Planning as Persuaded Storytelling: The Role of

Workflow: Annotated pdf, Tracked changes

PROOF COVER SHEET Author(s): Andrew Zitcer Article title: Planning as Persuaded Storytelling: The Role of Genre in Planners’ Narratives Article no: RPTP 1363404 Enclosures: 1) Query sheet 2) Article proofs

Dear Author, Please find attached the proofs for your article. 1. Please check these proofs carefully. It is the responsibility of the corresponding author to check these and approve or amend them. A second proof is not normally provided. Taylor & Francis cannot be held responsible for uncorrected errors, even if introduced during the production process. Once your corrections have been added to the article, it will be considered ready for publication Please limit changes at this stage to the correction of errors. You should not make trivial changes, improve prose style, add new material, or delete existing material at this stage. You may be charged if your corrections are excessive (we would not expect corrections to exceed 30 changes). For detailed guidance on how to check your proofs, please paste this address into a new browser window: http://journalauthors.tandf.co.uk/production/checkingproofs.asp Your PDF proof file has been enabled so that you can comment on the proof directly using Adobe Acrobat. If you wish to do this, please save the file to your hard disk first. For further information on marking corrections using Acrobat, please paste this address into a new browser window:http://journalauthors.tandf.co.uk/production/acrobat.asp

2. Please review the table of contributors below and confirm that the first and last names are structured correctly and that the authors are listed in the correct order of contribution. This check is to ensure that your names will appear correctly online and when the article is indexed. Sequence 1

Prefix

Given name(s)

Surname

Andrew

Zitcer

Suffix

Queries are marked in the margins of the proofs, and you can also click the hyperlinks below. Content changes made during copy-editing are shown as tracked changes. Inserted text is in red font and revisions have a blue indicatorå. Changes can also be viewed using the list comments function. To correct the proofs, you should insert or delete text following the instructions below, but do not add comments to the existing tracked changes.

AUTHOR QUERIES General points: 1. Permissions: You have warranted that you have secured the necessary written permission from the appropriate copyright owner for the reproduction of any text, illustration, or other material in your article. For further guidance on this topic please see: http://journalauthors.tandf.co.uk/copyright/usingThirdPartyMaterial.asp 2. Third-party material: If there is material in your article that is owned by a third party, please check that the necessary details of the copyright/rights owner are shown correctly. 3. Affiliation: The corresponding author is responsible for ensuring that address and email details are correct for all the co-authors. Affiliations given in the article should be the affiliation at the time the research was conducted. For further guidance on this topic please see: http://journalauthors.tandf.co.uk/preparation/writing.asp. 4. Funding: Was your research for this article funded by a funding agency? If so, please insert ‘This work was supported by ’, followed by the grant number in square brackets ‘[grant number xxxx]’. 5. Supplemental data and underlying research materials: Do you wish to include the location of the underlying research materials (e.g. data, samples or models) for your article? If so, please insert this sentence before the reference section: ‘The underlying research materials for this article can be accessed at / description of location [author to complete]’. If your article includes supplemental data, the link will also be provided in this paragraph. See for further explanation of supplemental data and underlying research materials.

AQ1

The ORCID information has been imported from data supplied with the original manuscript. Please revise if incorrect.

AQ2

Please provide an institutional e-mail address, if available, to be included in the article, as per journal style.

AQ3

Please clarify whether this is Sandercock (2003a) or Sandercock (2003b).

AQ4

Note 1 has been moved to create and Acknowledgements section. Please confirm it has all been moved correctly.

AQ5

Please confirm ACSP has been spelt out in full correctly.

AQ6

Please provide the page number and date for Throgmorton’s quotations.

AQ7

Please indicate whether the italics are added or were in the original quotation.

AQ8


AQ9

Please add the page number for the Stein quotation.

AQ10

Should ‘raw data’ be single quotes? If not, please give the reference for the quotation including page number.

AQ11

Should ‘conscripted’ be single quotes? If not, please give the reference for the quotation including page number.

AQ12


AQ13

Please provide the page reference for the Fish quotation.

AQ14

Should ‘alternative facts’ be single quotes? If not, please give the reference for the quotation including page number.

AQ15

The US use of ‘academy’ is not widespread elsewhere and has been changed to the more international ‘academia’ or ‘academe’ throughout. Please confirm this is acceptable.

AQ16


AQ17

The disclosure statement has been inserted. Please correct if this is inaccurate.

AQ18

The CrossRef database (www.crossref.org/) has been used to validate the references. Mismatches between the original manuscript and CrossRef are tracked in red font. Please provide a revision if the change is incorrect. Do not comment on correct changes.

AQ19

Please provide missing city for the ‘Eckstein (2003)’ references list entry.

AQ20

Please provide missing city for the ‘Fish (1980)’ references list entry.

AQ21

Please provide missing city and publisher for the ‘Fowler (1982)’ references list entry.

AQ22

Please provide missing city for the ‘MacIntyre (2007)’ references list entry.

AQ23

Please provide missing city for the ‘Sandercock and Attili (2010)’ references list entry.

AQ24

Please provide missing city for the ‘Temkin et al. (2000)’ references list entry.

AQ25

Please provide missing city for the ‘Throgmorton (1996)’ references list entry.

How to make corrections to your proofs using Adobe Acrobat/Reader Taylor & Francis offers you a choice of options to help you make corrections to your proofs. Your PDF proof file has been enabled so that you can mark up the proof directly using Adobe Acrobat/Reader. This is the simplest and best way for you to ensure that your corrections will be incorporated. If you wish to do this, please follow these instructions: 1. Save the file to your hard disk. 2. Check which version of Adobe Acrobat/Reader you have on your computer. You can do this by clicking on the “Help” tab, and then “About”. If Adobe Reader is not installed, you can get the latest version free from http://get.adobe.com/reader/. 3. If you have Adobe Acrobat/Reader 10 or a later version, click on the “Comment” link at the right-hand side to view the Comments pane. 4. You can then select any text and mark it up for deletion or replacement, or insert new text as needed. Please note that these will clearly be displayed in the Comments pane and secondary annotation is not needed to draw attention to your corrections. If you need to include new sections of text, it is also possible to add a comment to the proofs. To do this, use the Sticky Note tool in the task bar. Please also see our FAQs here: http://journalauthors. tandf.co.uk/ production/index.asp. 5. Make sure that you save the file when you close the document before uploading it to CATS using the “Upload File” button on the online correction form. If you have more than one file, please zip them together and then upload the zip file. If you prefer, you can make your corrections using the CATS online correction form.

