How to write a lot: a practical guide to productive academic writing - Silvia Paul J. 2019

A Brief Foray Into Style

All written work has a sound—the sound of the page—and I occasionally wonder how to describe the sound of the typical scholarly journal article. A hot air balloon slowly deflating? A shopping cart clattering on a cobblestone street? A hippopotamus falling from a great height? When we talk about our ideas, we sound enthusiastic, lively, and interesting. But when we write about our ideas, something goes awry from the brain to the page—some dark alchemy transforms our glittering ideas into dull, leaden words.

This book is about writing a lot, not about writing well, but we could all be better writers. Improving as a writer takes some time—at least a few months of reading books about style, practicing their advice, and staying vigilant for falling hippos—so this chapter offers a handful of tips to get you started.

DIAGNOSING THE PROBLEM

I like to poke fun at scholarly prose, but there is some wonderful writing out there. All fields have marvelous writers who can inspire us when editing our own text feels like scraping gum from a sidewalk. But when scholarly writing goes awry, it does so spectacularly. To call out any particular writer or field of scholarship would be graceless, but you know bad writing. You have seen it with your own narrowed eyes. Some writing is so dense that sinkholes form beneath it, so malformed that schoolchildren press their faces against the classroom windows to catch a glimpse, so blighted that the page has more pockmarks than punctuation marks.

Ignorance is one reason why our pages sound so stodgy. Few of us were taught writing skills in graduate school. There’s always time in the teaching schedule for an obscure seminar on a professor’s pet topic, yet there’s rarely room for a seminar on writing. And few of our role models in grad school were, shall we say, keen stylists. Vanity is another reason. Academic writers want to sound smart. “If the water is dark,” goes a German aphorism, “the lake must be deep.” So instead of using good words like smart, we choose sophisticated or erudite. Perhaps I should have said, “Bodies of water characterized by minimal transparency are likely to possess significantly high values on the depth dimension (p = .032).”

If ignorance and vanity are the cause, then we know what to do. Overcoming ignorance is easy. Writers, it turns out, like to write books about writing, probably as a crafty way of avoiding working on some other book. You’ll find dozens of good books—just buy one, read it, and repeat at least once a year. On Writing Well (Zinsser, 2006), Sin and Syntax (Hale, 2013), and The Practical Stylist (Baker, 1969) are good places to start. As for overcoming vanity, we needn’t abase ourselves as mere worms in the soil of academia to cultivate a more natural and earthy sound. The goal is to develop a versatile voice. Just as good musicians have a broad repertoire and good chefs have more than one signature dish, good writers can write in many voices. Once we can control the sound of our page, be it stuffy or silly, stern or encouraging, dull or fun, we can adapt our style to the audience and occasion at hand.

THE LOW-HANGING FRUIT OF STYLE

Choose Good Words

Writing begins and ends with words, so we should pick good ones. The English language has a lot of words, and many of them are short, expressive, and familiar—make friends with these words. Avoid trendy phrases that sound intellectual, especially ones that make you sound like a college professor. Our lives would be better if we “thought critically” instead of “refracted discourse through critical lenses,” if we could “talk more often” instead of “chisel out of our silos.” If you’re in a silo with a chisel, I’m not sure we should meet face-to-face. Speaking of meeting, people don’t “write to say hi” or “introduce themselves” anymore—they “reach out,” ideally after using hand sanitizer.

Besides improving your writing, good words show respect for your many readers who learned English as a second, third, or fourth language. Foreign scholars often read articles with a dual-language dictionary at hand. They usually blame themselves for misunderstanding our writing, but we’re to blame for leaving them behind.

“But what about technical terms?” you might ask. “How can I write a paper about stimulus onset asynchrony without saying ’stimulus onset asynchrony’?” Fields of scholarship coin words and phrases when they need them—these technical terms do useful work and are easy enough to understand if defined and described with normal words. We should keep our good scholarly words and exclude the bad ones that infiltrate academic writing from business, politics, and warfare (Smith, 2001). We don’t need verbs like to incentivize or to target, and only window washers need adjectives like transparent. If fields of scholarship are trapped in silos—or worse, get siloed—does that mean that sociology and geography are piles of grain and wood chips?

For coherence, use technical terms consistently. Varying terms for technical concepts will confuse your readers:

§ Before: People high in neuroticism responded slower than people low in the tendency to experience aversive affective states.

§ After: People high in neuroticism responded slower than people low in neuroticism.

