On writing: train of thought, experiential text, problem statements, and lit reviews

This week’s readings from Piantanida and Garman’s (2009, Kindle edition) The Qualitative Dissertation: A Guide for Students and Faculty provided a jolt.  That brief moment of glory following the proposal defense is definitely over. It’s time to get back to work, and by “work,” I mainly mean writing. 

I have a love-hate relationship with writing. One of my favorite quotes about writing, variously attributed, goes something like this: “I hate to write. I love to have written.”

What follows are reflections and questions on past and future writing endeavors. I then conclude with ideas for my first project report for EP 659, due Feb. 14.

Writing (riding?) my train of thought

As I began reading chapters 9-12, a message from last week’s class stood foremost in my mind: THE ONLY THING YOU ARE GOING TO CHANGE WITH YOUR RESEARCH IS YOU. This resonates with Piantanida and Garman’s assertions about the "centrality of writing as a way of coming to know" (Ch. 9, “Experiential Text as a Content for Theorizing,” para 12). This is the nature of interpretive and practice-based dissertations, and I best get on board with it.

It’s not like I haven’t heard this stuff before. Piantanida and Garman remind me of things I’ve read recently (Kilbourn’s extremely helpful essay on crafting the qualitative proposal and Richardson’s classic, “Writing: A Method of Inquiry”) and things I have read not so recently, such as Welty’s One Writer’s Beginnings. I read that in high school!

When preparing my proposal earlier this winter, I found the Kilbourn piece to be especially comforting; Kilbourn provides explicit guidance on technical aspects that Piantanida and Garman do not. For instance, his description of the research problem as a gradually narrowing “train of thought” helped me considerably in writing my first chapter. Kilbourn’s advice on tackling the problem statement from a qualitative perspective is much more practical than Piantanida and Garman’s recommendation to abandon the problem statement altogether. (I will elaborate on this in a moment.)

Nonetheless, it’s there in Kilbourn too: the needling awareness that your train of thought runs on a short, messy track. Eventually you reach the end of the line, and “you have tvo construct the path you want to take” (pp. 569-570).  Kilbourn echoes Piantanida and Garman’s theme of deliberation when he writes, “Thus, the framing and wording of the proposal should reflect an attitude of genuine inquiry—it involves a spirit of genuinely finding out rather than proving" (p. 537).

Expressing the problem, defining the dilemma

In Chapter 11 Piantanida and Garman describe parts of the proposal. In acknowledgement of the fact that A) the proposal must be organized in a way that  supports the student’s line of reasoning and B) each institution has its own rules for format, the authors take extra care to avoid prescribing an order of the parts.

I experienced this quandary myself and was glad that my department’s PhD handbook allows flexibility in use of headings and sequencing. For instance, due to the number of technical terms related to my topic as well as the general “newness” of my frameworks to my field, I felt it was necessary to include a lengthy list of definitions fairly early in my first chapter. Also, for purposes of improved flow, I incorporated a thorough treatment on study significance after my Chapter 2 literature review. Kilbourn’s suggestions for “sign-posting” and “metawriting” gave me the confidence to try this (p. 563).

As I mentioned earlier, I found the whole discussion of problem statements to be…a problem. Piantanida and Garman recommend not having a "statement of the problem" because it is a holdover of positivist/scientifically framed studies. Then, they go on to describe how interpretive research is concerned with  "perplexing aspects" of "complex" human affairs -- in other words, problems. I don't think stating a "problem" necessarily carries the assumption that a solution exists. Qualitative researchers make it their business to "problematize" taken-for-granted situations, to make the ordinary problematic. So why not a problem statement? 

Or, better, what about the term "dilemma"? Maybe we should call it the "statement of the dilemma." For example, in my current project, the broad issue or topic under examination is teaching and learning with and through technology, which most reasonable stakeholders would agree is not a problem per se. But, it is inherently dilemmatic. Explaining what this means is the problem statement.

