The road to PhD confirmation

My PhD confirmation is not due for another 12 months (because I'm part time). But for a range of reasons I want to get it done a few months earlier than that. So I let my supervisor know my plan at our last meeting.

She tells me, if I'm to present for confirmation in March, she wants to see an outline of my thesis for our next meeting in 3 weeks. That's right, an outline of my entire thesis.

Bloody hell, I thought, the woman is serious. So, being someone who doesn't like to let her supervisor down (she is a great supervisor, after all) I thought I'd better start at least collecting my ideas about what my thesis outline might look like.

In some ways I'm lucky. I'm doing a creative practice PhD so 60,000 words of my thesis is taken up by my young adult fiction manuscript (and I've already finished the first draft of that). So that's no drama, but it's the other bit - the literature review, the case studies, the literature review, the reflection... did I mention the literature review?

I came across this fabulous presentation on the PhD presentation by the fantastic 'thesis whisperer' Inger Mewburn, titled (appropriately) Help I am experiencing fear - Confirmation! This has a lot of helpful information and if you're ever going to come up against the dreaded confirmation make sure you have a look at it.

But back to my immediate problem - an outline for my thesis. I've got a few ideas from some great articles I've stumbled upon recently. First up is a great paper, which comes from a great website called Critical Neuroscience. There's a great paper by Jan Slaby on the site that gives an introduction to what critical neuroscience is all about, and it makes a great overarching framework for my thesis.

Related to critical neuroscience, in terms of the work I'm doing, is the reading I've been doing on cultural neuroscience. I'm still trying to get my head around it properly, but from what I've read, it's about how cultural practices impact on brain development. In this way it dovetails in quite neatly with neuroconstructivism in that it looks as culture as experiences and also, partially, a product of environment.

So, these elements are starting to shape the beginnings of my outline:

• critical neuroscience as an overarching framework, leading into
• cultural neuroscience, which with its focus on how cultural experiences impact on brain development, leading into
• neuroconstructivism, with its focus on context dependence (nothing develops in isolation)

And somehow, I have to tie all this in with my work on young adult fiction.

But at least it's a start.

We are our own stories

Read a couple of interesting journal articles this week, both from Literature and Medicine Journal.

The first, The Narrative Shape of Traumatic Experience by Jane Robinett, looked at how two writers dealt with their traumatic experiences of war through their novels, and in particular, looking at the particular narrative structures they used to achieve this.

I picked up this article because Robinett starts it by writing about work by trauma theorists "...who insist on the fundamental 'inaccessiblity of trauma.'". These theorists are supported by neurobiolgists such as Bessel Van der Kolk, whom, Robinett writes, "...holds that because people who undergo psychological trauma suffer 'speechless terror...the experience cannot be organized on a linguistic level' and thus becomes not only inaccessible but also unrepresentable." Robinett's article challenges this view by analysing two novels about the experiences of war: All Quiet on the Western Front by Erich Maria Remarque and The Sorrow of War by Bao Ninh. Both authors saw active service: Remarque served in the German army in WWI and Ninh served in the North Vietnamese army in the Vietnam war.

Through her analysis of each of the novels, Robinett finds similarities in the use of narrative structure and language that she believes illustrate an effective expression of trauma in linguistic form. Some of the techniques she describe as particularly effective in conveying the horror of war and the narrators' experiences of trauma include jarring shifts in tense and in point of view; plain and flat language; and silences. For example, she quotes sections from both authors' books and comments:

"...neither narrator comments or elaborates on the events. Instead, silence surrounds these fragmentary narratives, isolating them within the larger narrative...They occur almost casually, with the flatness that psychological trauma produces in its constrictive forms. The language and syntax are unvaryingly straightforward..."

Robinett describes several other instances of how each author uses narrative structure and technique to successfully portray the horror of war. This is of interest to me as a writer, in that I can look at the techniques used and see how I might modify them for my own writing. As a researcher, I found Robinett's article interesting both from the perspective of how the trauma theorists have used a neurobiologist's work to support their own theories and from the manner in which she challenges the trauma theorists' views through the analysis of the two war novels.

The second article I read was Evolution, Human Enhancement and the Narrative Self by Neil Scheurich. Scheurich writes about evolutionary psychology theory and the ethical concerns it raises for some; narrative as a way to cope with consciousness; medical and psychological enhancements as threats to human identity; and transhumanism. Which is a helluva lot for one article. Although there isn't one particular thing in the article that directly relates to my own research, I nevertheless found everything he wrote interesting. But if I had to pick one quote from the article that sums up what he is on about, I think this is it:

"Language and narrative are thus the means by which determined biology gives rise to ambiguity, uncertainty and the only kind of self-reflective freedom that could make sense to us."