Troubleshooting Acrobat help:http://helpx.adobe.com/acrobat.html Reader help:http://helpx.adobe.com/reader.html Please note that full user guides for earlier versions of these programs are available from the Adobe Help pages by clicking on the link “Previous versions” under the “Help and tutorials” heading from the relevant link above. Commenting functionality is available from Adobe Reader 8.0 onwards and from Adobe Acrobat 7.0 onwards. Firefox users: Firefox’s inbuilt PDF Viewer is set to the default; please see the following for instructions on how to use this and download the PDF to your hard drive: http://support.mozilla.org/en-US/kb/view-pdf-files-firefox-without-downloading-them#w_using-a-pdf-readerplugin

RPTP 1363404 16 September 2017

Initial

CE: XX QA: XX Coll:XX QC:XX

Planning Theory & Practice, 2017 https://doi.org/10.1080/14649357.2017.1363404

Planning as Persuaded Storytelling: The Role of Genre in Planners’ Narratives Andrew Zitcer 5

ABSTRACT

10

15

AQ1

Department of Architecture, Design and Urbanism, Drexel University, Philadelphia, USA

Genre is one of narrative’s key structuring tools, bounding and delimiting texts. When planners write within a given genre, they tacitly endorse specific conventions. By conforming to these conventions, planners reproduce the historical and linguistic arrangements that led to the ratification and codification of certain types of narratives. This paper explores how two of the author’s prior publications fit uncomfortably within the ambit of specific genres. It suggests ways to push back against the limits of genre, to produce texts more responsive to a project of mutual learning between authors and readers. Through recognition, interrogation, and transformation of genre, authors can advance the project of planning for the common good.

ARTICLE HISTORY

Received 18 July 2016 Accepted 31 July 2017 KEYWORDS GENRE; NARRATIVE; STORYTELLING; PHRONETIC PLANNING; PLANNING THEORY

AQ2

As soon as the word ‘genre’ is sounded, as soon as it is heard, as soon as one attempts to conceive it, a limit is drawn. And when a limit is established, norms and interdictions are not far behind: ‘Do,’‘Do not’ says ‘genre,’ the word ‘genre,’ the figure, the voice, or the law of genre (Jacques Derrida and Avital Ronell (1980), “The law of genre”).

20

25

30

35

Genre is one of narrative’s key structuring tools, bounding and delimiting texts. When authors write within a given genre, they tacitly endorse its conventions. By conforming to these conventions, planning scholars reproduce the historical and linguistic arrangements that led to the ratification and codification of certain types of narratives. Genres commonly employed in planning (research articles, comprehensive plans, land use laws, commissioned reports, and so on) structure the relationship between planner-authors and their audiences. Genre enables and proscribes certain acts of communication – without obtaining authors’ consent. It lurks in the background, as any text’s precondition, yet it has faced little scrutiny. The goal of this paper is to interrogate the way genre shapes planning narratives, and the subsequent effects on authorship. As planning researchers, we ignore genre at our peril. It has long been understood that planners tell stories, and genre is one of the key elements in storytelling. It takes its place among questions of voice, characterization, and plot. Yet unlike many elements of storytelling in planning, genre has undergone little scrutiny. Storytelling in planning has been described as the means to persuade stakeholders of the planner’s vision for the future (Throgmorton, 1996, 2003). Sandercock (2003, p. 26) finds stories widespread in many kinds of planning, and advocates AQ3 a “critical and creative approach” to storytelling that accounts for stories’ political nature. Forester (1999)

CONTACT Andrew Zitcer

[email protected]

© 2017 Informa UK Limited, trading as Taylor & Francis Group


2

5

10

15

20

25

30

35

40

Initial


A. ZITCER

embeds discussions of story in a broader framework of communicative rationality and deliberation. Yet, in these accounts and others, the limitations of genre remain generally overlooked. The structuring power of genre became apparent to me only in the practice of crafting my own planning narratives. Without intending to, I ran into genre trouble. In 2014–2015 I attempted to tell stories about the same set of data using two very different, but common genres: the funder-sponsored planning report and the academic journal article. As I worked with my co-authors to draft, edit, and prepare each of these pieces for publication, I became aware of the discomfort that arose from trying to compress or flatten what seemed like rich, generative data into formats with rigid conventions. The data wanted to escape genre boundaries, and make a mess of the page. But I acquiesced to the exigencies of the tasks at hand, and created legible, appropriate outputs that fit the constraints of their origins. Throughout both projects, I had a fair amount of autonomy, and I was not pressured by the funder or my colleagues to write them up any particular way. Nevertheless, I felt constrained and slightly uncomfortable. Instead of “planning as persuasive storytelling,” as Throgmorton puts it, this AQ4 was “planning as persuaded storytelling”.1 I was persuaded by the text to conform to the genres of the AQ5 pieces I was writing – to write like a gentleman. I want to uncover some of the ways genre constrained those writing exercises, and in the process advocate for a broader consideration of genre as both a hindrance and potential source of liberation for planning narratives. So in some respects this is a work of academic autobiography. Perhaps, since many researchers may share these experiences, it will serve as “everybody’s autobiography” (Stein, 1937). It is my hope AQ6 to achieve a kind of liberation, not from genre itself, but from a persistent kind of false consciousness that continues to treat planning narratives as comfortably neutral expressions of competence and expertise. My unease with genre, like Roquentin’s nausea, is symptomatic of something more general.2 In my case, the unease is born of an insufficient understanding of the power and responsibility of the author relative to the interpretive communities of which he or she is a part (Fish, 1980). One way to address those matters, however incompletely and provisionally, is through recognition of the power and possibilities of genre. I argue that genre is one means (there are others) of creating awareness, and ultimately new paths, toward more responsible texts. In the rest of this paper I will review the way genre fits into the storytelling and planning literature, and discuss some basic genre theory. I will briefly describe the writing of the research in the West Philadelphia case as both funded report and journal article, and how genre considerations informed those projects. Then I will highlight some interesting work being done in and beyond planning scholarship that might help authors seeking to overcome genre trouble. Finally, I will talk about the ways it might be possible to transform or transcend genre in planning narratives, to create texts more flexible and powerful in their reach.