So, like the case of Marjorie (“Henny Penny” from Chapter 8), who “aimed to elucidate the nature of the dilemmas so that she could make more conscious and deliberate choices about her teaching practice" (Ch. 11, "Practice-Focused Dissertations," para 3), my goal is to problematize conventional thinking around instructional technology and teacher development, that is, the traditional view that problems in IT are often conceptualized as “gaps”(gaps in access and performance, gaps in discrete skills sets, and so on). However, as these concrete and discernable gaps are closed (with more computers, more networks, more training, etc.), new (and less transparent) inequities arise. Hutchison and Reinking (2011) surveyed literacy teachers across the country and confirmed that, while issues related to network access and technology support were largely becoming resolved, two distinct levels of use and integration existed in schools. They referred to these levels broadly as “technological integration” and “curricular integration,” with the former reflecting a lower-level, superficial stance toward technology as “add-on” (p. 314).

I return now to Piantanida and Garman, who jettison the problem statement entirely and replace it with something called a "statement of intent." But this, to me, sounds like the classic "purpose of the study" section? Don’t I need both a problem (a perplexing phenomenon) and a purpose (what I intend to do about it)? 

Crafting experiential text

As discussed last week in class, Piantanida and Garman’s concept of “experiential texts” equates to what we traditionally call the “findings.” The researcher must create "as textured and nuanced a 'picture' of the study context as possible” (Ch. 9, “Purpose of Experiential Text,” para 2). The process of writing experiential text, linking conceptual points, and constructing the core thesis is recursive and arduous.

Compared to the painstaking attention to detail that quantitative researchers apply to the design and execution of their studies, the rigor of qualitative studies lies in the crafting of  experiential texts. These texts must evoke an empathetic response in the reader. More importantly, they must evoke questions. The reader should question simplistic interpretations and taken-for-granted assumptions in the workaday world. The reader should ask, "What would I do in this situation?" This sets the stage for the theoretic text and the concepts that the researcher will offer as "a heuristic map" to guide "wise action” (Ch. 9, “Experiential Text as a Context for Theorizing,” para 7).

Piantanida and Garman use the term "iterative interpretation" for this process of bridging situational details (the raw data from the study context) to the conceptual issue being studied. This opens the door for "theoretic interpretation," which means drawing on formal discourses and concepts to make meaning of the situation.

This is an area of need in my academic writing. I am creating those bridges, but they are shaky. As my committee members pointed out to me, I have this undeniable tendency to end my paragraphs with a quote from the literature. Their advice is straight out of AP senior English class: I must take better care to couch other's words with my own interpretation and commentary. Ack! I used to teach this stuff. Why can't I do it?

For this reason, I found the last question in Reflective Interlude 9.1 to be relevant but challenging: What can I do to practice iterative and theoretic interpretation? Now that my consciousness has been raised, I am not sure how to proceed other than to revise the most offending passages in my proposal and then turn my sights on future writing efforts, such as my imminent plunge into the case study literature.

Reviewing the literature

The literature review is a “discursive text” that represents “the diversity of thinking associated with key concepts in one’s study” (Ch. 11, “Discursive text versus review of literature,” para 3). The literature review should also support one’s rationale for choosing a specific research genre/approach through construction of a “logic-of-justification.”

When too little time is spent with the literature, students encounter the pitfall of merely justifying qualitative inquiry against dominant positivist and postpositivist traditions. However, a well-written logic-of-justification does more than that. It justifies the qualitative inquiry against ongoing debates and discourses within its own traditions.

Like every other aspect of qualitative research, this process is disorienting and stress-inducing. Last fall, as I delved into readings on Cultural-Historical Activity Theory, I stumbled into “pockets of discourse where scholars are engrossed in discussions that one finds meaningful" (Ch. 11, “Preparing to construct a logic-of-justification,” para 3). I was in the middle of writing my frameworks when I discovered divergent opinions about CHAT between two leading theorists.

