Note-taking in the Academic Writing Process of Non-native Speaker Students: Is it Important as a Process or a Product?

by J. Christine Gould , JoAnne M. Katzmarek , Patricia A. Shaw
Three junior faculty members decided to meet regularly to discuss their experiences and frustrations with academic publishing. The authors reflect on the obstacles they faced and the revelations that helped them become successful writers.
THERE we were. Three new junior faculty members in the School of Education, inundated by a million and a half things to do, with little time in which to do them and even less time to have a life on the side. Each of us had fairly extensive experience teaching and counseling in K-12 settings, but the university experience of combining teaching, publishing, and service was new to us all.
We were drawn to one another by our shared predicament and an interest in facing the challenge of entering the world of academic writing. We began with tentative inquiries in the hallways outside our offices. We asked one another what we were doing to get started publishing. Although we were all members of the "junior" faculty, we found ourselves at three distinct places on a continuum. We decided to meet regularly and talk about the challenges we faced with writing for publication. Our aim was to learn as much as we could from our pooled experiences.
Initially, we didn't plan agendas for our sessions but approached each meeting as a way to take a step back from our individual writing work and share a critique of our beliefs and practices. Our first meeting or two can best be characterized as confused and unfocused. These meetings did little to inspire or motivate us to write, and our confusion pushed us further away from actual writing. Still, this initial confusion might have been extremely important. As Eleanor Duckworth points out in her account of a yearlong teacher study group, "If our knowledge is to be useful, we must be free to examine it, to admit our confusion, and to appreciate our way of seeing the problem, explore it and finally move to a new level of understanding." (1)
We agreed to continue meeting, but we decided to audiotape our conversations. We thought that playing back the tape or reading the transcript of each session might help us see and understand patterns in our discussion of academic writing. Barb Birchek and her colleagues had developed a similar way of handling their discussions: general sharing, focused dialogue, and negotiation for the focus of the next meeting. (2) From those rough early meetings grew what Etienne Wenger refers to as a "community of practice." (3) In what follows, each of us shares her reflection on our joint effort to mold ourselves into a community of practice designed to help us become part of the larger community of educators through our published work.
CHRIS: REVISE, RESUBMIT, AND OVERREACT
"Start at the top. You can always send your manuscript to a lesser journal if the first one rejects you." This advice came from a respected and well-published member of my doctoral committee, and I decided to follow it. As soon as I had settled into my first university teaching job, I began working on Submission Number 1, which was intended for a themed issue of Educational Leadership, a top-tier journal. Several weekends and many bleary-eyed proofreading sessions later, my article was ready. Like many novice writers, I loved every word. I packed up the manuscript and sent it off to the editors, making the deadline for the special issue by just hours. I fully expected a rejection letter filled with caustic comments.
Then I took a new job at a different university and began the long process of another move. During the ensuing chaos, I temporarily lost track of people, places, things, and so on. Once I was somewhat settled in my new locale, I contacted the editorial staff of Educational Leadership and discovered that they had accepted my article and needed me to get in touch with an editor immediately to fine-tune it for publication. I was elated and would have done anything they asked, so a little fine-tuning was nothing to me.
In the naivete of my early career, I wasn't aware of just how many submissions arrive at Educational Leadership, and I didn't know about its low acceptance rate (roughly 10%). So I began to wonder if publishing wasn't as difficult as people made it out to be. Soon after, I began to share my good news about my manuscript, "An Early Childhood Accelerated Program," (4) with colleagues who were veterans of the publishing wars. Several had submitted multiple times to Educational Leadership, only to be rejected. It gradually dawned on me just what a fluke it had been to have my first manuscript accepted by a top-flight journal.
When the issue was published, I found my article printed next to one by a leader in my field. My article printed next to that of a famous scholar! How could the editors have made such a mistake? I was sure I would shortly be revealed as an imposter whose ideas and writing didn't belong side by side with those of noted individuals. Cinderella was enjoying the ball, but the clock was about to strike midnight.