Storytelling in Planning To briefly recapitulate Throgmorton’s formation, planning can be characterized as “persuasive and constitutive storytelling about the future” (Throgmorton, 2003, p. 126). Such stories are meant to persuade an audience (and maybe to persuade the author as well). Though planning is a diverse and interdisciplinary field, the focus on future conditions and attempts to persuade readers of a desirable course of action are key elements of planning’s default genre. There is a bit of alchemy involved in the creation of persuasive stories: what begins as “raw data” need to be transformed into a product that AQ7 meets established norms of interpretation and prescription. Planners and planning scholars use the same tools as other authors, including rhythmic and imagistic language, emplotment, characterization,


Initial


PLANNING THEORY & PRACTICE

5

10

15

20

25

30

35

3

and description – some to greater effect than others (Throgmorton, 2003, p. 127). Using these tools, planning is “performed through story,” (Sandercock, 2003, p. 12). Yet, despite pioneering work to advance the ways stories are told, many planning documents are stodgy and dull. Regardless of the tools employed (or the measure of élan), the planner-author is only one half of the storytelling equation: the author needs a reader to persuade. Audiences may include other academics, policy-makers, funders, residents, or members of the media. Eckstein speaks of the reader getting voluntarily “conscripted” into a dialogic relationship with the author. This conscripted reader plays a role relative to the text, embodying a specific set of subject positions (Eckstein, 2003, pp. 31–33). Yet in the space between the author and the reader, things become open to interpretation, where the meaning of the text can be contested and negotiated. Readers may opt to read “against the grain,” making their own, divergent readings out of texts intended to persuade them in a particular way (Chandler, 1997, p. 4). Of course, they can also choose to put the book down and ignore it entirely; even such fair-weather readers take a political stand that nevertheless positions them in relation to the authored work. Seeking to overturn a traditional understanding of the author as a final authority on the meaning of a text, Fish (1980) advances the concept of “interpretive communities,” in which meaning is deliberated and determined in a web of relationships consisting of authors, readers, and the texts themselves. In such communities each participant bears a measure of moral and political responsibility for the stewardship of the communicative project. Authors may design stories that distort or leave out key evidence, intending to persuade for malevolent ends. The reader may misunderstand or misappropriate stories planners try to tell, either by mistake, out of a lack of trust, or a desire to use these stories to advance objectives contrary to the interests of the author (witness the recent rise of the neologism “alternative facts”). As stories proliferate, Seymour Mandelbaum warned, they have the potential to become dangerous if they are not carefully told. Mandelbaum saw storytelling as both a boon and a threat to the “open moral communities” he thought planners should foster (Mandelbaum, 1991, 2000). Planner-authors must interrogate their storytelling practices to ensure they are not increasing the danger inherent in these acts of communication. They must attend to the “moral ordering” of the stories they tell (Sandercock, 2003). Lake and Zitcer explore the moral terrain of authorship, encouraging planner-authors to adopt strategies that include research participants in the production of texts themselves. They advocate a “project of mutual learning” based on inquiry-as-conversation, rather than relying on selective interpretation designed to render the planner as master persuader (Lake & Zitcer, 2012, p. 398). In some ways, the Philadelphia case I describe here is a test of my success (or lack thereof ) in responding to the charges made by Lake and Zitcer. By experimenting with autobiography in this paper, interpolating self-critique in an academic publication, I seek to demonstrate that genre is one of the core elements that constitute narrative, and planner-authors will be unable to adequately account for the moral ordering of their storytelling without interrogating their use of genre. But preparation for this work of self-interrogation requires a dip into the tidal waters of genre theory.

Genre as a Tool for Managing Texts

40

Genre, simply put, is a system for the classification of literary texts (Chandler, 1997). Todorov (1976) argues that there have always been classes of texts with formal characteristics that somehow bind them together. Common traits can be identified like theme, setting, structure, and style (Chandler, 1997). No text exists without referring to a whole network of texts with which it shares some characteristics. Yet there is an inherent tension in confining disparate works to a single genre. Each work is unique in many respects, standing for itself as an expression of human thought.

AQ8

AQ9

AQ10

AQ11

AQ12


4

5

10

15

20

25

30

35

Initial


A. ZITCER

The autonomy of a text is paradoxical; the text establishes its raison d’être only by defining itself, implicitly or explicitly, relative to what has gone before. Thus, in this quest for individuality, each text obeys and disobeys some qualities of its genre. Some do a better job of pushing genre boundaries than others. Some like to conform, sitting comfortably in their position, not touching the walls. But genre is best comprehended by looking at the works that distend it. As Todorov asserts when talking about genre: “the norm becomes visible – lives – only by its transgressions” (1976, p. 161). Works that defy genre nevertheless gesture toward it. This is precisely what makes the study of genre useful for planning scholars. The inability to escape genre makes understanding it the only means of empowering authors to not be held back, or caught unaware, by it. Miller (1984) classifies genre along multiple lines, based on rhetorical substance, form, or the action the discourse is intended to perform. A single text, say George Orwell’s 1984, can be simultaneously a dystopian depiction of a totalitarian state (its substance), a novel (its form), and serve as a prompt for the interrogation of the contemporary political situation (its role in pragmatic action). Therefore, it is possible to collect 1984 along with other polemics, other dystopian works, other British novels, and so on. Of the possible ways to classify text by genre, Miller is most interested in the pragmatic action that texts do in the world, the way they address a social need, an “exigence” that advances rhetorical purpose in the social world (Miller, 1984, p. 157). Seen in this way, texts serve as a heuristic to facilitate the author–reader relationship (Gerhart, 1989). Genre intermediates and orders relations, leading Bakhtin to assert that “the true poetics of genre can only be a sociology of genre” (cited in Todorov, 1984, p. 80). Every written word points in two directions, simultaneously facing the author and the reader. Genre is thus a collective act, a concert performance of texts massed before an audience. Derrida and Ronell (1980) playfully advocate the mixing and transformation of genre, recognizing that genre evolves through impurity and contamination, rather than as a static part of nature or art. Whatever your opinion of Derrida’s prose antics, the genre of continental philosophy was upended by his willingness to experiment and provoke convention. Like Derrida, Fowler (1982) recognizes the manifold ways in which genres can evolve, both structurally and through their content. His work catalogs a series of technical transformations and genre mixtures performed through time. Later in this paper I want to play with the notion of a text disobeying its genre, and suggest that we ought to actively work to create texts that challenge and transmute today’s genres. In the following section, I will talk about the process of constructing my own research texts and the challenges I faced trying to conform to the conventions of their genres. This shift into autobiography is no mere detour – it is meant to advance, however imperfectly, the goal of loosening up the constraints of the academic journal article which I discuss below. After that, I will highlight some authors from whom we can learn as we seek to destabilize conventions in planning scholarship. Finally, I will make some suggestions about how texts we create can be made more useful by a different relationship to genre. But first, an act of confession.

