Journalism’s greatest sin might be the failure to provide an understandable context for stories.
One example: Too many reporters fail to use the denominator when describing simple statistics. As two researchers note in a recent academic journal, good analysis is “always about numerators and denominators (N/D).”
As any fifth-grader should know, the fraction’s numerator (the top number) tells us the number of parts of the whole. The denominator (the bottom number) tells us the total number in the whole. If 15 students fail an exam, it means something completely different if we’re talking about a class of 30 students (15/30) as opposed to a school of 400 (30/400).
A recent Hartford Courant report describes a protest against “huge school system cuts” in Hartford:
Emotions ran high as about 30 organizers gathered at city hall on Tuesday to demand the city restore $31.5 million in proposed cuts for Hartford’s public schools, which would avoid the 387 anticipated layoffs of paraeducators, custodians, social workers, resource teachers, counselors, and other school employees.
So: $31.5 million out of what? Is $31.5 million really a Draconian cut? One searches this article, in vain, for the denominator. We can start to calculate that amount:
In the 2025 budget, HPS is set to receive $224 million from the state under the ECS, more than half of all revenue. The district receives around $27 million in federal funds and an additional $74 million in other state grants. The city contributes $96 million to the district.
So does that mean the total budget is $421 million (224+27+74+96)? If so, the cuts represent 7.4 percent of the budget ($31.5 million/$421 million).
Not so fast. According to Connecticut Insider: “The Hartford City Council unanimously passed a $623.8 million budget for the 2024-25 fiscal year Tuesday with few alterations from the mayor’s original proposal.” If this report is correct, then the cuts amount to 5 percent of the budget ($31.5 million/$623.8 million).
Oh, and is this the operating budget or does it also include capital expenses?
Either way, we have no way of making sense of Hartford’s school budget problems.
Later, the article calls the cuts “the worst cuts for the district in at least 20 years.” That’s not a quote from an expert or advocate; that’s the reporter talking. I’m skeptical. Might we find a comparison? Also, what does “worst” mean? Suppose the cuts clear out deadwood and make the system work better. Is that bad? We simply have no way of knowing.
Another missing denominator concerns the protesters. Thirty people protested the cuts. How can we make sense of that number? The Hartford schools enroll about 16,500 pre-K to 12 students. Is that the correct denominator? How many people does a protest need to get media attention?
All we can say for sure is that 30 is enough for the Courant. This story ran under a banner headline at the top of page 1 of the May 23 edition.
(P.S.: You might wonder how I can say that “too many reporters fail to use the denominator.” Good point. I can offer data for neither numerators nor denominators. But one is too many. And I see this problem almost daily.)
Addendum
Donald Trump’s argument that he won the 2020 election relies on his ignoring the denominator.
Trump has repeatedly said that “we got more votes the second time [in 2020, against Joe Biden], by millions, than we got the first [in 2016, against Hillary Clinton]” (quote from a rally in Coachella, California).
If only Trump’s numbers counted, yeah, he did better in 2020 than in 2016. He got 62,984,828 votes in 2016 and 74,223,975 in 2020.
But the denominator (the total number of votes) also grew substantially. The total number of voters increased from 138.8 million in 2016 to 158.4 million in 2020. Trump’s Democratic opponents beat him, in raw numbers, in both elections. Their numbers rose substantially, from Clinton’s 65.8 million votes in 2016 to Biden’s 81.3 million votes in 2020. Their percentages also increased from 48.2 to 51.3–both better than Trump’s percentages of 46.1 and 46.8.
Harry Truman once said: “Being a president is like riding a tiger. A man has to keep on riding or he is swallowed.”
Actually, Truman’s insight holds for the rest of us too. Living even ordinary lives can be like riding a tiger. But the lesson from Daniel Kahneman’s masterpiece, Thinking, Fast and Slow, is different. Truman says presidents have to rise to the frantic challenge of riding a tiger. But Kahneman tells us we need to get off the tiger and control our own pace.
Kahneman, a psychologist who won the 2002 Nobel Prize for economics, has died at the age of 90. His influence spans not only the social sciences (economics, psychology, sociology, anthropology, political science, and more) but also business and the arts. Where the pioneers of psychology and economics often fell back on their wits, he did the hard work of experimentation and data analysis.
