph
you
just
read,
then by
any
measure,
the
task
you
have
just
completed
is
rendered
worthless. You
must
either
make
the
RCOS
work
for
you,
or
fall
flat
on
your
face because
you
have
slapped
it
together
as
you
would
cram
for
a
midterm exam
and
then
discovered
it
has
no
value—because
you
put
in
useless
stuff. Using
this
very,
very
brief
introduction
of
how
to
read
and
then
perform
a thematic
code
insertion,
we
can
now
interpret
row
1,
column
4
in
a
bit
more detail.
The
8
SPLs
suggest
that
there
were
most
likely
8
paragraphs
in Gentile
et
al.’s
literature
review
or
additional
paragraphs
were
reduced
to
8 themes
according
to
the
coder’s
idiosyncratic
practices.
The
first
thematic code,
‘high
sales’,
means
that
the
first
paragraph
was
about
the
high
volume of
video
game
sales
and
its
significance
for
the
video
game
industry.
The second
thematic
code,
‘gender
differences’,
means
that
the
second paragraph
was
related
to
the
differences
experienced
by
men
and
women who
play
games
or
uniquely
constructed
in
a
meaningful
way
for
the student
who
composed
it.
(My
reading
of
the
original
article
suggests
the latter
interpretation.)
LB
read
each
paragraph
in
Gentile
et
al.’s
(2004) literature
review
section,
and
coded
them
using
this
principle
of
distillation. This
task
can
seem
a
bit
daunting
at
first,
but
with
practice
and
an elementary
understanding
of
the
principles
of
composition,
left
margin thematic
code
insertions
become
quite
easy.
It
also
provides
students
with an
additional
tool
to
evaluate
the
merits
of
the
papers
they
are
reading
as well
as
the
papers
they
are
writing. Why
are
the
principles
of
composition
relevant
here?
Like
most
of
the things
I
have
said
in
this
book,
the
answer
is
already
in
Strunk
and
White. Here
is
what
they
have
to
say
about
how
a
paragraph
is
organized: The
paragraph
is
a
convenient
unit;
it
serves
all
forms
of
literary
work. As
long
as
it
holds
together,
a
paragraph
may
be
of
any
length—a single,
short
sentence
or
a
passage
of
great
duration
…
ordinarily, however,
a
subject
requires
division
into
topics,
each
of
which
should

be
dealt
with
in
a
paragraph.
The
object
of
treating
each
topic
in
a paragraph
by
itself
is,
of
course,
to
aid
the
reader.
The
beginning
of each
paragraph
is
a
signal
to
him
[the
reader]
that
a
new
step
in
the development
of
the
subject
has
been
reached.
As
a
rule,
begin
each paragraph
either
with
a
sentence
that
suggests
the
topic
or
with
a sentence
that
helps
the
transition.
(Strunk
&
White,
1979,
pp.
15–16) If
a
paragraph
is
organized
properly,
then
each
paragraph
should
have
one idea.
Strunk
and
White
use
the
term
“topic”
but
it
can
be
substituted
with “theme,”
“idea,”
or
“point.”
Moreover,
what
the
entire
paragraph
will
be about
is
signaled
in
the
first
sentence—the
topic
sentence.
The
topic sentence
provides
a
hint
to
the
reader
that
the
rest
of
the
words
that
follow
it will
somehow
support
and
elaborate
on
the
topical
point
that
is
embedded in
the
first
sentence.
The
first
sentence
pronounces,
and
the
rest
of
the sentences
subordinate
themselves
to
the
logic
of
relations
that
the
topical constraint
imposes
(Fish,
2011).
Other
how-to
books
on
writing
echo
a similar
point:
limit
one
paragraph
to
one
idea
(Osmond,
2013;
Shiach, 2009).
That
is
how
a
paragraph
ought
to
be
organized:
one
idea,
one
topic, and
one
theme
per
paragraph.
Once
you
understand
that
a
well-formed paragraph
is
organized
in
this
manner,
you
should
be
able
to
organize
your own
paragraphs
so
that
each
paragraph
contains
only
one
idea. Furthermore,
you
should
be
able
to
identify
the
difference
between
good and
bad
paragraphs
in
the
articles
that
you
are
reading.
If
an
author compresses
three
to
five
ideas
into
one
paragraph,
then
that
paragraph probably
is
not
a
good
one,
and
it
should
have
been
composed
in
another way.
If
the
topic
sentence
introduces
the
reader
to
pigs
but
the
rest
of
the sentences
that
follow
it
are
all
about
birds,
then
the
author
does
not
know what
a
paragraph
is
and
how
to
organize
one.
Once
you
understand
what
a good
paragraph
is,
the
bad
ones
become
self-evident.
In
this
sense,
writing bears
a
striking
resemblance
to
morality. You
should
now
be
able
to
“see”
the
origins
of
the
left
margin
thematic code
insertions.
The
principle
of
paragraph
organization
has
simply
been applied
to
thematic
coding.
Each
entry
in
column
4
represents
a
paragraph that
has
been
reduced
to
one
or
two
meaningful
words
that
you
can
use
as
a

recall
and
organizing
device.
Rather
than
writing
out
lengthy
sentences
or summaries
as
other
how-to
books
have
instructed,
I
thought
that
a
visual representation
of
one
or
two
words
would
work
better
to
identify
broader patterns
and
trends
in
the
literature
(Jesson
et
al.,
2011;
Machi
&
McEvoy, 2012;
Ridley,
2012).
That
is
how
the
student
came
up
with
the
thematic codes
in
column
4.
The
variation
in
the
number
of
thematic
codes
is contingent
upon
the
number
of
paragraphs
in
the
literature
review
section
of the
articles
that
are
being
read,
or
it
may
reflect
the
idiosyncratic
coding practices
of
those
who
compose
RCOSs.
Some
authors
do
a
much
more thorough
job
of
covering
the
literature
than
others.
If
you
are
thinking
that doing
all
this
is
a
lot
of
work,
you
are
right.
It
is
a
lot
of
work.
My
students complain
about
doing
RCOSs
all
the
time.
However,
let
me
assure
you
that the
amount
of
time
you
would
have
spent
trying
to
write
a
research
paper without
using
this
type
of
organization
or
information
management
system is
far
more
harmful
to
your
mental
well-being
than
just
following
the system
described
here. Now
the
second
question.
How
did
Gentile
et
al.
come
up
with
those thematic
categories
in
column
4
as
part
of
their
literature
review?
Let
me
be honest
and
say
up
front
that
I
don’t
have
the
answer.
I
don’t
know
how
they came
up
with
those
thematic
categories.
But
I
have
a
hunch.
I
want
you
to look
at
Table
3.1,
and
examine
all
12
rows
of
the
thematic
codes
that
appear in
column
4.
The
very
first
SPL
that
appears
in
row
1,
column
4
is
‘high sales’.
Again,
this
thematic
code
most
likely
means
that
the
first
paragraph of
Gentile
et
al.’s
(2004)
literature
review
is
about
the
high
sales
of
video games.
Now
I
want
you
to
go
down
column
4
and
try
to
count
how
many times
“high
sales”
appears
throughout
this
column.
If
we
are
generous
and assume
that
‘high
sales’
is
equivalent
to
“big
money
making”
then
the thematic
code
appears
twice.
“Public
concern
attention”
is
the
first paragraph
of
Anderson’s
(2004)
literature
review.
Contrast
“high
sales” with
“public
concern
attention.”
How
many
times
does
this
term
appear
in the
12
authors
listed
in
this
sample
RCOS?
The
answer
is
6,
usually
in
the first
paragraph
slot.
In
the
completed
RCOS
with
30
entries,
“public concern
attention”
appears
14
times.
If
you
were
doing
a
literature
review on
video
games
and
violence,
and
“public
concern
attention”
appeared
as
an

SPL
14
times,
it
would
be
a
good
indicator
that
this
thematic
code
ought
to be
included
as
part
of
your
own
literature
review. This
way
of
mining
for
thematic
codes
in
the
SPL
column
is
one
source
for filling
in
the
outline
for
your
own
literature
review.
As
you
are
completing your
own
RCOS,
you
will
see
similar
themes
appear
again
and
again; actually,
you
will
notice
this
pattern
as
you
are
reading
and
coding,
but
the initial
observation
will
be
much
more
certain
as
you
are
writing
down
the codes
in
RCOS
form.
Again,
the
initial
hunch
you
may
have
formed
about the
patterns
in
the
literature
during
reading
is
confirmed
in
the
visual representation
of
the
thematic
codes
in
the
RCOS.
When
trying
to
decide which
themes
to
include
in
your
literature
review,
my
recommendation
is that
half
of
your
SPLs
should
come
from
this
source,
i.e.,
you
should include
the
frequently
occurring
codes
in
your
own
literature
review
as well,
for
frequency
is
an
indication
that
the
theme
is
important
in
the literature.
The
other
half
of
your
own
literature
review
should
come
from
a synthesis
of
column
3.

The
Infiniteness
of
Synthesis Just
as
the
SPLs
can
be
grouped
into
recurring
themes,
a
similar
pattern
can be
observed
for
ROFs.
There
is
a
simple
explanation
for
this
pattern.
First, research
projects
are
shaped
by
the
shortcomings
in
prior
research,
and those
gaps
emerge
from
a
common
set
of
readings.
Researchers
in
a particular
area
read
the
same
sets
of
literature
and
formulate
research questions
and
projects
that
vary
slightly
from
one
another.
These
slight variations
in
definition,
operationalization,
and
measurement
serve
as
the rationale
(RAT)
for
a
new
study
that
builds
upon
previous
literature
in
an attempt
to
advance
the
literature
(Harris,
2014).
Second,
this
slight
variation in
the
questions
asked
leads
to
minute
differences
in
results.
The
findings tend
to
be
fairly
similar
to
one
another.
Third,
the
results
of
studies
loop back
to
the
literature
in
some
way,
either
supporting
or
refuting
existing findings
(represented
as
RCL
and
RTC
in
the
reading
codes).
That
is
why there
is
likely
to
be
convergence
between
ROFs
and
SPLs.

I
want
you
to
look
at
Table
3.1,
entry
#4
(Bartholow
&
Anderson,
2002), column
3,
second
sentence
of
ROF
#1,
then
ROF#2:
“1.
…
This
effect
was larger
for
men.
2.
Difference
in
aggressive
style
between
men
and
women.” Bartholow
and
Anderson
are
obviously
talking
about
the
gender
differences they
observed
in
their
subjects.
Now,
notice
that
this
ROF
can
be summarized
as
“gender
difference”
as
well,
similar
to
the
SPLs
in
column 4.
This
is
where
we
are
at
so
far:
there
is
a
thematic
code
that
appears
in
the SPL
column
and
the
ROF
column.
That
the
term
appears
in
both
is
a
sure sign
that
the
theme
belongs
in
your
literature
review.
If
we
were
to
represent the
preceding
observations
into
a
provisional
formula,
it
would
be
the following: [Your
SPL]
Themen
=
SPL
+
ROF The
themes—the
SPLs—that
you
choose
to
include
in
your
literature review
have
to
reconcile
the
two
sources.
First,
your
review
of
the
literature has
to
adequately
cover
and
acknowledge
the
scholarship
of
others,
the work
that
others
have
already
done.
As
I
noted
elsewhere
(Shon,
2015),
this is
the
function
of
SPLs.
Whether
you
like
or
dislike
the
state
of
the literature
or
a
particular
theorist
will
not
yet
be
pertinent
at
this
point
(yet being
the
key
word).
Most
literature
reviews
will
take
up
about
70
to
80% of
the
space
in
literature
review
subsections
simply
reviewing
the
work
that others
have
already
done.
Your
own
literature
review
should
not
be
any different.
Whether
you
agree
or
disagree,
like
or
dislike,
find
the
results, claims,
and
arguments
plausible
or
not,
you
will
first
have
to
introduce
these in
a
literature
review
prior
to
a
critique. Second,
each
social
science
journal
article
you
read
will
have
an
ROF
or
its equivalent
(“ROA”);
this
code
represents
the
new
finding
that
is
proffered in
the
article
you
are
reading;
this
new
information
has
to
be
incorporated into
your
SPL
as
well,
for
the
ROF
becomes
the
SPL
when
reported
by someone
else.
For
example,
if
I
conduct
a
research
project
on
eighteenthcentury
parricides
in
Colonial
America
and
publish
the
findings,
those findings
become
SPLs
to
someone
else
who
is
writing
a
literature
review
on

the
history
of
homicides
and
parricides.
And
notice
that
Carnagey
et
al.’s (2007)
finding
that
people
who
play
violent
video
games
become acclimated
to
violence
is
a
finding
that
others
report
as
well;
in
fact,
this desensitization
and
habituation
thesis
is
mentioned
repeatedly
in
the literature.
Again,
if
themes
appear
in
both
columns,
then
they
probably should
be
incorporated
into
your
literature
review.
They
should
be synthesized
into
your
outline
of
a
literature
review. This
formula
is
just
one
way
of
arriving
at
the
thematic
categories
for
your own
literature
review.
It
just
may
be
possible
that
you
or
someone
else
may find
a
way
to
integrate
and
synthesize
the
literature
in
a
way
that
no
one
has even
thought
about
or
dared
to;
in
fact,
the
way
the
previous
literature
has been
interpreted
and
organized
may
be
so
constrictive
and
repressive
that original
and
creative
synthesis
may
not
be
appreciated
for
its
contribution. There
are
literally
infinite
ways
of
reinterpreting
or
rearranging
existing results
and
claims
so
that
a
radical
reorganization
gives
rise
to
what
looks like
a
new
product—synthesis.
That
is
the
creativity
and
morality
of
writing a
literature
review:
like
musical
notes,
the
tones
and
themes
are
finite,
but their
arrangement
is
limitless,
contingent
only
upon
the
vision
and
creativity of
the
composer/author.
Creativity
and
originality
are
not
limited
to
a
blank canvass;
you
can
find
innovative
ways
to
synthesize
old
information
into something
new. You
should
not
be
afraid
of
the
word
“synthesis.”
Students
become apprehensive
and
diffident
at
the
prospect
of
doing
their
own
creative
work because
they
do
not
yet
understand
what
synthesis
means.
Hence
they usually
become
afraid
at
the
prospect
of
writing
a
20,
30,
or
50
page literature
review.
Again,
look
at
Table
3.1.
If
you
simply
counted
the different
SPL
themes
in
column
4,
there
would
be
enough
different
themes to
be
able
to
write
copiously;
if
you
counted
the
ROFs
in
column
3,
the number
of
themes
would
increase.
In
most
professional
journal
articles,
the literature
review
usually
falls
between
8
and
14
paragraphs;
that
means professional
journal
articles
must
cover
the
state
of
the
literature
using
8
to 14
themes.
You
can
actually
double
the
page
numbers
in
a
literature
review by
doubling
the
themes.
Or
you
can
expend
two
paragraphs
per
theme
and accomplish
the
same
goal
in
terms
of
length.
By
now
it
should
be
obvious

that
page
length
is
an
outcome
that
can
be
easily
manipulated.
What
should be
of
primary
concern
is
figuring
out
what
themes
to
include
and
how
to translate
them
into
coherent
paragraphs. Figure
3.2

Students
usually
have
trouble
at
this
point
because
they
do
not
know
what
a paragraph
is.
As
Figure
3.2
indicates,
an
incorrect
paragraph
is
one
that contains
too
many
ideas;
usually
paragraphs
that
contain
too
many
ideas tend
to
be
long
and
extended;
it
looks
vertical
in
character.
When
one
reads through
such
paragraphs,
it
is
difficult
to
make
sense
of
them
because
the

ideas
contained
in
them
are
jumbled
and
mashed
together
(see
Figure
3.2, theme
2).
A
much
more
elegant
and
simple
way
to
organize
a
paragraph
is to
limit
one
paragraph
to
one
idea
(see
Figure
3.2,
theme
1).
This
way
of organizing
a
paragraph
is
the
one
Strunk
and
White
(1979)
teach
in
their seminal
text.
However,
if
you
find
that
a
theme
or
an
idea
has
multiple
ideas that
just
cannot
be
reduced
to
one
paragraph,
then
it
is
permissible,
in
fact, logical,
to
divide
up
the
theme
or
idea
into
separate
paragraphs,
paragraphs that
treat
each
sub-theme
separately
(see
Figure
3.2,
theme
3). What
we
have
covered
in
this
chapter
represents
about
two-thirds
of
what
a literature
review
entails.
For
the
most
part,
a
literature
review
involves discussing
the
work
that
others
have
already
done;
I
have
referred
to
this portion
of
a
literature
review
as
the
SPL,
for
you
are
simply
summarizing previous
literature.
The
biggest
challenge
in
this
portion
of
the
task
is figuring
out
how
to
cover
the
literature
that
does
justice
to
the
work
that others
have
done.
This
task
is
made
challenging
by
the
fact
that
there
are two
sources
of
information
from
which
to
cover
the
literature,
the
SPLs
and the
ROFs;
these
two
sources
constitute
two
divergent
sources
from
which
to weave
a
literature. The
number
of
“themes”
in
a
literature
is
shaped
by
the
restriction
that
has already
been
placed
in
the
assignment.
Your
instructor
may
want
you
to write
a
3
page
or
a
50
page
literature
review.
It
is
impossible
to
compress
20 different
themes
into
a
3
page
literature
review;
20
themes
may
or
may
not be
enough
for
a
50
page
literature
review.
As
I
have
indicated,
coming
up with
the
different
themes
in
the
literature
should
not
be
a
problem,
for
there are
plenty
of
themes
that
already
exist.
The
difficult
task
is
trying
to
narrow down
the
list
of
themes
for
the
purposes
of
synthesis.
Working
out
how
you will
synthesize
the
literature
is
the
first
half
of
a
literature
review.
The second
half
involves
coming
up
with
a
Critique
of
Previous
Literature (CPL).

Conclusion

This
chapter
showed
you
how
to
construct
your
own
Reading
Code Organization
Sheet
(RCOS)
by
distilling
paragraph-length
texts
and compressing
them
into
one
or
two
words
that
are
idiosyncratically meaningful,
or
what
I
referred
to
as
left
margin
thematic
code
insertions. Using
this
principle
of
distillation,
I
demonstrated
how
to
use
an
RCOS
in order
to
synthesize
the
literature
in
thematic
ways.
This
method
of
reducing the
recurring
SPLs
and
ROFs
from
your
reading
of
the
literature
on
your respective
topics
was
meant
to
facilitate
the
organization
of
your
own literature
review.
Literature
reviews
can
be
short
or
long,
depending
on
how you
organize
the
themes
in
your
topic—from
big
and
abstract
to
small
and concrete—
contingent
upon
how
much
you
need
to
write.
Once
you understand
the
logic
that
is
embedded
in
the
literature
review,
you
need
not be
intimidated
by
the
magnitude
of
the
task
before
you.

4
How
to
Develop
a
Critique
of
Previous
Literature This
chapter
delves
into
one
of
the
most
difficult
aspects
of
writing
a
social science
paper,
i.e.,
finding
a
Point
of
Critique
in
the
literature
and developing
that
criticism
as
a
prelude
to
a
claim.
Part
of
that
difficulty arises
from
the
fact
that
students
often
conflate
criticism
with
other
things they
are
used
to
doing,
such
as
criticizing
in
the
context
of
an
interpersonal argument
and
expression
of
opinions.
This
chapter
examines
how
to
find
a Point
of
Critique
that
can
be
cultivated
into
a
Critique
of
Previous Literature
by
teaching
you
to
ask
three
questions
throughout
your
reading process.
It
also
teaches
you
how
to
mine
for
CPLs
from
the
reading
process by
using
Recommendations
for
Future
Works
as
potential
shortcomings
to be
used
in
your
own
papers.

Critiquing
Ice
Cream,
Hamburger,
and
a
Movie Let
me
begin
this
chapter
by
asking
you
a
simple
question:
which
ice
cream flavor
do
you
like
better,
vanilla
or
chocolate?
For
the
sake
of
illustration, let’s
say
that
most
of
us
prefer
one
or
the
other.
After
you
have
picked
a flavor,
let
me
ask
you
another
question:
can
you
justify
and
defend
why
you prefer
one
over
the
other?
The
answer
you
provide
may
be
related
to
a
host of
factors
that
are
not
necessarily
related
to
the
inherent
taste
of
ice
cream itself;
the
reasons
why
you
like
vanilla
or
chocolate
might
be
related
to
the emotions
you
associate
with
a
particular
flavor,
the
memories
of
eating
ice cream
with
the
significant
people
in
your
lives,
and
other
factors
that
just cannot
be
measured.
You
like
vanilla
or
chocolate
because
you
just
do.
The choice
is
entirely
subjective
and
arbitrary.
No
amount
of
logic
or argumentation
can
dissuade
you
from
liking
one
over
the
other.
I
have
felt the
same
way
about
the
Cubs
since
1983,
and
I
still
feel
the
same
way
about the
Chicago
Bears. The
answer
you
gave
to
the
question
posed
in
the
preceding
paragraph
is how
opinions
tend
to
be—arbitrary.
We
like
the
things
we
like
and
prefer the
things
we
prefer
because
we
just
do.
No
higher
order
logic
is
involved.