Some technical terms are terrible, so we shouldn’t mindlessly copy the words we see in scholarly journals. Psychology, my intellectual home, could do better. Developmental psychologists, content with neither path nor way, describe developmental pathways; when dressed in formal wear, these pathways are trajectories. Linguists might clarify what disambiguate means. Health scientists have clients who present with symptoms, presumably like depressed butlers carrying platters of “negative moods” and “poor sleep.” Emotion researchers, fearing their readers’ ignorance of the meaning of appraisal, speak of cognitive appraisals, subjective appraisals, and—in case someone missed it—subjective cognitive appraisals. Psychologists with interdisciplinary interests propose biosocial models, psychosocial models, psychobiological models, and even biopsychosocial models; a recent biopsychosocialspiritual model surpasses parochial models that are merely biopsychosocial.

We all indulge in bad words, although we usually call them deficient or suboptimal instead of bad. Consider our love for writing about the existing literature. Is there a nonexistent, phantasmagoric literature that the grad students should be reading? To most of us, our academic journals are frighteningly real. Extant literature is a white-collar version of the same crime. When we write about a disconnect between two things, we’ve become disconnected from our dictionaries, where we’ll find good words like difference, distinction, separation, and gap. And some individuals, when writing individual papers on various individual topics, refer to a person as an individual and to people as individuals. Individuals is a dreary, multisyllabic word that means, “my grad school adviser didn’t smile much.” No one says individual and individuals in everyday life: “Hey, let’s meet up with some individuals at the beach and do some individuals-watching.” There’s nothing shameful about person and people. We won’t mention persons, which will remain the property of small-town sheriffs on the hunt for “a person or persons unknown.”

Abbreviations and acronyms are often bad words. I’ve seen writers abbreviate short, familiar words like anxiety (ANX) and depression (DEP), add acronyms for simple phrases like anxious arousal (ANXAR) and anhedonic depression (ANDEP), and then dig into the differences between ANX, ANDEP, DEP, and ANXAR. Use abbreviations and acronyms only when they are easier to understand than the tortuous phrases they represent. Some writers believe that they’re reducing redundancy by replacing common phrases with abbreviations, but readers find rereading abbreviations more tedious than rereading real words.

Avoid most uses of very, quite, basically, actually, virtually, extremely, remarkably, completely, at all, and so forth. Basically, these quite useless words add virtually nothing at all; like weeds, they’ll in fact actually smother your sentences completely. In Junk English, Smith (2001) called these words parasitic intensifiers:

Formerly strong words are being reduced to lightweights that need to be bulked up with intensifiers to regain their punch. To offer insight or to oppose a position now sound tepid unless the insight is valuable and the opposition diametrical. The intensifier drains the vigor from its host. (p. 98)

If you took to heart Strunk and White’s (2000) command to “omit needless words” (p. 23) but can’t tell which words are needless, parasitic intensifiers are basically begging to be totally omitted.

Write Strong Sentences

Now that we’re self-conscious about our words—“did I write individuals in my last article?”—it’s time to turn to sentences. “All this time you have been writing sentences,” wrote Baker (1969), “as naturally as breathing, and perhaps with as little variation” (p. 27). By overusing a single type of sentence, we sound like we’re speaking in a discursive drone. English has a few types of sentences (Baker, 1969; Hale, 2013). Simple sentences have only one subject—predicate pair. We all like simple sentences. Compound sentences have two clauses, and each clause can stand alone. Sometimes a coordinating conjunction (e.g., and or but) connects the independent clauses; sometimes a semicolon does the trick. Unlike simple and compound sentences, complex sentences contain dependent and independent clauses. Complex sentences, if written well, give your writing a crisp, controlled tone.

Parallelism—similarity in form and structure—is the skeleton of technical writing. Experienced writers use parallel sentences to describe relationships; beginning writers avoid them because they think that parallel structures are repetitive. Instead, they skew their sentences by shuffling their terms and sentence types:

§ Before: People in the dual-task condition monitored a series of beeps while reading a list of words. Some other participants in a different group read only a list of words without listening for sounds (“control condition”).

§ After: People in the dual-task condition monitored a series of beeps while reading a list of words; people in the control condition read only a list of words.

Some parallel sentences use a criterion—variant structure—they describe what is shared and then describe the variations.

§ Better: Everyone read a list of words. People in the dual-task condition monitored a series of beeps while reading the words, and people in the control condition only read the words.