Kahneman worked with his friend and colleague Amos Tversky for decades before Tversky died in 1996. Undoubtedly, the two would have shared the Nobel Prize had Tversky lived long enough.
In Thinking, Fast and Slow, Kahneman describes two minds or “systems” that govern how we operate in the world.
In System 1, based on our more primitive brain, we are constantly reacting to the world—even when we don’t know what happens. We evolved to have fast-twitch responses to events in the world. Until modern times, people faced constant danger when they ventured out to hunt or explore frontiers beyond their home base. To respond before they suffered a calamity—like getting eaten by a tiger—they reacted instantly. Humans responded by fight, flight, or freeze. This is a crisis approach to life. It’s useful when trying to survive in a wild and dangerous world. But it’s less helpful in modern times, when we overreact to even minor “crises” in our lives. Too often, we overreact to the words of actions of a family member, coworker, peer, or another driver. Hello, road rage.
Which brings us to System 2, the slower, more deliberative mode of thinking. Even though we are reactive creatures, we also have the capacity to slow down and carefully consider situations and problems. When someone cuts us off in traffic, we can overreact by nonking, shouting, or making a rude gesture. Or we can make an effort to pause, let the “crisis” pass, and decide how our better self should respond. Usually, we can just let a crisis pass. Then, if it makes sense, we can think through what just happened. If there’s an actual problem to be solved, we can break it down and decide what makes sense to do. We can collaborate with others.
Thinking, Fast and Slow builds on this foundation. But the heart of the book is a detailed discussion of the biases that we humans have. And oh boy, are we ever biased—and not just for people like us and against outsiders. We have “availability bias” (the tendency to rely on readily available information), “confirmation bias” (seeking information that confirms existing beliefs), “anchoring bias” (relying too much on what we learn early), and “loss aversion” (the tendency to prefer avoiding losses over making equal or greater gains).
That’s just for starters. Kahneman’s book shows that in every aspect of our lives, we fall back on primitive ways of understanding and action. So how do we deal with it? Acknowledge the power of System 1 and then nurture and develop System 2.
This book requires that you settle in for some concentrated reading—System 2 reading, if you will. But for anyone who wants to understand how humans really think and act, you can’t do any better.
In my updated book The Elements of Writing, I offer simple, actionable techniques for storytelling, mechanics, and analysis.
You can get a sense of my system with this outline ofThe Elements of Writing. After listing the writing skill, I offer a case study showing how to apply the skill. Most of the case studies come from great literature, film, and journalism.
The Core Idea—The Golden Rule of Writing
Make Everything a Journey: Brent Staples’s “Black Men in Public Space’
Start Strong, Finish Strong: William Nack’s Secretariat
Take the Landscape View: Applying the Landscape View
Act I: Storytelling
1. Narrative
Give Your Story a Narrative Arc: Truman Capote’s In Cold Blood
For Complexity, Show More Than One Arc: Robert Caro’s The Passage of Power
Show Characters Hitting Brick Walls: Homer’s The Odyssey
Nest Journeys Inside Journeys: Andre Agassi’s Open
2. Characters
Compile Dossiers for Your Characters: Sherlock Holmes
Explore Characters’ Lives, Zone by Zone: Milan Kundera’s The Unbearable Lightness of Being
Find Your Characters’ Throughlines: Heroes of the Civil Rights Movement
Use the Wheel of Archetypes: L. Frank Baum’s The Wizard of Oz (55
Spin the Wheel of Archetypes: Gregory Maguire’s Wicked
3. World of the Story
Create Small, Knowable Places: Emma Donaghue’s Room
Map the Character’s “Circles of Life”: Gay Talese’s ‘Frank Sinatra Has a Cold’
Use Place to Explain Character and Ideas: Robert Caro’s The Path To Power
Use Place to Explore Identity: Judith Ortiz Cofer’s Silent Dancing
