Theoretical framework

Doctoral dissertation is inevitably connected to theory. It’s based on theory, and it integrates theory with research. Theory provides lens for identifying a research problem, formulating research questions, and choosing a method and design to investigate those questions. In other words, a sturdy theoretical foundation is crucial for a successful dissertation. But what constitutes such a foundation and how to build it?

Theoretical framework is often conceptualized as a tentative theory that describes the phenomena being studied and explains the presumed relationships among them (Maxwell, 2005). Theoretical framework is compared to a blueprint or a “current version of the researcher’s map of the territory being investigated” (Leshem & Trafford, 2007). The wording, such as “tentative theory” or “current version,” implicitly points to the idea that theoretical frameworks may evolve as research develops.  During my readings, I took notice of these tentativeness and mutability of theoretical framework and half-consciously linked them to the revisions that doctoral researches have to make, after data collected, to the first three chapters, which were initially written for the dissertation prospectus. But these revisions and changes seemed rather unimportant and distant to me when I started developing a theoretical framework for my dissertation.  I was solely focused on how to find a good theoretical framework, and that process seemed mysterious and convoluted to me.  From Aaron Schutz’s blog post “Theoretical Frameworks: Where do They Come From? How do We ChooseThem?” I learned that I am not alone and that many doctoral students face the same problem. Schutz writes, 

In my limited experience, graduate students often acquire theoretical frameworks in extremely problematic ways. The most common source of a framework is probably in the work of one’s advisor. In my school, there was a recent spate of dissertations using Bandura’s theory of “self efficacy,” reflecting the interests of a small group of professors. I imagine other graduate students walking up to a Borgesian bookcase of theories, skimming through them until one strikes them as useful: “Hmm . . . . Barthes? No. Bakhtin? No. Bernstein? No. Oh, Bourdieu! Okay, good.” I rarely see early career scholars think in any sophisticated fashion about the plusses and minuses of particular theoretical frameworks, about what each illuminates and obscures.

At the time I read that post, I was in the process of changing my advisor from the one whose past work was somewhat close to my dissertation topic to someone who specializes in a different area. So I did not have a luxury of using my advisor’s work as a source of my framework, but I wasn’t upset. By then I’ve learned, from experiences of my fellow graduate students, that uncritical adoption of the framework used by one’s advisor may turn problematic. 

I thought that a better understanding of what “theoretical framework” is would be a good starting point for moving forward. The best definition I was able to come up with was that theoretical framework consists of interrelated concepts, constructs, and existing theories, which frame and guide a particular research study. Reading about theoretical framework and formulating its definition helped me to realize that it’s impossible to find a theoretical framework because the theoretical framework is not something that readily exists and can be found in the literature; it needs to be assembled by a doctoral researcher. Although selecting concepts, constructs, and theories that are most appropriate and relevant to a particular research project may seem rather straightforward, the task is complicated by a vast amount of theories, many of which deal with similar issues, but approach them differently, and employ the same constructs, but conceptualize them differently.

Moreover, as Berger (1991) points out in his article “Chautauqua: Why Are There So Few Communication Theories?” some disciplinary specifics can make it harder for students of communication to perform theoretical work. According to Berger, communication departments usually put more emphasis on (and require more courses in) methodology than theory. Although Berger wrote his article more than two decades ago, his claim resonates with my experience as a doctoral student. During my graduate career, I took only a few theory courses, and, in these classes, we spent a substantial portion of time discussing different epistemological and ontological perspectives, which is reasonable since the knowledge of paradigms makes scholars aware of the boundaries within which they approach their research topics. As a result of this extensive attention, it wasn’t difficult for me to identify a research paradigm in which to situate my study. But for some reason in my theory classes, we approached theories in a less systematized way and spent less time on scrutinizing and evaluating them. Consequently, for a long time, I felt that I didn’t have sufficient knowledge (or confidence) to finalize my choice of theories suitable for my project or to soundly combine several of them.

Aaron Schutz’s “schematic theory for constructingtheoretical frameworks” assisted me in rethinking my approach and regaining my confidence.

As evident from the picture, Schutz’s schematic consists of 3 axes, or directions in which a doctoral researcher needs to examine a theory which she consider to be a basis of her theoretical framework. The first axis, which Schutz calls “texture,” represents becoming increasingly conscious of the internal tensions and complexities of a particular theory. The second axis, called “contention,” represents increasing awareness of critiques of a particular theory beginning to consider “the ways other theories might complicate the conceptualizations of a particular theory.” The third axis, called “reality,” represents becoming “increasingly sensitive to the internal texture of the data one is examining, of the aspects of the world that are and are not included, and of the alternate ways one might conceptualize relationships between different aspects.”

