no accident

Pull The Lever, Take A Chance

A clatter of coins spills! I pulled the lever and now I’m rich, rich, rich!

Except I wasn’t. I was maybe ten and they weren’t coins, they were tokens. I grew up in a seaside town and there was a time when summer holidays meant stretching out pocket money in the arcade. I would jump from machine to machine, trying to find way to have just a little longer playing silly games.

The one-armed bandit could be fun for a time. Put your coin or token in, pull the arm down and watch the reels spin. Most of the time it was nothing. Sometimes it was a few pennies or a token back. Even rarer, an invitation to nudge a reel, see it drop but get nothing.

Sometimes, just sometimes…

JACKPOT!

…and enough tokens to keep spinning the reels for another ten minutes.

There was no skill, no talent, not even any real work. You had to take part, put something in, but your effort and money were the same as anyone’s.

Alas, some candidates think the viva is a one-armed bandit, a game of total chance. Turn up, pull the lever and who knows what will happen. What questions will spin up? What sequence of opinions will your examiners have? What random outcome will it settle on?

It’s not random. It’s not by chance. Your work is built on purpose. There can be luck, but that’s guided by direction, by talent, by effort.

Your thesis isn’t just thrown together: it’s a statement. Your answers don’t just appear: they’re built on work and talent. Your examiners aren’t just winging it: they’ve been selected for a reason.

You probably will hit the jackpot in the viva, ding-ding-ding, you’ve passed! But it’s not by chance. It couldn’t just happen to anyone.

You’ve not just been lucky. You’ve not got this far by accident.

The Knack

My dad passed away quite suddenly when I was 17. Today would have been his 70th birthday, and he’s been on my mind a lot lately.

When I was little my dad was often self-employed. He had been made redundant from his job when I and my sister were quite small. For most of our childhood he had a stall at markets around the North West and in Scotland. I remember bagging biscuits at our dining table from huge boxes. I remember bundling tea towels and dusters, taking five and folding them a certain way, throwing a rubber band around them to hold bundles together. Seriously, I remember those afternoons quite fondly.

In the summer holidays my dad would let me help with various games he ran at fairs and carnivals. My favourite game was one where you had to throw a small wooden ball into a metal bucket. The bucket was inside a wooden frame, painted to look like a clown’s mouth; you just stood at a distance and tried to throw the ball in. This was the 1980s, so it was only 20p for three balls, and the spectacular prize was a coconut!

I remember the call still, “Ball in the bucket to win, just a ball in the bucket to win!”

It was not easy. For a start, the bucket was pitched at an angle that encouraged the ball to rebound. The balls were ping-pong sized and dense: if you threw too hard they would bounce right back out. If you threw too soft, you might not get the ball in the target at all. Overarm shots always span out.

“Ball in the bucket to win, just a ball in the bucket to win!” he would call out and throw the ball and DING! there it would land. Most people paying their 20p had never tried it before, never thought of playing anything like this. It was just something fun to spend 20p on.

There was no great trick, there was no con involved: it was just really hard. My dad had the knack though. He’d mastered this really hard skill. He’d found a challenge he knew was tricky, but spent a lot of time practising. He could throw the ball just so and have it land in the bucket every time. He made it look effortless, but that’s because the effort had been put in over years.

I tried and tried, failing many times, but still remember the first time I got my own DING! I kept going, and while I wasn’t as precise as my dad, I started to reach a point where I could get the ball in the bucket consistently. Practice, experience, nothing more.

Back to the present: your PhD is hard, but there are aspects of it you make seem effortless to others. That’s not to say it’s not still hard to you, but you can do it. You’re practised, you’re experienced. At the viva you can answer a question and engage with a discussion nearly every time because you’ve done so much during your PhD.

After all this time you have the knack.

What’s The Alternative?

To get to submission, to get to the viva, you have to do the work. It’s no accident. You must have put in the hours and you can only do the work if you’re sufficiently skilled.

How else could you get so far? How else could you explain that you are where you are?

You’ve done the work and done the work well. Keep going. Keep succeeding.

Hear

What’s the probability that you’ll hear one of the following statements said in the viva?

“This is the best thesis I’ve ever read!”

“You should be doing my job!”

“You are one of the foremost minds in the country – nay! The world!”

None of these are impossible utterances in the viva, but they’re pretty unlikely.

What can you definitely hear in the viva? You.

Capable. Knowledgeable. Fully participating in the discussion.

Ready.