Many writers are estranged from the semicolon, a good but neglected friend to writers of parallel sentences. Like their dislike of jocks and the yearbook club, many writers’ distrust of semicolons is a prejudice from high school. Work through this—you need semicolons. Semicolons must connect independent clauses; each part of the sentence must be able to stand alone. Unlike a period, a semicolon implies a close connection between the clauses. Unlike a comma followed by and, a semicolon implies a sense of balance, of equally weighing one and the other. Semicolons are thus ideal for coordinating two parallel sentences:

§ Before: At Time 1, people read the words. At Time 2, they tried to remember as many words as possible.

§ After: At Time 1, people read the words; at Time 2, they tried to remember as many words as possible.

§ Before: People in the reading condition read the words, and people in the listening condition heard a recording of the words.

§ After: People in the reading condition read the words; people in the listening condition heard a recording of the words.

While you’re rebuilding your relationship with the semicolon, make a new friend—the dash. Technically called em dashes—they’re the width of a capital M—dashes enable crisp, striking sentences. Dashes have two common uses (Gordon, 2003). First, a single dash can connect a clause or phrase to the end of sentence. You’ve read a lot of these in this chapter:

§ Work through this—you need semicolons.

§ While you’re rebuilding your relationship with the semicolon, make a new friend—the dash.

Second, two dashes can enclose a parenthetical expression. You’ve read these, too:

§ Now that we’re self-conscious about our words—“did I write individuals in my last article?”—it’s time to turn to sentences.

§ Technically called em dashes—they’re the width of a capital M—dashes enable crisp, striking sentences.

Try using dashes for your next Participants and Design section:

§ Okay: Forty-two adults participated in the experiment. There were 12 women and 30 men.

§ Better: Forty-two adults—12 women and 30 men—participated in the experiment.

The em dash has a lesser known cousin, the en dash. The width of a capital N, the en dash coordinates two concepts. It’s a clean way of expressing between. Few writers use en dashes properly; they use hyphens instead, often with funny results. Developmental psychologists interested in parent-child behavior probably don’t mean that parents act like babies sometimes—they mean parent—child, a shorthand for “behavior between parents and children.” You should know the difference between a teacher—parent conference (en dash) and a teacher-parent conference (hyphen). A researcher on my campus posted flyers for an “infant-parent interaction study.” Forget teen pregnancy—let’s stop infant pregnancy. Now is a good time to thank the valiant copyeditors who have silently corrected the en dash errors in our published work.

We can strengthen our sentences by experimenting with appositional phrases. Because the positions of phrases in a sentence imply relationships, we can chop words that connect and coordinate parts of the sentence.

§ Before: Counterfactual thoughts, which are defined as thoughts about events that did not occur, illustrate the intersection of cognition and emotion.

§ After: Counterfactual thoughts, defined as thoughts about events that did not occur, illustrate the intersection of cognition and emotion.

§ Better: Counterfactual thoughts—thoughts about events that did not occur—illustrate the intersection of cognition and emotion.

§ Before: The study of facial expressions is a popular area within the study of cognition and emotion, and it has settled old conflicts about the structure of emotions.

§ After: The study of facial expressions, a popular area within the study of cognition and emotion, has settled old conflicts about the structure of emotions.

When you’re hunting for opportunities to use ablatives and appositives, such that is easy prey. You rarely hear someone say such that out loud, but you see it in afflicted writing. Let’s envision a world without such that and be the change. If your word processor’s search function turns up a few cases, you have three options: delete the clause preceding such that, replace such that with a colon or dash, or write a tighter sentence.

§ Before: We created two conditions such that people in one condition were told to be accurate and people in another condition were told to be fast.

§ After: People in one condition were told to be accurate; people in another condition were told to be fast. (Dropped the preceding clause, used a semicolon to create parallel clauses.)

§ After: We created two conditions: People in one condition were told to be accurate, and people in another condition were told to be fast. (Replaced such that with a colon.)

§ Before: People were assigned to groups such that the assignment process was random.

§ After: People were randomly assigned to groups. (Wrote a tighter sentence.)

Avoid Passive, Limp, and Wordy Phrases

All books about writing urge people to write in the active voice. People think actively and speak actively, so active writing captures the compelling sound of everyday language. Passive writing, by hiding the sentence’s agent, strikes people as vague and evasive. Writers who want to sound smart drift toward the passive voice; they like its impersonal sound and its stereotypical association with scholarly writing. Passive writing is easy to fix. Read your writing and circle each appearance of to be. Can you think of a better verb? Nearly all verbs imply being, so you can usually replace to be with dynamic verbs. Change at least one third of your original uses of to be. With vigilance and practice, you’ll write fewer passive sentences.