Because
opinions
are
arbitrary
and
final,
it
is
impossible
to
argue
with
them. Opinions
and
preferences
may
change,
but
if
I
challenged
your
preference for
vanilla
ice
cream
over
chocolate
with
the
expectation
of
changing
your opinion,
then
the
task
would
be
a
fruitless
one.
Imagine
someone
asking you
“Why
do
you
like
vanilla,
you
should
like
chocolate!
It
tastes
better!” You
may
disagree
with
them,
but
you
cannot
challenge
or
critique
someone else’s
opinion.
Let
me
take
the
food
example
one
step
further. What
is
a
hamburger?
This
is
a
simple
question,
but
notice
what
it
does
not ask:
it
does
not
ask
you
to
express
a
preference
or
an
opinion.
It
is
not asking
you
if
you
like
hamburgers;
it
is
not
asking
you
if
you
like
yours flame-broiled
or
fried
on
a
pan.
It
just
asks
you
to
define
what
a
hamburger is.
I
might
say
that
a
hamburger
is
made
up
of
beef
placed
between
two buns.
If
that
was
my
answer,
then
on
what
grounds
could
you
challenge
my definition
of
a
hamburger?
How
would
you
critique
it?
One,
you
could point
out
that
it
privileges
meat
over
other
substances.
My
definition
would exclude
veggie
and
tofu
burgers
from
being
considered.
Two,
you
could challenge
it
by
asking
if
an
open-faced
patty
melt
would
meet
the
definition. Three,
what
if
there
was
pork
or
chicken
or
lamb
placed
between
the
buns rather
than
just
beef?
Better
yet,
what
if
there
was
no
meat
at
all,
just
bread and
some
mayonnaise
in
between?
Would
that
even
count
as
a
hamburger? Four,
does
the
meat
even
have
to
be
cooked
in
order
to
be
considered
a hamburger?
Five,
what
if
the
meat
was
rolled
up
in
a
tortilla
instead
of
two buns?
Six,
what
if
the
meat
was
encased
in
a
pita
instead
of
two
buns?
You could
critique
my
definition
of
hamburger
in
a
hundred
different
ways. Notice
the
difference
between
the
two
examples
though.
The
first
example simply
asked
which
flavor
you
liked.
The
second
asked
you
to
come
up with
a
definition
of
a
hamburger.
You
cannot
critique
the
basis
of
someone’s assessment
in
the
first,
i.e.,
you
cannot
criticize
someone
because
they
like vanilla.
You
like
or
don’t
like
something;
the
preference
is
personal
and absolute.
That
is
not
the
case
with
the
second
example.
You
can
critique
my definition
of
a
hamburger
on
several
grounds:
that
it
is
too
obtuse
and simple;
that
it
is
unnecessarily
restrictive
yet
broad.
The
definition
of
what is
a
hamburger
could
go
on
for
hours
and
pages.
But
notice
the
difference between
the
two
questions:
you
could
critique
and
challenge
my
definition

of
a
hamburger
by
pointing
out
the
shortcomings
that
exist
in
my
definition; you
could
not
do
that
with
opinions
and
preferences.
We
could
have
an actual
debate
about
what
a
hamburger
is,
its
history,
definition,
rise
in popularity
across
the
globe,
marketing
practices,
etc.,
but
we
would
not
be able
to
do
that
with
opinions,
for
opinions
are
held
and
expressed. You
would
be
able
to
critique
and
challenge
the
hypothetical
definition
of
a hamburger
I
have
introduced
because
you
know
something
about hamburgers;
you
may
have
eaten
enough
of
them
to
be
somewhat
of
an expert.
You
may
even
be
able
to
offer
opinions
about
what
makes
a
good hamburger,
such
as
the
taste,
its
ability
to
maintain
its
structural
integrity after
the
first
two
bites,
mayonnaise
to
ketchup
ratio,
onion
placement
on
a bun,
etc.,
once
you
have
arrived
at
a
consensus
about
what
a
hamburger
is. You
may
even
be
able
to
form
an
argument
about
what
makes
a
good hamburger.
It
is
along
such
lines
that
you
should
be
thinking
when
you think
of
critique
or
criticism.
When
you
critique
something,
your
opinion
is secondary
to
an
internally
cohesive
set
of
evaluative
criteria.
You
are assessing
and
evaluating
something
on
a
set
of
criteria
that
is
internal
to
that practice,
not
outside
of
it.
You
assess
a
hamburger’s
merit
on
its
taste, texture,
appearance,
price,
and
the
commensurability
of
its
accompaniments such
as
fries
and
the
amount
of
ice
placed
in
the
drink.
We
do
not
evaluate
a hamburger
on
its
randomized
sampling
procedures,
use
of
metric
over imperial
measurements,
and
incorrect
casting
decisions.
Saying
“I
like hamburgers”
is
entirely
different
from
stating
“hamburgers
are
minimally composed
of
cooked
meat
or
meat-substitutes
between
two
pieces
of
bread or
bread-like
substances.”
You
cannot
argue
and
have
an
academic discussion
about
your
opinion
of
hamburgers;
you
can,
however,
have
a well-informed
debate
and
an
academic
argument
about
what
is
a hamburger. This
preceding
point
is
an
important
one,
for
it
gets
to
the
essence
of
what this
chapter
is
trying
to
teach
you.
Any
text,
whether
it
is
a
sheet
of
music,
a painting,
a
poem,
a
novel,
a
film,
or
a
social
science
journal
article,
can
be critiqued
on
a
set
of
criteria
that
is
constitutive
of
that
genre.
However, before
something
can
be
critiqued,
there
must
be
a
body
of
work
that
can
be critiqued.
Before
a
music
critic
can
criticize
a
singer,
there
has
to
be
an

album
to
critique;
before
a
book
critic
can
criticize
an
author,
there
has
to
be a
novel
to
critique.
This
distinction
between
an
act
and
an
actor
leads
to
a differentiation
between
two
classes
of
activity:
those
who
create
and
those who
critique.
The
job
of
the
first
is
to
produce
creative,
original,
and
unique texts
(e.g.,
music,
paintings,
research
projects);
the
job
of
the
latter
is
to assess
the
texts
that
have
been
produced
according
to
the
standards
of judgements
that
have
been
arrived
at
by
the
norms
of
the
discipline
and consensus
of
experts.
As
an
example,
film
critics
provide
reviews
of
movies according
to
the
conventions
that
are
internal
to
the
industry.
Consider
the following
critique
from
an
influential
film
critic: “North”
is
a
bad
film
–
one
of
the
worst
movies
ever
made.
I
hated
this movie.
Hated
hated
hated
hated
hated
this
movie.
Hated
it.
Hated every
simpering
stupid
vacant
audience-insulting
moment
of
it.
Hated the
sensibility
that
thought
anyone
would
like
it.
Hated
the
implied insult
to
the
audience
by
its
belief
that
anyone
would
be
entertained
by it.
(Ebert,
1994) In
a
bit
more
than
500
words,
the
late
Roger
Ebert
provides
one
of
the
most scathing
reviews
of
a
film
that
I
have
ever
read.
The
excerpt
above
appears to
be
similar
to
the
‘I
like/don’t
like
vanilla/chocolate’
opinions
that
we cautioned
against.
However,
experts
are
permitted
to
provide
their
opinions (e.g.,
court
of
law).
In
terms
of
film
reviews,
one
generally
does
not
find reviews
like
this,
especially
by
the
late
Roger
Ebert;
film
criticisms
tend
to be
based
on
criteria
that
movie-goers
might
recognize
(e.g.,
plot construction,
quality
of
acting,
etc.).
So
why
does
Roger
Ebert
hate
the
film North
(Reiner,
Scheinman,
Stott,
Zweibel,
&
Reiner,
1994)
so
much?
What is
the
basis
of
his
critique?
Before
we
understand
why
he
hates
the
film
so much,
we
first
have
to
know
what
it
is
about.
Here
is
his
(1994)
summary
of the
movie: The
film
stars
Elijah
Wood,
who
is
a
wonderful
young
actor
(and
if you
don’t
believe
me,
watch
his
version
of
“The
Adventures
of
Huck Finn”).
Here
he
is
stuck
in
a
story
that
no
actor,
however
wonderful,

however
young,
should
be
punished
with.
He
plays
a
kid
with inattentive
parents,
who
decides
to
go
into
court,
free
himself
of
them, and
go
on
a
worldwide
search
for
nicer
parents. The
film
is
about
a
kid
who
decides
to
divorce
his
parents
and
searches
for
a new
one.
I
have
not
seen
this
film
so
it
is
difficult
for
me
to
even
formulate an
opinion.
However,
I
wanted
to
learn
how
a
professional
criticism
was executed
by
a
Pulitzer
Prize-winning
film
critic
in
order
to
discern
the essence
of
what
a
criticism
entails.
Again,
what
is
the
basis
of
Roger
Ebert’s disdain
of
this
film?
He
says
that
North
fails
as
a
film
because
it
is “unpleasant,
contrived,
artificial,”
that
he
finds
the
film
insulting
to audiences.
He
also
finds
the
idea
behind
the
film
“deeply
flawed”: Children
do
not
lightly
separate
from
their
parents
–
and
certainly
not on
the
evidence
provided
here,
where
the
great
parental
sin
is
not paying
attention
to
their
kid
at
the
dinner
table.
The
parents
(Julia Louis-Dreyfus
and
Jason
Alexander)
have
provided
little
North
with what
looks
like
a
million-dollar
house
in
a
Frank
Capra
neighborhood, all
on
dad’s
salary
as
a
pants
inspector.
And,
yes,
I
know
that
is supposed
to
be
a
fantasy,
but
the
pants-inspecting
jokes
are
only
the first
of
several
truly
awful
episodes
in
this
film. The
film
is
a
bad
one
from
the
start
because
the
idea
is
flawed;
the
jokes
are bad;
the
acting
is
bad;
the
casting
is
horrible;
the
film
lacks
“truth.”
Ebert says
that
the
characters
are
not
funny
nor
are
they
“touching”
in
any
way. He
slices
through
the
scatology
that
is
embedded
in
the
film
and
behind
it: “There
is
an
idiocy
here
that
seems
almost
intentional,
as
if
the
filmmakers plotted
to
leave
anything
of
interest
or
entertainment
value
out
of
these episodes.”
That
is
why
he
hates
this
movie.
Using
some
of
the
points
of critique
that
he
has
used
as
grounds
for
a
criticism,
“good”
films,
then,
have ideas
that
are
plausible,
the
acting
is
good,
the
movie
is
well
casted,
and there
is
an
element
of
“truth”
that
is
universal.
Contrast
the
previous scathing
review
with
a
critique
that
is
almost
opposite
in
all
of
the
criteria

he
has
used.
The
following
are
the
first
three
sentences
of
Ebert’s
(1996) review
of
the
film
Fargo
(Coen,
&
Coen,
1996): “Fargo”
begins
with
an
absolutely
dead-on
familiarity
with
smalltown life
in
the
frigid
winter
landscape
of
Minnesota
and
North
Dakota. Then
it
rotates
its
story
through
satire,
comedy,
suspense
and
violence, until
it
emerges
as
one
of
the
best
films
I’ve
ever
seen.
To
watch
it
is
to experience
steadily
mounting
delight,
as
you
realize
the
filmmakers have
taken
enormous
risks,
gotten
away
with
them
and
made
a
movie that
is
completely
original,
and
as
familiar
as
an
old
shoe
–
or
a rubbersoled
hunting
boot
from
Land’s
End,
more
likely. Why
does
Ebert’s
assessment
of
Fargo
differ
so
much
from
that
of
North? What
features
of
Fargo
distinguish
it
as
an
award-winning
film
that
earns such
high
praise
from
Mr
Ebert?
This
is
what
he
says
about
the
leading character
in
Fargo,
Jerry,
played
by
William
H.
Macy: Jerry,
brilliantly
played
by
Macy,
is
a
man
weighed
down
by
the insoluble
complexities
of
the
situation
he
has
fumbled
himself
into.
He is
so
incompetent
at
crime
that,
when
the
kidnapping
becomes unnecessary,
he
can’t
call
off
the
kidnappers,
because
he
doesn’t
know their
phone
number.
He’s
being
pestered
with
persistent
calls
from General
Motors,
inquiring
about
the
illegible
serial
number
on
the paperwork
for
the
same
missing
tan
Ciera.
He
tries
sending
faxes
in which
the
number
is
smudged.
GM
isn’t
fooled.
Macy
creates
the unbearable
agony
of
a
man
who
needs
to
think
fast,
and
whose
brain
is scrambled
with
fear,
guilt
and
the
crazy
illusion
that
he
can
somehow still
pull
this
thing
off. Ebert
thinks
there
are
numerous
scenes
that
seduce
audiences
to
connect with
what
is
being
presented
on
the
screen.
The
film
literally
sucks
you
in. Moreover,
he
really
likes
the
actors
for
the
way
they
enliven
the
characters they
play
and
make
them
more
significant
than
they
really
are.
For
those

who
may
have
seen
Fargo,
the
two
criminals
(Showalter
and
Grimsrud)
and the
police
chief
(Marge)
are
some
of
the
most
memorable
characters
in
the film
because
they
are
believable.
Good
films,
like
good
works
of
literature, humanize
the
characters,
and
make
us
reflect
on
the
human
condition
in poignant
ways: The
screenplay
is
by
Ethan
and
Joel
Coen
(Joel
directed,
Ethan produced),
and
although
I
have
no
doubt
that
events
something
like this
really
did
take
place
in
Minnesota
in
1987,
they
have
elevated reality
into
a
human
comedy
–
into
the
kind
of
movie
that
makes
us hug
ourselves
with
the
way
it
pulls
off
one
improbable
scene
after another.
Films
like
“Fargo”
are
why
I
love
the
movies. There
is
a
reason
why
I
selected
Ebert’s
review
of
films
to
teach
what criticism
entails.
Most
students
may
not
read
social
science
journal
articles to
the
extent
that
their
professors
do,
but
I
know
that
they
watch
movies.
I know
they
do
because
I
hear
my
students
talking
about
the
“awesome” movies
they
saw
over
the
weekend,
when
in
fact
they
are
just
cheap imitations
that
Hollywood
released
with
the
latest
“hot”
stars
to
sucker
in the
teenagers.
Novels,
interviews,
films,
and
published
works
are
also
texts —texts
that
can
be
analyzed
and
critiqued.
It
might
help
you
to
see
how
a criticism
is
performed
in
one
of
the
more
popular
mediums
of entertainment,
and
I
could
not
think
of
a
better
critic
than
the
late
Roger Ebert. Notice
the
logic
of
presence
and
absence
that
is
embedded
in
his
critique
of both
films.
He
assesses
Fargo
favorably
for
what
the
film
possesses:
ideas that
are
plausible;
characters
that
are
believable
and
played
well
by
the actors;
the
film
is
original.
Notice
that
all
those
affirmative
declarations
are missing
in
his
review
of
North.
In
fact
North
is
marked
by
a
series
of negations—what
is
not
present
in
the
film:
good
jokes,
truth,
plausible ideas,
funny
characters,
and
“touching”
moments.
None
of
the
preceding qualities
are
present
in
the
film.
The
only
thing
present
in
North
is
an “idiocy
that
seems
intentional.”
Elbert
expresses
an
opinion
about
the
films

he
has
reviewed
in
his
capacity
as
a
film
critic,
but
underneath
his
opinion are
assessments
of
a
film
that
are
rooted
in
the
principles
of
criticism. The
essence
of
a
criticism
involves
highlighting
the
missing
dimensions from
a
piece
of
text,
the
elements
that
ought
to
be
present,
but
are
absent. Good
films
contain
those
features
that
make
a
film
good
while
bad
films lack
those
qualities.
The
logic
of
criticism
entails
a
negation—of
what
is missing,
what
is
not
there,
what
has
not
been
done.
The
same
principle applies
to
social
science
writing.
Like
Roger
Elbert,
you
need
to
read through
the
literature
and
find
what
has
not
been
done
well,
the
things
that could
be
improved,
and
that
which
is
missing
in
the
literature.
The
social science
journal
articles
are
the
films
that
you
have
to
screen
before
you
can give
them
a
thumbs-up
or
a
thumbs-down
as
a
prelude
to
a
criticism.

Three
Questions
that
Lead
to
an
Appropriate Critique
of
Previous
Literature The
most
important
part
of
a
critique
is
highlighting
an
absence,
but
the negation
is
a
necessary
part
of
an
overall
trajectory
toward
an
affirmation. Film
critics
are
not
logically,
morally,
or
professionally
obligated
to
remedy their
criticisms
with
creative
texts
of
their
own;
the
criticisms
are
ends
in themselves.
In
social
science
research,
it
is
not
enough
to
just
critique;
a critique
constitutes
only
half
of
the
task
in
most
research
projects
at university
level.
In
the
social
sciences,
construction
follows
criticism.
As we
saw
in
Chapter
3,
research
projects
of
various
size
and
scope,
from
an undergraduate
research
paper
to
a
PhD
dissertation,
entail
original
work
that makes
a
novel
contribution
to
the
literature.
This
requirement
means
you cannot
simply
regurgitate
what
has
already
been
said.
There
are
control mechanisms
in
place
at
every
level
to
ensure
you
do
not
just
spew
what others
have
already
claimed. In
courses
that
require
the
completion
of
a
research
paper,
course
instructors will
make
sure
that
the
research
paper
you
write
is
sufficiently
innovative. Thesis
supervisors,
and
sometimes
second
readers,
will
perform
quality assurance
checks
and
ultimately
approve
a
thesis
to
make
sure
it
is
an

original
work
for
students
who
are
completing
an
honors
thesis.
In
graduate school,
that
responsibility
falls
on
the
thesis/supervisory
committees
and external
examiners
for
Master’s
and
doctoral
students;
as
professionals
in the
discipline,
the
peer
review
process
ensures
that
your
professors
who write
papers
contribute
something
new
to
the
literature.
At
all
levels
of research,
from
students
who
write
papers
to
fulfill
their
degree
requirements to
professors
who
publish
journal
articles,
the
aim
is
to
move
the
literature forward,
to
advance
the
state
of
knowledge
in
some
minute
way,
in
a
way that
sufficiently
differs
from
the
claims
and
results
of
previous
authors (Harris,
2014). Just
as
films
are
the
raw
material
for
the
basis
of
a
movie
critic’s
criticism, previous
literature
serves
as
the
foundation
of
a
critique
in
the
context
of social
science
writing.
The
work
that
others
have
already
done
on
a
topic
is like
film—it
is
the
“data”
for
the
basis
of
a
critique.
Finding
a
Point
of Critique
(POC)
in
the
prior
literature
which
leads
to
a
shortcoming
(GAP)
is the
next
major
step
once
the
literature
has
been
read
and
summarized. Craswell
and
Poore
(2012)
counsel
students
to
look
for
claims
and arguments
that
“do
not
seem
right”
or
can
be
improved.
Lipson
(2005) advises
undergraduate
students
to
be
on
the
lookout
for
questions
and
topics that
others
have
not
carried
out
which
they
can
then
explore
in
their
own theses.
They
are
both
right.
They
are
instructing
students
to
survey
the literature
on
a
topic
they
have
selected,
identify
a
shortcoming
in
that literature,
which
they
can
then
fix
in
their
own
work.
The
problem
I
have noted
from
reading
other
how-to
books
is
that
even
the
authoritative
guides do
not
provide
any
specific
parameters
about
how
much
to
read
before students
can
arrive
at
a
critique
of
their
own.
Some
noted
that
a
preliminary reading
of
five
to
seven
articles
was
sufficient,
but
I
have
found
that
number to
be
inaccurate. Just
as
there
are
disciplinary
and
trade-specific
standards
for
assessing
a project
(e.g.,
film,
social
science
journal
article,
etc.),
disciplines
in
the social
sciences
also
have
commonalities
that
exist
in
a
potential
Point
of Critique.
Any
text
can
be
inverted
and
reinterpreted,
and
there
are
some formulaic
points
of
critique
that
exist
in
social
science
journal
articles,
such as
definitions
and
measures
that
are
inconsistent,
and
variables
that
have

been
selected,
as
well
as
the
causal
ordering
between
the
variables,
and
the ethics
and
the
policy
implications
of
researchers’
works
(Harris,
2014).
If the
authors
that
you
are
reading
have
neglected
to
examine
those
factors, then
those
limitations
become
a
Point
of
Critique
(POC)
which
turns
into
a Critique
of
Previous
Literature
(CPL).
You
are
critiquing
the
literature
on particular
grounds
because
something
is
missing
or
has
not
been
done correctly,
and
you
think
you
can
improve
the
current
state
of
the
literature. As
I
pointed
out
using
film
reviews
as
an
example,
the
logic
of
criticism
is identical:
the
essence
of
a
critique
entails
a
negation,
spotting
something that
is
not
present.
As
you
are
reading
through
the
literature,
you
will
notice that
most
of
the
research
is
conducted
in
a
particular
direction,
which
leads to
similar
measures
and
results. Notice
the
ambiguity
and
indeterminacy
in
the
advice
that
others
and
I
have provided.
There
are
the
usual
suspects
that
can
be
used
as
the
basis
of
a Point
of
Critique
(e.g.,
sample
size,
definitional
inconsistency,
etc.),
but
it
is almost
impossible
to
teach
students
to
critique
existing
works
formulaically and
scientifically,
for
following
a
specified
protocol
will
not
lead
to
a guaranteed
result
each
and
every
time.
This
indeterminacy
is
one
of
the biggest
sources
of
frustration
for
students
who
are
used
to
following directions,
and
then
expecting
a
notable
result
each
and
every
time.
This indeterminacy
is
also
a
major
source
of
anxiety
for
students
from
Asia,
for they
have
been
expected
to
regurgitate
facts
from
memory
throughout
their secondary
and
university
schooling;
they
have
not
been
expected
to
critique and
challenge
the
canons
of
a
discipline.
Finding
a
unique
Point
of
Critique that
leads
to
a
systematic
criticism
is
entirely
up
to
you;
that
is
what
makes research
a
creative
and
a
moral
act. You
may
or
may
not
begin
to
see
that
something
is
missing
in
the
literature which
could
possibly
be
a
gap.
This
point
is
something
that
all
students come
to
realize
when
they
begin
the
reading
process.
What
if
the shortcoming
that
you
have
found
has
already
been
identified
and
remedied by
another
scholar?—whom
you
have
neglected
to
read
because
you
missed that
text
in
your
search
of
the
literature.
Actually,
this
condition
is
a
fairly common
one.
It
happens
to
professional
academics
all
the
time—at
least
it does
for
me.
I
will
write
a
paper
and
submit
it
for
publication,
only
to
have

the
reviewers
provide
scathing
reviews,
charging
me
with
being incompetent
and
sloppy
for
forgetting
to
read
and
cite
an
author
that
I should
have
known.
Not
knowing
something
and
being
ignorant
is
not
a
sin; no
one
can
know
everything.
However,
remaining
ignorant
and
not
doing anything
to
fix
that
ignorant
condition
when
someone
points
out
the
truth
is an
entirely
different
matter.
That’s
why
the
publication
process
entails
a peer
review,
so
that
we
may
come
to
know
things
that
may
have
been overlooked.
In
the
context
of
university
learning,
that
is
what
your
teachers are
supposed
to
do—to
guide
you
and
facilitate
the
completion
of
your projects.
If
you
miss
something,
then
your
teachers
should
nudge
you
in
the right
direction.
That
is
their
job.
The
presence
of
people
who
know
more than
you,
and
are
willing
to
help
you
to
learn,
is
the
whole
point
of
a university. In
addition
to
the
aforementioned
dilemma,
there
is
an
additional
one
that you
may
have
to
confront.
That
is,
you
have
read
through
the
literature,
and you
are
fairly
sure
that
no
one
has
framed
the
critique
on
the
grounds
which you
have
proposed,
and
you
are
quite
certain
that
others
have
not
examined the
problem
in
the
way
that
you
are
proposing
to
do,
but
you
are
still
not sure
if
your
criticism
of
the
literature
is
on
the
right
track.
What
do
you
do then?
There
is
a
simple
test
to
determine
whether
your
critique
of
the previous
literature
which
has
led
to
a
GAP
is
on
the
right
path.
I
ask students
to
complete
this
exercise
and
it
is
unbelievable
how
it
differentiates those
who
have
completely
digested
the
literature
from
those
who
only
have a
superficial
understanding
of
it.
I
have
witnessed
literally
hundreds
of students
who
walk
out
of
my
office
brimming
with
confidence
once
they realize
what
they
have
been
doing
is
correct,
and
that
they
can
complete
the rest
of
their
paper
on
their
own.
Conversely,
I
have
also
witnessed
students who
came
unglued
because
they
had
simply
tried
regurgitating
their readings
without
an
adequate
critique
of
their
own—because
they
could
not figure
out
the
meaning
and
practice
of
criticism.
Here
is
the
test.
You
should be
able
to
fill
in
the
blank
in
the
following
sentence: Previous
literature
fails
to
[insert
the
shortcoming
you
have
identified here].

