A problem like morphophonology
(sung to How do you solve a problem like Maria? from The Sound of Music)
It might look like any morpheme but then change the root, you see
It can lenite, subtract, or mutate and the morpheme is not free
It can even copy pieces from the stem too, if need be
It isn't quite a part of the morphology!
It has alternations looking like some well-regarded rules
Were it general we'd analyze with well-respected tools
But once we see it's limited it means we're all just fools
It isn't just a part of the phonology!
But you'd be mistaken if you believed we're outdone.
It's actually... quite some fun.
How do you solve a problem like morphonology?
How do you catch a morph and pin it down?
How do you solve a problem like morphonology?
Can vowel deletion derive a noun?
Many a time you think it's in the lexicon.
Many a morph you might misunderstand
But how do you pin it down, and account for all the sounds
How do get the pointing little hand?
Oh, how do you solve a problem like morphophonology?
How do you hold a morpheme in your hand?
Showing posts with label writing. Show all posts
Showing posts with label writing. Show all posts
Wednesday, August 12, 2020
Tuesday, February 7, 2012
What constitutes sufficient knowledge?
I was inspired by a comment that my colleague Bonnie left on her facebook today. It read (if I may, Bonnie, even though you are not here) "Research = good. Researching the heck out of a topic you feel less competent in however leads to a rather staggering amount of info/papers to winnow down into 2 50 min lesson plans. Sigh...."
There is a general sentiment that she captured here that I've often encountered in doing a google search for research related to my own work. If I find a couple of recent articles that are strongly related to my topic, I can usually navigate to other research by searching through their references. However, when exactly does one know when to stop? If there is an active theoretical debate related to the topic, then you can easily find articles in each camp and talk about the relative merits of each in the introduction to an article that you're writing or for a class you're teaching. If there is no big debate, or if your work does not directly test someone's hypothesis, then it isn't so clear how much background information you need to research.
This is one of the reasons why google searches for articles related to my research always cause me to feel depressed. What constitutes "knowing something" enough to discuss it? For the more esoteric topics that I work on (Oto-Manguean languages, phonation type), the literature is relatively sparse and controlled. I feel like I have a command of it because I've read the major findings. But for a topic that is new, it is difficult to get a sense that you have the right perspective. Having read the 5 out of 7 articles for one topic makes you an informed academic. Having read only 5 out of 100 articles on a different topic makes you seem like an amateur. It's simply more likely that you've missed something important. How do you know when you have enough mojo to actually talk about something authoritatively?
This ends up being only part of the problem that I have when I write about a new topic. The other, perhaps more major, issue is language. If you are deeply embedded in a certain realm of research, it becomes easier to use its associated technical jargon comfortably. When you are just trying to publish in a new area though, the language barrier seems insurmountable. It's not that I don't understand the language that is being used, it's just that my memory doesn't think about things in the argot that is used to describe them. When it comes to a new area of research, I often feel like I am describing it with a 10 word lexicon. "Ba ba ba, um, perceptual integration, der, hum, hum, blech."
About a year ago, I just started, out of the blue, to write up all my notes on Trique morphophonology. The pages just kept flowing and flowing. When I finished, I had a 40 page manuscript which really summed up lots of what I knew about the language. I was proud of myself. It felt easy to write. I probably felt this way because I was academically-raised speaking "linguistics" but my work over the past couple years requires me to speak "psychologist." This still feels like an L2 (second language), like I am an imposter striving to put simple phrases together. This is why writing becomes so difficult for me. I can write a nice intro, but then when I have to describe the literature on a topic, I feel dumb.
If there were a book "How to talk like a cognitive psychologist", I would certainly buy it. Yet, there is just a screen with a half-written article and groups of random pdfs in front of me, laying like a few pieces to a 500 piece jigsaw puzzle whose main image I may never glimpse at. I know that all academic work requires that you have some background. I just wish that there was a better way to translate comprehension into intelligent prose. And with that, a way to know that you know enough to translate in the first place.
There is a general sentiment that she captured here that I've often encountered in doing a google search for research related to my own work. If I find a couple of recent articles that are strongly related to my topic, I can usually navigate to other research by searching through their references. However, when exactly does one know when to stop? If there is an active theoretical debate related to the topic, then you can easily find articles in each camp and talk about the relative merits of each in the introduction to an article that you're writing or for a class you're teaching. If there is no big debate, or if your work does not directly test someone's hypothesis, then it isn't so clear how much background information you need to research.
This is one of the reasons why google searches for articles related to my research always cause me to feel depressed. What constitutes "knowing something" enough to discuss it? For the more esoteric topics that I work on (Oto-Manguean languages, phonation type), the literature is relatively sparse and controlled. I feel like I have a command of it because I've read the major findings. But for a topic that is new, it is difficult to get a sense that you have the right perspective. Having read the 5 out of 7 articles for one topic makes you an informed academic. Having read only 5 out of 100 articles on a different topic makes you seem like an amateur. It's simply more likely that you've missed something important. How do you know when you have enough mojo to actually talk about something authoritatively?
This ends up being only part of the problem that I have when I write about a new topic. The other, perhaps more major, issue is language. If you are deeply embedded in a certain realm of research, it becomes easier to use its associated technical jargon comfortably. When you are just trying to publish in a new area though, the language barrier seems insurmountable. It's not that I don't understand the language that is being used, it's just that my memory doesn't think about things in the argot that is used to describe them. When it comes to a new area of research, I often feel like I am describing it with a 10 word lexicon. "Ba ba ba, um, perceptual integration, der, hum, hum, blech."