Genre Theory in Local Practice 40

In the summer of 2013 Drexel University, where I teach, put out a request for proposals to fund community-based research. At the time I was just finishing my first year on the faculty, along with two other assistant professors who were also quite new to the university. We decided to put a proposal together so that we could try our hands at collaborating, and so we could get to know the neighborhoods around



Initial


5

10

15

20

25

5

us a little better. We were awarded a modest grant to explore arts access and arts participation in the West Philadelphia neighborhoods of Mantua, Powelton Village, and West Powelton. Although each of the neighborhoods is somewhat different, the overall study area contained concentrated poverty, high unemployment and low educational attainment. At the same time – and not coincidentally – these neighborhoods lie in proximity to Drexel, the University of Pennsylvania and the medical and research anchor institutions that dominate Philadelphia’s so-called ‘University City.’ As faculty members specifically interested in the relationship between arts and culture and community development, we wanted to know how these neighborhoods participate in the cultural life of the city, and how they produce culture for their own or others’ consumption. After an extensive research effort, my colleagues and I asked ourselves what we wanted the final product to be. We had to write up a report in order to fulfill the terms of the university funding, but what shape should that take? Though funded reports sometimes have strict formal requirements, we had latitude in how we wanted to render this data into persuasive storytelling. Yet the politics of genre played out in our discussions as we deliberated on what kind of report to write. We decided early on that it should be a public report, made available to anyone in the neighborhoods who wanted to read it, as well as anyone interested in the cultural ecology of this part of West Philadelphia. But we struggled with the idea that it should be prescriptive, a ‘plan’ for the arts in Mantua and Powelton. If we stopped short of prescription, would it suffice to document existing conditions and perspectives? Remember, planning stories are ‘supposed’ to be persuasive, and constitutive of some sort of future; this is the default genre for planning scholarship. And a funder-sponsored planning report is supposed to be both descriptive and prescriptive, offering an insightful analysis of the situation at hand as well as some snappy recommendations for future action. That is the direction we decided to go, despite the formulaic and staid approach that most of these kinds of reports often use. Personally, I felt I could not let my colleagues down, or disobey the genre of the planning report. So I acquiesced, struggling through the writing of the report, now pushing forward and now pulling back, as the text impelled me into its authorship. Looking now at the finished product, I want to highlight a few elements of the report that mark it as conforming to its genre.

A Fragile Ecosystem: The Funder-Sponsored Planning Report 30

35

40

The subsequent report is called A fragile ecosystem: The role of arts & culture in Philadelphia’s Mantua, Powelton Village and West Powelton neighborhoods (Hawkins, Vakharia, & Zitcer, 2014). Planning reports like these often begin with descriptive language, move to interpretive language and finally to prescriptive language. Our report had a section devoted to each mode of discourse. Like most planning reports, we begin with a map of the study area, and document the neighborhoods’ demographics and existing conditions. This bounds the study in space and time. We describe our research methodology, but unlike many academic papers, we choose a more accessible name for the section, calling it ‘The AQ13 research effort.’ Throughout, the tone and language of the report is meant to be direct and accessible, designed for a non-specialist audience. I pushed for us to use the first-person plural, so that ‘we’ the researchers took responsibility for the data gathering and presentation of material, rather than ‘the researchers’ or some passive voice obfuscation of authorship and agency. This may be a slight departure from the typical planning report, a little sign of departure from the genre, perhaps. The interpretive section consists of eight numbered findings that are based on the data gathered during interviews and focus groups. This section clearly attempts to persuade the reader through declarative sentences rendered in boldface type and all caps. These sentences declare what particular


6

5

10

15

20

Initial


A. ZITCER

agents ‘seek’ or ‘need,’ how they ‘suffer’ and how existing conditions may ‘harm’ them. Though the descriptive section enumerates the strengths of the cultural organizations in these neighborhoods, this section describes their fragility. It orients the reader in the cultural ecosystem of West Philadelphia, and suggests that they view the orientation of specific phenomena in a particular way. The final section is prescriptive and consists of two concluding observations. The first advocates giving money and other resources to arts and culture organizations, as they are the needy and struggling entities in the neighborhoods. The second suggests more collaboration and planning among stakeholders. In sum, the Fragile ecosystem report closely adheres to the planning report genre, as it is future- oriented and persuasive in tone, intending to influence readers ranging from funders to policy-makers to community-based arts organizations. We made it available for download on our college’s website, and emailed copies to everyone we could contact who had previously been involved in the research. This public face is part of the planning report genre: ideally, these reports are announced broadly, distributed broadly and without cost, and subject to potential rebuttal by those who read it. In exchange for reducing data complexity and providing prescriptions for future action, planner-authors find an audience of citizens and experts willing to engage with their findings. The public orientation of many planning reports is a feature that can be contrasted with academic journal articles. Academic publishing is often hidden behind pay walls that require costly subscriptions, as well as the use of knotty prose and theory unfamiliar to most laypeople. The requirements of an academic journal article are rather different from those of a funder-sponsored planning report.

“A Capabilities Approach to Arts and Culture”: The Academic Journal Article

25

30

35

40

As my colleagues and I worked on the Fragile ecosystem report, it was always clear that we would present the findings in an academic setting. We are pre-tenure professors, and academic publications are important for tenure and promotion. The colleagues in academia we aim to reach are not in the AQ14 habit of reading random local planning reports or press releases; they will find our work if we put it in the places where they look. The final product is “A capabilities approach to arts and culture? Theorizing community development in West Philadelphia” which was published in Planning Theory & Practice (Zitcer, Hawkins, & Vakharia, 2016). The objective of that paper is to place the findings of that research within the theoretical ambit of Amartya Sen and Martha Nussbaum’s capabilities approach to human development. The paper is also an instance of persuasive storytelling, in that it takes a normative stance toward arts-based community development that encourages place-based versus project-based funding strategies and a move away from economic considerations in measuring arts impact. Compared to funder-sponsored planning reports, I find it harder to classify academic journal articles within a single genre. Like drama with its subgenres of comedy and tragedy, academic articles come in several stripes. There are empirical papers and theoretical papers, qualitative, quantitative, and mixed-method analyses, and more. Yet there are qualities that many academic journal articles share. There are whole books devoted to writing empirical papers in the ‘IMRAD’ format (introduction, methods, results, and discussion). Academic articles are usually adjudicated by gatekeepers such as editors and peer reviewers, who end up being the first – and sometimes primary – audience for a given piece. Many articles are tonally configured to appeal to a small set of academics within a subfield of a discipline, whether the diverse economies approach to economic geography or a regular convening of the scholars comprising the Ezra Pound Society. Finally, academic journal articles are often vehicles