Which he summed up in his conclusion by stating "...after all, narrative itself is the ultimate self-fulfilling prophecy."

Any link between Robinett's and Scheurich's articles is probably tenuous at best. But what I take away from both of them is that we are our own stories, and that they way we choose to tell them helps us to define who we are, and in finding some kind of definition or shape for ourselves, we find a way through life that helps us deal with whatever it is we've been given in this life: brain, genes, environments and experiences. And that this holds true for ourselves as humans, and, as writers, for the way we choose to tell our stories through characters. Which, in a roundabout way, comes back to neuroconstructivism in that it is all about context dependence: who we think we are shapes the stories we tell about ourselves; and the stories we tell about ourselves shapes who we think we are.

At least, I think so...

What is a neuronovel anyway?

In late 2009, in a response to Jonah Lehrer's blogpost on the neuronovel, Marco Roth wrote:

"...contemporary novelists unnecessarily restrict themselves when they focus on questions of genetic or neurological causes for human behavior....I do think neuronovels and their authors have forsaken the world, too quickly, and the existing state of neuroscience does not help them to regain it." 

Roth and Lehrer were discussing the neuronovel in terms of adult fiction (including Saturday, Ian McEwans retelling of Mrs Dalloway). Lehrer had criticised Roth's view of the neuronovel, writing that the dialogue between contemporary science and contemporary art is part of an attempt to grapple with the implications of scientific theory. Roth, in response to Lehrer's criticism, wrote that he didn't have a problem with writers learning and borrowing from science to describe effects and generate metaphors, but he saw a problem "...when these borrowings are intended as both realism and metaphor at the same time."

Gary Johnson, in his article Consciousness as Content: Neuronarratives and the Redemption of Fiction defines the neuronarrative as "works of fiction that incorporate advances in cognitive studies as a prominent theme, that compel novelists to struggle with consciousness as “content” and to reassess the value of narrative fiction." The key point in Johnson's definition, for me, is the writer's struggle with "consciousness as 'content'". And in this he gives a definition that I think encompasses both Roth's and Lehrer's views: that the neuronovel draws on scientific theories but is not confined by the science, rather, it has the potential to amplify it.

For me, there is no doubt that a focus on the science at the expense of creativity is likely to make any piece of fiction bland reading. And although I've told my supervisor on several occasions that I won't be looking at consciousness in my thesis, it's a topic that seems to come up again and again in my research. I could be researching the wrong things, of course. But as much as I'm interested in the science of how the brain works - for a person who failed year 10 science I've developed an unlikely hankering for reading about the intricacies of neurons - I see the science as a starting point.

The things that science discovers about the brain fascinate me, but what fascinates me more is what my mind can do with these pieces of information. How can I twist them and turn them inside out? Stretch them and loop them and curve the facts inside and around themselves to become something other, something my own? The way my brain/mind/consciousness does this - the process it uses - are of little consequence to me right now. But in terms of neuroconstructivism - in which the person I have developed into is the result of context dependence; of my brain cells existing inside my brain, inside my body, in my particular environment and with my specific experiences - the choices I make as a writer are necessarily limited by who I have become, aren't they?

Why, for example, would I rather run naked through the middle of the city in peak hour than try to write (or read) romantic fiction or historical fiction or any of a dozen other genres that millions of others love but do absolutely nothing for me? Why are there other genres I enjoy reading but could never see myself writing? Can my preferences as a reader and writer be fully explained by one or more branches of neuroscience? Maybe. But would this knowledge improve my writing? Possibly, or possibly not.

I don't know what drives me to research neuroscience and neuropsychology. I just know that I want to. Having an understanding of the science won't make me a better writer. But it might open up new ideas that wouldn't be available to me without that knowledge. The struggle to incorporate those ideas into a successful young adult novel is sure to stretch my brain/mind in a myriad of different ways. But how those ideas develop from my own consciousness, and how I explore my characters' neural development and have them express that through their consciousness ...well that's a whole other story.

Picking the pieces out of my brain

If I didn't know better, I'd think some bizarre being has visited me in the dead of night and performed a quick and nasty frontal lobotomy with a rusty ice pick. I know I've been doing research and reading for the past 2 weeks but when I try to summarise it, all the bits of information scuttle off and hide somewhere in the recesses of my sulci (or is that gyri?). But anyway, here goes.