I had aligned myself with one theorist only to discover that another was making an equally compelling argument that seemed dismissive of the first guy. Did this mean I had to choose sides? I quickly sent off an email to one of my committee members whose methodological opinions I had come to rely on. She responded, “The issues you are dealing with do not have a right or wrong answer. It is an area that need cultivating, and you can join the conversation to do that.” Upon reflection, her reply now seems very much in alignment with Piantanida and Garman’s point of view (and Kilbourn’s).

And I am still not done constructing my logic-of-justification. In my readings on CHAT, I realized that, while drawn to design-based research (often used in CHAT studies), the opportunity to propose a design experiment had long since passed. It would be impossible for me to both follow this approach and meet the expectations of my committee chair, who also happened to be the lead instructor in the context under investigation (complicated!).

In my continued review of activity-theoretical studies, I learned that case study is another time-honored approach within the CHAT tradition. I am now poised to delve into that literature, but I am a little nervous. Although I have no reservations about CHAT as a coherent and compatible match to my own assumptions and research "proclivities," I have no idea how or if I can successfully locate myself within the case study tradition.

Will I find a reasonably strong and coherent link connecting the case study genre to my own "proclivities for making meaning"?  Will all my early data collection efforts, done without tether to a specific methodology, be in vain? Isn’t it too late for me to ask these questions?

I am hopeful that, as I explore the case study literature more deeply in the coming weeks, my process in comparing and interpreting them (Yin, Stake) will help me sort out some answers to these questions. I am also wondering if my documentation of this process (through writing) could serve as the bulk of my first project report for EP 659. 

References

Hutchison, A., & Reinking, D. (2011). Teachers’ perceptions of integrating information and communication technologies into literacy instruction: A national survey in the United States. Reading Research Quarterly, 46(4), 312–333.

Kilbourn, B. (2006). The qualitative doctoral dissertation proposal. The Teachers College Record, 108(4), 529–576.

Piantanida, M., & Garman, N. B. (2009). The qualitative dissertation: A guide for students and faculty (Second Edition, Kindle edition.). Thousand Oaks, CA: Corwin.

On writing: train of thought, experiential text, problem statements, and lit reviews

Building your head

Section Two of Piantanida and Garman’s The Qualitative Dissertation (2009, Kindle edition) describes the conceptual work one must perform prior to conducting a qualitative research project.  A considerable amount of mental heavy-lifting precedes the more technical aspects of “doing” research.

If I actually knew anything about weight training and conditioning (or physical exercise in general, for that matter), I could get really carried away right now with metaphor. Suffice it to say, I felt pretty fit while reading some portions of Section Two and woefully out-of-shape while reading others.

I was reminded of the phrase “building your head” from H. L. Goodall’s (2000) Writing the New Ethnography (p. 51). Scholarship is a process of locating yourself in the “storyline” of your discipline.  It means reading widely and writing daily.  Piantanida and Garman would call it developing oneself as the “instrument of inquiry.” Whatever you call it, it’s a heavy workout.

Qualitative researchers must do this conceptual work if they want their research to be taken seriously and to resonate with their desired audience. As Piantanida and Garman explain, qualitative researchers approach topics and issues of inquiry with different assumptions and knowledge claims that don’t conform to prevailing positivist and postpositivist research paradigms. Our work is cut out for us.

Image by MR. LIGHTMAN, courtesy of freedigitalphotos.net 

The fundamental challenge of qualitative inquiry is answering the question: What is legitimate knowledge? According to Piantanida and Garman, “This question pushed qualitative researchers to articulate more clearly the nature of knowledge claims they were making” (Ch. 5, “Considerations of worldview,” para 5).