Initial



5

10

15

20

25

30

35

40

7

for confident assertion, as with the drive to publish quantitative scientific papers with significant p-values. Though my work in this case did not meet all of these criteria, it has many qualities that render it ‘academic’ and I hope to demonstrate how it conforms and departs from the broad conventions of this type of storytelling. One noticeable difference between funded reports and academic articles is the presence of an abstract and keywords. The abstract serves to condense the aims and findings of the paper into a brief form that is suitable for window shoppers to decide if they want to come inside and have a closer look. Wheeler (1996, p. 283) writes with pith and urgency of the perils of the “inadequate abstract,” which alienates perspective readers and works against the author’s best interests. His short piece makes it clear that abstracts themselves constitute a genre – one that must be honored if an article is going to succeed. The keywords, instead of summarizing the work itself, explicitly link a given text to a network of texts, so that our article is now joined to a network of texts on the capabilities approach or creative placemaking. They also please the search engine masters, who render a text visible through the clutter of library portals and Internet search. The abstract and keywords serve a similar purpose to the executive summary of the planning report in that it might be all a person reads before citing it. The introduction of the capabilities article works to ground it in the broader literature on artsbased community development and creative placemaking. This early bit of business that takes place in an academic article has a dialectical function: to simultaneously link this text to many others while announcing the singularity of the text at hand. The work of the introduction in a journal article is to appeal to the authority of others who have established the importance of an issue before this article came along, or to jump on a bandwagon with the caveat that one’s work is going to overturn said bandwagon. In this case the theory of capabilities is the designated means to redirect a conversation about creative placemaking. Our discussion of capabilities theory clearly differentiates this piece from the funded report. Funderdriven reports often fail to engage other literature or theory: it is rare that funders pay researchers to produce a literature review, and the appetite for theory may be low, or imagined to be low, among the readers of planning reports. (In our funded report, we offered a list of items for “further reading” on the final page.) In journal articles like this one, the use of theory is de rigueur, though it is not a feature of all writing in the journal article genre. Many natural science, public health, and social science publications do not lean on theory. Following this theoretical examination of the article’s raison d’être, we move to a descriptive section, laying out the specifics of the case in West Philadelphia as well as our research methods. We conclude the article with a normative positioning of the capabilities approach as useful to arts and community development. We even make some prescriptions to funders and policy-makers about employing a geographic basis for arts funding rather than a project-by-project approach. The article asserts that art is a fundamental human right and a key component of the just city. It also advances the claim that a capabilities approach to arts and culture (and other things) is an apt way for planners to evaluate success. I admit that I was considerably more comfortable operating within the confines of this genre. One reason has to do with the use of theory in the academic journal article genre. Theory allows me to buttress my own observations by appealing to the authority of other, more accomplished thinkers. I do not bear the full responsibility for my thoughts; they have been ‘pre-thunk’ by the greats. Therefore, I was comfortable using prescriptive language and making policy suggestions in the journal article where I was not comfortable doing so in the planning report. I did not have to ask research participants


8

5

10

15

Initial


A. ZITCER

in a feedback session whether Amartya Sen’s theories applied to their experience. I quoted and cited Sen, which, in this genre, is all the permission I need. The audience for this paper sits in academia, not “out there” in the field (Geertz, 1988). I had less AQ15 anxiety about how the article would be received because people in the neighborhoods would probably not read it. Even though the piece would have consequences for my academic reputation, people ‘on the ground’ who know more about the struggles in that cultural ecosystem are largely excluded from the right to comment on it. Partly because of the sequestration behind a pay wall,3 and partly because of genre-specific signifiers like citations and footnotes, the capabilities article felt like a safer place for me as an author. Any criticism it received was likely to come from the reviewers, who are anonymous, and might be the only strangers ever to read it. Planning reports and journal articles are genres frequently taken on by planners in academia. There are many other kinds of documents that planner-authors craft, from land use to comprehensive plans, transportation plans to long-range ones, and more. It would be an interesting, though daunting challenge to critique, deconstruct, or even devise a typology of planning genres that is more comprehensive than what I can offer here. Nevertheless, any awareness of genre constraints beats no awareness at all, as we seek to advance our practice as authors in planning.

Genre Inspiration for Planning Today

20

25

30

35

As I stated above, planning texts can often be stodgy and dull. By marking my two publications as conforming fairly closely to the status quo of their genres, I put this work in the same category. The pieces succeeded on their own terms, but have not advanced the work of planning scholarship. Nor have they helped me uncover my distinctive authorial voice. One thing I learned from these authorial experiences is that the best way to confront my genre discomfort is to seek out inspiration from other authors, those who succeed at creating provocative and innovative texts. Looking at exemplary work allows insight into the ways storytelling and genre can be advanced. Therefore, I offer three authors for your consideration. Though they may be well known to planning academics, their transformation of genre has not been the focus of previous analyses. They all inform our work as crafters of impactful and evocative stories. In particular, they combine incisive analysis and primary data with a deeply personal authorial voice. They incorporate insights from diverse fields and modes of thought, literature to history to philosophy. Their mature styles are unique and unmistakable. In selecting these three – Leonie Sandercock, Bent Flyvbjerg, and Marshall Berman – I highlight authors who did not come out of the American academic planning academe (though Sandercock and Flyvbjerg, and to some degree Berman, are certainly eminent and influential there). All of their work speaks to the core issues of planning (land use, conflicting cultural claims, processes of urban change), yet they each do it in generative and idiosyncratic ways that push at planning’s boundaries. I do acknowledge that these three are white authors whose works are readily available in English, and there are surely other exemplars who are working to transform genre in compelling ways, and from whom I wish to learn in this ongoing project.