Submission Number 2 was a different story. I followed my standard preparation format and sent the article off. That was the high point, and it was all downhill from there. I submitted the piece to another journal in my field for yet another themed issue. When I received the acceptance letter, the editor wanted six changes that had been suggested by the peer reviewers--two major and four minor. Upon reading the acceptance letter, my indignation welled up immediately. Who did these people think they were talking to? I was a published author. Sure, it was one publication, but still, I was a published author. Did these people really want me to change some of my words? My precious words that I had toiled over late into the night when normal people were sleeping?
Maturity got the better of me, and I didn't send off an angry e-mail to the editor. I simply put the packet with the peer reviews aside and went about the many things I had to do that week. A few days later--on a Saturday--I came back to my peer-reviewed submission and reread everything. I was slightly less indignant this time and so could view this process with some perspective. It occurred to me that the peer reviewers might be right.
I made the six changes. A couple of them were minor and easily completed. The others required finding more sources to bolster connections and build transitions between topics. By the end of this process, I didn't care if I never saw that article again. Half the weekend was down the drain this time.
However, the lag time between my revision and the eventual publication of the article allowed me to forget the difficult parts, and I was just as thrilled as the first time when the issue came out. Reading "Science Starts Early" was almost like reading a new article. (5)
I wish I could say I had a focused plan for how to go about developing ideas and writing a manuscript, but that would be giving myself more credit than I deserve. I simply start by jotting down my thoughts on any available paper--backs of envelopes seem to be particularly inspirational to me. Then I transfer my thoughts to a typed list on regular-sized paper, and from that list I construct a very, very rough draft. In fact, calling my manuscript a rough draft at this stage is giving it more credit than it deserves.
Next, I put everything away for a few days and come back with a fresh eye. At this point, I am concerned only about ideas. Once I think I have my ideas in good form, I begin editing. This process includes writing many more drafts as each one becomes tighter. Usually, I have six or seven drafts before the paper is in the shape I want it to be prior to submitting it for peer review.
I've always had a mental picture of what editing a journal is like. It's the same mental picture I have of a big-city newspaper--frantic typing, rushing around, harried editors, noise, and tension. One year, when I attended a national conference in my field, I went to a session on publishing. All the editors of the major journals were there. I started to suspect that my mental picture was wrong and that the editor was a lonely, overworked professor toiling away in the office on a Saturday night when everyone else was at the football game. Everyone except me, that is. I was home writing.
JoANNE: IN SOME WAYS, IT'S BEEN AN OBSTACLE
At first, I used a Venn diagram to help me understand my struggles with the switch from creative writing to academic writing. Instead of giving up creative writing, which I had come to enjoy and count on, I wanted to discover how to use creative writing as a springboard into academic writing.
In my diagram, I noted, among other things, that academic writing is distant and outside of myself. Even though that may have seemed true when I began this process, I now know it is not so. Academic writing is honest writing, as honest as any other type of writing. If I don't genuinely care about the problem or issue I am writing about, then the quality of my writing suffers. I have experienced this several times.
For example, I may decide to write on a particular issue, such as standardized testing, but find I can't write well about it because I just don't have a genuine interest. There's nothing wrong with the topic. In The Case Against Standardized Testing, Alfie Kohn writes passionately and effectively about standardized testing. (6) But I don't have a well-developed perspective on it, so it should be no surprise that I can't write well about it. So it's not true that academic writing is distant and outside of self. If a gap exists, it is the fault of the writer's choice of topic.
Another phrase I have written on the "academic writing" half of my Venn diagram is problem/solution. When I wrote that phrase, I was considering it as antithetical to expressive writing. But, as I have since learned, this is also not true.
I recently gave a writing assignment to my students, who were preservice secondary teachers. They were supposed to write a reflective essay about how they learn and then apply their discoveries to how they envision themselves as teachers. How would their learning patterns affect their own practice as teachers?