I wish I had known about this book last semester. The Reflective Interludes, particularly 5.1 and 7.1, provide terrific prompts for drafting the “Assumptions” section of a dissertation proposal. At any rate, I have identified some goals to work on – dare I say, “workout goals”? – for the coming semester:

Resist the “residue” of positivism and postpositivism

Piantanida and Garman refer to the “default language” of positivism and the fact that for so long quantitative research served as “a shorthand descriptor for a world-view embedded in the Western European ‘Enlightenment’” (Ch. 5, “Considerations of worldview,” para 4). Amen. I was 37 years old and at the tail-end of my master’s coursework before I even knew what qualitative research was! All in a tizzy, I did not think I could complete a master’s thesis without at least collecting some survey data and learning SAS. At that point, my adviser sat me down and explained that there were alternative methods that did not require an experimental design and a large n.

Over the last several semesters I have made concerted effort to curtail my use of words and phrases that suggest postpositivist assumptions. Two that come to mind are “achievement” (erroneously used as a synonym for “learning”) and “best practices” (falsely generalizing about instructional practice without respect for context and learner).

Yet, even as we come around to our own enlightenment, the language of the dominant paradigm is hard to resist. It just creeps up on you. Now, at the tail-end of my doctoral studies, I have had committee members scrutinize my word choice, calling into question seemingly benign words such as "factors" and "confirmed."

And, now, per Piantanida and Garman, I may need to more carefully consider use of the word “data.” That will be difficult!

I really do appreciate the distinction drawn in Chapter 8 between “data” and “text.” It jibes with my professional roots as an English/Language Arts teacher, trained in reader-response theory. Piantanida and Garman anticipate readers’ objections that the distinction borders on playing with semantics. They argue that representations of social phenomena, as opposed to representations of the physical world, “are always and inevitably interpretations offered by a particular person with a particular perspective and a particular position” (“From Data to Text,” para 4).

This is the essence of Louise Rosenblatt’s transactional theory of reading and writing, which views reader and text as inextricably bound in dynamic, mutually conditioning relationship. I cut my teeth on this stuff as a young preservice teacher! What’s not to love? I just wonder how forcing the distinction between “data” and “text” (much less forms of text – raw, experiential, discursive, and so on) might stall collaborative dialogue within one’s research community. It would certainly raise eyebrows among some dissertation committee members. 

Nonetheless, I am intrigued and would like to explore implications for more conscientious use of these terms in my own research journey.

Avoid simplistic dualisms

I understand that for the immediate task at hand – the dissertation – it is important for me to build a “conceptual frame” (Ch. 5, “Considerations of worldview,” para  17). As Piantanida and Garman recommend, “…[F]or purposes of conceptualizing a study, it is useful to sort out what form of knowledge claims one hopes to make by the end of the research process” (Ch. 5, “Considerations of worldview,” para 16).

This poses an interesting balancing act between being true to one’s core values, on the one hand, and acting pragmatically within the immediate research context, on the other.

What I struggle with is the possibility of being boxed in or branded by my conceptual frame, which, at present, is defined by a sociocultural perspective and a desire to seek insight and meaning rather than definitive proofs. I wonder if I limit myself by not seeking a more solid grounding in quantitative methods. Some of my colleagues are pursuing both research certificates, and, whether they are doing it for future job security in academe or because they see both paradigms as potentially valuable to their research agendas, I admire their hard work and ambition.

Piantanida and Garman seem somewhat dismissive of this pragmatic stance, but I like it, especially in the way it opens up potential for collaboration between camps. In my own readings on professional development and digital technologies, I see ways in which both kinds of research studies and knowledge claims can serve each other.

Maintain stance of "self as instrument"

I must see myself as the “instrument of inquiry,” all else is ancillary. This is the most crucial "workout routine" of all, and it is an especially difficult exercise for the teacher-researcher, coming from the culture of disempowerment that largely defines K-12 education. In the field of literacy especially, where decentralized decision-making, canned curricula, and scripted instruction prevail, thinking, planning, and acting instrumentally can be unfamiliar territory.