You
should
be
able
to
formulate
your
CPL/GAP
in
a
concise
statement
in the
format
noted
above.
You
should
be
able
to
fill
in
the
blank
in
one articulation,
in
one
sentence,
by
simply
inserting
your
CPL
between
the brackets.
If
you
cannot
fill
in
the
blank
in
one
sentence;
if
you
find
yourself rambling
on
and
on
in
an
attempt
to
do
so;
if
you
realize
you
are
speaking as
if
you
are
reading
a
multi-paragraph
block
of
text,
then
you
have
erred
on some
level,
and
you
need
to
go
back
and
review
your
readings
and
reading codes.
Your
ability
to
articulate
your
CPL
and
a
corresponding
GAP
in
a succinct
statement
(ideally
in
one
breath)
is
important
because
you
may need
to
reproduce
it
in
an
abstract
or
a
grant
application;
or
you
may
need to
explain
your
RAT
for
your
project
verbally
to
another
person
(as
in
an oral
defense)
and
you
will
need
a
concise
way
to
explain
it.
Second,
if
you do
not
understand
what
your
CPL/GAP
is,
what
is
missing
in
the
literature, then
you
may
experience
ambiguity
in
the
very
thing
you
are
trying
to remedy;
therefore,
you
will
need
to
be
absolutely
clear
what
it
is
you
are trying
to
do
in
your
project
by
being
clear
about
what
it
is
you
are
trying
to fix.
After
you
have
formulated
an
outline
of
your
literature
review,
i.e.,
after you
have
arrived
at
a
thorough
understanding
of
the
literature,
formulating
a Critique
of
Previous
Literature
is
the
next
major
task. Being
able
to
articulate
a
CPL
and
a
GAP
does
not
come
easily.
A
coherent critique
of
the
literature
generally
does
not
emerge
after
reading
only
five
to seven
journal
articles,
as
other
textbook
writers
have
suggested.
My experience
is
that
you
will
need
to
have
read
at
least
25
to
30
journal articles
before
you
will
have
a
minimally
competent
grasp
of
the
topic
you have
selected;
only
then
will
you
be
able
to
survey
the
contours
of
the literature
and
begin
to
understand
it.
Research
questions
emerge
from
this process,
after
a
CPL
has
already
been
identified.
In
order
to
be
able
to
fill
in the
blank,
you
should
constantly
ask
yourself
three
questions
as
you
are reading
through
the
literature
on
the
topic
you
have
selected.
The
three questions
are
important
because
they
affect
the
tenability
and commensurability
of
your
entire
project. First,
you
should
be
asking
yourself
“what
shortcomings
exist
in
the literature?”
Another
way
of
asking
this
question
is
“what
is
missing
in
the literature?”
As
I
have
maintained
in
another
publication
(Shon,
2015),

reading
occurs
on
several
levels.
You
are
performing
right
margin
reading code
insertions,
left
margin
thematic
code
insertions,
and
looking
for syntactic
and
grammatical
markers
in
your
hunt
for
CPLs,
POCs,
and MOPs.
On
top
of
that,
you
are
looking
for
knowledge
that
has
not
been covered
in
the
existing
works.
You
are
looking
for
a
ghost,
something
that may
not
exist.
Reading
occurs
on
many
different
levels,
therefore
it
is
not
a task
that
is
easily
performed.
That
is
why
the
advice
I
have
proffered
on reading
differs
from
that
of
others
who
have
advocated
speedreading.
My suggestion
has
been
to
slow
down
the
reading
process
with
the
aid
of
a ruler.
Identifying
a
CPL
during
the
reading
process
is
particularly challenging
as
you
can’t
pick
up
a
phone
and
order
yourself
some
CPLs
and GAPs
to
use
in
your
paper
at
a
local
convenience
store.
Even
a
ghostwriter will
not
be
able
to
help
you
if
your
course
instructor
has
compartmentalized the
tasks
toward
the
completion
of
your
research
paper,
and
is
verifying your
progress
at
each
step.
(You
can
hire
a
ghostwriter
but
it
will
be
really expensive.
Furthermore,
if
your
instructor
schedules
individual
meetings prior
to
the
completion
of
your
paper,
then
you
will
definitely
get
caught. For
how
ghostwriters
do
their
work,
see
Dante,
2010.)
You
will
have
to
read through
the
literature
one
journal
article
at
a
time,
and
then
slowly
digest the
knowledge
before
you
are
able
to
“see”
the
literature—all
that
is
present and
that
which
is
absent.
This
complexity
is
what
makes
reading
an
original and
moral
act.
I
cannot
understand
why
other
how-to
books
encourage students
to
speedread.
Last
time
I
checked,
no
one
gave
out
any
medals
for reading
quickly. Second,
let’s
say
that
you
have
tentatively
identified
what
appears
to
be
a shortcoming
in
the
literature.
The
next
question
you
should
ask
yourself
is “can
I
fix
this
gap?”
That
is,
will
you
be
able
to
remedy
the
shortcoming that
you
yourself
have
identified
in
the
literature?
Can
you
fix
that
which
is broken
in
the
literature?
That
depends
on
you
entirely
and
no
one
else. Again,
if
previous
studies
have
used
interview
samples
that
rarely
exceed 10
people,
and
your
critique
is
that
10
is
not
enough
to
draw
meaningful conclusions,
then
will
you
remedy
that
limited
sample
gap
by
interviewing 30
subjects?
If
previous
researchers
have
only
carried
out
cross-sectional studies
of
high
school
populations
due
to
their
convenience,
and
your critique
is
that
a
longitudinal
study
is
missing,
then
will
you
be
the
one
who

remedies
this
gap
in
the
literature
by
conducting
a
longitudinal
study
of high
school
students
throughout
their
life
course
to
examine
delinquency throughout
their
life
cycle?
If
your
answer
is
no,
then
you
should
move
on to
a
critique
that
can
be
realistically
remedied
within
the
constraints
that already
exist. You
should
not
feel
“bad”
about
this
condition
at
all.
Instead,
you
should view
research
like
a
mixed
martial
arts
fight.
If
you
weigh
155
pounds,
then your
opponent
should
weigh
about
the
same;
if
you
are
a
lightweight,
you have
no
business
fighting
a
heavyweight.
The
fight
is
not
fair;
it
is
a mismatch;
you
will
lose.
A
similar
logic
applies
to
research.
If
you
are
a novice
researcher,
but
the
critique
you
have
identified
is
equivalent
to
a
300 pound
All-American,
Division
I
wrestler
with
a
black
belt
in
judo,
and years
of
boxing
under
his
belt,
there
is
no
way
for
you
to
realistically
win that
fight.
(No,
you
won’t
win.)
There
has
to
be
a
match
between
the
skills you
possess
as
a
researcher
and
the
contribution
you
are
able
to
make
to
the literature.
If
you
are
a
fourth-year
undergraduate
student,
then
the
critique you
develop
and
cultivate
ought
to
be
on
a
similar
level.
If
you
can’t
fix
the problem
you
have
identified,
this
doesn’t
mean
that
your
critique
is worthless
or
wrong;
it
just
means
that
the
shortcoming
you
have
identified and
the
skills
you
possess
in
order
to
be
able
to
fix
it
are
not
commensurate. So
if
your
answer
to
this
second
question
is
a
no,
don’t
sweat
it.
Just
move on
and
develop
a
critique
that
you
can
realistically
fix
within
the
skillsets
in your
arsenal.
Just
as
importantly,
develop
a
critique
and
a
remedy
you
can finish
on
time
(Lipson,
2005). Third,
as
you
are
reading
through
the
literature
and
trying
to
develop
a critique,
you
should
ask
yourself
the
“So
what?”
question.
Ask
yourself “Why
is
this
topic
important?”
“Why
should
anyone
care
about
my
topic?” “Why
should
anyone
care
about
my
paper?”
If
you
cannot
articulate
why the
topic
you
have
selected
for
your
paper
is
important
and
worth
doing, then
you
do
not
have
a
paper
worth
writing
or
reading;
if
you
cannot convince
someone
why
the
shortcomings
that
exist
in
the
literature
should be
remedied,
then
you
are
not
doing
your
job
of
persuading
the
reader
to
see your
perspective.
Asking
and
answering
the
“So
what?”
question
constantly forces
you
to
“see”
and
understand
the
relevance
of
your
paper
to
the
larger

topic
within
the
context
of
your
discipline.
So
why
is
the
answer
to
this question
important? It
is
important
because
a
well-written
introduction
contains
the
answers
to the
“So
what?”
question.
The
answers
to
the
“So
what?”
question
are known
by
various
names.
In
PhD
dissertations,
they
are
known
as “significance
of
the
study”;
some
call
them
“thesis
statements”
(although
I do
not
agree
with
or
like
the
usage
of
this
term);
typically,
they
are
known as
“rationales”
(RAT)
or
“statements
of
rationale.”
A
rationale
simply explains
the
significance
of
your
paper
to
the
literature—why
it
is important.
A
well-written
introduction
has
to
include
this
component; otherwise,
readers
won’t
be
informed
about
the
scope
and
significance
of your
project
and
paper.

A
Haven
for
CPLs
and
GAPs So
far,
I
have
stated
that
finding
a
Point
of
Critique
(POC)
and
then developing
a
Critique
of
Previous
Literature
(CPL)
on
your
own
is
not
an easy
task.
This
difficulty
was
compounded
by
the
fact
that
the
CPL
you develop
has
to
be
commensurate
with
your
skills
and
timeline.
Here,
I
have argued
that
you
can
use
three
strategies
to
cultivate
a
CPL
of
your
own. First,
once
you
have
completed
the
RCOS,
you
should
be
able
to
skim through
the
CPL
and
GAP
column
to
discern
any
trends
that
might
exist
in the
way
the
literature
is
critiqued
(see
Table
3.1).
There
may
or
may
not
be recurring
patterns
in
the
way
the
literature
is
critiqued.
Second,
you
can look
for
the
usual
sources
of
critique,
such
as
inconsistent
measures, measurement
choices,
ambiguous
definitions,
ethical
and
policy implications.
Third,
you
have
your
own
keen
powers
of
observation,
the gaps
that
you
found
from
your
reading
of
the
social
science
journal
articles. Let’s
assume
that
the
preceding
three
strategies
have
not
worked.
You
still have
to
write
a
research
paper
before
the
term
is
over
and
seem
to
be
stuck. What
now? Before
I
go
any
further,
I
have
to
confess
something.
I
stated
that
there
is
no convenience
store
you
can
go
to
in
order
to
buy
some
CPLs
and
GAPs.
This

statement
is
false.
There
is
a
place
you
can
go
to
shop
for
some
CPLs
and GAPs.
You
own
this
place,
for
you
built
it
with
your
own
blood,
sweat,
and tears.
You
are
the
proprietor,
the
cashier,
and
the
stock-person:
Reading Code
Organization
Sheet.
You
are
the
proprietor
since
you
determine
which products
go
on
the
shelves;
you
are
the
stockperson
as
you
are
the
one
who manually
places
items
on
the
shelves
of
RCOS;
finally,
you
are
the
cashier as
you
are
the
one
selling
this
commodity
to
yourself.
I
want
you
to
look closely
at
column
7
in
Table
4.1.

This
RCOS
is
an
abridged
version
from
Chapter
3.
I
have
eliminated
other columns
that
are
not
pertinent
for
purposes
of
illustration.
Column
7
(C7)
is of
interest
for
us
in
this
chapter.
This
column
contains
the Recommendations
for
Future
Works
(RFW)
that
previous
authors
have
put forth
in
their
publications.
For
example,
Gentile
et
al.
(2004)
recommended that
future
research
carry
out
more
experimental
and
longitudinal
studies
on those
who
play
violent
video
games.
RFWs
usually
appear
in
the
discussion and
conclusion
sections
of
journal
articles;
they
are
written
as
part
of
selfcritiques
that
authors
usually
include
in
their
writings;
the
RFWs
are
studies that
have
not
been
carried
out
yet—they
are
shortcomings
and
GAPs!
As you
can
see,
GAPs
do
exist
in
social
science
articles;
you
just
have
to
learn to
recognize
them,
collect
them,
and
organize
them
into
your
inventory
to be
retrieved
for
later
use.
RFWs
are
also
easy
to
spot
as
they
only
appear
in the
discussion
and
conclusion
sections.
This
resource
should
be
utilized
for

maximum
benefit.
In
order
for
RFWs
to
be
usable
in
your
papers,
the following
conditions
have
to
be
met. First,
you
have
to
be
faithful
to
the
reading
and
coding
process.
You
have
to code
and
insert
the
codes
into
RCOS;
the
benefit
of
RCOS
is
that
it
is
a central
repository
of
information
that
can
be
recalled
on
notice;
you
don’t have
to
dig
through
journal
articles
to
look
for
information.
Second,
if
you misidentify
RFWs
with
something
else
or
take
shortcuts
and
insert
bogus entries
to
deceive
your
course
instructors,
then
the
outcome
is
meaningless. RCOS
is
only
as
valuable
as
the
data
you
put
into
it.
Third,
you
should
use this
column
as
the
last
option
after
you
have
faithfully
tried
to
develop
a CPL
of
your
own.
Column
7
is
like
an
around-the-clock
convenience
store, the
emergency
place
for
a
late-night
snack
when
every
other
place
in
the world
is
closed,
and
you
just
have
to
have
a
nasty
microwavable
burrito, bag
of
nacho-cheese
flavored
tortilla
chips,
and
a
chemically-flavored
drink made
from
shaved
ice. As
you
will
have
noticed
from
your
perusal
of
column
7,
RFWs
are identical
to
GAPs
as
they
are
research
that
others
have
not
carried
out.
They are
absences
and
negations.
The
RFWs
also
illustrate
the
commensurability point
that
I
raised
earlier.
Gentile
et
al.
(2004)
and
Anderson
(2004) recommend
that
future
research
examine
video
games
and
aggression
using longitudinal
studies.
This
recommendation
may
be
a
real
shortcoming
in existing
research
that
an
ambitious
researcher
could
use
as
a
Point
of Critique
and
develop
into
a
Critique
of
Previous
Literature.
However, would
you
be
able
to
recruit
hundreds
if
not
thousands
of
juveniles
into your
study
and
follow
them
year
after
year
in
order
to
examine
the
longterm
effects
of
violent
video
games
on
aggression?
Would
you
be
able
to come
up
with
the
money
and
time
to
carry
out
this
project?
If
the
answer
is no,
then
your
best
bet
is
to
keep
going
down
the
column
to
see
if
there
are RFWs
that
you
can
realistically
fix
in
the
time
allotted
given
the
skills
you possess.
The
trouble
is
that
using
column
7
as
a
default
repository
for
your CPLs
compels
you
to
choose
from
a
set
of
choices
that
others
have
already developed;
you
are
constrained
by
the
actions
of
others.
That
is
why
I
have advocated
that
they
be
used
in
emergencies.
You
are
much
better
off
finding and
developing
a
critique
that
you
cultivate
and
remedy.
You
should
learn
to

appreciate
RFWs
as
you
are
reading
them
and
be
sure
to
code
in
the
right margin
for
entry
into
RCOS
later
on;
when
you
need
to
develop
a
Point
of Critique
on
our
own
and
you
are
stuck,
they
are
emergency
CPLs
and
GAPs like
the
ones
at
your
local
all-night
convenience
store.

Conclusion This
chapter
has
examined
how
criticism
differs
from
opinions.
Preferences are
idiosyncratic
while
criticisms
are
rooted
in
normative
templates
of judgement
that
is
based
on
disciplinary
standards
and
practices.
I
advocated that
you
ask
three
questions
as
you
are
reading
through
the
literature
on
a topic
that
you
have
selected:
(1)
What
shortcomings
exist
in
the
literature? (2)
Can
I
fix
this
shortcoming?
(3)
So
what?
Asking
the
preceding
three questions
repeatedly
throughout
the
reading
process
will
ensure
that
you
are on
the
right
track
in
completing
your
paper.
The
critique
that
you
develop
is important
because
it
determines
whether
or
not
you
can
begin
and
finish your
research
project
with
the
skills
that
you
possess.
If
the
critique
that
you have
found
exceeds
your
abilities
as
a
researcher
and
the
time
available
to complete
it,
it
is
best
to
move
on
to
a
critique
that
you
can
realistically
fix.

5
How
to
Produce
a
Finding
and
a
Claim In
previous
chapters,
some
of
the
big
and
little
errors
that
students commonly
make
in
their
papers
were
examined.
I
also
provided
a
tentative answer
to
the
question
of
how
much
of
the
literature
you
will
have
to
read in
order
to
arrive
at
a
minimally
competent
grasp
of
a
topic
to
be
able
to
see broad
patterns
in
the
literature
and
find
a
shortcoming
in
it
to
formulate
a research
question
as
a
prelude
to
your
own
research
project.
I
introduced
a sample
RCOS
to
show
you
a
typical
way
in
which
the
information
from your
readings
can
be
organized
to
allow
you
to
synthesize
and
critique
the literature.
This
chapter
introduces
you
to
the
two
types
of
claims
that
are made
in
the
social
sciences,
and
examines
how
to
put
forth
a
claim
of
your own.

Differentiating
between
ROF
and
ROA Although
there
are
numerous
types
of
social
science
journal
articles
(e.g., book
review,
commentary,
editorial,
etc.),
articles
that
are
related
to research
can
be
classified
into
two
principal
types:
empirical
papers
and non-empirical
papers.
Empirical
papers
refer
to
journal
articles
that
contain analyzes
of
data.
The
data
can
be
quantitative
or
qualitative,
but
the
paper’s main
point
emerges
from
an
analysis
of
data
using
methods
that
are
internal to
that
approach.
For
example,
quantitative
data
often
exist
in
aggregate form,
which
will
require
the
use
of
software
programs
such
as
the
Statistical Package
for
the
Social
Sciences
(SPSS).
The
key
point
behind quantitatively-designed
studies
is
that
the
method
of
analysis
entails
a statistical
one.
In
these
studies,
social
phenomena
have
been
reduced
and coded
into
numerical
forms
for
analytical
purposes.
Quantitatively-oriented researchers
attempt
to
find
significant
relationships
between
variables
in
an attempt
to
predict
the
outcome.
Quantitative
datasets
such
as
the
General Social
Survey
(GSS)
or
Supplementary
Homicide
Reports
(SHR)
are available
to
faculty
and
students
at
colleges
and
universities.
The
analyzes of
data
from
datasets
such
as
the
GSS
and
the
SHR
and
the
numerical findings
that
emerge
from
them
would
be
examples
of
quantitative
papers.

Figure
5.1
Empirical
papers

Another
type
of
empirical
paper
refers
to
social
science
journal
articles
that analyze
the
data
in
qualitative
ways.
Qualitative
data
often
exist
in
textual forms,
such
as
verbal
transcripts
of
interviews,
fieldnotes
from
ethnographic observations,
or
images;
they
do
not
exist
in
aggregate
or
numerical
forms. The
key
point
to
qualitatively-designed
studies
and
papers
is
that
the method
of
analysis
entails
a
non-statistical
one.
The
analysis
often
involves a
process
of
induction
or
thematic
classification,
using
qualitative
data analysis
programs
such
as
NVivo.
Qualitatively-oriented
researchers
try
to uncover
the
logic
behind
a
social
practice
or
phenomenon;
they
are
not interested
in
predicting
outcomes
as
much
as
they
are
interested
in demonstrating
the
social
processes
behind
the
acts.
The
findings
of qualitative
analyzes
are
typically
presented
in
ways
that
mirror
the
structure of
narratives.
Qualitative
datasets
are
openly
available
if
they
have
been publicly
funded
projects
from
a
government
agency.
Sometimes
researchers will
undertake
qualitative
projects
on
their
own,
using
their
own
resources. The
analyzes
of
data
from
field
observations
or
transcripts
of
interviews would
be
examples
of
qualitative
papers.
The
distinction
between quantitative/qualitative
data
and
analysis
is
important
because
these
two types
of
papers
lead
to
the
use
of
one
common
reading
code:
Result
of Findings
(ROF). When
you
read
social
science
papers
that
analyze
data
in
quantitative
or qualitative
ways,
the
main
point
of
the
article—the
main
thesis,
the
main claim—will
be
designated
using
the
code
ROF.
The
findings
from quantitatively
and
qualitatively
designed
research
papers
lead
to
an empirical
result
that
serves
as
the
basis
for
the
paper’s
primary
claim.
The findings
emerge
from
an
analysis
of
data
of
some
sort,
whether
they
are quantitative
or
qualitative.
Empirical
papers
tend
to
be
straightforward
to

read,
as
the
findings
are
stated
unequivocally,
much
more
so
for
quantitative papers
than
qualitative
papers. A
much
more
challenging
paper
to
read
involves
another
type.
Conceptual and
theoretical
social
science
journal
articles
tend
to
be
non-empirical;
they do
not
involve
tangible
data
nor
do
they
involve
empirical
analysis.
This type
of
paper
entails
a
reading
of
the
previous
literature,
critique,
and reinterpretation
and
reformulation
of
previous
findings
based
on argumentation. Figure
5.2
Theoretical/conceptual
papers

In
non-empirical
papers,
the
conceptual
equivalent
of
“findings”
is presented
as
“results.”
When
reading
this
type
of
paper,
the
main
results
or claims
tend
to
be
obscure;
you
have
to
look
for
conclusion
markers
such
as “therefore,”
“consequently,”
and
“as
a
result,”
as
a
signal
that
a
conclusion is
on
the
way.
The
challenge
for
you
is
that
if
you
have
to
write
a
paper
of this
sort,
then
you
must
read
through
the
literature
on
a
given
topic,
identify shortcomings
in
the
literature,
and
then
use
the
existing
literature
(and
any additional
readings)
to
“produce”
a
unique
contribution
to
that
body
of ideas;
your
claims
are
not
based
on
findings
from
analysis
of
data,
but emerge
from
an
argumentation
of
sorts.
If
represented
syllogistically,
the process
might
look
something
like
this: Given
A,
B Therefore,
C C
=
original
synthesis/new
claim This
point
is
a
difficult
one
for
undergraduate
students
to
digest
and process,
but
it
is
important
to
understand
the
logic
behind
the
two.
In empirical
papers,
the
main
claim
emerges
as
a
finding
as
a
result
of
data analysis;
the
evidence
is
in
the
data
analysis,
and
the
main
categories
and

headings
in
the
papers
are
primarily
shaped
by
the
selection
of
variables
or the
analytically
significant
categories
that
emerge
from
the
data.
In conceptual
and
theoretical
papers,
however,
there
is
no
analysis
of
data. Instead,
the
previous
literature
is
critiqued
prior
to
a
creative
and
innovative reformulation.
In
the
syllogism
noted
above,
the
“A”
would
be
the previously
published
works
which
would
be
equivalent
to
the
data
and
“B” would
be
equivalent
to
the
critique.
There
is
no
finding
per
se,
but
there
is
a novel
argumentation
that
is
being
made.
The
new
argument
that
is
being presented
in
these
types
of
paper
is
like
a
finding,
but
without
the
data
in
an empirical
sense;
the
argument
that
is
being
made
is
a
claim
that
is
based
on syllogistic
reasoning
and
argumentation.
The
“C”
is
the
equivalent
of
a finding.
Hence,
the
code
ROA
or
Result
of
Argument
is
appropriate. For
example,
Driscoll’s
(2013)
paper
entitled
“Using
Harry
Potter
to
teach literacy:
different
approaches”
uses
the
published
works
of
others
who
have examined
the
Harry
Potter
series
in
educational
settings
as
teaching
tools: “This
article
offers
a
sketch
of
these
trends
by
analyzing
several
articles
on Harry
Potter
published
in
educational
journals
between
2000
and
2009—the heyday
of
Pottermania”
(Driscoll,
2013,
p.
259).
This
article
would exemplify
the
non-empirical
paper
we
have
been
discussing.
The
author
has not
collected
data
in
any
experimental
or
empirical
sense;
she
is
using
the articles
about
Harry
Potter
that
other
authors
have
published
in
educational journals
as
raw
“data”
for
her
own
paper.
Driscoll
has
read
through
several journal
articles,
discovered
shortcomings
(which
is
implicitly
connoted
in the
paper
but
not
directly
stated),
and
found
a
pattern
in
the
way
the published
journal
articles
were
organized.
Despite
the
absence
of
palpable “data,”
she
does
have
a
main
point
in
her
article,
her
main
claim
is
as follows:
“reviewing
journal
articles
on
Harry
Potter
suggests
that
modern pedagogies
of
reading
are
volatile”
(p.
269).
Simply
put,
although
diverse approaches
are
used
to
incorporate
Harry
Potter
into
the
classroom,
the
aim behind
such
educational
practices
is
unprincipled
and
ad
hoc.
Driscoll
says that
there
is
no
“clear
agreement
on
what
is
good
reading
or
how
it
should be
taught”
(p.
259).
That
is
the
main
claim
that
is
being
made
in
her
nonempirical,
theoretical
paper.
This
claim
would
be
the
equivalent
of
an
ROA.