Leonie Sandercock’s Mongrel Storytelling 40

First, it is vital to explore the contributions of Leonie Sandercock. Sandercock is an Australian scholar whose projects range from books on planning’s role in a multicultural society, to commercial screenplays to documentary films. She has an interest in First Nations community development and politics


Initial



5

10

15

20

25

30

9

since moving to Canada. Throughout her career, Sandercock has maintained a focus on the importance of storytelling to human experience. Her work is influential in planning theory and practice, garnering thousands of citations and numerous awards. But I want to foreground here the authorial means she uses to achieve her rhetorical goals. Following Miller’s analysis of genre as social action, I highlight Sandercock’s use of story, including autobiographical narrative (substance); her exploration of film, poetry, photography, and digital media (form); and her intent to revise our view of contemporary urbanity (pragmatic action). Sandercock’s Cosmopolis II: Mongrel cities of the twenty-first century, is a wide-ranging statement intended to shift discourse on cities. It also advocates pragmatic action for indigenous community planning, feminist epistemology, the use of multimedia, and the potential of storytelling. Late in the book Sandercock tells an autobiographical story in which she narrates her discomfort with her academic work in Sydney, Australia, which led to her decision to move to Los Angeles and pursue screenwriting (Sandercock, 2003, p. 182). This epiphany leads her to view story as crucial to planning practice and AQ16 research. In a later volume (2010, p. vi) Sandercock offers an “autobiographical sequel” detailing the origins of an ongoing collaboration with Giovanni Attili, who offers his own autobiographical narrative. Stories like these demystify the processes that undergird academic scholarship and its transformations. Sandercock and Attili’s personal stories are inextricable from the epistemology of their work. Why submerge one while foregrounding the other? The result of their openness is a practical application of Alasdair MacIntyre’s famous statement, “I can only answer the question ‘What am I to do’ if I can answer the prior question, ‘of what story or stories do I find myself a part?’ ” (MacIntyre, 2007, p. 216). These life stories propelled Sandercock into rethinking the form, not just the substance, of planning genres. Sandercock’s relationship with film is well known, but recently she has also extended her practice to what she calls “digital ethnography,” working with Attili and others to open the conversation in planning research and practice to other media such as blogging, photography, video, and even gaming (Sandercock & Attili, 2010, p. 48). As early as the mid-1990s, Sandercock was breaking up her blocks of scholarly prose with poetry by bell hooks and others, demonstrating that the power of voice and story can be amplified by altering the definition of what counts as evidence in planning (Sandercock, 1995). Her work on the borderlands – or the songlines, as she has called the liminal spaces where she works – has many lessons to offer the mainstream. Certainly as xenophobia and nihilism are on the rise, the inclusive, polyglot social intent of Sandercock’s work is as vital as ever.

Bent Flyvbjerg’s Phronetic Dialogs

35

40

Bent Flyvbjerg is another scholar who attends to genre in planning, and calls power to account. Flyvbjerg is a Danish planning scholar who taught in Aalborg before relocating to Oxford University. Flyvbjerg’s work on megaprojects and infrastructure explores both conceptual and operational barriers, while emphasizing the role of power in decision-making. In addition to applied planning analysis, Flyvbjerg is also a noted scholar of research methods in the social sciences. His landmark book Rationality & Power (1998) outlined his approach to phronetic planning. In contrast to other modes of planning that rely too much on universal theoretical or technical rationality, a phronetic approach foregrounds practical wisdom and ethics as a vital third component to knowledge and action. His contribution to this discussion of genre and planning revolves around his advocacy of the single case study (Flyvbjerg, 2006), which is not only a political stance on methodology, but on the genre of planning scholarship as well. By insisting that single case studies such as the Aalborg Project have explanatory power, Flyvbjerg


10

5

10

Initial


A. ZITCER

joins a longstanding tradition of advocates calling for the importance of the single case study (Stake, 2005), and pushes us to reconsider the substantive characteristics that constitute knowledge. There are two other elements to consider about Flybjerg’s work: the use of mass media in planning practice, and his position on the importance of narrative. Regarding the former, Flyvbjerg has discussed the usefulness of a dialogic relationship with the print, broadcast and electronic media to inform the public and hold powerful actors’ feet to the fire. In this way, he extends the space and time of the text beyond the borders of the book. He understands that mass media (especially in a small country like Denmark) have the power to influence discourse and action in ways that are inherently linked to texts, but transcend them in their reach. Finally, he puts his own life history narrative in service of the phronetic project, offering his “praxis story” to contextualize his role in the Aalborg Project and how it influenced the trajectory of his research (Flyvbjerg, 2002). This phronetic work endorses narrative and a critical engagement with story as key elements in advancing the persuasive work of planning.

Marshall Berman’s Shout in the Street 15

20

25

30

35

40

I want to end with a brief discussion of the work of Marshall Berman. Though he was an academic closely identified with the City University of New York for many decades, Berman’s work to reframe our understanding of Marx, and celebrate the vibrancy of a changing New York City transcends the sphere of academe. Berman ought to be read by planners because his work imaginatively reframes core planning concerns such as urban renewal, social marginalization and exclusion, and how culture becomes inscribed in place. His opus, All that is solid melts into air (Berman, 1988) is no less than an exploration of the forces that shaped modernity. It is very much a book about urban transformation, with lengthy discussions about Robert Moses, Jane Jacobs, and the like. But it is also a book about the literary imagination of cities, with explorations of Dostoevsky and Gogol, as well as Goethe and Ginsberg. For him, the boundary between the genres of literary criticism and urban political economy were porous. The point was to evoke and provoke. A key aim of Berman’s work was to humanize the Marxist project. In the early work of Marx, Berman saw an alternative to the scientific Marxism that Engels and others expanded. Instead, Berman saw a means to embrace and overcome the alienation of modernity: To be a modernist is to make oneself somehow at home in the maelstrom, to make its rhythms one’s own, to move within its currents in search of the forms of reality, of beauty, of freedom, of justice, that its fervid and perilous flow allows (Berman, 1988, pp. 345–346).

This fervidity was very much a feature of Berman’s authorial style, although it results sometimes in imprecision (in the original New York Times book review of All that is solid, John Leonard (1982) smirks that Berman “invents the last 200 years of Western intellectual history”). Yet this invention, this creative distortion, was in service of a humanist project and one that saw deeply into the democratic potential of the polyvocal city. In a later essay Berman connects his own experience growing up in the South Bronx to the struggles for visibility of early hip-hop pioneers such as Melle Mel and Public Enemy. Berman connects their cultural production to Gramsci’s concept of the organic intellectual (possibly demonstrating that Berman’s thesis needs them more than they need Gramsci) but successfully extending the literary interpolations of All that is solid to include contemporary black and brown voices to prove that “modernism still lived” (Berman, 1997, p. 169). Berman believed that the city street, from nineteenth-century Paris to New York today, was the engine of political protest and progress. It was always clear where Berman stood, and for whom he stood – it is right there on the page.