In the Chapter 6 section on voice and stance, I was struck by how the different researcher stances paralleled certain teacher dispositions. The researcher’s worldview affects her subject-object orientation with regard to participants. Similarly, a teacher’s worldview dictates how she regards her students. Are they subjects in or objects of her instructional design? The third stance described in this section, in which the researcher risks challenging her own certitude and self-understanding, is, in fact, what teacher development expert Gerald Duffy (1998) has called the “thoughtful adaptation” of effective teachers (p. 778).

This process of “thinking through one’s relationship with that which is under study” (Ch. 6, “Stance and voice,” para 1) reinforces Piantanida and Garman’s earlier assertion that the dissertation is an orientation to a life of scholarly inquiry. It is as much an opportunity for personal development as it is an obstacle to surmount in the quest for professional advancement. It is the “thinking through” that stimulates “a reforging of one’s ontological stance,” leading to new understanding (“phronesis”). This is the ultimate goal of qualitative research: to share these new understandings in hopes that others may recognize "new possibilities for their way of being in practice.” 

Does that not fulfill the “legitimate knowledge” requirement?

References

Duffy, G. G. (1998). Teaching and the balancing of round stones. Phi Delta Kappan, 79(10), 777–80.

Piantanida, M., & Garman, N. B. (2009). The qualitative dissertation: A guide for students and faculty (Second Edition, Kindle edition.). Thousand Oaks, CA: Corwin.

Building your head

Qualitative research, wicked problems, and the teacher-learner

This past week, as I began reading Piantanida and Garman's (2009, Kindle edition) The Qualitative Dissertation: A Guide for Students and Faculty, it occurred to me that qualitative research is akin to a "wicked problem."   

The "wicked problem" truism originated from a 1973 essay by Rittell and Webber, titled "Dilemmas in a General Theory of Planning." The authors describe the impact of pluralism and postmodernism on skilled professionals (teachers, academics, policymakers, city planners, and so on). Societal challenges once deemed simple, e.g. the formulation of school curricula, had evolved such that "professionalized cognitive and occupational styles that were refined in the first half of the century" were no longer adequate for addressing them (p. 156). 

I first encountered the concept of "wicked problems" in the instructional technology literature, in which researchers refer to the wicked problem of teaching with digital tools. Teaching, an already complex activity, is made more unpredictable by pressure to integrate continually evolving and "protean" technologies (Koehler & Mishra, 2008). Moreover, the recent influx of digital and mobile technologies into society arrived on the heels of another sweeping societal trend: the school reform movement and its demands for domain mastery and content area expertise. 

The convergence of these trends imposes a significant dilemma for teachers. One begs for structure, accountability, and standardization of practice; the other requires "flexible and integrated bases of knowledge" (Koehler & Mishra, 2008, p. 3). One defines expertise as a matter of curriculum implementation; the other views expertise as a matter of design, teacher as both designer and student of the curriculum. Wicked problems, indeed.

Recognizing qualitative research as wicked problem

Wicked problems are ill-defined and require an entirely new orientation to work/job performance, goal formulation, and one's own self-understanding as a competent expert. "This is partly because the classical paradigm of science and engineering -- the paradigm that has underlain modern professionalism -- is not applicable to the problems of open societal systems" (Rittell & Webber, p. 160). I initially interpreted this as a profound mandate in favor of qualitative research.

And yet, according to Piantanida and Garman, the study and conduct of qualitative research itself suggests another wicked problem! 

Piantanida and Garman characterize qualitative research as an ill-defined and complex domain, encompassing a variety of ideas, definitions, methods, and strategies. "Tremendous amounts of time, energy, and money can be consumed in a fruitless quest for a straightforward explanation of a complex field of study," they warn (Ch. 2, "Variations in deliberative inclination," para 1). 

Photo by adamr, courtesy of freedigitalphotos.net

How many of us have the bowed bookshelves and bulging Amazon balances to back up that claim?