Fiction
In the last couple of weeks I've been ripping through some great YA fiction. First up was Cory Doctorow's latest For the Win. I really enjoyed it but it was an odd book, combining the gaming world with unionism, violence, communism, a touch of neuroscience and lectures on the basics of economics as it plays out in both the real and virtual worlds. It had a wide cast of characters placed across the globe, from hard core gangster bosses to rich nerds to a pirate radio host inciting factory girls to unite for the common cause of the worker. Not what you'd usually expect from YA fiction but, apart from the occasional lapse into didactism, this was a great story. Fast-paced, well plotted, lots of action, it's a story that keeps humming along. I haven't read many reviews of it so I'm not sure how it's faring yet with the target audience. It'll be interesting to see, as in some respects Doctorow has achieved something similar to what I'd like to do, in combining topics you wouldn't necessarily consider 'young adult' into a fast-paced narrative.

Suzanne Collin's Catching Fire, the second in her Hunger Games trilogy, is one that has no shortage of glowing reviews from fans. I haven't read book one yet but found no problem getting right into this second installment. Although the basic plot was one that's been done before in the sci-fi genre over the years, Collins' characters make the narrative vivid and exciting. The created world is believable, the plot reasonably simple while maintaining strong interest with some great twists and turns (I loved the big 'wedding dress' reveal) but it is the characters that really pull you in. The fear, dread and confusion the narrator, Katniss, feels is palpable all the way through. She is stuck in a no-win situation but pushes through each and every thing that is thrown at her. A real gutsy heroine (unlike some other wussy female protagonists around at the moment), and a character to inspire.

Research
I've got through most of the first volume of Neuroconstructivism and think I have it pretty much under control. I've also skimmed through a few articles reveiwing Maraschel et al's work, most seem to be overall positive (though I did have a giggle at one that said he was annoyed that the authors hadn't cited other researchers in the field and then said he was one). So, it's accepted as a valid (if not perfect) framework and it'll do just fine by me. Next I'm tackling Fundamentals of Human Neuropsychology. It covers everything I could ever possibly want or need to know on the subject, but, seeing as I'm a fiction writer and not a neuropsychologist, just a skim over the good bits will do. But I have enjoyed the first chapter which covers a bit of the history of the brain and how it's been perceived and studied over the centuries. One thing stood out - people have made huge mistakes and crazy assumptions about the workings of the human brain. And although technology such as fMRIs are making the study of the brain much easier in some ways, it seems the more that science uncovers, the more problems about the brain there are to solve.
No wonder so many find it so fascinating.

Neuroconstructivism in 25 words or less

A friend on facebook asked me to explain neuroconstructivism in 25 words or less. Unfortunately I've never been good at the 25 words or less thing - if I was I'd have used my spare time more wisely and entered a heap of competitions and won awesome prizes like plasma TVs and overseas holidays. Instead, I'm doing a PhD.

But I will try explaining the neuroconstructivist framework in 100 or so words.

From a scientific perspective neuroconstructivism takes a multi-disciplinary approach - using neuroimaging techniques, computational modellng and cognitive studies - to understand how a human develops from conception through to adulthood. It uses the terms 'embrainment' and 'embodiment' to describe the idea that no part of us, not even a single brain cell, develops in isolation. Brain cells develop within a brain that develops within a body that develops within an environment. And at each point of development, the thing that is developing is affected by something else.

Or, as Maraschal et al* put it, "Units [brain cell, brain region or human individual] do not develop in isolation. They develop within a context of other developing units." In other words, they tell us, the underlying principle of neuroconsctructivism is "context dependence".

I see neuroconstructivism as a holistic way of looking at what makes us who we are as individuals - our talents and strengths, our weaknesses and foibles - and that's why, as a framework for my thesis, it appeals to me. As a fiction writer it's vital for me to understand what makes my characters who they are. And if I wanted to go crazily overboard I could use a neuroconstructivist approach to studying every single detail of their development to explain their behaviour, actions, choices and quirks (a warning to friends and family: if I casually suggest you might like to have a brain scan, back away slowly..then run away very fast).

Even further than that, I could use it to deconstruct the choices I make as a fiction writer. What was it about my development that attracted me to writing, and to choosing these specific characters to write this particular story (note to self: order fMRI next time I visit doctor).