Initial



11

Pushing at the Boundaries of Genre

5

10

15

20

25

30

35

40

Genres are a longstanding feature of the narrative landscape – but they are mutable. If, as Todorov asserts (1976, p. 164), society codifies the speech acts that correspond to its ideology, then changing the conventions of genre is up to us – if we care about a change in ideology. Genres are produced and reproduced through social processes that take place between authors and readers. This process unfolds over time, as the genres of the past are replaced by others in a process of perhaps gradual, but continual, transformation. Continual transformation is necessary, not just of genre, but of other tools of voice and authority (Lake & Zitcer, 2012) so that useful forms of writing will survive and find audiences. Changing genre conventions will require reckoning with two aspects of genre’s explanatory influence: the social action and the formal constructs. Regarding the former, we must recognize how genres of planning narratives reflect the political power of the planning profession, and planning academia. The space–time of planning reports, with their empirical certainty and persuasive calls to action, have the power to shape the physical and political landscape. Journal articles reflect the dictates of academia, with its long publication times, pay walls, and unclear links to practice. Yet these academic articles form a collective body of knowledge, called into service to justify new research projects, or to train students who go on to write policy and influence planning practice. Renegotiating the terms of these arrangements means altering the power dynamics that govern them, even if the work of resistance is incremental and halting. We have an opportunity to redirect the flow of political power in our texts, starting with making academic knowledge production more broadly accessible, both in its distribution and its orientation to practitioners. In my case, there is no reason why I could not have presented the capabilities framing to a community gathering to inquire about the ways it reflected their understanding of arts in their neighborhoods. Together, we could have even developed new theory to explain West Philadelphia’s arts ecosystem. I could also have worked to further share authorship of the planning report with research participants, holding gatherings to explore its ramifications, encouraging reflection and collaboratively brainstorming next steps, future projects and even publications. We are all part of an interpretive community whose bonds are strengthened by sharing the work of birthing texts into the world. Yet there are challenges for early career planning scholars when it comes to crafting an authorial voice equal to a Sandercock or a Berman. Scholars are under pressure to publish research articles in highly ranked journals along established pathways of scholarly production. Experimental prose, out of the way publication outlets, and authorial explorations of vulnerability may not be fondly regarded by tenure committees. Gatekeepers including reviewers and editors of academic journals and presses may be perplexed at attempts to write ‘outside the box.’ And the pressure to publish with great frequency means that quick hits are desirable. These challenges are real and important. But there are ways to address them as an early career scholar. The first is to seek out journal editors and groups of scholars who are interested in these questions, and are increasingly affiliated with respected journals. Writers with an ambitious idea should approach them with an abstract and determine if their project fits with the journal’s aims and scope. There are also interdisciplinary journals that focus on research methods and might look for a more reflective account of authorial practice. Finally, when articulating a research agenda for a department head or tenure committee, scholars should announce early on that these questions will inform part or all of their projects. In less ideal cases, early career scholars will have to make this kind of writing a side project, destined for theory and methods journals, while more conventional papers appear in other outlets. Over time, the scholar can devote more time to this kind of exploration.


12

5

10

15

20

25

30

35

Initial


A. ZITCER

Regarding the formal properties of planning texts these authors seek to produce, I suggest a three-part intervention on the part of planner-authors: recognition, interrogation and transformation. The first, most important phase is simply recognition: in what genre does this text participate? What are the conventions of this genre? This awareness can begin in planning education, as we ought to prepare students to write more effectively and with awareness of writing’s consequences. Howell Baum (2017) makes just this point in an Interface contribution in Planning Theory & Practice, urging that planning students learn how to write stories. Second, planner-authors can engage in acts of genre interrogation, asking how does this genre persuade me to think and write? Am I circumscribing or censoring myself in order to write ‘properly’ in this genre? Finally, planner-authors should engage in acts of subversive transformation. There are a number of ways planning texts can be transformed, but looking at Sandercock, Flyvbjerg and Berman, for instance, yields some generative possibilities. Tell practice stories, letting the audience join the planner’s emotional and intellectual journey, breaking down false constructs of invulnerable authority. Use a variety of media, from film to video to image and more, supplementing the written word in ways that will attract others to the author’s interpretive community. Finally, generate polyvocal and eclectic texts, integrating the voices of research subjects, poets, rappers and all relevant comers. The planner-author need not be the only storyteller doing the persuading. Most importantly, instead of planners (or any empowered group of people) dictating the truth, the emphasis can be on telling ‘their’ truth – a truth that is ironic and contingent (Rorty, 1989). Our texts can still serve a pragmatic purpose in advancing the planning conversations in which we participate, but we can courageously claim that our texts are “definitively unfinished” as Duchamp famously declared his Large Glass (Temkin, Rosenberg, & Taylor, 2000, p. 57). This will require diligent effort on both the authors’ and the readers’ part; it is a shared project of meaning making. Once truth is collaboratively sought, the work of mutual learning, of writing newer and better stories, can begin in earnest. This project of heightened awareness will benefit planning scholarship. Even knowing what genre is and how it constrains our texts will make the invisible and unspoken more prominent in our deliberations about the writing we do. The same must be said for our awareness of audience, use of evidence, and what voice we employ in our texts – genre is one tool, albeit an important one, in the storyteller’s arsenal. In a world that is at least partially constructed by discourse, these choices matter for practical outcomes, too. As planner-authors, we need to actively debate what model of the world we want to build. Our texts should be oriented first toward a reader, and then oriented toward life – life with its diverse occurrences, its intractable problems. Roquentin found relief from his nausea by taking up the challenge of creating something meaningful out of apparent nothingness, which is the essence of the author’s act. Working together, planner-authors, and citizens ‘out there’ in the field, we can arrive at the answers to these questions together, in a sustained, collaborative, and mutually respectful relationship. Instead of seeking to persuade in our storytelling, while being tacitly persuaded by genre convention, we can use genre as a tool to mediate reality in new and more generative ways, advancing the project of planning for the common good.

Notes 40

1. I thank Bob Lake for suggesting the phrase. 2. In Sartre’s classic work, the protagonist Roquentin finds resolution to his existential angst (and presumably his dyspepsia) through the realization that he must strive to create meaning in his life (Sartre, 1964). 3. I am grateful to the editors and publishers of Planning Theory & Practice for making the capabilities article free to download for a limited time after its publication.