I also decided to write the assignment myself. I had prompted my students to re-create a time when they learned something significant or when they learned effectively. Through this narrative, I hoped they would understand writing as a way to uncover essential knowledge about themselves. I solve problems or understand conflicts best when I reflect on them in a natural setting. To write this assignment, I decided to cross-country ski with the paper topic in mind. After a vigorous sunset ski, I came inside and wrote the first version of the paper. After several rewrites, I sent it off to a national publication on alternative learning, and the editors accepted it for publication. (7) What had begun as an assignment for my students ended as a demonstration that I could connect academic writing with expressive writing. The final version included memoir writing and some aspects of creative nonfiction, items from the "expressive" half of my diagram.
PAT: WHEN IS ENOUGH REJECTION ENOUGH?
Fear of judgment. Fear of being compared to other authors. Fear of rejection. Personal doubt about the value of my scholarly contributions. These and myriad other feelings about scholarly writing and publishing merge into my pursuit of what I call legitimacy.
As a junior member of the faculty at a comprehensive university, I was not unaware of the "publish or perish" adage. I was, quite frankly, somewhat relieved to learn that our university emphasizes teaching as our major responsibility.
However, the requirement that we produce scholarly work cannot be minimized, and this fact is driven home at retention, promotion, and tenure meetings. The issue of legitimacy in publishing, therefore, is of paramount importance to me. In my effort to publish, I often encounter a number of psychological barriers that work to prevent me from expanding my curriculum vitae.
Why, for example, should my opinion, my research, or my reflections be considered worthy of publication? I do have a Ph.D., but having been a university faculty member for only two years, I have no reputation at all as a scholarly writer. I'm so unlike the authors of note whose names appear in the bylines of educational journal articles and whose distinguished scholarship I often compare with my own.
In my pursuit of legitimacy, I'm often plagued by questions: Is the language in which I write reflective of a scholarly writer? Does my work reflect the "rigor" of research? Writing from a generally qualitative perspective (education being one of the "soft" sciences), does my work compare favorably with that of those who undertake studies of more longitudinal or statistical rigor?
As I reflect on such questions, I believe the primary barrier to accepting my own legitimacy in the world of academic publishing is self-doubt: doubt about the value of my message to others and doubt that my junior faculty status will be an acceptable credential for the publishing powers that be. What right, I ask myself, does an untenured assistant professor have to be published next to leaders in the field who have already distinguished themselves through their scholarly work?
But despite my doubts, I want my writing to be of use to other educators. I want my writing to empower others to teach more effectively, to be more informed about a particular issue, and to have a positive impact on the learning of their students. Having worked in a public school setting for over 12 years as a counselor, I know that many teachers, even veteran teachers, have ongoing concerns about the impact that events outside the classroom have on their students' learning. For example, how does a teacher effectively recognize and deal with a child whose parents are going through a divorce? In what ways can a teacher best address the behavior and attitudinal changes of a student who has lost a loved one or even a favorite pet? I wrote an article about those very issues and had it rejected by three different publications before I could rejoice over a conditional acceptance by Kappa Delta Pi Record, a national journal. (8)
I knew from personal experience that teachers would value this information once they had access to it. However, after multiple rejections--some with no feedback about ways in which I could improve the article--I felt defeated and seriously considered shelving the piece. Fortunately, I was able to overcome my fear of rejection, and I stubbornly clung to my beliefs about the credibility and value of the information. I believed my article would enhance teachers' skills when they confronted these dilemmas in their classrooms. And this time I succeeded.
Talent, experience, and prior success (not to mention expectations of tenure committees) are all powerful motivators driving us to continue our efforts to get published. However, as I indicated above, my own stubbornness might have been the most compelling force in seeing a piece of my writing through to publication. But are there other strategies available to overcome the psychological barriers that spur the pursuit of legitimacy?
Ray Heitzmann addresses many of the mechanics of writing and publishing in higher education, including getting one's ideas on paper, conducting research, locating outlets, soliciting critiques from colleagues, and so forth. Heitzmann offers this empathic note to help writers come to terms with rejection: "A rejection does not constitute the death of a paper, but merely a minor bump in the road to production. Remain optimistic and positive; the history of publishing success is littered with rejections." (9)
To Heitzmann's sage advice, I would add my personal strategies:
* Separate myself psychologically from my writing when submitting a manuscript; the reviewers are judging my writing, not me.