Similarly,
William
Goode,
a
sociologist
who
has
written
extensively
on
the sociology
of
the
family,
notes
that
families
have
undergone
significant changes
due
to
technological,
social,
and
cultural
innovations.
In
“Family changes
over
the
long
term:
a
sociological
commentary,”
Goode
(2003) notes
how
the
family
has
evolved
over
time.
In
the
preceding
paper,
he
has not
collected
any
data
specific
to
that
paper;
rather,
he
is
simply
pointing out
notable
changes
that
have
occurred
in
families
throughout
history
from a
review
of
the
literature.
One
of
the
claims
he
makes
is
that
the
formal
and informal
controls
that
families
exercise
appear
to
be
declining.
The
impetus behind
this
change
is
the
shift
in
the
mode
of
production
of
world economies
from
agrarian
ones
to
industrial
ones:
the
source
of
work changed
as
men
received
wages
from
their
job,
not
the
land;
the
modes
of acquiring
jobs
changed
as
merit
replaced
nepotism;
and
the
relation between
remuneration
and
work
favored
the
individual
over
families
as
the former
received
payments
for
work
rendered.
Consequently,
Goode
(2003) observes
that
family
laws
increased
while
the
authority
a
family
exercised over
individuals
declined.
This
point
is
a
major
claim
that
is
made
in
the paper
and
would
be
the
equivalent
of
an
ROA. In
both
papers,
one
about
literacy
and
Harry
Potter
and
the
other
about
the historical
changes
in
the
family,
the
main
point
does
not
come
about through
an
analysis
of
the
data.
Rather,
the
primary
claims
that
are
being made
in
the
papers
come
about
through
the
arguments
the
authors
make,
in the
evidence
they
proffer
to
support
their
claims.
The
claims
made
in
these papers
are
each
the
equivalent
of
a
“finding”
in
an
empirical
sense.
The claims
that
Driscoll
and
Goode
make
in
their
theoretical
and
conceptual papers
are
the
equivalent
of
a
“C”,
the
original
synthesis
and
new
claim
that is
being
proffered
in
their
papers.
If
you
were
reading
the
two
respective papers,
you
definitely
should
have
highlighted
and
coded
their
claims
as ROAs.
The
main
claims
that
are
presented
in
theoretical
papers
are important
for
another
reason.

The
Citationality
of
the
ROF
and
ROA

You
may
be
asking
why
I
am
making
such
a
fuss
about
a
finding
versus
an argument.
This
distinction
is
important
for
several
reasons.
First,
as
I
have been
saying
all
along,
you
need
to
have
to
read
a
sufficient
number
of previous
works
in
order
to
arrive
at
a
competent
understanding
of
a
topic, and
not
all
the
papers
you
access
will
be
empirical
papers.
Some
will
be conceptual
and
theoretical
papers,
and
it
is
important
that
you
learn
how
to read
these
correctly
so
that
you
will
be
able
to
understand
the
main
point that
is
being
made
in
each
paper.
Second,
correct
reading
is
important because
an
author’s
citational
authority
emerges
from
the findings/arguments
that
are
embedded
in
the
paper.
A
paper’s
main
point constitutes
the
citable
information
when
reading
social
science
journal articles.
One
of
the
notable
sources
of
confusion
for
students
is
that
they
do not
understand
how
to
cite,
and
that
confusion
arises
from
not
being
able
to distinguish
between
an
ROF/ROA
and
other
reading
codes. I
know
that
you
struggle
with
citations
because
I
encounter
students
who wrestle
with
them
on
a
daily
basis.
Moreover,
you
will
sometimes
receive conflicting
information
from
your
instructors
about
citations.
Some
prefer APA
while
others
insist
on
Chicago-style.
When
trying
to
decide
how
to cite
there
will
be
the
mechanics
of
citations,
about
how
to
order
the
authors, when
and
where
to
place
the
period
after
the
comma,
and
when
the
“et
al.” appears,
etc.
These
are
small
details
that
can
be
fixed
easily
(see
Chapter
1). The
conventions
used
by
the
Modern
Language
Association
or
the American
Psychological
Association
are
simply
mechanical;
the information
contained
in
the
references
and
citations
is
very
similar.
But underneath
the
citations
lurks
a
commonly
presupposed
higher
order activity:
discerning
what
information
from
a
published
work
to
cite.
We
will refer
to
this
matter
as
one
related
to
citationality.
Students
make
the
mistake of
citing
authors
on
functions
that
are
extraneous
to
the
primary
objective
of a
text.
That
is,
students
often
cite
authors
not
on
their
primary
findings (ROFs)
or
arguments
(ROAs),
but
on
their
summaries,
critiques,
and
other non-essential
information
(e.g.,
SPLs,
CPLs,
RCLs,
and
RTCs).
This practice
is
problematic.
You
are
struggling
with
how
to
cite
because
you have
not
adequately
understood
the
notion
of
citationality
and
its
authority.

Citational
authority
and
legitimacy
come
from
the
main
findings
or
claims that
authors
put
forth
in
their
papers.
They
do
not
come
from
summaries
of previous
literature
(SPL)
or
critiques
of
previous
literature
(CPL). Citational
authority
and
legitimacy
emerge
from
the
main
findings
(ROF)
in empirical
papers
and
claims
that
are
made
in
theoretical
papers
(ROA). Both
ROFs
and
ROAs
provide
answers
to
questions
such
as
“what
is
the paper
about?”
or
“what
is
the
main
point
of
the
paper?”
That
is
why
it
is important
to
code
your
readings
correctly,
or
else
you
will
be
attributing
a claim
to
an
author
who
has
not
made
such
a
claim;
you
will
be
treating
a summary
as
a
finding.
When
you
do
that,
you
will
be
misrepresenting authors
and
their
work.
Citations
should
be
used
to
attribute
findings/claims to
authors,
not
other
functions
in
a
text. Citationality
is
shaped
by
the
scope
and
size
of
the
findings
and
claims. Citations
can
be
divided
into
three
categories.
In
the
first,
a
broad,
global, and
long-shot
citation
provides
readers
with
generalized
findings
and topical
significance
of
the
work
on
a
particular
topic
(Massengill,
n.d.).
In the
second,
a
medium-level
citation
provides
specific
findings
from
a
paper in
a
generalized
sort
of
way.
In
the
third,
a
close-up
citation
provides numerical
figures
such
as
statistics
and
percentages
(see
Rudestam
& Newton,
2007).
Here
are
some
examples: Big
citations: (1)
The
impact
of
race
on
educational
achievement
has
been examined
by
scholars
in
numerous
disciplines
(hypothetical example). (2)
“For
several
decades,
the
debate
about
‘appropriate’ punishment
of
children
has
raged
on,
and
today
two
polarized camps
still
seem
to
dominate
the
discussion.”
(Cope,
2010,
p.167) Medium
citations: (3)
“Only
three
demographic
variables,
including
single/never married
status,
education
status,
and
hours
husband
worked
were

found
to
be
positively
associated
with
HB
(hwa-byung/fire illness).”
(Kim
et
al.,
2014,
p.
505) (4)
“The
uses
of
Harry
Potter
present
a
confused
picture,
with
no clear
agreement
on
what
good
reading
is
or
how
it
should
be taught.”
(Driscoll,
2013,
p.
259) Close-up
citations: (5)
Between
1948
and
1963,
approximately
3
percent
of parricides
in
Korea
were
committed
with
firearms
(author’s
own data
and
analysis). (6)
Writing
assignments
that
require
ten
or
more
pages
make
up about
10%
of
all
assignments
across
universities
(Grauerholz
et al.,
2013). It
is
important
for
you
to
understand
the
distinction
between
the
“big,” “medium,”
and
“close-up”
citations,
for
this
is
key
in
understanding
how
to cite.
Big
citations
are
broadly
formulated;
they
lack
specifics;
instead, sentences
that
require
big
citations
tend
to
be
topical,
and
refer
to
the
extent, scope,
and
history
of
a
topic;
they
are
like
panoramic
glimpses
of
a
field seen
through
a
binocular.
You
see
big
vistas
and
landscapes,
not
particular ridges
and
hills.
These
types
of
sentence
generally
appear
at
the
front
of
a literature
review.
If
you
were
writing
a
literature
review
for
your
own
paper, sentences
like
(1)
and
(2)
would
appear
fairly
early
on.
You
should
be
able to
cite
multiple
authors
and
studies
(three
to
five
would
be
an
adequate number)
to
substantiate
your
point
without
overwhelming
it
with
too
many citations.
Second,
medium
citations
provide
readers
with
generalized specifics.
They
give
readers
nuts-and-bolts
information
about
the
primary findings
from
a
paper.
If
someone
were
to
ask
you
what
a
paper
is
about,
the answer
you
provide
(a
medium-level
finding)
would
lead
to
a
medium-level citation.
The
medium-level
findings
and
claims
provide
citable
information. If
you
look
at
sentences
(3)
and
(4),
they
are
not
overly
specific
nor
are
they overly
broad.
This
generalized-specific
information
of
a
medium
citation contrasts
with
the
third
type
of
citation
strategy,
the
close-up
citation.
This last
citational
strategy
is
microscopic;
the
citations
list
particular
figures
and

facts;
there
are
very
few
generalities
here.
In
sentences
(5)
and
(6),
there
are specific
figures
that
are
reported
as
part
of
the
authors’
findings. Let
me
summarize
the
citational
strategy
I
am
referring
to
again
by
using other
examples.
In
the
context
of
criminology,
a
big
citation
would
discuss findings
about
weapons
used
in
crimes
or
how
weapon
usage
has
been extensively
studied
by
scholars;
a
medium
citation
would
discuss
the predominance
of
gun
homicides
in
a
particular
country;
a
close-up
citation would
discuss
the
actual
percentage
of
handguns
used
in
homicides.
If
we were
to
use
education
as
a
background,
a
sentence
such
as
“Bolstering aspiration
for
Higher
Education
(HE)
in
the
U.K.
and
Australia
among minorities
has
been
a
central
strategy
of
policymakers”
could
be
cited
with multiple
authors
and
studies.
Authors
who
have
examined
“aspiration”
as
a topic
in
both
countries
can
be
cited
to
substantiate
the
point.
These
would be
examples
of
big
citations.
A
medium
citation
would
be
something
like, “Eligibility
pool
can
be
lowered
in
order
to
increase
the
applicant
pool
for HE”
which
provides
specific
generalities
related
to
findings.
Sentences
such as
“Increasing
the
graduation
rate
by
4.5%
would
reduce
the
number
of admitted
students
by
a
noticeable
amount”
would
illustrate
a
close-up citation.
Do
you
see
a
pattern
in
the
way
findings
are
cited
in
social
science writing?
There
is
a
narrowing
down
of
findings,
from
big
and
broad
to narrow
and
particular,
from
topical
extent
to
numerical
figures.
Citational strategies
mirror
that
funnel-like
pattern.
To
cite
properly,
you
first
have
to understand
what
it
is
you
are
reading.
You
have
to
separate
the
various rhetorical
functions
of
text
in
social
science
journal
articles.
You
have
to differentiate
ROFs
from
RATs,
SPLs,
and
CPLs.
The
golden
nugget
you should
be
mining
for
when
reading
non-empirical
social
science
journal articles
is
the
ROAs;
the
ROFs
and
ROAs
provide
the
primary
citable ammunition. There
is
one
final
reason
why
it
is
important
to
learn
how
to
read
and differentiate
between
an
ROF
and
an
ROA:
you
will
have
to
differentiate between
the
two
in
the
papers
you
write
in
your
classes.
This
distinction applies
across
all
levels
of
writing
at
university
level.
For
example,
students who
are
completing
a
doctoral,
Master’s,
or
an
undergraduate
honors
thesis will
have
to
write
a
paper
or
a
thesis
that
requires
data
collection
and

analysis.
Similarly,
students
who
are
enrolled
in
statistics
or
qualitative methods
classes
may
have
to
write
a
paper
that
requires
them
to
follow
the methodological
protocols
necessitated
by
the
respective
courses.
The commonality
is
that
whether
the
paper
you
are
writing
is
30
pages
or
300 pages,
you
will
have
to
produce
a
finding
that
is
based
on
data
analysis. Your
finding
will
emerge
from
the
empirical
data.
This
imposition
is
what makes
your
paper
empirical
and
the
main
point
of
your
paper
an
ROF
rather than
an
ROA. A
finding
(ROF)
is
an
empirical
claim
that
emerges
from
the
evidence provided
by
the
analysis
of
data.
This
empirical
requirement
is
one
of
the ways
that
the
social
sciences
differ
from
the
arts
and
humanities.
The counterpart
of
a
finding
is
not
based
on
analysis
but
on
argumentation through
a
reason
and
a
warrant.
A
claim
that
emerges
from
the
syllogistic structure
of
an
argument
is
the
equivalent
of
an
ROF.
ROAs
usually
contain an
argument
and
a
warrant,
a
hidden
premise
that
must
be
true
in
order
for
a stated
claim
to
be
true.
Theoretical
and
conceptual
papers
do
not
require data
and
analysis;
in
these
types
of
papers,
the
published
works—the literature
on
a
given
topic—constitute
the
data
that
are
used
as
raw
material for
a
paper.
From
this
pool
of
published
articles,
you
must
figure
out
a
way to
squeeze
out
an
argument
and
a
claim. Take
a
step
back
and
realize
the
magnitude
of
this
task.
In
empirical
papers, you
are
expected
to
produce
a
finding
from
a
dataset;
the
boundaries
and limitations
of
what
you
are
able
to
do
are
already
embedded
in
the constraints
of
the
data
and
method
of
analysis.
With
theoretical
and conceptual
papers,
however,
you
are
expected
to
produce
a
finding
or
its equivalent
without
any
palpable
data;
the
boundaries
and
limitations
of what
you
are
able
to
do
are
not
provided
in
the
data
or
method
of
analysis. You
are
entirely
on
your
own
to
produce
a
claim,
without
the
delineating boundaries
that
the
data
and
methodology
impose. Figure
5.3
Empirical
claims

Figure
5.4
Non-empirical
claims

Just
a
small
word
of
caution
here
since
it
has
been
my
experience
that students
underestimate
the
magnitude
of
the
task
before
them.
You
may think
that
writing
a
non-empirical
paper
is
easy
because
you
do
not
have
to acquire
data,
analyze
the
results,
and
then
write
them
up.
That
is
partially true:
obtaining
publicly
available
data
requires
some
work;
creating
your own
dataset
requires
even
more
painstaking
work.
The
same
difficulty
is true
of
qualitative
projects,
for
you
have
to
collect
your
own
data;
on
top
of

that,
the
analysis
is
even
more
difficult
due
to
the
fact
that
there
are
no standard
protocols
to
follow,
but
must
be
done
through
intuition.
Yet,
a
nonempirical
paper
requires
even
more
self-determination,
for
you
do
not
have the
constraints
of
data
or
method.
You
must
literally
produce
something from
nothing.
The
term
paper
and
other
non-empirical
papers
commonly written
in
the
humanities
essentially
fit
into
this
mold.
This
task
seems
like a
simple
one
since
you
may
have
already
been
doing
it,
but
that
is
not
so.
I have
stated
that
you
have
to
read
social
science
papers
very
carefully
in order
to
discern
the
ROAs
that
exist
in
non-empirical
papers;
but
now,
you must
write
papers
on
your
own
that
require
a
finding
or
an
argument.

Building
an
Argument
and
Creating
Main
Sections When
you
pick
up
how-to
books
that
attempt
to
teach
you
to
put
together
a logical
essay
and
an
argument,
you
are
given
advice
that
is
not
incorrect. Other
books
state
that
claims
that
are
made
in
essays
require
you
to
adopt
a perspective
or
assume
a
position,
and
then
defend
it
(e.g.,
Greasley,
2011). You
are
instructed
to
put
together
an
argument
to
persuade
the
reader
to adopt
your
perspective
(Craswell
&
Poore,
2012).
An
argument
is
defined as
“an
amiable
conversation
in
which
you
and
your
imagined
readers
reason together
to
solve
a
problem
whose
solution
they
don’t
yet
fully
accept” (Turabian,
2010,
p.
50).
An
argument
presents
a
distinctive
point
of
view
or a
conclusion
that
has
not
yet
proven
to
be
true
(Brandt,
2009;
Osmond, 2013).
The
point
of
view
or
conclusion
must
be
supported;
you
must provide
logical
evidence
as
to
why
your
argument
is
credible;
you
have
to provide
evidence
to
substantiate
your
claims
(Machi
&
McEvoy,
2012; Redman
&
Maples,
2011).
The
claim
that
you
make
is
the
center
of
your argument,
the
main
point
of
your
paper.
This
central
claim
is
what
your high
school
English
teachers
may
have
referred
to
as
a
thesis
(Turabian, 2010,
p.
52).
All
of
the
preceding
points
are
correct.
But
there
is
one question
that
has
not
been
satisfactorily
answered
and
is
worth
thinking about
further:
why
are
you
adopting
a
certain
perspective
or
assuming
a particular
position
in
the
first
place?
That
is,
previous
books
teach
you
how to
put
together
an
argument,
but
a
question
that
actually
precedes
this
one
is why
you
are
making
your
argument
in
the
first
place.

If
you
are
making
a
claim
and
assuming
a
position
because
the
question your
instructor
posed
in
the
writing
assignment
requires
you
to
do
so,
then you
are
writing
an
essay,
and
need
not
worry
further
(see
Greetham,
2013; see
also
Chapter
2).
Just
answer
the
question
that
was
posed
in
the assignment.
If
you
are
making
a
claim
in
your
paper
because
you
simply thought
of
it
on
your
own,
without
consulting
the
literature
to
see
if
a similar
claim
has
been
made,
and
writing
a
paper
in
a
corresponding fashion,
then
you
would
be
making
a
lone-wolf
claim.
You
are
making
a common
error
that
undergraduate
students
make.
If,
however,
you
are making
your
claim
because
you
think
you
can
do
it
better
than
another author
who
has
made
a
similar
claim;
if
you
think
you
can
improve
it
or because
no
one
has
made
a
similar
claim,
then
you
are
venturing
into
a
nonempirical
model
of
a
claim
(see
Figure
5.4).
You
are
using
the
works
that have
been
already
published
as
“data”
of
sorts,
and
then
implicitly critiquing
published
works,
before
proffering
a
reformulated
version
of
the existing
ideas.
You
have
essentially
produced
a
claim
of
your
own.
In
a genealogical
claim,
your
claim/argument/thesis
emerges
from
and
is
shaped by
a
shortcoming/gap
you
have
found
in
the
literature.
The
gap
leads
to your
attempt
to
remedy
the
shortcoming
in
the
literature;
the
shortcoming also
leads
to
a
statement
of
your
RAT
behind
the
paper. The
gap
that
emerges
from
your
Critique
of
Previous
Literature
(CPL) shapes
the
trajectory
of
a
non-empirical,
conceptual
and
theoretical
paper. Even
if
someone
were
to
ask
you
why
your
paper
is
worth
writing,
why your
topic
and
paper
are
significant,
you
have
a
ready-made
answer
to
that all-important
question:
my
paper
is
important
because
[insert
defense
here]. The
answers
you
provide
to
the
preceding
task
constitute
the
RAT
for
your paper.
Furthermore,
the
shortcoming
shapes
the
claims
you
will
make
in your
paper. As
an
example,
if
your
critique
of
the
previous
literature
is
that
it
fails
to provide
a
consistent
definition
of
X,
then
this
gap
in
the
literature
shapes
the objective
of
your
claim,
the
form
of
the
argument,
and
the
structure
of
the paper:

Previous
literature
fails
to
[provide
a
consistent
definition
of
X]. X
is
any
topic
in
the
social
sciences
you
can
possibly
think
of:
terrorism, job
satisfaction
of
nurses,
neurosis,
mentoring
in
colleges
and
universities, literacy
in
schools,
etc.
In
almost
any
topic
selected
for
your
paper,
there will
usually
be
a
debate
around
its
definition
(Harris,
2014).
That continuous
debate
is
what
constitutes
the
business
and
activity
of
academic life.
It
also
means
that
claims
and
arguments
can
rage
on
infinitely.
The most
plausible
claim
wins
out.
Applying
our
test,
if
previous
literature cannot
agree
on
a
consistent
definition
of
X,
then
can
you
provide
another definition
of
X
in
your
paper?
By
taking
components
of
definitions
that others
have
already
used,
can
you
subtract,
add,
and
embellish
the
existing definitions
in
order
to
arrive
at
a
“newish”
definition
of
your
own?
Can
you argue
why
your
proposed
definition
is
better
than
the
ones
previous
authors have
used?
If
your
answer
is
yes,
then
you
are
beginning
to
understand
the basics
of
how
to
write
a
conceptual
and
theoretical
paper,
for
you
would
be putting
together
a
definitive
claim
(Brockriede
&
Ehninger,
1960).
You
are also
beginning
to
understand
the
mechanics
of
organizing
a
paper.
Once
you have
an
idea
of
what
you
want
to
say
in
your
paper
(which
ought
to
be shaped
by
shortcomings
that
exist
in
the
literature),
then
the
next
step
is
to logically
order
the
sections
in
your
paper.
So
what
are
the
items
that
belong in
the
main
sections
and
how
do
you
go
about
organizing
them
for
your paper? Figure
5.5
A
gap-centered
claim