To revive enervated sentences, negate with verbs instead of with not. People often miss not when reading and thus misunderstand your sentence. This trick shortens your sentences and expresses your points vividly.

§ Before: People often do not see not when reading and thus do not understand your sentence.

§ After: People often miss not when reading and thus misunderstand your sentence.

Some common phrases are aggressively passive. In any journal, you’ll find researchers “ivving it up”: their results are indicative of significance, the theory is reflective of its historical context, the data are supportive of the hypothesis. This is passive writing at its most flamboyant and unapologetic: the writer chose an awkward, passive form instead of a common, active form. Delete all to be _____ive of phrases by rewriting the verb:

§ to be indicative of = to indicate

§ to be reflective of = to reflect

§ to be supportive of = to support

§ to be implicative of = to imply

§ to be suggestive of = to suggest

I have a memory of reading is confirmative of—a false memory, I hope.

Only vigilance will stop wordy phrases from wandering into your sentences. You often see, for example, statements like “attitudes are emotional in nature.” If attitudes are emotional in nature, what are they like in captivity? Will they reproduce more readily than captive pandas? Likewise, let’s avoid in a _____ manner. Use adverbs—“people responded rapidly” instead of “people responded in a rapid manner”—to avoid a tragedy of manners. Even active sentences can be limp and lifeless. Scientists often start a sentence with “Research shows that . . . ,” “Many new findings suggest that . . . ,” or “A monstrous amount of research conclusively proves that . . .” These phrases add little to our meaning, and a couple citations at the end of the sentence will show that research bolsters your point. You’ll need these phrases occasionally, but avoid them when possible.

Writers hobble strong sentences by starting with lumpy phrases like “However . . . ,” “For instance . . . ,” and “For example . . .” Move however into the first joint of the sentence:

§ Before: However, recent findings challenge dual-process theories of persuasion.

§ After: Recent findings, however, challenge dual-process theories of persuasion.

Relocate for example and for instance when it sounds good, but keep but and yet at the start of the sentence. As an aside, remember that a poorly punctuated however can turn a compound sentence into a glorious run-on.

§ Before: High self-efficacy enhances motivation for challenging tasks, however it reduces motivation if people perceive the task as easy.

§ After: High self-efficacy enhances motivation for challenging tasks; however, it reduces motivation if people perceive the task as easy.

Don’t stew in shame and self-recrimination when you write passive sentences. Scholarly writing addresses impersonal agents—concepts, theories, constructs, relationships. We often have weak agents, such as past research, behavioral therapy, or the cognitive approach to anxiety disorders. When readers can’t easily form a mental image of the subject and its action—a theory making predictions, a concept correlating with another concept, a tradition influencing modern research—active sentences lose their punch. There is a place for sentences that start with There is and There are. Sometimes the passive voice is best.

WRITE FIRST, REVISE LATER

Generating text and revising text are distinct parts of writing—don’t do both at once. The goal of text generation is to throw confused, wide-eyed words on a page; the goal of text revision is to scrub the words clean so that they sound nice and can go out in public. Some writers try to write a pristine first draft, one free of flaws and infelicities, but I think the quest for the perfect first draft is misguided. Writing this way is too stressful. These writers compose a sentence; worry about it for 5 minutes; delete it; write it again; change a few words; and then, exasperated, move on to the next sentence. Perfectionism is paralyzing.

We should master the principles of style, but we needn’t obsess about them when we sit down to write. Revising while generating text is like drinking decaf in the morning: a noble idea, wrong time. It’s okay if your first drafts sound like they were hastily translated from Icelandic. Writing is part creation and part criticism, part id and part superego: let the id unleash a discursive screed, and then let the superego, with its red pens and eye rolls, have its turn.

CONCLUSION

This chapter sought to make you self-conscious about your writing. Many individuals display inaccurate self-assessments of their deficient writing skill levels—or to borrow Zinsser’s (2006) crisp sentence: “Few people realize how badly they write” (p. 17). Strong, clear writing will make your work stand out from the dry and obtuse crowd. Read some good books about style, practice the principles of good writing when you generate and revise text, and avoid writing the word individuals.

Now that you have a sturdy schedule and a sleek sense of style, it’s time to chip through your backlog of research articles. What makes articles appealing to readers and reviewers? The next chapter considers some tips from the muddy trenches of peer-reviewed journals.