Place Stories in a Larger World: Henry Roth’s Call It Sleep
4. Action and Scenes
Depict Specific, Deliberate Actions: Robert Penn Warren’s All the King’s Men
Use Speech-Acts to Propel the Story: William Shakespeare’s Othello
Build Actions into Scenes: William Shakespeare’s Macbeth
Create a Mystery to Surprise the Reader: William Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet
5. Rhythm and Beats
Use beats to Move Stories Forward: Casablanca
Use Beats For Descriptions: Fatima Mernissi’s Dreams of Trespass
Yo-Yo Scene and Summary:Elizabeth Gilbert’s ‘Lucky Jim’
6. Details
Find Details By Looking Inside-Out: Isabel Chenoweth’s ‘Hanging Out’
Isolate Details to Make Big Points: The New York Times ‘Portraits in Grief’
Use Status Details to Reveal Ego and Desire: Tom Wolfe’s A Man in Full
Put Details into Action: Journalism fragments
Intermission: On Style
7. The Senses
Help the Reader to Feel: Scott Russell Sanders’s ‘Under the Influence’
Help the Reader to See: Mark Twain’s Life on the Mississippi
Help the Reader to Hear: Varieties of Onomatopoeia
8. Wordplay
Tap Into Life’s Everyday Rhythms: Lincoln’s Gettysburg Address
Use Metaphors and Similes to Orient and Disorient: Rick Reilly and Thomas Lunch
Riff by Playing with Words: Roy Blount Jr.’s Alphabet Juice
Remember that Good is Great: Tom Wolfe’s From Bauhaus to Our House
9. Numbers
Use Ones to Highlight People, Places, and Issues: Ayn Rand’s The Fountainhead
Use Twos to Establish Oppositions and Complements: The Yankees-Red Sox rivalry
Use Threes to Reveal Dynamic Relations: Woody Allen’s Hannah and Her Sisters
Use Lists to Show Complexity: Tim O’Brien’s The Things They Carried
Act II: Mechanics
10. Sentences
Follow the Golden Rule for Sentences: Coverage of national Crises
Give Every Sentence Clear Blasts: Ringo Starr and the Beatles
Create Revolver Sentences: Stephen Crane’s Red Badge of Courage
Make Some Sentences More Complicated: Stanley Fish’s How to Write a Sentence
Alternate Short and Long Sentences: Ernest Hemingway’s journalism
11. Words
Use Simple Words, Almost Always: John McPhee’s The Curve of Binding Energy and In Suspect Terrain
Use Longer Words as Precision Instruments: The American Sesquipdalian
Use Active Verbs, Even to Describe Passivity: Laura Hillenbrand’s Unbroken and Ivan Goncharov’s Oblomov
Avoid the Verbs To Be and To Have: Using ‘to be’ and ‘to have’
Avoid Bureaucratese and Empty-Calorie Words: George Orwell’s ‘The Politics of the English Language’
Avoid Aggressive Adjectives and Adverbs: Tom Wolfe’s ‘The Girl of the Year’
12. Paragraphs
Make Every Paragraph an “Idea Bucket”: Journalism fragments
Follow the Golden Rule in Every Paragraph: James Van Tholen’s ‘Surprised by Death’
‘Climb the Arc’ in Most Paragraphs: Martin Luther King’s ‘Mountaintop’ speech
13. Composition
Make Every Piece a Journey: Theodore Dreiser’s Sister Carrie
Find the Right Shape: The Bill Clinton story
Slot Your Paragraphs: Malcolm Gladwell’s “The Terrazzo Jungle”
Make Transitions Virginia Wolff’s ‘Ellen Terry’
Intermission: Technical Procedures
14. Grammar
Make Sure the Parts of Speech Get Along: Approaches to the his/her problem
Use Punctuation to Direct Traffic: Ernest Hemingway’s The Old Man and the Sea and Robert Caro’s The Passage of Power
Select the Right Word: William Safire’s ‘On Language’
15. Editing
Search and Destroy, From Big to Small: Marie Kondo’s The Life-Changing Magic of Tidying Up
Fix Problem Paragraphs With Tabloid Headlines: John Stuart Mill’s On Liberty
Edit by Reading Aloud and Backward: C.S. Lewis’s The Four Loves
Murder Your Darlings: Raymond Carver’s ‘One More Thing’
Act III: Analysis
16. Storytelling for Analysis
Narrate Complex Issues: Eugenie Ladner Birch’s ‘From Flames to Flowers’
Use Beats to Make Arguments: On the Electoral College System
Use Cliffhangers to Drive Analysis: Barry Bluestone’s ‘The Inequality Express’
Use the Senses in Arguments and Rhetoric: Martin Luther King’s ‘I have a Dream’ Oration
Allow Ideas To Unfold, One by One: ‘Falling Man’
17. Questions and Brainstorming
To Get Started, Spill Your Mind: Brainstorming nonviolence
Ask This-or-That and W Questions: Brian Lamb’s interviewing techniques
Always Ask: What Causes What?: What’s the ‘best’ form of government?