Again,
the
advice
that
other
how-to
book
authors
have
proffered
is
not wrong.
You
are
advised
to
think
of
the
“building
blocks”
of
your
argument as
a
way
of
setting
up
the
main
categories
given
your
argument
and evidence,
and
then
sequentially
organize
the
categories
in
logical
order

(Lipson,
2005,
pp.
126–127).
This
is
really
sound
advice.
But
the
direction for
how
to
come
up
with
the
“building
blocks”
in
the
first
place
is
left unclear.
Essentially,
setting
up
your
own
main
categories
logically
entails that
you
order
the
following
things
in
sequential
order:
a
summary
of existing
works,
your
Point
of
Critique,
and
the
reformulation
of
old
ideas
as a
claim
of
your
own.
It
is
nearly
impossible
to
sequentially
order
the preceding
items
without
an
adequate
understanding
of
the
literature,
and that
means
being
able
to
articulate
the
broad
trends
in
the
literature
as
well as
points
of
critique.
You
have
to
be
able
to
“see”
the
literature
before
you can
possibly
order
anything.
If
you
try
to
come
up
with
the
main
categories without
first
having
a
competent
understanding
of
the
literature
(e.g.,
after having
read
five
to
seven
journal
articles
or
none
at
all),
you
will
experience difficulty,
for
you
are
literally
trying
to
squeeze
something
out
of
nothing. To
understand
that
process
of
constructing
major
categories
and sequentially
ordering
them,
it
might
be
helpful
to
examine
the
typical
form of
argument,
evidence,
and
sequential
ordering
that
occurs
in
the
social sciences
that
you
can
emulate
in
your
papers.
Consider
again
the
typical form
of
a
syllogism: Given
A,
B Therefore,
C “C”
is
the
golden
nugget
you
are
aiming
to
capture
when
you
are
reading
a theoretical
and
conceptual
paper.
When
you
are
writing
it,
“C”
is
the
golden nugget
you
are
aiming
to
construct.
“C”
is
the
original
synthesis
and
“news” you
are
proclaiming
in
the
paper.
“C”
is
the
ROA;
it
is
what
makes
your paper
an
original
and
creative
work.
It
is
the
main
point,
the
main
thesis, and
main
claim
you
are
putting
forth
in
your
paper.
Without
it,
you
do
not have
a
paper;
without
a
claim
of
your
own,
you
have
most
likely
just repeated
what
others
have
said.
The
absence
of
a
claim
or
an
ROA
is exemplified
in
the
grading
code
FRE
(see
Chapter
1).
The
appearance
of this
code
on
your
paper
means
you
have
not
adequately
stated
your
claim
in the
paper.
The
claim
you
have
developed
is
illogical,
incoherent,
or
nonexistent.
To
arrive
at
a
claim,
however,
it
first
has
to
be
set
up;
background information
has
to
be
filled
in
first.
Another
way
to
understand
the preceding
syllogistic
structure
in
the
context
of
social
sciences
is
to
frame

the
previous
literature
(SPL)
as
“A”;
then
assume
a
Critique
of
Previous Literature
(CPL)
or
the
introduction
of
a
theoretical
framework
as
“B” Given
the
state
of
the
literature,
given
its
shortcomings,
then
“C”
must logically
follow.
In
any
logical
structure
of
an
argument,
data
precede
any claim,
and
a
warrant
authorizes
the
inference
from
the
“data”
to
a
claim (Brockriede
&
Ehninger,
1960).
By
definition,
such
inferences
are
rarely absolute
and
definitive;
they
are
speculative
and
should
be
put
forth cautiously. There
are
literally
hundreds
of
ways
that
a
paper
can
be
organized,
and arguments
structured
in
order
to
support
a
claim;
if
you
have
the
time
to wade
through
the
volume
of
books
to
find
a
structure
that
explains
the process,
then
by
all
means,
those
books
are
the
right
fit
for
you.
One
of
the observations
I
have
made
about
university
students
these
days
is
that
they are
already
busy
with
their
jobs,
family
obligations,
social
lives,
and
the readings
they
have
to
complete
for
their
classes.
The
same
was
true
when
I was
a
university
student.
Moreover,
aside
from
empirical
papers,
students have
not
been
given
adequate
practice
in
formulating
arguments
and
putting forth
claims.
Rather
than
entertaining
the
numerous
ways
you
can
structure your
paper,
I
would
like
to
propose
two
ways
in
which
non-empirical papers
can
be
organized.
I
want
to
emphasize
again
that
there
are
countless ways
that
this
organization
can
occur;
they
are
all
valuable
in
their
own unique
way.
Other
approaches
are
not
wrong.
However,
I
would
like
to offer
two
basic
approaches
to
writing
non-empirical
papers
using
the reading
codes
as
a
way
of
facilitating
such
a
task.
There
are
only
two
forms or
structures
in
the
model
of
non-empirical
papers,
but
those
two
forms
can be
filled
in
with
infinite
content
that
leads
to
an
original
paper.
Remember, one
of
my
main
claims
is
that
the
reading
codes
I
have
developed
can
be used
to
write
one’s
paper. Figure
5.6
A
linear
approach
to
the
construction
of
major
headings

A
linear
approach
to
producing
a
claim
draws
on
the
syllogistic
structure
of arguments
and
logically
orders
the
major
headings
that
lead
to
a
claim
(see

Figure
5.6).
After
the
introduction
(see
Chapter
6),
the
next
section
that warrants
a
major
heading
is
the
previous
literature
you
are
drawing
on. Major
Heading
(MH)
1
would
meet
this
goal.
Whether
you
call
this
section simply
“Background
on
X”
or
“Previous
works
on
X”
or
“History
of
X,” the
MH1
would
clearly
indicate
to
the
reader
that
you
are
essentially summarizing
the
literature
in
some
way
which
you
will
then
use
as
data. After
you
have
summarized
the
state
of
the
literature,
you
should
provide
a critique
of
it
at
the
end
of
this
section.
Another
option
is
to
develop
a critique
of
the
previous
literature
as
a
separate
section
in
its
own
right.
In MH2,
you
have
to
introduce
the
theoretical
framework
that
you
will
use, apply,
or
develop
as
a
way
of
remedying
the
shortcomings
you
noted,
or provide
an
extended
critique
of
the
literature
if
you
neglected
to
do
so
in MH1,
or
do
both.
If
you
do
not
do
one
or
the
other,
then
the
main
argument you
will
develop
in
the
next
section
will
fall
short.
In
MH3
(MH4,
MH5, and
other
major
headings
should
it
be
necessary),
you
have
to
remedy
the shortcoming
you
identified
in
the
previous
section
and
produce
your
claim through
argumentation. If
you
are
writing
a
research
paper,
it
is
imperative
that
you
delineate
the major
section
through
the
use
of
major
headings.
If
your
paper
is
not organized
into
recognizable
major
sections
and
headings,
it
will
be
difficult for
readers
to
figure
out
what
it
is
that
they
are
looking
at.
The
absence leads
to
confusion.
I
have
read
countless
papers
that
consisted
of
paragraphs and
paragraphs
of
text,
without
any
identifiable
boundaries.
The
grading code
FMS
refers
to
papers
that
are
not
organized
into
recognizable
sections. Avoiding
this
error
is
rather
simple:
make
sure
that
you
divide
your
paper into
recognizable
sections. Let
me
try
to
provide
some
concrete
illustrations
of
how
major
headings work.
If
you
use
Driscoll’s
(2013)
paper
entitled
“Using
Harry
Potter
to teach
literacy:
different
approaches”
as
an
example,
you
will
notice
the paper
is
composed
of
the
following
major
headings: 1.
Introduction 2.
Literacy
and
the
field
of
education 3.
Competing
definitions
of
literacy

4.
State
models
of
literacy
and
Harry
Potter 5.
Multiliteracies
and
Harry
Potter 6.
Reading
Harry
Potter
for
pleasure 7.
Harry
Potter
and
developmental
models
of
literacy 8.
Conclusion How
should
you
understand
the
preceding
categories
using
the
reading codes?
Major
headings
4–7
are
the
main
headings
for
the
paper;
those sections
contain
the
primary
ROAs
for
Driscoll’s
paper.
In
a
typical theoretical
paper,
you
will
find
two
to
five
of
these
headings;
journal
articles do
not
permit
the
existence
of
too
many
headings
and
categories,
for
the space
available
is
finite.
So
what
claims
does
Driscoll
make
in
those sections?
That
teachers
who
use
Harry
Potter
novels
to
teach
literacy
are likely
to
challenge
and
resist
government-mandated
outcomes
of
literacy measures.
This
is
a
claim
that
is
being
made
in
the
major
section
on
“State models
of
literacy
and
Harry
Potter.”
In
the
next
section,
“Multiliteracies and
Harry
Potter”
Driscoll
claims
that
Harry
Potter
novels
fit
well
into models
of
multimodal
literacy
as
they
are
recreated
across
different mediums,
such
as
video
games,
avatars,
etc.;
however,
she
also
argues
that some
teachers
may
react
adversely
to
the
use
of
audio-visual
Harry
Potter texts
since
the
novels
are
primarily
intended
for
reading.
In
the
next
section, the
claim
that
personal
preferences
determine
the
teaching
of
literacy
is illustrated
with
how
Harry
Potter
novels
have
increased
reading
for pleasure.
Again,
the
claims
emerge
in
the
major
section
that
is
related
to
the ROA.
Those
claims
are
the
conclusions
she
has
reached
after
surveying
the literature,
noting
how
the
field
is
organized.
Major
headings
4–7
contain
the “C”
part
of
the
argument.
The
ROAs—claims—that
are
made
in
the
paper are
the
medium
citable
points. In
order
for
those
sections
to
be
created
in
the
first
place
and
the
claims
to be
made,
they
first
have
to
be
set
up.
Major
headings
and
sections
such
as “Literacy
and
the
field
of
education”
and
“Competing
definitions
of literacy”
function
as
previous
literature;
these
two
sections
make
up
the
“A” and
“B”
part
of
the
syllogism.
The
“C”
portion
of
the
paper
will
not
work without
the
“A”
and
the
“B.”
I
have
found
that
once
students
are
able
to complete
“A”
and
“B”
as
a
prelude
to
“C,”
the
ideas
and
structures
organize

themselves.
That
is
why
when
you
are
struggling
with
how
to
organize
and structure
your
own
paper,
you
need
to
be
cognizant
of
the
fact
that
before you
can
even
think
about
organizing
a
structure
for
your
paper,
you
will have
to
have
read
enough
of
the
literature
to
“see”
the
SPLs
and
develop
a POC
of
your
own,
which
leads
to
a
CPL.
You
are
probably
struggling
with critiquing
the
literature
or
figuring
out
a
perspective
of
your
own
because you
have
not
adequately
read
through
the
literature.
After
you
have adequately
read
through
the
literature,
then,
as
you
are
thinking
about
how to
remedy
those
deficiencies
that
you
have
noted,
you
should
logically
order the
SPL,
CPL,
and
your
ROAs
in
relation
to
the
major
headings: SPL➔CPL/GAP➔ROA/claim. In
the
second
model,
the
main
sections
that
proclaim
the
ROA
are constructed
as
main
headings
(see
Figure
5.7).
In
a
claim-centered
approach to
constructing
major
headings,
the
claims
are
constructed
in
ways
that
are responsive
to
the
gaps
you
have
found,
and
the
linear
and
logical
arguments that
support
the
claims
are
embedded
within
those
headings. If
we
use
Sellar
et
al.’s
(2011)
paper
entitled
“Appreciating
aspirations
in Australian
higher
education”
as
an
example,
you
will
notice
that
the
paper is
composed
of
the
following
major
headings: 1.
Introduction 2.
The
changing
place
of
aspiration
in
Australian
HE 3.
The
rising
prominence
of
imagination
in
everyday
life 4.
Conclusion:
appreciating
aspirations Figure
5.7
Claim-centered
approach
to
the
construction
of
major
headings

There
are
two
main
sections
where
the
main
claims
are
made
in
this
paper. In
the
first
section
under
the
major
heading
“The
changing
place
of aspiration
in
Australian
HE,”
Sellar
et
al.
critique
and
reinterpret
Australian government’s
estimate
of
the
number
of
college
graduates
needed
to
meet the
objectives
of
their
strategic
plan.
One
of
the
words
in
the
heading, “changing,”
is
shaped
by
their
main
findings;
they
analyzed
the
actual figures
put
out
by
the
government
and
deemed
them
inadequate.
The “change”
is
related
to
the
main
findings
in
this
section.
In
the
second section,
the
authors
critique
the
literature
on
aspiration
and
reinterpret
it; they
argue
that
HE
institutions
can
“strengthen”
and
“expand”
the
capacity of
underserved
groups
to
realize
desirable
ends.
Rather
than
simply
trying to
raise
the
aspirations
of
underserved
populations
with
access
to
HE,
they are
trying
to
reinvigorate
public
institutions
to
come
up
with
alternative ways
of
engaging
members
of
the
public
who
may
be
underserved.
These are
not
empirical
claims
that
are
being
made
in
the
section
entitled
“The rising
prominence
of
imagination
in
everyday
life”;
they
are
claims
that
are made
on
the
basis
of
a
synthesis
and
critique
of
the
literature;
the
authors are
reformulating
ideas
that
already
exist
in
some
capacity.
However,
they

are
putting
a
unique
spin
on
these.
Their
“spin”
is
the
ROA.
Those
two claims
would
be
examples
of
medium
citations
from
their
paper. We
should
observe
that
the
major
headings
they
have
constructed
are shaped
by
two
factors:
the
main
claims
they
have
made
in
the
respective sections
(ROA)
and
the
broadly
formulated
summaries
in
the
literature (SPL).
If
we
were
to
try
to
come
up
with
a
rough
guide
for
how
to
create
a major
heading,
it
might
be
something
like
the
following: MHx
=
{ROA}
+
SPL While
the
formula
provides
only
a
rough
sketch,
it
gives
you
a
good
starting place
to
think
about
constructing
major
headings.
First,
the
number
of
major headings
(x)
is
primarily
determined
by
your
claim.
What
is
the
main
point you
are
trying
to
make
in
your
paper?
How
many
sections
will
it
take
to
put forth
your
claim?
Second,
the
title
of
the
major
heading
should
combine,
if feasible,
the
elements
of
your
primary
claim
(ROA)
and
the
literature
you are
drawing
on
(SPL).
Again,
there
are
basic
elements
of
an
argument
that are
indispensable:
the
background
material,
a
critique,
and
a
reformulation. Those
categories
should
be
used
to
shape
the
major
headings;
and
your major
headings
should
also
be
guided
by
your
main
claims.
As
noted,
your claims
should
be
shaped
by
what
is
missing
in
the
literature.
If
the
paper you
are
writing
is
non-empirical,
then
it
is
essential
that
you
have
a
claim, an
ROA.
You
must
put
forth
a
“newish”
claim
of
your
own.
Within
one section
(MH1),
then,
you
would
have
to
summarize
and
critique
the literature
prior
to
making
a
claim.
In
a
claim-centered
model
of
organizing your
paper,
your
major
headings
are
shaped
by
your
ROAs/claims,
and
the headings
should
be
highly
suggestive
of
the
argument
you
are
making
in that
section.
The
logical
order
of
the
components
is
similar: SPL→CPL/GAP→ROA/claim. In
a
claim-centered
approach
to
constructing
major
headings,
the
claims that
are
produced
need
not
be
radically
different
from
the
claims
of
prior authors;
they
have
to
be
sufficiently
different
and
new—“ish.”
The
word

“newish”
is
key.
Your
instructors
do
not
expect
you
to
put
together
an innovative
argument
that
will
lead
you
to
win
international
awards;
they
do not
expect
you
to
change
the
paradigm
in
your
discipline
through
the publication
of
your
paper.
Instead—and
I
am
making
a
fair
assumption
here —your
instructors
want
you
to
demonstrate
to
them
in
your
paper
that
you can
read
through
the
literature
on
a
given
topic,
critique
it
cogently,
and reinterpret
what
others
have
said
in
such
a
way
that
it
differs
sufficiently from
prior
claims,
i.e.,
they
do
not
want
you
to
repeat
and
rehash
what others
have
said;
they
want
you
to
say
something
novel
on
your
own.
If
you do
not
say
something
“newish,”
if
you
make
an
argument
that
is
illogical, incoherent,
or
poorly
developed,
then
you
will
not
have
met
one
of
the
main requirements
for
a
theoretical
paper.
Similarly,
if
you
do
not
make
an argument
at
all,
only
repeating
what
others
have
already
said,
then
you
will have
written
a
really
advanced
book
report,
not
a
theoretical
paper.
To
avoid making
this
error,
you
should
ask
yourself
the
following
questions.
What
is my
main
argument?
What
claim
am
I
making
in
my
paper?

The
Scope
of
Claims
in
Non-empirical
Papers There
is
a
reason
that
this
type
of
theoretical
paper—referred
to
simply
as the
“paper”
in
the
humanities—has
persisted
for
so
long.
Just
like
an empirical
writing
project,
a
paper
is
a
self-directed
act
from
start
to
finish which
requires
synthesis,
critique,
and
integration
as
a
way
of
making
a claim
(Graves
et
al.,
2010).
That
aim
is
similar
across
the
social
sciences. Although
empirical
projects
are
a
big
part
of
the
curriculum
in
most departments,
for
most
long
papers
that
are
assigned
as
part
of
course requirements,
writing
assignments
that
require
students
to
generate
their own
questions
and
answers
are
similar
to
the
venerable
“paper.”
Hence
it makes
sense
to
learn
how
to
do
it
coherently,
without
undue
anguish. To
that
end,
I
have
proposed
two
ways
of
organizing
and
structuring
nonempirical
papers.
Both
models
presuppose
the
argument
that
the
claims
you make
in
your
papers
are
expediently
produced
if
they
are
shaped
by
the shortcomings
that
exist
in
the
literature.
I
have
referred
to
this
model
as
a genealogical
approach
to
a
claim.
That
is,
rather
than
sitting
at
your
desk

and
trying
to
brainstorm
ideas
about
your
paper
without
first
reading enough
of
the
literature,
my
recommendation
has
been
to
first
read adequately,
find
a
Point
of
Critique
which
leads
to
a
Critique
of
Previous Literature,
and
then
formulate
research
questions
based
on
this
gap
before going
on
to
remedy
those
gaps
that
are
facilitated
and
constrained
by
the scope
and
sophistication
of
your
project.
If
you
have
access
to
data
and competent
quantitative
or
qualitative
analytical
skills,
then
the
paper
you write
will
necessarily
become
empirical.
If,
however,
you
are
not
expected to
use
and
analyze
data;
if
the
paper’s
requirement
is
that
a
new
claim
be produced,
without
the
use
of
data,
then
writing
a
theoretical
and
conceptual paper
that
extends
the
parameters
of
the
venerable
“paper”
is
worth considering. Although
a
non-empirical
paper
is
comparable
to
the
venerable
“paper”
in the
humanities,
it
is
important
to
realize
that
the
scope
of
the
claims
that
can be
made
in
these
types
of
papers
will
not
be
on
an
equal
footing.
Different claims
require
different
argument
structures.
As
an
example,
“advocative claims”
are
usually
related
to
questions
of
policy,
and
occur
in
response
to questions
such
as
what
course
of
action
should
be
pursued
(Brockriede
& Ehninger,
1960).
These
types
of
claims
can
be
readily
made
in
nonempirical
papers
using
argument
from
parallel
cases
or
argument
from analogy.
For
example,
if
your
critique
of
the
literature
is
that
the implications
of
policy
X
on
Y
have
not
been
adequately
addressed,
and
you can
realistically
accomplish
this
objective,
then
you
can
consult
the
existing findings
on
the
implications
of
policy
A
on
B
as
a
way
of
making
a
parallel case.
Both
arguments
use
a
logic
of
comparison
to
demonstrate
the similarity
of
the
two
cases.
Critiques
of
ethical
and
policy
implications
are ripe
fruits
to
be
picked
for
these
types
of
claim. Similarly,
“evaluative
claims”
that
question
the
quality—claims
of
worth— of
a
claim
are
ideally
suited
for
non-empirical
papers,
for
assessing
the quality
and
value
of
X
entails
a
critique
that
can
be
readily
made
using argument
from
generalization,
parallel
cases,
analogy,
and
classification. For
example,
let’s
say
that
your
critique
of
the
literature
is
that
the implications
of
X
have
not
been
adequately
addressed
in
previous
literature because
X
only
recently
emerged
in
the
literature;
you
would
like
to
assess

the
implications
of
X,
teasing
out
its
merits
and
weaknesses
in
your
paper; how
do
you
go
about
doing
so?
Again,
you
can
look
at
parallel
cases
or similar
cases
and
make
an
argument
as
to
why
strengths
and
weaknesses
of X
would
be
similar
to
strengths
and
weaknesses
of
G,
because
the
two
are similar.
You
can
also
attempt
to
generalize
from
sample
to
population
(what is
true
of
the
sample
(X)
is
applicable
to
the
population
(Y))
or
population to
sample
(what
is
true
of
the
population
is
true
of
the
sample)
as
a
way
of making
your
case. “Designative
claims”
purport
to
answer
a
question
of
fact,
whether something
exists
or
not;
these
types
of
claims
examine
the
relationships
that exist
among
various
phenomenon
in
the
world,
and
are
supported
by
six forms
of
substantive
arguments
(cause,
sign,
generalization,
parallel
case, analogy,
and
classification).
For
example,
let’s
say
that
your
critique
of
the literature
is
that
previous
literature
has
not
examined
the
impact
of
a
child’s reading
scores
on
standardized
assessments
as
predictors
of
serial
killing later
in
adulthood.
Let’s
assume
that
this
shortcoming
is
real.
If
there
is
no literature
that
examines
the
causal
relationship
between
reading
and
serial killing,
then
you
can
look
to
the
relationship
between
reading
and
juvenile delinquency;
there
is
literature
that
provides
a
particular
bent.
You
can
draw on
this
literature
to
make
your
claim—whether
it
exists
or
not.
Or
this
gap in
the
literature
can
facilitate
the
asking
of
an
entirely
different
research question:
what
type
of
media
product
consumption
is
most
likely
to
lead
to serial
killings?
In
this
paper
you
could
draw
on
the
literature
between
media and
serial
murder
to
put
forth
a
unique
claim
of
your
own. “Definitive
claims”
or
“claims
of
concept”
attempt
to
propose
a
definition of
something,
and
can
be
supported
by
arguments
from
parallel
cases, analogy,
and
authoritative
arguments
(Machi
&
McEvoy,
2012).
This
type of
claim
is
consistent
with
one
of
the
most
commonly
occurring
critiques
of literature
that
is
often
made
(Harris,
2014).
Lack
of
definitional
consensus in
X
(any
topic
within
the
social
sciences)
and
ambiguities
in
the
definitions of
X
are
something
that
is
commonly
found
once
you
start
reading
enough on
a
topic.
Consequently,
you
should
be
able
to
propose
a
revised
definition of
your
own.
For
students
who
are
struggling
to
produce
a
claim,
definitive

claims
are
most
amenable
to
non-empirical
work
since
the
gap
that
leads
to the
claim
is
most
easily
evident
once
you
read
enough
of
the
literature. Finally,
you
will
notice
that
in
some
topics
there
is
no
theoretical framework
that
girds
the
topic
or
any
attempt
to
integrate
the
existing findings
into
a
coherent
theory.
You
may
find
lots
of
medium-level
findings, facts
and
figures,
but
little
in
the
way
of
an
overarching
theoretical framework.
Or
you
may
find
that
while
theories
A,
B,
and
C
have
been
used to
explain
X,
theories
K
and
Q
have
not
been
applied
to
X.
You
are beginning
to
think
that
the
application
of
theory
Q
to
phenomenon
X
will lead
to
something
new,
ideas
that
other
scholars
have
overlooked
or
failed to
consider.
If
your
paper
engaged
in
this
type
of
a
move,
you
would
be making
an
interpretive
claim,
a
claim
that
provides
a
“framework”
for understanding
concepts
in
a
new
way
(Machi
&
McEvoy,
2012,
p.
73).
This type
of
a
claim
is
really
ambitious,
for
you
are
at
the
pinnacle
of
academic work:
theorizing.
If
you
can
do
this
in
your
paper
in
a
logically
consistent way,
I
think
I
can
confidently
state
that
you
would
impress
the
heck
out
of your
teachers. As
you
can
see,
the
types
of
claims
that
can
be
made
in
non-empirical papers
are
finite,
delimited
only
by
the
research
questions
you
ask
in
the first
place.
As
I
have
maintained
in
this
book,
asking
the
right
question
in the
first
place
is
one
of
the
difficult
aspects
of
doing
research;
you
have
to make
sure
others
have
not
asked
it
before.
To
avoid
that
pitfall,
I
have advocated
that
the
research
questions
you
ask
should
be
shaped
by
a negation—by
what
others
have
not
done—and
an
affirmation:
what
you
are able
to
realistically
accomplish
in
your
project.
Realistically,
you
will
not
be able
to
gather
longitudinal
data
for
ten
years
on
vulnerable
populations;
you may
not
be
able
to
articulate
the
nuances
of
why
certain
variables
were selected,
coded
a
certain
way,
or
measured
a
particular
way
if
you
are
not entirely
confident
about
quantitative
methods
of
analysis.
That’s
okay.
If you
are
particularly
strong
at
qualitative
methods,
then
the
uncertainty
and anxiety
that
you
as
a
qualitative
researcher
experience
will
be
similarly experienced
by
statisticians.
Empirical
claims
are
one
type
of
claim.
In
fact, an
empirical
paper
will
not
be
feasible
in
most
of
the
courses
you
will
take throughout
your
career
as
a
student.

