Unlearning Academic Style

1. Choosing to write well is a moral stance.

Writing well is something that creative writers know matters, but which can get lost in academic writing.

But Thomas and Turner remind us that choosing to write well is a matter of moral principle. When we write clearly, we lower the barriers to knowledge. We invite people in. We facilitate conversation across disciplines.

So, the usefulness of the remaining principles depends on this initial commitment: we make writing that reads well as a matter of moral principle.

2. Writing is a window on the world.

Academic writing can be abstract. Sword and Thomas & Turner remind us to avoid the abstract. Instead, treat writing as a mental camera. Position your prose to frame objects so the reader can see what you see and know what you know to be true.

Make the reader a partner in identifying truth.

3. Writing is a conversation between equals.

We’re all familiar with the image of the venerable professor pontificating from the lectern. Thomas and Turner remind us that when we write, it’s easy to loom over the reader.

Instead, approach them as intellectual equals. Assume they can follow along, but also recognize where explanation might be useful (which you can elegantly integrate into the flow of your ideas using handy little appositives and non-restrictive clauses). Don’t use jargon to sound smart. Instead, write plainly. Let the sophistication be in your ideas, not in the polysyllabic density of your prose.

4. Good writing reads like ideal speech.

Both Klinkenborg and Thomas and Turner argue that good writing works upon first read, never asking the reader to circle back to try out ideas again. That doesn’t mean that you don’t circle back for pleasure, or to clarify an idea you’re not sure about, or that you don’t have to work as a reader. You do.

But it mean that, as a writer, you make an effort to put ideas in an order that explains itself as it goes. You move statements like “Over the past five years” or “In some cases” to the beginning of sentences to establish scope. You avoid unnecessary prepositions (in, for, through, of, about, by, like, to, etc.) that string ideas together until the relationships in the sentence collapse. You treat every sentence as though it has only its own time to exist.

5. The labor of writing is hidden work.

All too often, we assume that great writing was made by great writers: geniuses who lived their lives with the universe sleeting through their heads and astonishing insight pouring from their quill (I mean, that’s what great writers write with, right?) .

The reality is that good writing is made. Klinkenborg counsels us to let go of volunteer sentences that spring unbidden to our minds. They tend to be cliches. Instead, revise and revise to create precise sentences that read as though it all came effortlessly. It doesn’t, but that’s how you make readable writing.

6. Complex ideas can be delivered in simple prose.

The belief that complex words signal sophisticated ideas is insidious. Sword, Klinkenborg, and Thomas and Turner all warn against it. Le Guin, in her gorgeously simple prose that blooms with ideas, demonstrates the point.

When I was an undergrad, a teacher who came into class one day, dropped our essays on the table, and wrote ‘use’ and ‘utilize’ on the board. Then, turning to us, his eyes wide and beseeching, he exclaimed, “I don’t know what I did to deserve this, but please, please, don’t use three-syllable words when single-syllable words will do!”

Try to let go of the sense that others will judge you for using simple language. Concentrate on delivering ideas.

7. Readers judge paragraphs focused when most sentences begin with a shared idea.

We have all wondered how to create focus in our writing. Here’s how it works. When most sentences in a paragraph begin with words related to a shared idea, readers will judge the paragraph focused. Williams and Bizup give this example. This is unfocused:

Vegetation covers the earth, except for those areas continuously covered with ice or utterly scorched by continual heat. Richly fertilized plains and river valleys are places where plants grow most richly, but also at the edge of perpetual snow in high mountains. The ocean and its edges as well as in and around lakes and swamps are densely vegetated. The cracks of busy city sidewalks have plants in them as well as in seemingly barren cliffs. Before humans existed, the earth was covered with vegetation, and the earth will have vegetation long after evolutionary history swallows us up.

This is focused:

Vegetation covers the earth, except for those areas continuously covered with ice or utterly scorched by continual heat. Plants grow most richly in fertilized plains and river valleys, but also at the edge of perpetual snow in high mountains. Dense vegetation also occurs in the ocean and along its edges as well as in and around lakes and swamps. Plants even grow in the cracks of busy city sidewalks and in seemingly barren cliffs. Vegetation covered the earth before humans existed, and vegetation will cover the earth long after evolutionary history swallows us up.

When you generally follow this principle, you create a topic string that runs through your writing, like an anchor keeping the reader on task.