18. Framing
Use Testimony of Experts and Others: The Debate Over Global Warming
Consider Hypotheticals and Scenarios: Social contract theorists
Find a Super Model to Guide Analysis: Super models of social science
19. Making a Case
Climb the “Ladder of Abstraction”: Garrison Keillor’s Lena and Ole Joke
Identify and Operationalize Variables: The causes of fatigue
Crunch the Numbers: Edward Glaeser on Urban Vitality
Play the Game of Halves: Exploring the causes of war
Growing up in Detroit and northern California, Jennifer Mercieca used to watch the TV news with her father. Her dad, an autoworker, was an immigrant from Malta, about 60 miles from Sicily, which, she notes, is “the birthplace of rhetoric.” Over time, as she explored journalism and public affairs, she developed an interest in rhetoric. But it wasn’t until college that she started to explore the topic in depth.
“I liked Reagan as a kid and thought of myself as a Republican, but I didn’t memorize his speeches or anything like that,” she said.
In her first rhetorical analysis as a student at the University of the Pacific, she dissected the eulogies for Richard Nixon in 1994. Robert Dole pronounced the post-World War II era “the Age of Nixon.” Bill Clinton asked that “may the day of judging President Nixon on anything less than his entire life and career come to a close.” But Mercieca was not impressed. “I didn’t find those speeches inspiring,” she said.
Since earning a Ph.D. in speech communication at the University of Illinois in 2003, she has taught at Texas A&M University. Her new book, Demagogue for President: The Rhetorical Genius of Donald Trump (Texas A&M University Press), identifies six key rhetorical maneuvers of the president. Three of them draw him close to his audience; the other three create a division between him and his supporters and the rest of the world.
Her favorite rhetoricians? “I love to read Thomas Jefferson, I love Abraham Lincoln’s speeches, I’m amazed by how presidents like Teddy Roosevelt, Woodrow Wilson, Franklin D. Roosevelt, John F. Kennedy, Ronald Reagan, and Barack Obama took advantage of then-new media to connect with Americans—expanding the role of the presidency by expanding its reach.”
Mercieca has always been fascinated with the heroic figure in politics. Her first book, Founding Fictions, examines the way the nation’s revolutionary generation defined the new republic’s citizens as romantic heroes, tragic victims, or ironic partisans. Her second book, The Rhetoric of Heroic Expectations (coauthored with Justin Vaughn), explains how Barack Obama rose to the White House with heroic rhetoric, only to struggle with the disappointment of followers who expected more from his presidency.
The surprising takeaway from Mercieca’s book on Trump: He is not the random and chaotic figure he appears to be. During the 2016 campaign he was calculated in his wild attacks and claims as he depicted himself as a historic, blunt-talking heroic businessman and denigrated his opponents as stupid, venal, and corrupt.
How do you define rhetoric? What makes it different from demagoguery?
I think of rhetoric as Aristotle did: as a method for decision making in a political community. Aristotle said that “rhetoric is the counterpart of dialectic”—both were methods, but dialectic would lead to sophia (philosophical truth) and rhetoric would leader to phronesis (practical truth). Both were necessary, in Aristotle’s view, because some decisions would need to be made under circumstances that required phronesis rather than sophia.
Aristotle explained how ethos, pathos, and logos work to help persuade, but the fundamental purpose of rhetoric for him was political decision-making. He didn’t explicitly write about ethics and rhetoric, but if you understand his Politics, Rhetoric, and Nicomachean Ethics as a system, then his criteria for justice—giving your neighbor what is good for them and what is owed to them—works for an ethics of rhetoric as well.
So rhetoric is an ethical exercise, a way of bringing people together to solve problems.
When I teach courses on rhetoric, argument, political communication, and propaganda I explain that rhetoric is addressed to people who know themselves to be addressed; it is a meeting of minds in which one person asks another person to think like they do, to value the same values, to remember or forget history in the same way. It doesn’t force. It affirms human dignity by inviting. A person who seeks to persuade gives good reasons and formulates arguments in the best way they know how, always affirming that the recipient of the persuasive message has a mind, values, and experiences of their own and that they may not change their mind. Rhetoric uses persuasion as a tool of cooperation.