But
in
every
class
you
take
at
university,
especially
in
the
upper
years,
you will
have
to
write
a
final
paper
that
exceeds
ten
pages.
And
within
those
ten pages,
you
will
have
to
summarize
the
literature,
critique
the
literature,
and produce
an
argument
and
a
claim
of
your
own.
This
is
the
venerable “paper”
in
universities.
To
write
such
a
paper,
I
have
argued
that
the questions
you
ask
ought
to
be
shaped
by
the
shortcomings
in
the
literature, which
can
then
be
resolved
through
one
of
the
five
claims
that
can
be
made non-empirically
as
demonstrated
in
this
section.
Moreover,
I
have
argued that
the
type
of
claims
you
make
in
your
paper
should
be
shaped
by
the questions
you
ask,
which
are
determined
by
the
shortcoming
in
the literature.
To
write
effectively,
you
have
to
read
the
work
of
others.
There
is no
getting
around
this
brutal
fact
of
university
life.

Conclusion This
chapter
spent
some
time
differentiating
between
a
finding
(ROF)
and an
argument/claim
(ROA)
as
a
way
of
illustrating
the
citationality
of
a paper.
I
attributed
one
of
the
recurring
problems
that
students
encounter
in their
writing
as
one
related
to
citationality.
Moreover,
I
argued
that
the distinction
between
an
ROA
and
an
ROF
was
implicative
for
the
simple reason
that
students
would
need
to
distinguish
between
the
two
if
they
were to
write
their
own
non-empirical
papers.
To
that
end,
I
presented
two
ways that
a
non-empirical
paper
can
be
structured:
a
linear
approach
and
a
claimcentered
approach.
The
two
models
of
structuring
one’s
paper
lead
to slightly
different
ways
in
which
the
three
components
of
a
claim
can
be organized:
previous
literature,
critique,
and
a
reformulation.

6
How
to
Write
an
Abstract,
Introduction, Discussion,
and
Conclusion The
way
the
chapters
are
organized
in
this
book
is
a
clue
to
the
order
in which
a
typical
social
science
paper
should
be
written.
I
want
to
emphasize again
that
this
order
is
my
personal
preference;
some
may
agree
with
me; others
will
disagree.
However,
the
sequential
order
in
which
the
chapters are
organized
reflects
the
order
of
importance
in
the
context
of
social science
writing
as
I
have
attempted
to
explain
in
this
book.
I
began
with attempting
to
teach
you
how
to
formulate
research
questions
from
the shortcomings
that
arise
from
your
readings
(Chapter
2);
you
then
learned how
to
synthesize
the
literature
(Chapter
3).
As
I
have
argued,
the
literature review
is
the
most
implicative
portion
of
a
social
science
paper,
for
the criticism
you
develop
emerges
from
the
shortcomings
that
exist
in
the literature
(Chapter
4);
the
empirical
and
non-empirical
claims
you
make
in your
paper
will
be
primarily
shaped
by
the
gaps
that
exist
in
the
literature (Chapter
5).
And
as
I
will
show
in
this
chapter,
the
literature
review
also shapes
the
contents
of
the
discussion
and
conclusion
you
will
write. Because
it
is
so
important,
I
have
always
found
that
it
is
best
to
write
the literature
review
first.
Others
may
find
the
order
illogical.
I
will
leave
the final
judgement
to
you.
In
this
chapter,
I
demonstrate
how
to
write
an abstract,
an
introduction,
a
discussion,
and
a
conclusion
using
the
reading codes.

How
to
Write
an
Abstract After
I
have
completed
the
literature
review,
I
begin
writing
the
results section.
There
is
a
reason
why
the
results
are
so
important
in
the
papers
you will
write.
What
are
the
findings
that
you
are
reporting
in
your
empirical paper
or
the
claims
that
you
are
putting
forth
in
your
theoretical
paper?
Is your
paper
composed
of
ROFs
or
ROAs?
Either
way,
it
is
important
to
get your
main
claims
in
order
before
you
write
other
sections
of
the
paper,
for those
claims
will
determine
a
significant
portion
of
what
you
write.
Let’s

take
the
most
concise
part
of
a
social
science
paper,
the
abstract.
An
abstract is
a
very
brief
summary
of
your
paper
in
100
to
200
words.
For
your professors
who
have
to
write
abstracts
for
nearly
everything
they
do,
from conference
papers
to
grant
submissions,
writing
a
150-word
abstract
is
like breathing;
they
can
do
it
in
their
sleep.
However,
if
you
have
never
written one,
it
is
possible
that
you
could
sit
at
your
desk
for
hours
trying
to
figure out
what
to
put
into
an
abstract
if
no
specific
directions
have
been
provided. As
far
as
I
am
concerned,
telling
students
to
provide
a
“very
brief
summary of
a
paper
in
150
words”
is
not
a
very
good
way
to
teach
them
how
to
write an
abstract.
An
instructor
who
tells
you
to
do
that
is
telling
you
what
to
do, not
teaching
you
how
to
do
it. So
how
do
you
write
an
abstract?
Or
better
yet,
what
is
the
most
effective way
for
me
to
teach
you
how
to
write
one?
You
will
have
guessed
my answer
correctly
if
you
anticipated
that
the
directions
will
somehow
be related
to
the
act
of
reading.
If
you
read
the
abstracts
of
30
journal
articles on
a
topic
you
have
selected,
and
code
them
at
the
right
margins
using
the reading
codes,
you
will
notice
a
wide
variation
in
the
way
those
abstracts have
been
composed.
You
will
see
SPLs,
CPLs,
and
GAPs.
However,
there will
be
two
codes
that
appear
consistently:
ROF/ROA
and
WTD.
An abstract
is
a
concise
summary
of
what
the
article
is
about.
In
order
to
write an
abstract
it
is
important
to
understand
the
parts
that
make
it
up.
So
what code
represents
the
golden
nugget
of
a
paper?
The
ROF/ROA.
If
you
are still
wondering
how
to
write
an
abstract,
consider
the
following
rubric: Abstract:
{SPL}
+
{CPL/GAP}
+
ROF/ROA
+
WTD The
SPL
and
CPL
may
or
may
not
need
to
be
present;
that’s
why
they
are
in brackets.
You
will
notice
from
your
reading
that
some
authors
include
them while
others
do
not.
However,
if
you
were
to
write
one
sentence
devoted
to an
SPL,
one
sentence
to
a
CPL,
one
sentence
that
summarizes
your
main finding/argument
(ROF/ROA),
and
one
sentence
for
a
WTD,
you
would have
a
rough
abstract
using
four
sentences.
When
you
use
the
reading
codes to
write
your
abstract
(and
paper
as
a
whole),
you
are
breaking
down
a paper
and
its
sections
into
constitutive
sentences
in
the
form
of
reading codes.
Surely
you
can
write
a
sentence
that
resembles
an
SPL;
you
would

have
read
lots
of
sentences
like
it.
You
should
have
no
problem
writing
an ROF/ROA
in
one
sentence
as
you
would
have
reported
your findings/arguments
in
the
results
section.
Once
you
start
breaking
down sections
of
social
science
papers
into
the
reading
codes,
the
task
of
writing an
introduction,
discussion,
and
conclusion
does
not
seem
so
daunting. Again,
compare
the
difference
in
the
quality
of
instruction
between
“briefly summarize
your
paper
in
150
words”
and
“write
one
SPL,
one
CPL,
one ROF/ROA,
and
one
WTD
sentence.”
The
former
is
a
vague
directive
that
is couched
as
a
specific
direction.
It
does
not
teach
you
how
to
write
an abstract
at
all.
It
merely
tells
you
to
write
one.
What
goes
into
those
150 words
that
make
up
the
abstract?
The
directions
I
have
introduced
are concrete
and
specific.
There
should
be
no
doubt
about
the
sentences
that make
up
an
abstract.
Removing
this
ambiguity
in
the
teaching
of
writing leads
to
much
more
concrete
results.
If
you
don’t
believe
me,
try
writing
an abstract
on
your
own
for
your
next
paper
using
the
rubric
provided
above.

How
to
Write
an
Introduction If
an
abstract
summarizes
the
article
in
150
words
or
less,
then
what
types of
sentences
make
up
an
introduction?
If
you
read
the
introductions
of
30 journal
articles
on
a
topic
you
have
selected,
and
then
code
them
at
the
right margins
using
the
reading
codes,
you
will
again
notice
variations.
The
only exception
you
might
find
is
the
introductions
that
are
written
in
the discipline
of
psychology
where
a
general
introduction
and
a
literature review
are
compressed
into
one
section
under
the
heading
of
“introduction.” An
introduction
in
the
rest
of
social
science
journal
articles
contains
a summary
and
an
itinerary
of
where
the
paper
will
go
and
what
it
will accomplish
in
two
to
five
paragraphs. One
of
the
differences
between
excellent
journal
articles
and
not-soexcellent
journal
articles
is
that
an
introduction
in
a
well-written
paper provides
a
justification
and
significance
of
the
work,
the
topic,
as
well
as
the shortcoming
in
the
literature.
By
pointing
out
the
significance
of
the
topic, the
gap,
and
the
paper
itself,
the
author
is,
in
essence,
providing
a
Rationale

(RAT)
for
the
paper.
A
paper
that
is
well
written
presents
the
RAT
in convincing
ways,
and
leads
you
to
“see”
the
logic
behind
the
project,
its need,
and
its
significance.
Not
all
journal
articles
have
RATs
in introductions;
not
all
journal
articles
logically
prepare
their
readers
to
“see” the
necessity
of
their
projects
and
claims.
If
you
don’t
believe
me,
apply
the reading
codes
to
journal
articles
and
then
compare
your
findings.
Rather than
just
assessing
the
merits
of
your
reading
in
terms
of
opinion-based preferences
(e.g.,
I
like
Smith’s
article),
you
should
be
able
to
formulate
an assessment
of
that
reading
based
on
the
presence
and
absence
of
the
reading codes.
From
my
reading
I
have
found
that
the
excellent
papers
contain
wellarticulated
RATs.
So,
if
you
want
to
emulate
a
well-written
paper,
your introduction
should
be
composed
of
the
following
codes: Introduction:
SPL
+
CPL/GAP
+
RAT
+
WTD You
already
know
how
to
write
a
sentence
that
functions
as
an
SPL,
CPL, and
a
GAP,
but
how
do
you
write
the
RATs
for
your
paper?
In
Chapter
4,
I stated
that
you
should
be
constantly
asking
three
questions
during
the reading
process:
(1)
What
shortcomings
exist
in
the
literature?
(2)
Can
I
fix this
gap?
(3)
So
what?
If
you
answer
the
“so
what”
question
with
related questions
such
as
“Why
is
this
topic
important?”
“Why
should
anyone
care about
my
topic?”
and
“Why
should
anyone
care
about
my
paper?,”
then
the answers
you
come
up
with
will
become
the
RATs
of
your
paper.
It
is important
to
rehearse
the
answers
to
these
questions
throughout
the
reading process
so
that
they
become
reflexive
and
then
jot
them
down
somewhere. If
you
are
able
to
provide
the
reader
with
two
to
three
RATs
in
the introduction,
these
should
be
sufficient
to
convince
them
as
to
why
your paper
is
important
and
worth
reading.
The
grading
code
FSR
illustrates
a big
error
that
students
make
in
their
papers
by
failing
to
explicitly
state
why their
work
is
necessary
and
significant.
I
have
noticed
that
some
really excellent
papers
contain
up
to
five
RATs
in
their
introduction.
These obsessive
authors
are
overachievers.
We
should
emulate
these
types
of introductions. The
really
excellent
papers
contain
well-justified
RATs.
However,
most papers
contain
a
WTD.
This
requirement
applies
to
term
papers,
empirical

papers,
theoretical
papers,
PhD
dissertations,
and
professional
journal articles.
Without
sentences
that
introduce
the
reader
to
the
main
objective
of the
paper,
what
the
paper
will
accomplish,
by
definition,
you
have
failed
to write
an
adequate
introduction.
You
have
to
write
sentences
that
look
like “In
this
paper,
I
will
do
X
…
This
paper
examines
X
…
”
The
absence
of
a WTD
leads
to
the
code
NOWTD,
a
major
error
in
social
science
papers. You
may
be
wondering
here
how
a
WTD
differs
from
a
thesis
statement. That
question
is
a
very
good
one.
However,
I
dislike
using
the
term
“thesis” or
“thesis
statement”
for
a
number
of
reasons. As
I
argued
in
a
previous
work
(Shon,
2015),
some
use
“thesis
statement” to
indicate
a
conclusion
of
sorts—“a
case
developed
using
existing knowledge,
sound
evidence,
and
reasoned
argument”
(Machi
&
McEvoy, 2012,
p.
1).
If
“thesis
statement”
refers
to
a
conclusion
of
sorts,
then
what
is an
appropriate
way
to
describe
the
conclusion
section
that
always
appears
at the
end
of
journal
articles?
Some
use
the
term
“thesis”
to
refer
to
a
paper’s main
argument
or
idea
(Lipson,
2005;
Osmond,
2013).
If
“thesis”
refers
to
a main
argument,
then
what
is
a
thesis
statement?
Finally,
the
term
“thesis”
is used
to
indicate
the
final
product
that
undergraduate
and
graduate
students produce
as
part
of
their
requirements
to
fulfill
their
degrees
(i.e.,
BA,
MA, and
PhD).
The
words
“thesis”
and
“thesis
statement”
have
too
many meanings:
they
are
likely
to
lead
to
confusion.
It
is
a
bit
embarrassing
for me
to
admit
this,
but
it
took
a
long
time
for
me
to
figure
out
the
three different
meanings
behind
the
term
“thesis.”
I
know
that
some
of
you
might be
experiencing
a
similar
type
of
uncertainty.
Thus,
I
figured
it
was
just easier
to
come
up
with
an
entirely
new
term
to
avoid
this
confusion. Just
so
that
you
do
not
become
confused,
let
me
reiterate
this
point.
A
WTD tells
readers
what
you
will
do
in
the
paper.
A
thesis
statement
combines
a WTD
and
the
main
ROA
into
one
sentence.
For
example,
“In
this
paper,
(1) I
will
examine
reading
scores
of
elementary
school
children
as
predictors
of violent
behavior,
and
(2)
argue
that
no
relationships
exists
between
the
two despite
the
claims
of
previous
authors.”
The
first
sentence
illustrates
a WTD;
the
second
sentence
is
an
ROA
(it
contains
the
main
argument
that
is being
made
in
the
paper).
In
order
to
write
the
ROA
portion
of
a
thesis statement,
you
first
have
to
know
what
that
ROA
is.
A
thesis
statement

combines
both.
Hence,
by
definition,
you
should
not
be
able
to
write
an introduction
first.
Second,
inserting
a
main
claim
in
the
introduction
is
not the
protocol
in
the
social
sciences;
it
is
an
accepted
convention
in
the humanities,
but
not
necessarily
so
in
the
social
sciences.
There
is
some variation
in
the
practice.
For
your
purposes,
if
your
instructors
want
a “thesis
statement”
in
the
introduction,
by
all
means,
give
it
to
them,
for
they will
determine
your
grade.
It’s
not
that
difficult:
you
just
add
the
main
ROA to
a
WTD
that
you
were
going
to
write
anyway.
You
should
have
no problem
writing
one
now.

How
to
Write
a
Discussion You
have
written
the
literature
review
and
its
critique,
and
you
have analyzed
the
data
and
produced
an
empirical
claim
(ROF)
or
used
the existing
findings
to
argue
for
a
claim
of
your
own
(ROA)
(see
Chapter
5). To
write
the
discussion
section
of
your
social
science
paper,
it
is
essential that
you
have
completed
this
part,
for
you
will
have
to
contextualize
your ROF/ROA
against
the
literature.
The
discussion
section
is
the
primary
site where
this
compare
and
contrast
move
is
made
and
is
best
represented
by the
following
rubric: Discussion:
WTDD
+
ROF
+
RTC
+
RCL You
should
begin
by
stating
in
the
past
tense
what
you
already
did
in
the paper
(WTDD).
If
the
WTDD
sentence
you
are
writing
feels
a
bit
repetitive, you
are
feeling
that
way
because
it’s
true.
It
will
be
the
third
time
you
will have
written
a
sentence
like
this:
in
the
abstract,
in
the
introduction,
and
in the
discussion.
One
of
my
teachers
hammered
this
point
home:
in
social science
writing,
you
have
to
repeat
the
same
thing
multiple
times
in multiple
places.
The
same
applies
to
ROFs/ROAs.
You
will
have
written them
in
the
abstract,
the
results
section,
and
in
the
discussion.
Once
you have
repeated
your
results
for
the
third
time,
you
should
begin contextualizing
those
findings
relative
to
the
literature.
Does
your finding/argument
support
the
literature?
Is
it
consistent
with
what
others have
said
about
a
topic?
If
so,
then
your
finding/argument
is
consistent
with

the
literature.
The
code
RCL
refers
to
claims
that
are
consistent
with previous
findings.
If
your
finding/argument
does
not
support
the
existing research,
then
it
is
inconsistent
with
the
literature;
the
code
RTC
captures the
incompatibility
of
your
ROF/ROA
to
the
claims
of
previous
researchers. The
reading
codes
Results
Consistent
with
the
Literature
(RCL)
and
Results to
the
Contrary
(RTC)
illustrate
the
two
primary
interpretive
moves
that
are made
in
the
discussion
section.
If
you
fail
to
interpret
your
findings
relative to
prior
research,
then
the
grading
code
FCC
is
applicable,
for
you
would have
failed
to
connect
your
research
to
past
research.
Past
research
is
the literature.
It
is
the
work
that
others
have
already
done.
Neglecting
to
make the
larger
connections
to
the
literature
is
a
big
error,
for
you
are
situating your
claims
against
a
community
of
claims
that
have
been
made
in
the
past. Just
as
you
entered
the
community
of
scholarship
in
the
literature
by summarizing
notable
theories,
theorists,
and
major
themes
in
the
literature review,
now
you
are
connecting
yourself
again
to
the
community
of scholars
by
contextualizing
your
claims
relative
to
others.
That
is
the
main point
of
a
discussion.
Of
course,
you
can’t
connect
your
claims
to
the literature
if
you
don’t
have
them;
moreover,
you
can’t
connect
your
main findings
to
the
larger
literature
if
you
do
not
know
what
the
literature
is. That
is
why
it
is
imperative
you
become
well
versed
in
the
literature. The
discussion
section
is
also
the
place
where
you
are
free
to
speculate
and resolve
any
other
tensions
and
inconsistencies
you
may
have
found.
For example,
if
there
are
implications
to
your
findings
for
public
policy
or ethics,
theory
or
practice,
then
this
is
probably
the
best
place
to
tease
those out.
There
is
a
bit
of
room
to
be
creative
here,
for
you
are
speculating
and conjecturing
about
the
implications
of
your
findings.

How
to
Write
a
Conclusion A
conclusion
in
a
social
science
paper
is
a
bit
different
from
the
typical understanding
of
the
term.
You
are
not
necessarily
proclaiming
the
finality of
your
claim.
Instead,
two
of
the
tasks
you
should
accomplish
in
a conclusion
are
related
to
criticism:

Conclusion:
self-critique
+
RFW First,
just
as
you
have
been
critiquing
the
work
of
others
as
a
way
of
finding a
shortcoming
in
the
literature
as
a
prelude
to
your
own
claim,
you
should aim
that
critique
at
your
own
work.
If
you
were
to
apply
the
principles
of criticism
to
your
own
paper,
its
findings/arguments,
and
method,
what shortcomings
would
you
find?
Pointing
out
the
limitations
and shortcomings
of
your
own
work
(self-critique)
is
one
of
the
elements
that has
to
be
present
in
a
social
science
conclusion. Second,
you
are
aware
of
your
own
limitations.
You
should
now
make Recommendations
for
Future
Works
(RFW)
based
on
those
limitations. This
move
again
is
underlined
by
a
principle
of
negation.
You
are
telling
the reader
about
what
has
not
been
done;
you
are
telling
them
about
what
needs to
be
done.
Essentially,
you
are
pointing
out
the
shortcomings
that
still
exist in
the
literature
despite
the
contributions
you
have
made
in
your
paper. After
you
have
made
your
main
claims,
you
will
no
doubt
notice
that
your claim
makes
a
small
dent
in
the
knowledge
base.
You
will
notice
that
in order
to
advance
the
literature
forward,
other
research
will
need
to
be carried
out.
You
should
point
out
those
RFWs
in
the
conclusion.