Further, doing qualitative research is especially difficult for the aspiring teacher-researcher, whose workaday world is framed by innumerable top-down mandates and externally imposed performance standards. When teachers return to graduate school, they may be taken aback by the expectation of self-learning and introspection associated with writing a dissertation, much less a qualitative one. They may experience frustration when they discover there is no "recipe, formula, or template" to address their "action-oriented concerns" (Piantanida & Garman, Preface, para 5). 

Becoming a teacher-learner
Lovitts (2005) describes the "critical transition" that graduate students make between completing coursework requirements and embarking on independent research projects. At some point, the graduate student must move beyond the role of knowledge greeter/consumer to knowledge seeker/producer. In this process, the attainment of discrete knowledge and skills is less important than the student's ability to leverage a variety of "personal and social resources" (p. 140). According to Lovitts, these "variables" are poorly understood due to "the educational system's over-valuation of analytical intelligence and other norms in graduate education that promote intellectual conformity" (p. 151).

This should come as no surprise to anyone acquainted with the U.S. educational system. Schools in general (and the researchers who study them) put a premium on cognition at the expense of creativity, sociability, and other "idiosyncratic" processes. Why would it be any different for students at the highest levels of academe? This over-emphasis on accountability to predefined standards of excellence creates, at best, throngs of "good course-takers" and, at worst, murderous rampages, such as the one Lovitts describes at the beginning of her article.

Enter the teacher-as-student. According to Piantanida and Garman, the critical transition is unsettling for K-12 teachers, long socialized as consumers and disseminators of knowledge. The teacher's transition ironically may be hindered rather than helped by his or her years of practical classroom experience. This is the problem of "encapsulation," in which classroom teachers, who have come into their own as professionals within contexts that prize efficiency, conformity, and certainty, must re-orientate to the "false starts," "blind alleys," and "failures" of scholarly inquiry (Ch. 2, "On the discursive nature of deliberation," para 3). 

It's inherently dilemmatic that to become a better teacher (that is, to advance oneself professionally by seeking additional degrees and certifications) one must stop thinking like a teacher!

Piantanida and Garman define the encapsulated mindset as "the self lost in the tension between the professional role and the student role that manifests in a form of estrangement and keeps one from a deliberative frame of mind" (Ch. 2, "Encapsulation versus deliberation," para 3). I recognize this tendency in myself, recalling my struggle over the last several semesters to find value in certain methodologies I viewed as too esoteric (conversation analysis) or two time-intensive (ethnography) to have any practical significance for my desired research context and participants (secondary literacy teachers and their students). 

Developing creativity, or a "deliberative mode of learning"

In their preface, Piantanida and Garman hint at the problem of encapsulation and recast it as an opportunity, suggesting that the novice teacher-scholar leverage the tensions and use "practical issues to surface issues of worldview and issues of worldview to inform the decisions associated with crafting and conducting a qualitative dissertation." 

The dissertation, then, is not a procedural hoop, not just a means to an end. Insofar as it nurtures "a scholarly stance in practitioners," the dissertation is an end in itself. 

Thus, the qualitative dissertation is an excellent orientation to a life of scholarly inquiry and "deliberation." The novice researcher becomes versed in the literature and discourses of his or her discipline, enabling a creative cross-pollination of ideas to occur with respect "to intellectual roots and traditions" (Piantanida & Garman, Ch. 1, "Entering into the study of qualitative research," para 9). Piantanida and Garman's "deliberative mode of learning" is the route to developing creativity, a topic that figures prominently in the Lovitts article.

Lovitts upholds creativity as "inherent in and integral to graduate education" (p. 140). Creativity "exists in degrees" and is not "an all or none phenomenon" (p. 141). As a society we value cognitive performance because it is easy to measure against predefined norms and expectations, but it is our capacity for "creative performance" (p. 151) that will ultimately determine the quality of our scholarship and our ability to tackle society's greatest challenges -- "wicked problems," such as education reform. 