Schutz’s “schematic theory for constructing theoretical frameworks” prompted several realizations. First, I realized that I need to start somewhere, to pick a theory, and this theory doesn’t have to be a perfect fit for my project, since it’s just a starting point. This realization helped me to overcome the paralysis of self-doubt. My readings gave me several possibilities, and I picked a theory that seemed to resonate most with my vision of the project. I also realized that no matter which theory I start with, none of them was developed to meet the goals of my project, so I need to explicitly articulate those goals, critically evaluate the theory’s strengths and weaknesses in meeting them, and assess a possibility of incorporating other theories in order to overcome those weaknesses and limitations. Moreover, I realized that hardly any of these decisions is absolute or final and that the data I collect would inevitably cause some changes (“reality” axis), rendering useless some presupposed connections and relationships and indicating new possibilities. In other words, developing a theoretical framework, like a dissertation, and like life itself, is evolving; it’s not a destination but a process :)

Berger, C. R. (1991). Chautauqua: Why Are There So Few Communication Theories? Communication Monographs, 58, 101-113.

Leshem, S., & Trafford, V. (2007). Overlooking the conceptual framework. Innovations in Education and Teaching International, 44, 93-105.

Maxwell, J. A. (2005). Qualitative research design: An interpretive approach (2^nd ed.). Thousand Oaks, CA: Sage.

Writing every morning

It’s been a week since my last post. During this week, I’ve been writing on most of the days. My first move was to follow a common writing advice to wake up early and write first thing in the morning, and this worked for a few mornings. Then, various things came up, and one morning after another went without writing. But, on most of these days, I was able to write later in the day, usually in the afternoon and once late in the evening, when around 10:00 p.m., I realized that I hadn’t written and jumped into saving that day.

At first, missing morning writing felt as a failure, but reading about other people’s experiences has helped me once again. Jonathan Manor, for example, insists that writing is not, and should not be, “a race to finish”, but “a long immersion in a hot tub or a relaxing meditation.” At first, his metaphor of writing as relaxing meditation struck me as strange, if not inappropriate, but gradually I warmed up to it. In a way, I can compare writing to restorative yoga, which I usually do in the afternoon to re-energize and beat the afternoon slump. While yoga practice helps me to distress and refocus, productive writing creates a sense of achievement and boosts self-perception. Manor also maintains that night, not morning, is the best time for writing, arguing that clear-morning mind may present a hindrance to creative work, rather than being an impetus for it:

“If your mind is completely clear, wouldn’t it be clear of creativity too?

The reason that most writers — ‘good’ writers — choose to write at night, is because their mornings, afternoons, and early evenings have filled their bodies with inspiration.”

I am not sure I agree with this thesis. I guess it depends on the individual, but I can see why the late evening, when another “lost” day fades away, is more conducive for putting everything aside and getting to writing. As Gabriel Cohen explains, in his article “On Not Writing: And What Exactly It Means”: 

“In real life, getting to the computer is a matter of delayed momentum: I finally hit the keyboard not because I’ve been struck with a cinematic bolt of inspiration, but because the self-disgust of not writing finally gains enough mass to roll over my anxiety about what to write.”

This, however, does not mean that one should not write in the morning. In this regard, I like Jenna Avery’s point that:

“One of the biggest roadblocks to getting your writing done is limiting yourself to just one or two spaces [or times] to write. If conditions aren’t ideal, you’ll lose a lot of steam and think writing will be harder than it has to be. . . . You don’t want to get so precious about your writing that you can only write on Tuesdays in the north corner of the house when the wind is blowing from the east. :)”

She talks about a common tendency to present the act of writing as a bigger deal than it is, which may create an impression of the necessity of ideal conditions in order for you to be “able” to write. Avery acknowledges that in some circumstances writing may be easier than in others, but recommends to shift attention from the outside conditions to one’s attitude toward writing and how to enhance it through interrupting your normal writing patterns and “sneaking in under the radar of any resistance to writing.” To achieve that, she suggests, “Schedule 5 minutes in the morning to write, and don’t put any expectations on writing well. Then do it again each day.”

For the last several days, I’ve been following this advice. In the past, I used the pomodoro technique, according to which one needs to write for 25 minutes (one pomodoro), take a 2 minute break, then work for another pomodoro, and so on. In the morning, I often felt that I didn’t have 25 min to sit down and write. I also wanted to keep track on my writing time, which I usually did in pomodoros (and when you interrupt a pomodoro, it gets annulled), so I never sat down to write for less than 25 min. To be able to keep track on my writing time AND to write in smaller segments, I found a new app (Goals Calendar) for my android, which allows me to set a specific duration of time for which I’d like to work on a goal and to measure my progress. I noticed that, when I write for 5, 10, or 15 minutes in the morning, I always return back to writing in the afternoon and write for at least two hours a day. Not having expectations that I need to allocate a half an hour, or more, for a writing session, makes it easier for me to start and keep writing, and, during interruptions/breaks, I can think of what to write next. I’m also moving away from having one or two special places for writing, doing it wherever and whenever I can. These changes seem to reduce the grandiosity of the writing process and make me more comfortable with it.