And demagoguery?
Demagoguery uses rhetoric as a tool of control. It is not “persuasion,” but compliance-gaining. The opposite of rhetoric isn’t “truth,” it’s force and violence. Compliance-gaining is not a meeting of minds; it does not invite; it does not value the thoughts, feelings, or experiences of the other person. Compliance-gaining does not affirm human dignity and it doesn’t make good arguments.
A person may force a change in someone’s mind with compliance-gaining strategies. But because minds are changed without consent, compliance-gaining is a short-sighted strategy that will ultimately undermine the relationship between those people.
How did you get interested in rhetoric? Was it politics or literature or what? Can you note one or two early influences and what wisdom you still carry from those early lessons?
I always loved words. I was a really early reader and I would read anything I could: cereal boxes, dictionaries, kid’s books, grown up books, you name it. I also watched the news all the time with my Dad. I was in journalism in high school and on the speech team in college, where I majored in communication and worked in radio and TV. I thought that I would be a journalist, but I ended up studying rhetoric because I wanted to understand the ways that democracy and citizenship and rhetoric work together.
The first book that really mattered to me as an undergrad was Plato’s Republic. I loved that it was an entire book about how to form a just political community and I loved the dialectic game. But something seemed off about Plato’s version of things too and I think part of my interest in political theory and rhetoric has been in trying to sort that all out.
When you look at the “genius” of Donald Trump’s rhetoric, how much do you think is conscious and deliberate? How much comes naturally, from his own superficiality, prejudice, and sadism?
I know that “genius” is an awkward word to use with Trump. Rhetorical theorist Kenneth Burke described Hitler’s “demagogic effectiveness” in his 1941 book review of Mein Kampf, and that’s essentially what I mean. I used “genius” because Trump likes to call himself a genius and I thought that would make more sense to a general audience than “demagogic effectiveness.”
That being said, Trump is very strategic and consistent in how he uses language to distract, attack, and ingratiate himself with his followers.
I don’t know where he learned it. He hasn’t released his school transcripts, so we don’t know if he took a class in rhetoric. One of his ex-wives said that he had a copy of Hitler’s speeches, but we don’t know if he ever read them. A dangerous demagogue is an unaccountable leader and Trump’s rhetorical strategies are designed to prevent us from holding him accountable. I think that he’s probably developed these language strategies over a lifetime of refusing to be held accountable.
Aristotle famously said that all virtues can be turned into vices when used to extremes. Can an honest and well-intentioned person do the opposite and turn Trump’s techniques—ad populum, ad baculum, paralypsis, ad hominum, reification, and tribalism (my catch-all term for nationalism, American exceptionalism, etc.)—into positive and constructive appeals? If so, how?
Accountability is the difference between a “heroic demagogue” who leads the people justly and a “dangerous demagogue” who leads unjustly. A dangerous demagogue uses language in ways that prevent us from holding him or her accountable.
I argue in my book that Trump repeatedly used six strategies—three to bring him closer to his followers and three to separate himself and his followers from everyone else. For some of Trump’s strategies, the answer is yes—they could maybe be used for good ends; for others, the answer is no.
A heroic demagogue could use American exceptionalism, or paralipsis, or ad populum (perhaps) in ways that were accountable.
The rest of these strategies are fallacies that are designed to distract our attention from the central issue of the debate, to dehumanize, and to deny standing. These last strategies are poisonous to public argument. Of course, there are so many other rhetorical figures that a heroic demagogue could use, there’s no need to limit a heroic demagogue to the six things that Trump did.
In interviews and debates, Trump talks in a rush, speaks over other people, and interrupts, making it hard for the other person to respond thoughtfully. Trump probably produces more “elevator moments” than anyone. Are there techniques to confront this bulldozer effect?
I think of this as part of his ad baculum (threats of force or intimidation) strategy. It’s a kind of force to overwhelm the opposition so that they can’t enter into debate or discussion. It’s certainly a way to prevent your interlocuter from holding you accountable for your words or actions.