Lovitts presents a hopeful view of creativity as sociocultural phenomenon.  Unlike conventional notions of talent and intellect, creativity is not something we are born with but is the result of sustained interaction between an individual and his or her disciplinary field. As such, "it may be possible to enhance the individual's creative performance through appropriate interactions with the domain and the field" (p. 142). Likewise, Piantanida and Garman implore the teacher-learner to engage with the broader discourse community of their discipline: "Preliminary ideas grounded in personal experience undergo revision and refinement as one reviews formal bodies of literature" (Ch. 2, "On the discursive nature of deliberation," para 3).

Further, because the creative experience is so variable, it cannot be evaluated or measured but "should be judged relative to the student's capabilities and not a universal standard" (Lovitts, p. 142). Based on these assertions, Lovitts concludes with a number of implications for changing the "social structure and organizational culture of graduate education" (p. 151).

Lovitts focuses mostly on the influence of "micro-" and "macroenvironments" on the graduate student experience. Piantanida and Garman, on the other hand, acknowledge the shortcomings of higher education contexts but focus their advice squarely on students themselves, who must develop a deliberative stance in light of (in spite of?) the fact that "formal graduate programs and courses in the United States are not organized so that students can be independent learners" (Ch. 2, "Encapsulation versus deliberation," para 5).

"Sloshing" around wicked problems

As much as I like the illustration of "steps to graduation," there really are no neat and tidy checklists or rubrics by which to gauge one's progress. The process is messy, much like Piantanida and Garman's metaphor of sloshing through puddles. Qualitative inquiry, after all, is no “tame” problem, for which “ an exhaustive formulation can be stated containing all the information the problem-solver needs for understanding” (Rittell & Webber, p. 161).

Qualitative research is wicked. It demands “conceptual grappling” (Piantanida & Garman, Ch. 4, last para).

This grappling can take place within "think pieces," a mode of writing somewhere between a personal journal entry and formal, polished academic writing. Blog entries (such as this) or reflective memos can serve this purpose. (I myself have come to rely on the format and coding of memos that Richardson describes in the 1994 version of her essay "Writing a Method of Inquiry.") 

It seems to me that the production of think pieces (or, simply put, writing) is part and parcel to pacing and shaping the dissertation, which Piantanida and Garman take up in chapters 3 and 4, respectively. These issues have certainly weighed heavily on my mind in recent semesters, when it seemed I would never "find" a topic. 

On the subject of pacing, Piantanida and Garman say it "depends less on what one is doing than on what one is coming to understand. Forward movement occurs as the conceptual structure and content of the inquiry become increasingly clear and coherent” ("Staying the course of the dissertation," para 3). 

Similarly “shaping” a dissertation topic is not an outward search but a matter of fashioning “nebulous, inner images” into “credible and worthy studies” (Ch. 4, “Deliberations on topic,” para 2), also suggestive of the writing process. The willingness of the teacher-researcher to engage in the messines and to resist traditionally linear problem-solution formulations, is the hallmark of Piantanida and Garman’s deliberative stance.

References

Koehler, M. J., & Mishra, P. (2008). Introducing TPCK. In AACTE Committee on Innovation and Technology (Ed.), Handbook of Technological Pedagogical Content Knowledge (TPCK) for Educators (pp. 3–29). New York: Routledge.

 Lovitts, B. E. (2005). Being a good course-taker is not enough: A theoretical perspective on the transition to independent research. Studies in Higher Education, 30(2), 137–154.

 Piantanida, M., & Garman, N. B. (2009). The qualitative dissertation: A guide for students and faculty (Second Edition, Kindle edition.). Thousand Oaks, CA: Corwin.

 Richardson, L. (1994). Writing: A method of inquiry. In N. K. Denzin & Y. S. Lincoln (Eds.), Handbook of Qualitative Research (pp. 516–529). Thousand Oaks, CA: SAGE Publications, Inc.

 Rittel, H. W. J., & Webber, M. M. (1973). Dilemmas in a general theory of planning. Policy Sciences, 4(2), 155–169.

Qualitative research, wicked problems, and the teacher-learner