* Use my writing as a means to learn more about the craft of teaching.
* Write for a specific audience or publication (try to fill gaps with my contributions).
* Internalize the advice we give our students: accept feedback as a way to learn, and look at rejection as a part--not the end--of the process.
* Use a word association strategy to effectively analyze my vocabulary for appropriateness.
* Write with one or more co-authors on a topic of mutual interest.
I would expand on the last point by saying that this practice poses its own unique challenges of personality, style, voice, time constraints, and the focus of the particular journal to which an article is submitted. However, writing with others provides benefits as well. Nuances may be uncovered that, working in solitude, may have gone unnoticed. Writing with others forces me to see multiple perspectives. Furthermore, ideas may become better elaborated as the result of multiple sources of input. Personal experience has taught me that there is not one "right" way to create a multi-authored article. Each team can create a system that works for all involved.
PROCESS, PRODUCT, AND POSSIBILITIES
Wenger explains that a community of practice emerges when we sustain our effort in pursuing an enterprise that leads to some significant learning. He further explains that this sustained effort is not a "static subject matter but the very process of being engaged in, and participating in developing, an ongoing practice." In our case, we initially worked together for the explicit purpose of helping one another understand and negotiate the demands of publishing in our faculty positions. But we also learned from one another about the ongoing practice of being writers in an academic setting. As a result of the work in our writing group, each of us explored in her own way what it means to be a practicing academic writer. JoAnne used a Venn diagram to resolve the tensions between academic and expressive writing. Chris came to understand more fully the challenges of the writing process in an academic setting. Pat explored her own legitimacy as a participant in the creation of knowledge about teaching and learning.
Our continuing conversations have helped us to clarify our own strengths and limitations with regard to academic writing and to understand the feelings of others like us who may be wrestling with "publishing issues." And equally important, our discussions have led us to possibilities for future articles. We have all expressed interest in investigating the purpose of writing both for ourselves and for our students and exploring relationships between our writing and our teaching.
Finally, our camaraderie as junior faculty members struggling for intrinsic satisfaction and personal success has been strengthened and has enabled us to swim more confidently in the stream of academic writing.
1. Eleanor Duckworth, Teacher to Teacher: Learning from Each Other (New York: Teachers College Press, 1997), p. 4.
2. Barb Birchek et al., Teacher Study Groups: Building Community Through Dialogue and Reflection (Urbana, Ill.: National Council of Teachers of English, 1998).
3. Etienne Wenger, Communities of Practice: Learning, Meaning, and Identity (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998).
4. J. Christine Gould, Peggy Thorpe, and Valerie Weeks, "An Early Childhood Accelerated Program," Educational Leadership, November 2001, pp. 47-50.
5. J. Christine Gould, Valerie Weeks, and Sarah Evans, "Science Starts Early," Gifted Child Today, Summer 2003, pp. 38-41, 65.
6. AIfie Kohn, The Case Against Standardized Testing (Portsmouth, N.H.: Heinemann, 2000).
7. JoAnne Katzmarek, "Thoughts Like Flying Grouse," Journal of the Assembly for Expanded Perspectives on Learning, Winter 2004-2005, pp. 87-88.
8. Patricia A. Shaw, "Death and Divorce: Teaching Dilemmas or Teachable Moments?," Kappa Delta Pi Record, Summer 2004, pp. 165-69.
9. Ray Heitzmann, "Writing for Publication Successfully in Academia: Applications in History, the Social Sciences and Education," National Social Science Perspectives Journal, Spring 2000, pp. 31-39.
J. CHRISTINE GOULD is an associate professor in the College of Professional Studies at the University of Wisconsin-Stevens Point, where JoANNE M. KATZMAREK is an associate dean and head of the School of Education, and PATRICIA A. SHAW is an assistant professor of educational psychology.