The only way to confront it is to break the “naturalness” of the “image event,” which is really awkward. What I mean by that is that interviews operate by specific rules: reporters ask questions and politicians respond—it isn’t “scripted,” but there’s a script of sorts. Interviews operate as a certain kind of game. Trump violates the script of those events and the only way to stop him is to intervene and call out the violation. But doing that only highlights the unnaturalness of the image event itself. It acknowledges that the news is itself a spectacle and a fraud.
The only way to confront Trump’s violation of the rules of the game is to admit that it’s a game in the first place. Acknowledging that plays into Trump’s hands, unfortunately. It’s an asymmetric game in Trump’s favor now and that’s why he has been winning.
One of Trump’s most powerful techniques is to overwhelm people—journalists, fans, opponents, other public figures, etc.—so they can’t respond thoughtfully. It also undermines the power of facts, since facts get caught up in a constant churn with lies, insinuations, and uncertainty.
Trump’s whole rhetorical strategy is to use language as a kind of force (he claims to be a “counterpuncher,” but he uses force by default). He uses rhetoric for compliance-gaining, which is anti-democratic. He uses language to overwhelm his opposition. I sometimes call it “weaponized” rhetoric or communication—the widespread use of ad baculum. It’s exhausting to try to track all of Trump’s plots and sub-plots, to keep up with his lies and distortions, to refute all of his fallacies. It probably can’t be done. What’s worse, is that in the process he has made you look foolish and he’s already moved on to other lies, distortions, and fallacies. His is a very effective strategy that allows him to get away with whatever he likes.
Trump also trucks in false equivalence, which disables people’s power of discernment—treating minor non-issues (like Hillary Clinton’s use of a private email account for some public business, which many of Trump’s aides have done as well) with major outrages (violating the emoluments clause of the Constitution, undermining masking and testing, using pardons for coverups, and much more).
He repeatedly uses tu quoque (appeals to hypocrisy) to attack the ethos of his opposition. He may accuse them of doing the same things he does, or bring up arbitrary issues as equivalences, or say that they’re self-interested, or hypocrites in some other way. It is a pernicious strategy because it erodes public trust. It’s a strategy designed to deny standing to his opposition so that they can’t legitimately criticize him or hold him accountable. Anyone who opposes Trump loses credibility themselves, which makes him that much harder to oppose.
What about Trump’s demagoguery—and others’ response to it—gives you despair? What gives you hope?
The despair comes when I think about how effective these strategies have been for him; the hope comes when I see so many people resist him; then the despair comes back when I see that his base has held firm.
I despair because our public sphere is broken and we’re unable to use language to solve political problems—we’re unable to use rhetoric as a method to decide practical truth (phronesis). Trump didn’t break our public sphere himself, but he took advantage of crisis levels of pre-existing distrust, polarization, and frustration and used dangerous demagoguery to attack America.
I still have hope that we can rebuild trust and bridge polarization and end Americans’ frustration with each other and their government, but it’s much harder after what Trump has put us through over the past five years.
Living in the Age of the Coronavirus, we lose touch with reality. We live in the “eternal present.” Isolated from normal activities and places—and restricted in our actions—we lose our outside reference points. We rely, more than ever, on the information and opinions of mainstream media, government officials, and (God forbid) social media.
That makes us vulnerable to gaslighting.
That term, which comes from a 1938 play by Patrick Hamilton called Gas Light, refers to a deliberate process of making someone doubt their sense of reality. In the play, a husband drives his wife mad by manipulating minor elements of her environment—and then denies anything has changed. The man turns off the house’s gaslight at odd times and then, when his wife asks, denies there has been any change at all. When she asks about noises in the night—she heard him rummaging in the attic for the jewels of a woman he killed—he denies hearing any such sounds. Slowly, the wife goes mad. That was his goal since he seeks to have her institutionalized for insanity.
Gaslighting is abuse. It’s a sadistic form of mind control. It aims not just to shape the way people think. It also aims to undermine people’s ability to trust their own perceptions and thinking.
“Gaslighters use your own words against you, plot against you, lie to your face, deny your needs, show excessive displays of power, try to convince you of ‘alternative facts,’ turn family and friends against you,” says Stephanie Sarkis, a psychotherapist and author. They revel in “watching you suffer, consolidating their power, and increasing your dependence on them.”