8. Readers sense that writing flows when new ideas emerge from what’s already known.

Williams and Bizup give this example of writing that does not flow:

Some astonishing questions about the nature of the universe have been raised by scientists studying black holes in space. The collapse of a dead star into a point perhaps no larger than a marble creates a black hole. So much matter compressed into so little volume changes the fabric of space around it in puzzling ways.

This does flow:

Some astonishing questions about the nature of the universe have been raised by scientists studying black holes in space. A black hole is created by the collapse of a dead star into a point perhaps no larger than a marble. So much matter compressed into so little volume changes the fabric of space around it in puzzling ways.

In the first example, the bold terms do not connect across the period. In the second, they do. This simple act of continuity allows new ideas to arrive smoothly because an established idea introduces them.

Principles #8 and #7 are revision strategies. You can check for these things once you’ve written something, but they might make it harder to write if you try to make them happen as you compose an initial draft.

9. When ideas happen in the right order, transition words are largely unnecessary.

Despite how much writing instruction emphasizes transition words, Klinkenborg reminds us that professional writers use them less than you’d think. When ideas flow accordingly to principles #7 and #8, there is less need for words and phrases like, “First,” “In contrast,” “Similarly,” and others.

Need proof? Read this short essay by Ken Liu. It uses exactly one sentence-starting transition word: “thus.” Note that Liu does start several sentences with ‘and’ and ‘but.’ Despite the common prohibition against starting sentences like this, these words are excellent, understated, elegant transitions that bind sentences together without drawing attention.

If your teaching warned you not to start sentences like ‘and,’ they probably wanted you to avoid saying, ‘And then giraffes,’ not to avoid saying, as Liu, does, “But do not dismiss narratives as lies and forgeries, corruption of “objective” chronicle, mere fantasy.”

10. Spend less time explaining what you will write and more time writing it.

We all know the sentence that begins, “In this essay, I will discuss…” Be careful of this move, which we call metadiscourse, and which I call navel-gazing. It’s not that metadiscourse should never be used, but rather than it can be overused.

Sure, readers can benefit from a sentence that lets them know their motivation for reading or what content to expect from the rest of an essay. But if you find yourself writing, “Now I will discuss the matter of the giraffes,” consider if instead you can simply start talking about the giraffes.

11. Writing that is either lean or dense everywhere is less interesting that writing that is both.

Le Guin calls this skill crowding and leaping: the idea that sometimes you load sentences with dense, descriptive language, and sometimes you keep it lean and concise. The shift between the two creates tension and movement in your writing, and it pays to apply it when writing academically to keep things interesting. A descriptive example followed by a short, punchy sentence can create more impact both together than each alone.

12. The first person voice belongs in academic writing.

There’s this longstanding idea that personal pronouns have no place in academic writing. Klinkenborg, Sword, and William and Bizup all warn against this prohibition; Le Guin simply barrels through it with relish.

Certainly, there are times that personal pronouns are not needed and might distract from your ideas.

But the American Psychological Association has recommended the first-person voice in scientific scholarship since the 1970s. Science doesn’t emerge from the ether fully formed; it happens because people do things, so why not be clear about the role they play? The humanities have an anxiety that they might not sound as serious as the sciences, and so they ramp up the prohibition against personal pronouns. Let that concern go. Use the first-person where it is strategic and transparent.

14. Revive zombie nouns.

Sword and Williams & Bizup warn that trying to sound important can cause us to transform active verbs into static nouns. We might write about an acknowledgement rather than acknowledge something; we might say that a writer places emphasis on something rather than saying that the writer emphasizes.

Whenever possible, comb through your writing (this is a revision strategy, again) to locate nouns that could be verbs. Not only will reanimating them give your sentences clearer characters and actions, but it will likely allow you chop out all the prepositions connecting those nouns, too.

15. Vary sentence length to add rhythm and interest.

It’s simple, but try this: place every sentence in a paragraph on a new line and look at the shape that emerges. If the sentences are of similar length, try breaking them up or combining them to introduce variation. Variation creates tension and interest, which is good for the sound and vitality of your language.

16. If you notice it, it’s important.

Most of us learn to write by completing essays according to teacher specifications. It’s easy to begin to view the point of writing as appeasing teachers. But civic life demands that we speak up about things that matter when we see them. So, as Klinkenborg recommends, practice noticing what you notice, and investigating if what you notice is important. It probably is. Give yourself the authority to notice, for noticing is one of the best ways to find something to write about.