A
Note
on
Data
and
Methods As
noted
throughout
this
book,
one
of
the
principal
distinctions
that
has
to be
made
is
whether
your
paper
contains
a
finding
or
an
argument.
If
your project
is
an
empirical
one,
then
you
will
have
an
ROF;
if
your
project
is non-empirical,
then
you
will
have
an
ROA.
A
separate
section
on
data
and methods
is
not
necessary
if
the
claims
you
are
making
are
not
based
on analysis
of
data.
Instead,
your
argument
is
built
into
the
main
headings
and the
claims
made
in
them.
If,
however,
you
are
using
data
of
some
sort, whether
they
are
an
aggregate
preexisting
data,
textual
data
that
you
have amassed
on
your
own,
or
primary
documents
such
as
newspapers
that
you have
collected
as
a
case
study,
then
you
will
have
to
create
a
separate section
as
a
major
heading
for
data
and
methods.

Although
difficult
to
represent
using
a
rubric
as
in
previous
sections,
here are
some
of
the
things
that
have
to
be
included
in
the
data
and
methods section.
First,
you
have
to
describe
the
data:
what
they
are
and
how
they were
acquired.
You
have
to
select
the
variables
that
you
will
be
using
in your
empirical
project;
how
those
variables
will
be
defined
and
measured has
to
be
included
as
well.
Any
coding
procedures
you
have
followed
will have
to
be
articulated.
After
you
have
described
the
data,
defined
the variables,
and
how
they
will
be
measured,
the
next
step
entails
spelling
out a
method
of
analysis
(see
Kallet,
2004). There
is
no
systematic
method
of
analysis
in
non-empirical
papers.
An argument
is
made
syllogistically.
There
are
fallacies
you
must
avoid,
but
the key
step
in
an
argument
is
the
validity
of
the
inference
that
is
made
from
the premise
to
the
conclusion.
The
quality
of
the
inference
as
well
as
the soundness
of
one’s
premises
can
be
challenged;
however,
the
absence
of
a methodology
in
syllogistic
reasoning
precludes
the
inclusion
of
a
method
of analysis
in
theoretical
papers.
However,
a
plan
of
analysis
is
necessary
in empirical
papers,
and
you
will
need
to
spell
this
out
explicity.
If
you
are carrying
out
statistical
tests,
then
those
tests
have
to
be
noted;
if
you
are doing
a
qualitative
analysis,
then
the
principles
of
induction
or
the
software you
may
have
used
have
to
be
noted
in
this
section.
If
this
task
seems
too intimidating,
don’t
stress
yourself
out
over
it.
Rather
than
trying
to
write this
section
from
scratch,
look
to
those
papers
you
have
read
in
the literature
review
that
have
used
a
data
source
and
method
of
analysis comparable
to
yours.
Use
those
well-written
papers
as
examples
and
guides to
help
you
shape
the
structure
and
content
of
your
methods
section.
You
do not
need
to
reinvent
the
wheel.
Rely
on
the
structure
of
wheels
that
others have
formulated
and
adapt
them
for
your
own
purposes.

Conclusion In
this
chapter,
I
have
provided
you
with
some
general
formulas
to
keep
in mind
as
you
write
an
abstract,
an
introduction,
a
discussion,
a
conclusion, and
a
data
and
methods
section
in
your
social
science
papers.
Rather
than telling
you
how
to
write
the
respective
sections
of
social
science
papers
by

primarily
giving
you
verbal
directions
(e.g.,
summarize
your
paper
in
100 words;
provide
a
map
of
what
your
paper
will
accomplish),
I
have advocated
that
you
apply
the
reading
codes
to
the
writing
process
by emulating
the
functions
that
the
reading
codes
perform
in
the
papers
that you
are
reading.
I
have
argued
that
composing
those
sections
of
your
paper by
writing
sentences
that
perform
the
functions
of
texts
removes
some
of the
ambiguity
and
uncertainties
of
writing
you
may
have
encountered
in
the past.
This
method
of
teaching
you
how
to
write
a
social
science
paper
is
a bit
different
from
what
other
how-to
authors
may
have
instructed.
My method
of
teaching
you
how
to
write
is
intricately
connected
to
the
act
of reading;
my
argument
has
been
that
you
cannot
write
if
you
do
not
read adequately.
I
have
made
this
argument
from
the
start,
and
I
continue
to make
it.

7
Conclusion:
A
Do-It-Yourself
(DIY)
Model
of Social
Science
Writing In
this
book,
I
have
argued
that
writing
papers
need
not
be
so
onerous
if
the reading
codes
are
used
to
organize
your
papers.
I
have
argued
that
once
you understand
the
logic
of
social
science
texts,
you
can
begin
to
emulate
those structures
in
your
writing
by
crafting
sentences
that
resemble
the
very
codes you
have
been
reading.
As
noted
in
a
preceding
work
(Shon,
2015),
it
has been
my
contention
that
reading
and
writing
are
not
distinct
and
separate acts,
but
interrelated
ones;
that
in
order
to
write,
you
need
to
read
in
ways that
will
help
you
recall
and
organize
the
information
from
your
readings. This
book
has
been
an
attempt
to
teach
you
how
to
make
that
happen. From
my
experience,
one
of
the
recurring
problems
in
the
social
sciences
is that
students
are
not
appropriately
taught
how
to
write.
One
of
the
causes
of the
problem,
as
far
as
I
can
diagnose,
is
that
the
writing
instruction
students receive
in
their
first
year
of
the
university
is
based
on
a
different
set
of assumptions.
It
is
not
that
you
are
not
taught
how
to
write;
instead,
you
are taught
how
to
write
in
ways
that
differ
from
the
normative
conventions
that social
science
disciplines
require.
Moreover,
introductory
composition courses
do
not
include
reading
as
one
of
the
outcomes.
The
ability
to
read social
science
texts
is
assumed
a
priori.
This
presupposition,
I
believe,
is
a big
mistake.
I
am
sure
that
most
students
who
will
read
this
book
may
have already
taken
and
passed
one
or
two
writing
courses
as
part
of
their university-mandated
curriculum
requirements.
These
composition
courses are
almost
exclusively
taught
by
English
instructors,
whose
disciplinary canons,
methodology,
and
expectations
are
different
from
the
standards
that your
instructors
in
the
social
sciences
require.
Consider
the
following experience
recounted
by
one
of
my
favorite
Sunday
morning
talk
show hosts: In
my
first
year
in
college,
I
took
an
English
composition
course.
My teacher,
an
elderly
Englishman
with
a
sharp
wit
and
an
even
sharper

red
pencil,
was
tough.
I
realized
that
coming
from
India,
I
was
pretty good
at
taking
tests,
at
regurgitating
stuff
I
had
memorized,
but
not
so good
at
expressing
my
own
ideas.
Over
the
course
of
that
semester,
I found
myself
beginning
to
make
the
connection
between
thought
and word.
(Commencement
speech
given
at
Sarah
Lawrence
College
on May
23,
2014
by
Fareed
Zakaria) There
are
two
notable
points
I
want
to
make
about
the
preceding
excerpt. Obviously,
Zakaria
is
talking
about
the
values
of
a
liberal
arts
education
and the
skills
he
acquired
while
completing
a
degree
in
a
liberal
arts
program.
I cannot
agree
with
him
more.
However,
I
do
not
want
to
dwell
on
the obvious
part
of
the
statement.
I
want
to
use
this
excerpt
to
emphasize
the points
I
have
been
trying
to
make
in
this
book.
The
first
notable
point
is
that Zakaria
implies
the
predictability
of
some
big
and
little
errors
by
astutely pointing
out
one
of
the
weaknesses
of
some
international
students. Generally,
students
from
Asia
are
adept
at
multiple
choice
examinations that
require
rote
memorization,
but
do
not
do
very
well
at
expressing
their own
ideas.
If
students
simply
accept
the
authority
of
their
teachers
as
truths and
are
not
used
to
challenging
and
critiquing
the
ideas
they
encounter, especially
those
that
flow
down
from
authority
figures
(Kim
&
Park,
2000), then
critiquing
the
texts
they
read
as
a
prelude
to
their
own
claims
will necessarily
be
difficult.
Students
from
Asia
also
tend
to
struggle
with
tenses and
the
use
of
determiners
in
their
writing.
Those
small
errors
are
shaped
by the
structure
of
their
native
languages.
In
fact,
the
desire
to
emulate
their Western
counterparts
in
their
ability
to
think
critically
and
originally
is typically
why
Asian
parents
send
their
kids
to
the
West.
This
self-limitation that
Zakaria
expresses
encapsulates
the
value
of
good
teachers
who
can
help students
overcome
those
limitations
and
facilitate
the
learning
process. Second,
Zakaria’s
point
that
he
was
“not
so
good
at
expressing
my
own ideas”
exemplifies
the
problematic
aspects
of
essay
writing
in
the
traditional model
of
composition.
It
presupposes
the
expression
of
one’s
own
ideas
as
a higher
order
value
that
overrides
and
overshadows
others,
which
tends
to lead
to
lone-wolf
claims.
But
here
is
the
point
I
have
been
trying
to
get across
in
this
book:
why
should
anyone
care
about
your
ideas?
Why
is
your

idea
worth
paying
attention
to?
You
cannot
simply
proclaim
the
validity
and value
of
your
ideas
on
the
premise
that
they
are
good
because
you
made
it so.
Only
narcissists
and
solipsists
(and
Nietzsche)
are
capable
of
that
kind of
arrogance.
Research
papers
are
not
expressions
of
your
thoughts,
beliefs, and
feelings.
Papers
that
lead
to
empirical
and
non-empirical
claims
are organized
in
ways
that
are
shaped
by
the
conventions
of
the
social
sciences. Why
are
you
expressing
your
ideas
in
the
first
place?
What
deficiencies
in the
ideas
that
preceded
yours
led
you
to
reformulate
the
old
ideas
into
new ones
of
your
own?
Does
your
idea
push
against
a
prior
claim
that
someone else
has
already
made?
Does
the
idea
you
expressed
resemble
an
idea someone
has
already
made?
Does
your
idea
support
or
refute
an
idea someone
else
has
already
made?
This
is
the
problem
I
found
with
students who
had
completed
English
composition
classes,
and
then
attempted
to apply
the
model
that
they
learned
to
social
science
courses
(criminology
in particular);
they
were
good
at
expressing
their
own
ideas,
without adequately
recognizing
the
genealogy
and
significance
of
the
ideas
that preceded
their
own.
English
teachers
may
teach
you
how
to
make connections
between
thought
and
word
and
how
to
craft
a
sentence—which are
invaluable
lessons—but
they
are
not
able
to
teach
students
how
to
read and
write
in
ways
that
meet
the
demands
of
the
social
sciences. My
hunch
is
that
your
high
school
English
teachers
may
have
already influenced
you
to
write
a
certain
way
even
before
you
set
foot
in
your university.
As
far
as
I
can
tell,
you
have
been
taught
a
three-section
model of
an
essay,
otherwise
known
as
a
five-paragraph
model,
to
complete
your essay,
where
the
objective
is
to
“impress
your
reader
that
you
have
written
a relevant,
coherent
and
well-structured
essay
that
answers
the
question
that has
been
set”
(Shiach,
2009,
p.
9).
You
have
been
taught
to
create
an
outline and
a
structure
for
your
essay
using
this
five-paragraph
model.
There
are two
notable
observations
about
this
model
that
I
want
to
comment
on.
First, the
essays
that
you
have
been
writing
were
most
likely
in
response
to questions
your
teachers
posed,
i.e.,
you
did
not
come
up
with
the
question you
are
attempting
to
answer
in
your
essay.
You
did
not
read
through
the literature
on
a
topic
and
find
a
Point
of
Critique
of
your
own
before
the question
was
asked.
Second,
the
five-paragraph
model
of
essay
writing
is

inadequate
to
meet
the
needs
of
the
social
sciences.
The
five-paragraph model
contains,
essentially,
three
sections:
the
introduction,
conclusion,
and the
main
body
where
students
are
expected
to
develop
the
main
argument
of the
essay;
the
body
either
affirms
a
thesis
or
provides
a
counterpoint. This
model
is
inadequate
for
a
number
of
reasons.
First,
it
does
not
include previous
literature
as
a
warrantable
section
of
its
own,
which
I
have
argued is
important
as
it
shapes
the
form
of
the
research
question
asked
as
well
as the
methodology
selected.
This
omission
is
a
major
one
that
arises
from essays
that
disproportionately
attempt
to
get
students
to
express
their
own ideas
first
before
they
have
competently
understood
the
ideas
of
others. Second,
students
are
not
taught
why
they
are
making
a
certain
type
of
an argument
in
the
first
place
in
the
five-paragraph
model.
If
you
are
writing
an essay
because
your
teachers
told
you
to
do
it,
then
you
are
missing
the higher
order
logic
behind
claims
that
are
made
in
the
social
sciences.
Third, the
model
has
not
incorporated
the
concept
of
criticism
and
critique
as
a prerequisite
to
a
claim.
This
process
of
synthesis,
critique,
and reformulation
is
tacitly
and
blindly
assumed.
Fourth,
putting
forth
a
claim without
data
in
an
empirical
sense
is
a
highly
advanced
activity,
one
that most
high
school
students
and
undergraduate
university
students
are
not adequately
trained
to
follow
without
a
firm
methodological
footing
first.
As I
argued
in
Chapter
5,
you
have
to
produce
something
out
of
almost
nothing in
non-empirical
papers.
Even
for
experienced
professors,
these
types
of paper
are
challenging
to
write.
The
magnitude
of
the
task
for
undergraduate students,
I
presume,
must
be
enough
to
produce
acute
bouts
of
anxiety
and panic. Fifth,
when
you
are
accustomed
to
writing
two-
to
five-page
essays
(which make
up
about
90%
of
university
writing
assignments),
the
possibility
of writing
much
more
extended
texts
(15
to
20
pages)
generates
fear
because you
have
never
been
asked
to
produce
such
a
complex
text.
Your
mind literally
starts
racing
with
thoughts
about
how
you
will
fill
the
pages
as
soon as
the
assignment
is
received;
once
this
process
starts,
you
can
no
longer control
the
thought
processes
in
your
own
mind.
In
the
model
of
writing
I have
proffered,
the
page
number
is
an
arbitrary
imposition
that
your instructor
has
imposed
which
you
need
not
fear;
a
much
more
fundamental

issue
is
the
social
science
logic
that
undergirds
your
writing.
It
has
been
my argument
that
once
you
understand
the
logic
behind
social
science
texts, you
can
approach
your
writing
projects
with
confidence,
without
fear
and diffidence.
Once
you
understand
this
logic,
you
will
be
much
more concerned
about
the
thematic
organization
of
your
literature
reviews
and
the quality
of
your
arguments
and
claims
rather
than
just
page
numbers. In
order
to
reach
this
state
of
confidence
and
certitude
in
one’s
own
ability to
write
academic
papers,
certain
preconditions
need
to
be
in
place.
The
first precondition
is
the
right
attitude.
What
I
have
found
is
that
as
much
as
we adults
complain
about
young
people
and
their
lazy
habits,
lackadaisical attitudes,
and
inconsistent
work
ethic,
young
people
hunger
and
thirst
for structure
and
order.
They
do
not
shy
away
from
their
challenges.
What
I have
found
is
that
if
you
challenge
students,
and
then
provide
the
right directions,
they
will
meet
your
expectations.
I
am
constantly
amazed
at
the resourcefulness
of
my
students
to
realize
the
challenges
they
face
in
their scholarly
and
life
pursuits.
Therefore,
your
instructors
should
be encouraging
you
to
be
creative
and
original
in
your
works
by
providing
you with
the
appropriate
guidance
to
be
able
to
accomplish
those
tasks.
I
believe that
the
reading
codes
I
have
developed
are
the
right
tools
for
students
to possess
in
order
to
be
successful
in
their
university
careers. There
may
be
institutional
barriers
that
might
make
it
difficult
to
realize your
objectives
of
thinking,
reading,
and
writing
clearly
in
the
social sciences.
First,
university
writing
curriculums
tend
to
be
dominated
by English
departments,
instructors
who
are
trained
in
modes
of
teaching
and methodological
expertise
that
are
very
different
from
what
social
scientists do.
Second,
your
instructors
in
the
social
sciences
may
not
be
the
best placed
to
teach
you
how
to
write.
They
tend
to
be
subject
matter
experts: they
may
be
knowledgeable
about
areas
such
as
the
sociology
of
health, race
and
education,
clinical
psychology,
criminology,
and
nursing;
however, translating
that
knowledge
and
their
own
practice
of
writing
into
teaching you
how
to
write
does
not
necessarily
carry
over.
In
the
traditional
model
of a
university,
writing
competencies
are
acquired
in
the
first
year
composition courses;
it
is
then
left
to
students’
respective
programs
to
meet
their
writing requirements.
I
have
argued
that
this
model
is
not
adequate.
If
there
are

numerous
institutional
barriers
that
make
your
path
to
competence
a difficult
objective
to
achieve,
I
would
ask
you
to
consider
how
you
can complement
the
lessons
you
have
already
received
with
the
tools
I
have proffered
in
this
book.
To
be
able
to
write
empirical
and
non-empirical papers
with
confidence,
I
provided
a
benchmark
of
the
tasks
you
should
be able
to
perform
throughout
your
time
at
a
university. The
goal
is
to
be
able
to
self-direct
a
research
project
on
your
own.
You should
be
able
to
pick
a
topic,
read
through
the
literature,
find
a shortcoming
you
can
realistically
fix,
collect
data,
analyze
those
data
using the
appropriate
methodology,
and
write
up
the
results
in
the
texts
you
are required
to
produce.
As
I
have
been
saying
in
this
book,
social
science writing
projects
vary
only
in
their
scope
and
sophistication,
not
their
logic. A
doctoral
student
may
be
expected
to
do
all
of
the
preceding
tasks
in
200 to
300
pages;
a
Master’s
student
in
60
to
90
pages;
an
honors
thesis
student in
30
to
90
pages;
a
capstone
course
student
in
15
to
20
pages.
However,
the logic
is
exactly
the
same.
The
respective
research
projects
are
constrained only
by
the
sophistication
and
scope
of
the
project—and
time.
If
the primary
objective
of
a
university
education
is
to
be
able
to
complete
a
selfdirected
piece
of
independent
research,
then
what
are
the
preceding
tasks you
need
to
master
in
order
to
produce
the
caliber
of
texts
required
by
your respective
disciplines?

In
the
first
year
of
university,
you
need
to
be
able
to
read
through
the literature
on
a
topic
you
have
selected.
Using
a
minimum
of
15
and
a maximum
of
20
peer-reviewed
journal
articles
as
scholarly
sources,
you

should
be
able
to
read
journal
articles
and
insert
reading
codes
at
the
right margins
and
thematic
codes
at
the
left
margins.
Being
able
to
accomplish this
task
will
enable
you
to
“see”
the
recurring
patterns
in
the
literature.
It will
teach
you
the
principle
of
synthesis
that
is
so
integral
to
writing
social science
papers.
Being
able
to
“see”
this
pattern
in
the
literature
is
one
of
the central
objectives
of
reading
social
science
journal
articles
in
the
first
year. You
should
also
be
introduced
to
the
concept
of
criticism.
By
the
end
of your
first
year,
reading
journal
articles
and
coding
should
be
a
reflexive activity;
you
should
also
be
able
to
complete
an
RCOS
in
the
first
semester and
an
eight-
to
ten-page
literature
review
in
the
second
semester. If
there
are
instructors
or
administrators
who
might
be
reading
this
book, there
is
a
reason
you
should
let
the
students
pick
their
topics,
much
like
the way
graduate
students
select
the
topic
for
their
theses
and
dissertations. First
year
students
are
eager
and
enthusiastic
about
their
new
roles
as university
students;
they
are
excited
and
want
to
learn;
they
want
to
be challenged.
Instead,
what
first
year
students
get
are
remedial
and preparatory
classes
that
do
not
tap
into
this
reservoir
of
passion.
I
cannot recall
how
many
times
I
have
talked
to
bright-eyed
high
school
seniors who,
in
their
third
and
fourth
years
of
university,
become
zombie-like,
eyes glazed,
waiting
to
make
a
mad
dash
out
the
door.
First-year
programs should
be
demanding
and
challenging,
in
ways
that
they
also
shape. Instructors
should
ask
first-year
students
to
do
things
they
have
not
done before
(e.g.,
reading
and
coding
social
science
journal
articles)
and
provide the
resources
to
help
them
succeed.
However,
do
not
unnecessarily
impose restrictions
on
their
creativity
by
delimiting
their
choices. In
your
second
year
of
university,
you
need
to
be
able
to
“see”
what
is
not in
the
literature.
To
do
so,
you
have
to
be
able
to
critique
the
literature.
You need
to
find
points
of
critique
(POC)
and
then
go
on
to
develop
a
Critique of
Previous
Literature
(CPL)
which
leads
to
a
shortcoming
(GAP).
Then, you
should
be
able
to
propose
a
way
of
remedying
the
gap
you
have
found in
the
literature.
The
primary
skill
needed
to
write
a
proposal
is
criticism. You
need
to
be
able
to
critique
the
literature
on
theoretical,
methodological, and
analytical
grounds.
Criticism
is
the
step
that
follows
the
thematic summary
of
literature
you
learned
in
your
first
year.
Using
your
coursework

on
research
methods,
statistics,
and
qualitative
methods
as
a
backdrop,
you should
be
able
to
complete
a
research
proposal
and
a
research
ethics application
(e.g.,
IRB
in
the
US
and
REB
in
Canada).
Once
you
understand the
logic
of
social
science
texts,
such
as
SPL,
CPL,
RAT,
and
WTD, speaking
and
writing
the
language
of
social
sciences
need
not
be
so
anxiety provoking
and
scary. Some
would
say
that
asking
second
year
students
to
complete
a
research ethics
application
as
part
of
their
methodology
course
is
too
ambitious. They
are
struggling
with
the
concept
of
research,
methods,
and
data analysis;
why
burden
them
with
filling
out
a
research
ethics
application?
Or, the
converse
is
the
following:
what
better
tool
exists
than
a
research
ethics application
to
teach
and
experience
the
pitfalls
of
research?
Why
not encourage
students
to
shape
their
own
learning
by
facilitating
their
own projects
so
as
to
let
them
experience
the
scope,
scale,
and
feasibility
of knowledge
production?
This
is
no
easy
task,
especially
if
you
are
trying
to explain
the
rationale
(RAT)
for
a
study
or
the
study’s
impact
to
second
year students.
However,
if
you
were
to
simply
explain
that
the
first
part
of
the applications
needs
to
be
an
SPL,
CPL,
and
GAP,
followed
by
the
RAT, students
would
not
have
to
unnecessarily
struggle
with
a
common
language. They
would
already
be
speaking
it
after
their
first
year. In
the
third
year
of
a
university,
students
should
be
able
to
develop empirical
and
non-empirical
claims.
You
are
already
competent
at summarizing
and
critiquing
the
literature;
now
you
need
to
be
able
to
use already
existing
data
to
fix
the
proposal
you
created
in
the
second
year. There
are
two
ways
to
realize
the
shortcoming
in
the
literature:
through analysis
of
data
or
production
of
claims.
In
your
third
year,
you
should
be enrolling
in
courses
related
to
your
major,
courses
that
tend
to
be
content specific,
or
writing
a
culminating
paper
if
you
are
enrolled
in
a
three-year university
course
(e.g.,
the
UK
and
Australia).
Therefore,
you
should
be able
to
write
papers
that
put
forth
a
claim
of
your
own;
if
you
are
enrolled in
advanced
methods
courses,
you
should
be
able
to
utilize
preexisting datasets
to
hone
your
analytical
skills.