About a year ago, I just started, out of the blue, to write up all my notes on Trique morphophonology. The pages just kept flowing and flowing. When I finished, I had a 40 page manuscript which really summed up lots of what I knew about the language. I was proud of myself. It felt easy to write. I probably felt this way because I was academically-raised speaking "linguistics" but my work over the past couple years requires me to speak "psychologist." This still feels like an L2 (second language), like I am an imposter striving to put simple phrases together. This is why writing becomes so difficult for me. I can write a nice intro, but then when I have to describe the literature on a topic, I feel dumb.
If there were a book "How to talk like a cognitive psychologist", I would certainly buy it. Yet, there is just a screen with a half-written article and groups of random pdfs in front of me, laying like a few pieces to a 500 piece jigsaw puzzle whose main image I may never glimpse at. I know that all academic work requires that you have some background. I just wish that there was a better way to translate comprehension into intelligent prose. And with that, a way to know that you know enough to translate in the first place.
Sunday, February 27, 2011
Supposing that I can write...
I'm going to give this blogging thing a try. It's perhaps the modern version of keeping a journal. At the very least, it feels freer than writing somewhere like Facebook or LiveJournal (even). And I really want somewhere where I don't have to try to sound smart to other academics and can occasionally make silly statements (not false ones I hope). LiveJournal is the old platform with very few of my neurotic gay friends (and I don't know anyone gay who isn't also neurotic). Facebook has become the professional platform. So, where is the space for randomness? for occasional poetic license? for freedom of creation? I guess I'll try to make it here.
I suppose that it is fitting that I discuss writing in my first post. I can write socially. It's just like chatting with new people. I rarely make many mistakes. It's when I start to try to sound intelligent that I get into trouble. And as an academic, I suppose that I have to sound intelligent most of the time. I'm scattered though, stereotypically scattered and lost in thought. I'm Doc Brown in Back to the Future, but without the car or the zany haircut.
I monkishly approach writing research papers. I amass incredible amounts of random lists. I write down disparate ideas on scrap pieces of paper, folded in half, on ripped-out notebook sheets, in notebooks, in margins, in textfiles on my computer, and in "commented-out" spaces in the actual LaTeX document of the paper I'm writing. My notes are, at times, intelligent. At other times, unintelligible. Though, as a linguist, I have to be on special alert. After all, the committee who reviewed my paper is standing on my shoulder and staring down at my tangential style of writing with head-shaking disapproval.
Well, not really. Perhaps this is even what prevents me from writing more clearly. When I read colleague's papers and other published papers, I feel like I'm just a clown trying to bash the keys together in order to create actual prose. I really really have to be in the right state of mind with the stars properly-aligned to create an academically-responsible text.
It's not that I am lazy. Far from it. I can get research done. I can read a lot and I can focus on things for hours at a time. I just don't like writing for academics. They're a tough crowd. I am afraid to write even the smallest statement without some source for my words. I end up getting side-tracked mid-sentence for a source to some minimal assumption that I wish to make. I expect to get attacked for stating that the earth is round without citing Galileo himself.
Anyways, it is late as I write this, so I will probably soon stop making sense. I have no idea how I am going to finish my revisions to my paper by Monday. I have an immense amount of work to do and I am afraid to ask for an extension of a few days. After all, that's admitting weakness, no?
I promise (if anyone ever reads this) that all my posts will be incredibly interesting and change your life forever. At least I think so.
I suppose that it is fitting that I discuss writing in my first post. I can write socially. It's just like chatting with new people. I rarely make many mistakes. It's when I start to try to sound intelligent that I get into trouble. And as an academic, I suppose that I have to sound intelligent most of the time. I'm scattered though, stereotypically scattered and lost in thought. I'm Doc Brown in Back to the Future, but without the car or the zany haircut.
I monkishly approach writing research papers. I amass incredible amounts of random lists. I write down disparate ideas on scrap pieces of paper, folded in half, on ripped-out notebook sheets, in notebooks, in margins, in textfiles on my computer, and in "commented-out" spaces in the actual LaTeX document of the paper I'm writing. My notes are, at times, intelligent. At other times, unintelligible. Though, as a linguist, I have to be on special alert. After all, the committee who reviewed my paper is standing on my shoulder and staring down at my tangential style of writing with head-shaking disapproval.
Well, not really. Perhaps this is even what prevents me from writing more clearly. When I read colleague's papers and other published papers, I feel like I'm just a clown trying to bash the keys together in order to create actual prose. I really really have to be in the right state of mind with the stars properly-aligned to create an academically-responsible text.
It's not that I am lazy. Far from it. I can get research done. I can read a lot and I can focus on things for hours at a time. I just don't like writing for academics. They're a tough crowd. I am afraid to write even the smallest statement without some source for my words. I end up getting side-tracked mid-sentence for a source to some minimal assumption that I wish to make. I expect to get attacked for stating that the earth is round without citing Galileo himself.
Anyways, it is late as I write this, so I will probably soon stop making sense. I have no idea how I am going to finish my revisions to my paper by Monday. I have an immense amount of work to do and I am afraid to ask for an extension of a few days. After all, that's admitting weakness, no?
I promise (if anyone ever reads this) that all my posts will be incredibly interesting and change your life forever. At least I think so.
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