Variables

There are lots of things people think will have an impact on their viva or their prep. Here’s a partial list of factors people think could make a difference, for good or bad:

Your examiners. Your institution. The number or types of awards or results. Whether you were part-time or full-time. Home or international. Number of supervisors. Time spent on your PhD. Do you have a Masters? How long between submission and the viva? Will you have an independent chair? Have you cited your examiners? Number of references in your bibliography. Number of chapters in your thesis. Number of published papers during your PhD. Number of hours spent on prep. Will you have had a mock viva? Have you read a book about the viva? Did you go to a workshop about the viva?

I’m a mathematician and there’s part of me which would love to take all of these variables and make an equation. But there’s far too many. Lots of them could make a difference.

So why not focus instead on the constants? The things that are always there.

You did the work. You made the choices. You steered yourself. Your examiners are capable researchers, who know what they’re doing in the viva. You are a capable researcher by the time you submit, and have the time to prepare yourself for the viva.

Focus on the constants that hold true for everyone.

In The Moment…

…it’s possible that you forget something.

…it’s possible you don’t understand something.

…it’s possible that you realise something.

…it’s possible that you think about something.

…it’s possible that you doubt yourself.

…it’s possible that you convince your examiner.

…it’s possible that you know something no-one else does.

…it’s possible that you’re the expert.

…it’s possible that you’ve made a mistake.

…it’s possible that you’ve got the answer to that unexpected question.

There’s a non-zero probability of all of the above. They can depend on a lot of things, but there’s a chance they all could happen, good or bad. Focus on some and you can find help, focus on others and you’ll only find distraction. You get to choose what you focus on, and what you do as a result.

Remember: it’s impossible to get to the viva without doing the work. You’re the reason you’ve got this far.

Counting Chickens

Don’t count your chickens before they’re hatched…

…especially with the viva…?

Don’t count them.

Spend your time counting something more worthwhile.

Count the number of days you’ve spent on your PhD.

Count the number of papers you’ve read and referenced.

Count the times you’ve made breakthroughs.

Count the times you’ve heard someone say, “Interesting…” after you’ve told them about your work.

Count the times you’ve stood up and presented.

Count the ideas that you’ve come up with.

Count the ways that you’re a better researcher now than when you started.

What does all of that add up to?

Nothing poultry.

(sorry, couldn’t resist!)

Don’t expect there to be nothing to challenge you in the viva, don’t expect to fail; know that you’ve got the tools and talent to meet the questions of your examiners. Instead of assuming you’ll pass, or worrying you won’t, do what you can to remind yourself of why you’re there and how that happened.

On Weakness

No research programme can’t be improved. Sometimes sacrifices have to be made or limits imposed. Sometimes experiments or investigations don’t work out the way you hope they will. That doesn’t mean your thesis is fundamentally flawed, or your research is weak.

Still, a lot of PhD candidates ask me, “How do I talk about weakness in my viva?”

If there’s really something that could be better then you can discuss it by being honest, being clear and by talking about what’s great in your research and thesis.

  • Be honest: don’t try to hide or bluff and hope that your examiners will move on.
  • Be clear: set out the facts and your reasons, what they mean and why.
  • Talk about what’s great: not to distract, but to honestly persuade.

If there’s something you consider weak about your thesis or research, you don’t have to bring it up as you start the viva. You do have a responsibility to have thought about it and be willing to engage with your examiners. That’s no different to anything else in your research though.

You can’t write a perfect thesis. But you can’t get to the end of the PhD by accident either.

Remember: just because you think something is weak, it doesn’t mean that it is. If your examiners frame something as being weak, and you disagree, it doesn’t mean that they are right.

“Weakness” is a shorthand that people use for limitations, lack of time, doubts, worries and uncertainty. By all means consider how things could be improved or be different, but perhaps consider using a more accurate word to describe what you’re thinking about.

Don’t Worry

This is one of the phrases that seems useful on the surface. An encouragement to steer someone away from nerves.

  • “Don’t worry, you’ve done the hard work…”
  • “Don’t worry, you’re the expert…”
  • “Don’t worry, they’re not there to interrogate you…”

Here’s the thing: “don’t worry” doesn’t stop people from worrying! I’ve been pondering this for a while, and I am trying to be really conscious about the words I use in the future. I know I’ve said it before but I’m trying to remove it from my “viva help vocabulary”.

All of the reasons above are true, as justifications for why someone doesn’t need to be worried. It’s difficult for an already worried or nervous person to hear those reasons when they hear “don’t worry” first.

Helping a friend prepare? Don’t say “don’t worry”. Simply try to help them focus on their achievements. Get them to talk to you about the work. Steer their perspective.

Get them to realise how talented they are to have submitted their thesis, and how well-placed they are to succeed in their viva.