Many writers will explain that their characters appear in their heads, out of thin air, and give them a story to write. My characters rarely come to me like that. I build them up bit by bit, adding pieces of information about their lives and experiences that guide the fictional choices they make. I may not go as far as ordering brain scans** to make my characters authentic, but I will use be looking to the neuroconstructivist framework, in part, to help me create authentic characters in my fiction.

*Neuroconstructivism volume 1: how the brain constructs cognition (Mareshcal et al)
** this is not a binding statement. I probably won't order brain scans, but then again I might.

Madness within the architecture

This week my supervisor asked me a question that got my brain churning so much I had a massive head spin. I was telling her about my fascination with abandoned lunatic asylums and she said, do you think the madness stays within the walls of the building, and that it affects the brains and behaviours of those who later inhabit the buildings. In other words, does madness linger within the architecture?


I think most buildings have a certain feel to them. The last time I went house hunting I looked at a place that I quite liked and so went back for another look. But on my second visit the downstairs section of the house gave me the absolute creeps. Perhaps it was because I was there with just my kids and the agent (the first visit had been during a crowded open house); perhaps it was because the downstairs area was partly excavated into the earth so that only the very top of the window was above the ground. Or perhaps it was the presence of the owners and their mean-looking dog in the back yard. But whatever it was, the house got crossed off my list of potential future homes. In contrast, the house I ended up buying had a really nice feel to it, despite the revolting, vivid green feature wall in the main bedroom and the smallest bedroom being roped off to house the owner's extensive Barbie and Ken collection (complete with Babie and Ken having a swim in the pool).

So I think that, over time, a building aborbs the energy of the humans living and working in it, both good and bad, and that this energy can remain present long after the occupants have gone. So abandonded lunatic asylums, with the madness of their inmates and the horrors they often endured within its walls, are perfect settings for bizarre events to unfold within fiction. What type of people would choose to make their home within an abandoned asylum? Are they there because they have nowhere else to go or because flaws in their psychological make-up mean that the place has a particular appeal to them? Does the madness embedded within the walls give them freedom to express their own brand of insanity, or even normalise it?

These are a few of the questions I'll be exploring during the process of writing my manuscript. 

Also this week I began reading volume 1 of Neuronstructivism by Mareschal et al. I've only read the introduction and chapter 1 but here are a couple of the ideas that appeal to me so far:

"The implication is that with regard to psychological traits, each individual defines their own unique environment, despite any attempt by the environment to treat individuals in the same way."

"...even very early development is not merely due to the unfolding of a genetically defined programme, but instead, involves complex interactive processes."

What I take from that (in my fiction-writer's mind) is that each individual reacts and responds to an environment in their own way, and that their reaction/response is a complex interplay of actions and reactions.

And in terms of an environment, the abandoned asylum offers a lot of scope for complexity.

Blame it on my brain

Jim Fallon, a neuroscientist from the University of California-Irvine, is fascinated with the brains of psychopaths and murderers - is it because he could have been one? This week I've watched a TED talk given by Dr Fallon and read a couple of articles about his work and discoveries. He'd been studying the minds of murderers for a while when he discovered he had a whole family tree full of them, including the infamous Lizzie Borden. Even worse, his brain scan showed patterns similar to a murderer's and he had the 'killer' gene MAO-A gene (monoamine oxidase A).

So what's the difference between Fallon and a natural-born killer? Most likely, it's that a killer is not born but made. In particular, witnessing some sort of violence or trauma in childhood is likely to spark the critical change from average person to sociopath. As Fallon explain in his TED talk, there are three ingredients involved in the shaping of a murderous personality: environment, experience and genes. This is, in (extremely) simple terms, the basis of neuroconstructivism: that we are not simply products of nature and nurture but that personal experience combines with the other two factors to shape who we become. Or that's how I understand it at the moment, anyway. In the next few months I will attempt to wade my way through the 2 volumes of Mareschal et al's Neuroconstructivism, which may well turn my brain to melted plastic.

But it's something I need to get my head around because neuroconstructivism is basically going to form the theoretical framework for my phd research. Hopefully neuroscientists like Jim Fallon will help me work through some of the concepts that my non-scientific brain is bound to struggle with. But essentially what I want to investigate is what makes us the way we are, what makes us who we are? Why do some people go down one path while others with seemingly the same opportunities and backgrounds go a completely different way? It's what our human stories are all about. And hopefully making the time over the next few years to get my head around the intricacies of what neuroscience can teach us will translate into a unique and compelling creative piece.

Anyway, here's hoping.

References:
Looking into the Mind of a Murderer
A Neuroscientist Uncovers a Dark Secret