If
your
instructors
feel
your
paper
is
outstanding,
that
it
meets
the expectations
of
a
social
science
paper,
then
you
should
ask
them
if participation
and
presentation
at
a
local/regional/state
level
conference
are
a possibility.
In
my
discipline,
there
are
several
venues
that
welcome
and encourage
student
participation
in
the
form
of
panel
and
poster presentations
(e.g.,
the
Midwestern
Criminal
Justice
Association,
Southern Criminal
Justice
Association,
Western
Society
of
Criminology,
and Northeastern
Association
of
Criminal
Justice
Sciences).
I
am
sure
that
other social
science
disciplines
have
similar
regional-level
conferences
that
are open
to
undergraduate
student
participation.
Exceptional
students
and
their works
should
be
encouraged
and
facilitated
through
participation
in
these venues.
This
would
be
an
example
of
experiential
learning
at
its
best. In
the
final
year
(the
fourth
year
in
North
America),
you
should
be
able
to undertake
a
research
project
of
your
own,
from
start
to
finish.
You
should
be able
to
pick
a
topic
of
your
own
choosing,
something
that
you
are passionate
about,
and
delve
into
it.
Your
final
year
at
university
should
be
a culminating
experience—you
should
be
able
to
take
everything
you
have learned
and
apply
it
to
one
topic
and
a
problem
that
you
have
constructed. The
project
should
be
demanding
and
challenging.
However,
once
you
are finished,
you
should
be
able
to
look
at
what
you
have
produced
and
beam with
pride
at
your
accomplishment.
That
finished
product
is
your
creation. Whether
you
have
written
a
senior
thesis,
an
honors
thesis,
or
a
capstone paper,
you
will
have
produced
an
original
research
project
of
your
own. The
benchmarks
that
I
have
laid
out
are
not
that
radical.
They
are
just
small deviations
from
the
curriculums
that
already
exist
in
most
programs
of study
in
the
social
sciences.
Developing
and
cultivating
the
skills
I
have demonstrated
in
this
book
will
be
made
easier
if
university
curriculums
are designed
to
teach
you
how
to
read,
especially
in
the
first
year;
the
same applies
to
graduate
education.
Writing
social
science
papers
will
be
made less
onerous
if
your
writing
is
shaped
by
the
use
of
the
reading
codes,
as
I demonstrated
in
Chapter
6.
However,
making
such
radical
changes
in
a university
curriculum
is
not
an
easy
task.
Bureaucratic
structures
do
not change
on
their
own.
Rather
than
waiting
for
universities
to
change,
I
am advocating
that
you
take
it
upon
yourself
to
teach
yourself
how
to
read
and

write
social
science
papers
if
the
institutional
structures
that
support
it
are absent
in
your
respective
school.
If
you
see
the
value
in
what
I
have proposed
in
this
book,
then
there
is
no
reason
why
you
cannot
do
it
on
your own. Despite
this
ethos
of
individualism,
you
will
need
someone
who
can
assess the
logical
order
of
your
arguments,
the
sequential
order
of
your
main headings,
the
inferences
you
have
made,
the
variable
measures,
selections of
variables,
and
the
processes
of
induction.
Simply
put,
you
will
need someone
who
can
discern
whether
you
have
made
big
errors
in
your
paper. Furthermore,
you
will
definitely
need
someone
who
can
identify
the patterns
in
the
little
errors
that
you
make.
You
may
not
realize
it,
but
those little
errors
are
clustered
in
ways
that
cannot
be
predicted
in
advance.
You may
think
that
your
friend,
co-worker,
or
parent
is
knowledgeable
enough to
offer
you
assistance,
but
that
is
rarely
the
case.
Your
professors
provide not
only
content
specific
knowledge,
but
also
guidance
and
direction
in
the work
you
are
doing.
Your
instructors
are
like
fingers
that
point
at
the
moon. They
give
you
a
general
and
specific
set
of
directions
for
how
to
arrive
at your
destination.
They
give
you
feedback.
That’s
the
real
value
of professors
in
universities.
They
are
there
to
help
you
along—most
of
them anyway. If
you
were
to
assess
your
own
university
experience
against
the
idealized model
outlined
in
Table
7.1,
how
would
it
measure
up?
If
your
university experience
was
comparable
to
the
one
outlined
there,
then
you
should
be able
to
provide
evidence
of
your
activity.
You
should
have
writing
samples from
each
of
the
tasks
you
completed
in
the
form
of
a
portfolio
or something
comparable.
If
your
undergraduate
experience
has
not
been something
similar,
then
perhaps
you
should
be
questioning
the
schooling you
have
received.
Did
your
instructors
assign
enough
long
papers
in
your coursework
that
required
you
to
synthesize
and
critique
the
literature?
Did you
have
to
write
research
proposals
in
your
second
year
as
you
were enrolled
in
methodology
and
data
analysis
courses?
Did
you
have
to
write
a culminating
paper
of
sorts
in
your
final
year,
one
that
required
more
than five
to
seven
sources?
If
you
were
enrolled
as
a
student
in
a
social
science program
and
all
you
did
was
fill
in
the
bubbles
of
answer
sheets
as

measures
of
your
proficiency
or
write
about
how
you
“felt”
about something,
then
you
should
ask
someone
why
you
did
not
write
any
papers. The
answers
you
receive
may
be
telling
about
the
school’s
priorities.
In research,
your
feelings
are
secondary
to
the
claims
you
make
and
the quality
of
the
evidence
you
provide
to
substantiate
those
claims. In
the
current
atmosphere
where
science,
technology,
engineering,
and
math dominate
the
agendas
of
politicians,
university
administrators,
and
parents, you
may
be
asking
what
value
exists
in
a
social
science
education.
I
get
that question
all
the
time
in
open
houses
from
parents
who
have
to
shell
out
tens of
thousands
of
dollars
for
their
children’s
education.
Fareed
Zakaria
argues that
a
liberal
education
is
invaluable
because
it
teaches
students
how
to write
“clearly,
cleanly,
and
quickly.”
That’s
true.
Social
science
students have
to
reduce
and
synthesize
tremendous
amount
of
readings
into
distilled and
thematically
organized
summaries
and
critiques.
This
ability
to
see
the bigger
field,
synthesize
the
literature,
formulate
a
problem,
articulate
its significance,
and
resolve
it
through
collection
and
analysis
of
data
or
logical argumentation
is
what
social
science
students
are
taught
to
do.
Therefore,
if you
are
not
able
to
tackle
the
preceding
tasks
with
confidence,
then
you should
ask
the
people
who
have
shaped
that
outcome.
After
you
have questioned
the
policies,
institutional
structures,
and
people
who
have shaped
those
conditions,
you
should
make
it
a
point
to
correct
that
state
by creating
measurable
outcomes
on
your
own.
Do
not
wait
to
make
changes in
the
quality
of
your
education.
You
can
complain,
but
do
not
blame
others and
do
nothing
about
the
regrettable
condition.
Teach
yourself
how
to
read and
write
in
a
manner
that
is
befitting
of
a
scholar
who
wants
to
learn. Instilling
that
scholarly
attitude
is
one
of
the
aims
of
a
university—in
my view
anyway. If
you
are
attending
a
particular
university
of
your
own
choosing
because
it is
convenient,
accessible,
or
inexpensive,
that’s
okay.
However,
if
you
think your
current
experience
at
your
institution
could
be
something
more,
there is
no
reason
for
you
not
to
improve
the
condition
on
your
own.
Do
not
be content
to
settle
for
multiple
choice
examinations
or
true/false
tests.
Ask
for challenging
assignments,
or
better
yet,
devise
them
on
your
own.
Now
that you
have
a
firm
understanding
of
the
logic
of
social
science
texts,
you

should
be
able
to
challenge
yourself
if
you
have
the
desire
and
the
will.
If you
take
it
upon
yourself
to
compile
your
own
work,
you
will
have
tangible evidence
of
your
scholarly
activity
and
initiative.
If
anyone
wants
to
assess your
competence,
you
can
provide
them
with
your
file
and
let
them
peruse any
of
the
several
papers
you
will
have
written.
Rather
than
graduation
or retention
rates,
someone
who
wants
to
assess
the
skills
you
have
learned can
read
a
paragraph,
a
page
or
an
entire
paper
from
your
portfolio.
If
no one
at
your
university
has
asked
you
to
write
a
paper,
write
it
on
your
own; if
no
one
has
taught
you
how
to
read
a
journal
article
or
write
a
paper
using the
codes,
teach
yourself
how
to
do
it.
If
no
one
at
your
university
has challenged
you,
challenge
yourself.
If
no
one
in
your
class
seems
to
be embodying
the
attitude
of
a
scholar,
then
do
it
first.
There
is
nothing
wrong with
a
hefty
dose
of
self-reliance.

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Index absence,
highlighting
of,
76–81,
86 abstract
(as
distinct
from
concrete)
matters,
55 abstracts,
13–14,
110–112 advocative
claims,
106 American
Psychological
Association,
92 Anderson,
C.A.,
57,
65–66,
86 annotated
bibliographies,
18,
20,
48 arbitrary
opinions
and
preferences,
71–73 “argument”,
different
meanings
of
term,
37,
97 argumentation,
50,
95 as
distinct
from
findings,
92 giving
rise
to
claims,
90–91 Asian
students,
78,
119 aspirations
in
higher
education,
research
on,
103–104 “beating
one
horse
to
death”
(BHP),
12,
16,
18–20,
53 “big
errors”,
3,
12,
15–23,
31,
125;
code
sheet
for,
16–17 “big
ideas”
about
a
research
topic,
55 “building
blocks”
of
an
argument,
99 “capstone”
courses,
4–5 Carnagey,
N.L.,
67 Cherry,
M.G.,
38 citations,
92–95,
109 “big”,
“medium”
and
“close-up”,
93–95 claim-centered
approach
to
organizing
a
research
paper,
103–105,
109 claims,
13,
34–37,
50–52,
89–90,
92,
95,
97–98,
105,
114,
116,
119– 121,
126 absence
of,
100 clarity
about,
106 definition
of,
37 emergence
from
argumentation,
90–91

genealogical
model
of,
13,
36,
106 “newish”,
105 in
non-empirical
papers,
106–109 not
to
be
made
at
the
beginning
of
a
research
paper,
37 to
originality,
50 produced
by
the
researcher
personally,
98 putting
them
forward,
99–100,
124 putting
them
in
order,
111 of
worth
and
of
concept,
107 colons,
use
of,
29 comma
splice
error,
28 composition courses
in,
118,
120,
122 principle
of,
63 conceptual
papers,
13,
49–50,
90,
92,
95–96,
99,
106 conclusion
markers,
90 “conclusions”
section
of
a
paper,
115–116 conference
presentations,
124 connecting
claims
to
the
literature,
35–36,
115 failure
in
(code
FCC),
16,
22,
115 Craswell,
G.,
77 creativity
in
research,
67 criminology,
94,
120 “critical
persona”
papers,
45 critical
reading,
6–7 criticism as
distinct
from
opinion,
87 logic
of,
78 critique
of
previous
literature
(code
CPL),
9,
11–14,
40–44,
50–54,
69, 71,
76–82,
86–87,
90–91,
98–102,
105–107,
111–112,
119,
123 failure
in
(code
FCL),
16,
21 patterns
in,
82 as
regards
text
and
definitions,
72–73,
76 critiquing
one’s
own
work,
14,
116 data
analysis,
88–90,
95,
97

“data
and
methods”
section
of
a
paper,
116 declarative
sentences,
44 deductive
approach
to
writing,
2 definitions
in
academic
debate,
72,
99,
107–108 definitive
claims,
107–108 “desensitization
and
habituation”
thesis,
67 designative
claims,
107 Dickson,
R.,
38 disciplinary
canons,
33–34 “discussion”
section
of
a
paper,
114–115 dissertations,
5 distillation,
principle
of,
63,
69–70 Driscoll,
B.,
91,
102–103 dyslexia,
30 Ebert,
Roger,
73–76 empirical
and
non-empirical
papers,
5,
13,
49–50,
88–90,
95–96,
106, 108,
116–117 errors
typically
made
by
students,
2–4 essay-writing,
98,
119–121 evaluative
claims,
107 “expressive”
writing
assignments,
48 family
relationships,
evolution
of,
91–92 Fargo
(film),
75–76 film
critics,
73–78 findings
of
research
see
results
of
findings first-year
programs
at
university,
123,
125 Gale,
T.,
103–104 gaps
in
the
literature
(code
GAP),
9,
11,
16,
38–40,
44,
50,
52–53,
66, 77–82,
86–87,
98–99,
105–110,
123–124 remaining
after
the
present
study,
116 Gentile,
A.D.,
57,
63,
65,
86 ghostwriters,
80 Goode,
William,
91–92

Google,
38 grading
code
sheet,
3,
12 graduate
students,
papers
written
by,
48 grammar,
knowledge
of,
29 Grauerholz,
L.,
50 Harry
Potter
novels,
91–92,
103–104 history
writing,
50–51 “how-to”
books
on
academic
writing,
1–4,
97,
99,
117 differences
between,
1–2,
6 humanities,
study
of,
50–51 idealized
models
of
academic
writing,
2 incomplete
sentences
(code
FRAG),
25,
29–30 induction,
89 inference,
100,
116–117 informative
writing
assignments,
48 interdisciplinary
work,
34 interest
in
the
subject
of
research,
41 interpretive
claims,
108 interrogatives,
44 introduction
to
an
academic
paper,
13–14,
112–114 “Jedi
model”
of
writing,
51 Jesson,
J.,
22,
38 journal
articles,
10–12,
42–43,
90,
92,
95,
102,
122 critiquing
of,
13–14 excellence
in,
112–113 Kerr,
Stanley,
24 “knowledge
overload”,
55–56 Lady
Macbeth,
31 “largely
magnified
generalities”
(LMG),
24–25 “laundry
list”
problem
(code
LLP),
16,
18–20 left
margin
thematic
code
insertion,
57–64,
69

legitimacy,
source
of,
93 length
of
writing
assignments,
45 failure
to
meet
expectations
or
requirements
with
regard
to
(code FZZ),
17,
23 liberal
education,
126 Lipson,
C.,
38,
40,
77 literature contributing
to,
77 lack
of,
38–39 literature
reviews,
11–13,
18,
20–22,
48,
50,
53–57,
65–70,
94,
110 form
and
structure
of,
54–55 themes
and
thematic
codes
in,
55,
57 “little
errors”,
3,
12,
15,
23–25,
29–31,
119,
125 code
sheet
for,
24–25 logic
of
social
science
texts,
3–7,
12,
45,
49,
51,
54,
70,
118,
121–124, 127 “lone
wolf”
claims,
35,
40,
50,
98,
119 long
papers,
49–50 McEvoy,
B.T.,
113 Machi,
L.A.,
113 Macy,
William
H.,
75 major
headings
(MH)
in
a
paper,
100–105 construction
of,
105 failure
in
delineation
of
(code
FMS),
16,
22,
102 Maples,
W.,
16 Maryland
University,
48 Massengill,
R.,
39–40 Master’s
students,
51 “meandering
reading”,
8,
10 “methods”
section
of
a
paper,
116–117 “missed
obvious
point”
(code
MOP),
10,
12 Modern
Language
Association,
92 narcissistic
thinking,
35–36 New
York
City
University,
50

Nietzsche,
Friedrich,
119 North
(film),
73–76 opinion-based
papers,
45 organization
of
a
research
paper,
99–103,
106,
110 originality
of
research,
40,
49–51,
67,
77 page
requirements,
meeting
of
(code
DECPTV),
17 “papers”,
academic,
types
of,
4–5 paragraphs,
proper
use
of,
64,
68–69 failure
in
(code
USP),
17 parallel
research,
38–39 Parker,
S.,
103–104 parricide,
55 peer
review,
77,
79 perspective,
adoption
of,
97 persuasive
writing
assignments,
48 PhD
students,
51 plagiarism
software
detection
reports,
late
submission
of
(code NOTRNR),
17,
22 poetic
writing,
48 points
of
critique
(code
POC),
10,
12,
38,
43,
50–53,
75–78,
82,
87, 103,
106,
123 policy
implications
of
research,
106–107,
115 Poore,
M.,
77 position
papers,
34,
45 professors,
value
of,
125 proofreading,
30 psychology,
articles
on,
112 qualitatively-oriented
research,
89–90,
97,
108,
117 quality
assurance,
77 quantitatively-oriented
research,
88–90 rationales
for
writing
an
academic
paper
(code
RAT),
9,
11,
14,
82,
98, 112–113

failure
in
statement
of
(code
FSR),
16–17,
113 Rawls,
John,
42 reaction
papers,
45,
49 reading aloud,
29 critical,
6–7 on
several
levels,
80 speed
of,
8,
80 strategies
for,
12 Reading
Code
Organization
Sheet
(RCOS),
6,
9–10,
12–13,
43–44, 53–65,
69–70,
82–87 examples
of,
58–62,
83–85 importance
of,
56 personal
organization
of,
54–56 time
needed
for
preparation
of,
56–57,
65 reading
codes,
4,
6–8,
10,
12,
14,
63,
100,
111–112,
115,
117–118, 121–122 reading
enough
of
previous
literature,
34,
39–40,
44,
51–52,
77,
80, 103,
106,
109,
115,
122 failure
in
(code
FRS),
17,
21,
23 linked
to
the
writing
process,
4,
6,
51–53,
117–118 realistic
prospects
of
answering
a
research
question,
40–41,
81–82, 86–87,
108 recommendations
for
future
works
(code
RFW),
10,
12,
14,
86–87, 116 recurring
patterns
in
the
literature,
122 Redman,
P.,
16 reference
information,
incomplete
(code
INCREF),
17 reflection
papers,
45,
48–50 “relevant
point
to
pursue”
(code
RPP),
10 repetition
as
a
feature
of
social
science
writing,
114 research
ethics
applications,
124 “research
methods”
courses,
5 research
processes
common
to
all
levels
of
study,
51 research
questions,
6–8,
11,
13,
20–21,
32,
34,
37–45,
50–51,
66,
80, 106–110

emergence
from
the
literature,
39–40 review
and
refinement
of,
40 self-generated,
51 results,
failure
in
statement
of
(code
FRE),
16,
22,
100 results
of
argument
(code
ROA),
67,
88,
91–92,
95,
111–116 absence
of,
100 results
consistent
with
literature
(code
RCL),
9,
11–13,
22,
66,
115 results
to
the
contrary
(code
RTC),
9,
11–13,
22,
66,
115 results
of
findings
(code
ROF),
9–11,
13,
43,
54–57,
66–70,
89,
92–93, 97,
100,
103–105,
109,
111–112,
116 as
distinct
from
results
of
argument,
88,
92,
95 Ridley,
D.,
8,
39 right
margin
reading
code
insertion,
63 Russell,
Bertrand,
23 scholarly
attitudes
and
activities,
126–127 second-year
programs
at
university,
124 seeking
help,
31 self-critique,
116 self-directed
research,
122 self-reliance
in
education,
127 Sellar,
S.,
103–104 semicolons,
use
of,
27–29,
31 senior
theses,
51 Shiach,
D.,
24,
120 Shon,
Phillip
C.
(author),
4,
6–7,
80,
113,
118 shortcomings
and
flaws
in
papers
(code
FXX),
17 “so
what?”
question,
13–14,
81–82,
87,
113 solipsistic
claims,
35 source
requirements,
failure
in
meeting
of
(code
FUS),
16,
19,
23 speculation
in
academic
papers,
115 “spin”
put
on
ideas,
104 statistical
and
non-statistical
research,
90,
117 structure
of
a
research
paper,
100–103,
106 Strunk,
W.
Jr.,
24,
27,
29–30,
64,
69 students

assessment
of
their
own
university
experience,
125–126 benchmarks
for
each
year
spent
at
university,
122–125 portfolios
of
papers
written
by,
127 tools
needed
by,
121–122 submission
protocols,
failure
in
following
of
(code
FFP),
17 sub-themes,
69 summarizing
previous
literature
(code
SPL),
9,
11,
13,
21,
42–43,
51, 54–57,
63–70,
100–105,
111–112 syllogisms
and
syllogistic
reasoning,
85,
90–91,
99–100,
103,
116–117 synthesis infiniteness
of,
66–69 principle
of,
122 synthesizing
the
literature,
13,
55,
69–70,
110 failure
in
(code
FSL),
16,
19–20,
53 teach-yourself
model
of
social
science
writing,
14,
125–127 thematic
coding,
57–69,
122 number
of
themes
for,
67–69 theoretical
papers,
5,
49–50,
90,
92,
95–96,
99,
102,
105–106 thesis,
different
meanings
of
the
term,
32,
37,
113–114 thesis
statements,
37,
82,
113–114 third-year
programs
at
university,
124 time
needed
for
reading,
7 topic
sentences,
64 topics
for
research appropriateness
of,
33–34 choice
of,
34,
123–125 definition
of,
33 as
distinct
from
theses
or
research
questions,
32 importance
of,
81–82 “transactional”
writing
assignments,
48,
50 Turabian,
K.,
6,
38–39,
97 undergraduate
writing,
4–5,
48 understanding
of
the
literature,
99

“waffling”,
24 “what
they
did”
description
(code
WTD),
9,
11,
16,
111–114 absence
of
(code
NOWTD),
21,
113 White,
E.B.,
24,
27,
29–30,
64,
69 word-processing
software,
28 writing,
university
curriculums
for,
118,
121–122 writing
assignments aim
of,
48 long
and
short,
49–50 questions
posed
in,
49 types
of,
45–52 Zakaria,
Fareed,
119,
126