Initial



13

Acknowledgements

5

I wish to thank Amelia Duffy-Tumasz, Nicholas Klein, Juan Rivero, Charles Hoch and Robert Lake, as well as three anonymous reviewers, for their comments. I want to thank my Drexel collaborators on the publications discussed in this paper, Julie Hawkins and Neville Vakharia. I would also like to thank the editors of Planning Theory & Practice. Finally, I am grateful to Jennifer Tucker and Sergio Montero for putting together the panel on storytelling and planning at the Association of Collegiate Schools of Planning that was the impetus for this piece.

Disclosure Statement No potential conflict of interest was reported by the author.

AQ17

Notes on Contributor 10

Andrew Zitcer directs the Urban Strategy Graduate Program at Drexel University in Philadelphia, PA. His research explores narrative and discourse in planning, the role of social and economic cooperation in contemporary US political economy, and the relationship between the arts and urban development.

ORCID Andrew Zitcer 15

20

25

30

35

40

45

http://orcid.org/0000-0003-0234-9217

References Baum, H. (2017). To learn to plan, write stories. Planning Theory & Practice, 18, 305–309. doi:10.1080/14649357.2 017.1297554 Berman, M. (1988). All that is solid melts into air: The experience of modernity (Reissue ed.). New York, NY, USA: Penguin Books. Berman, M. (1997). “Justice/just us”: Rap and social justice in America. In A. Merrifield & E. Swyngedouw (Eds.), The Urbanization of Injustice (pp. 161–179). New York: NYU Press. Chandler, D. (1997). An introduction to genre theory. Media and Communication Studies. Retrieved from https:// faculty.washington.edu/farkas/HCDE510-Fall2012/Chandler_genre_theoryDFAnn.pdf Derrida, J., & Ronell, A. (1980). The law of genre. Critical Inquiry, 7, 55–81. doi:10.1086/448088 Eckstein, B. J. (2003). Making space: Stories in the practice of planning. In J. A. Throgmorton & B. J. Eckstein (Eds.), Story and sustainability: Planning, practice, and possibility for American cities (pp. 13–36). MIT Press. Fish, S. E. (1980). Is there a text in this class?: The authority of interpretive communities. Harvard University Press. Flyvbjerg, B. (1998). Rationality and power: Democracy in practice. Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press. Flyvbjerg, B. (2002). Bringing power to planning research one researcher’s praxis story. Journal of Planning Education and Research, 21, 353–366. Flyvbjerg, B. (2006). Five misunderstandings about case-study research. Qualitative Inquiry, 12, 219–245. doi:10.1177/1077800405284363 Forester, J. (1999). The deliberative practitioner: Encouraging participatory planning processes. Cambridge Mass, London: MIT Press. Fowler, A. (1982). Kinds of literature: An introduction to the theory of genres and modes. Geertz, C. (1988). Works and lives: The anthropologist as author. Stanford Calif.: Stanford University Press. Gerhart, M. (1989). The dilemma of the text: How to “belong” to a genre. Poetics, 18, 355–373. doi:10.1016/0304422X(89)90037-5 Hawkins, J., Vakharia, N., & Zitcer, A. (2014). A fragile ecosystem: The role of arts & culture in Philadelphia’s Mantua, Powelton village and West Powelton neighborhoods. Philadelphia, PA: Drexel University. Retrieved from https:// web.westphal.drexel.edu/pdf/ArtsAndCultureReport.pdf Lake, R. W., & Zitcer, A. W. (2012). Who says? Authority, voice, and authorship in narratives of planning research. Journal of Planning Education and Research, 32, 389–399. doi:10.1177/0739456X12455666 Leonard, J. (1982, January 8). Books of the times. The New York Times. Retrieved from https://www.nytimes. com/1982/01/08/books/books-of-the-times-163130.html

AQ18 AQ19 AQ20

AQ21


14

5

10

15

20

25

30

Initial


A. ZITCER

MacIntyre, A. C. (2007). After virtue: A study in moral theory. University of Notre Dame Press. Mandelbaum, S. J. (1991). Telling stories. Journal of Planning Education and Research, 10, 209–214. doi:10.1177/0 739456X9101000308 Mandelbaum, S. J. (2000). Open moral communities. Cambridge, Mass.: MIT Press. Miller, C. R. (1984). Genre as social action. Quarterly Journal of Speech, 70, 151–167. doi:10.1080/00335638409383686 Rorty, R. (1989). Contingency, irony, and solidarity. Cambridge; New York: Cambridge University Press. doi:10.1017/ CBO9780511804397 Sandercock, L. (1995). Voices from the borderlands: A meditation on a metaphor. Journal of Planning Education and Research, 14, 77–88. doi:10.1177/0739456X9501400201 Sandercock, L. (2003a). Cosmopolis II: Mongrel cities in the 21st century. London, New York: Continuum. Sandercock, L. (2003b). Out of the closet: The importance of stories and storytelling in planning practice. Planning Theory & Practice, 4, 11–28. doi:10.1080/1464935032000057209 Sandercock, L., & Attili, G. (2010). Multimedia explorations in urban policy and planning: Beyond the flatlands. Springer Science & Business Media. doi:10.1007/978-90-481-3209-6 Sartre, J.-P. (1964). Nausea. (L. Alexander, Trans.). New York: New Directions Publishing Corp. Stake, R. E. (2005). Qualitative Case Studies. In N. K. Denzin & Y. S. Lincoln (Eds.), The SAGE handbook of qualitative research (3rd ed.). (pp. 443–466). Thousand Oaks: Sage Publications. Stein, G. (1937). Everybody’s autobiography. New York, NY: Random House. Temkin, A., Rosenberg, S., & Taylor, M. (2000). Twentieth century painting and sculpture in the Philadelphia Museum of Art. Phildelphia Museum of Art. Throgmorton, J. A. (1996). Planning as persuasive storytelling: The rhetorical construction of Chicago’s electric future. University of Chicago Press. Throgmorton, J. A. (2003). Planning as persuasive storytelling in a global-scale web of relationships. Planning Theory, 2, 125–151. doi:10.1177/14730952030022003 Todorov, T. (1976). The origin of genres. New Literary History, 8, 159–170. doi:10.2307/468619 Todorov, T. (1984). Mikhail Bakhtin: The dialogical principle. Minneapolis, MN: University of Minnesota Press. Wheeler, J. O. (1996). Writing abstracts. Urban Geography, 17, 283–285. doi:10.2747/0272-3638.17.4.283 Zitcer, A., Hawkins, J., & Vakharia, N. (2016). A capabilities approach to arts and culture? Theorizing community development in West Philadelphia. Planning Theory & Practice, 17, 35–51. doi:10.1080/14649357.2015.1105284

AQ22

AQ23

AQ24 AQ25