In a time of crisis and confusion, gaslighters fill the air with denials of simple reality (that the coronavirus is “just like” seasonal flu), false charges (that Democrats stoke fear of the virus to undermine the president), fake theories (like the coronavirus originated in a Chinese lab), offer false assurances (the virus will disappear “magically” and “it’s something we have tremendous control of”), sell sketchy remedies (like prescribing hydroxychloroquine, injections of disinfectants, or the use of ultraviolet light in the body), prevent people from getting the basic tools they need for gathering accurate data (like testing and tracing systems), and then deny basic facts including their own statements (“I felt this was a pandemic long before it was a pandemic”).
When gaslighters persuade even a small group of the population to believe propaganda, they undermine the very possibility of public debates with reliable information.When autocrats shout “Fake News!” at reporters and purvey thousands of lies on social media, their aim is not to win an argument. Their aim is to prevent a true argument even happening. Might makes right.
But listen up: You have the power to screen out the lies and deceptions. It takes hard work to find true experts, people with sterling reputations who display respect for facts. You need to give up your own desire for easy and quick answers. You need to accept the complexity of the situation and accept that even the smartest people cannot make reliable predictions in a volatile situation.
When you hear people making wild claims, which run counter to those of the experts, ask some simple questions:
• Does this person have training and expertise in the field? Does he have experience with the scientific issues at issue? Has he done research or worked on the front lines?
• Does he consider and acknowledge all of the facts, even the inconvenient ones? Does he avoid cherry-picking facts and claims to bolster his claims? Does he welcome new troves of data and information, even when they contradict his working theory of the issue?
• Does he avoid generalizations on topics that remain matters of serious debate? Does he avoid taking slivers of possible truths and pretending they are final and authoritative?
• Does he adopt a scientist’s mindset? Does he look for evidence against his hypothesis? Does he look for weak links in his own argument?
• Does he acknowledge mistakes when they occur? Does he adjust his thinking and actions when new information comes to light?
• Does he treat people with respect when they question his and others’ statements and records? Is he hungry for different perspectives on issues?
When you can answer “yes” to these questions, you can trust the source. Otherwise, remain wary and vigilant. Don’t get sucked into debates that do not respect facts or values.
It’s understandable why so many people fall for propaganda and false narratives. Most people want to believe the authority figures that they like and trust. We all want to belong to a larger tribe. We are social creatures. We want to fit in.
We also crave answers to complex questions. Given our limited time and expertise, we want to find a shortcut to understanding. We want to know when the pandemic will end. We want to embrace a model for understanding this nightmare.
So it’s understandable why people submit to false prophets and easy answers.
But if you fall for the fakery of the gaslighters—whether it’s the president or a propagandist on cable TV or a snake-oil salesman on Facebook—you will lose your sense of reality. You will forfeit your greatest power, which is the ability to think for yourself.
America is now in the midst of one of its periodic awakenings about race.
Every generation or so, something happens to force race into the consciousness of mainstream America. Sometimes these awakenings lead to reform; sometimes they don’t.
The current awakening arose from the George Floyd killing in Minneapolis and the growing realization (long understood by anyone paying attention) that police treat blacks differently than whites. Weeks of demonstrations have extended the race discussion beyond police brutality to a broader agenda. Inequality in education and jobs. Higher death rates during the COVID crisis. A culture that celebrates the treasonous legacy of the pro-slavery Confederacy.
But as Shelby Steele argued years ago, debates over race quickly degenerate into contests over innocence. In an essay entitled “I’m Black, You’re White, Who’s Innocent?” Steele noted that
the human animal almost never pursues power without first convincing himself that he is entitled to it. And this feeling of entitlement has its own precondition: to be entitled one must first believe in one’s innocence, at least in the area where one wishes to be entitled. By innocence I mean a feeling of essential goodness in relation to others and, therefore, superiority to others. Our innocence always inflates us and deflates those we seek power over. Once inflated we are entitled; we are in fact licensed to go after the power our innocence tells us we deserve. In this sense, innocence is power.
The white claim to innocence arises any time blacks and their allies propose solutions to the enduring problem of race in America. In 2014, for example, the Roberts Court struck down provisions of the 1965 Voting Rights Act that required states with histories of racial exclusion to get approval from the Justice Department for changes in voting procedures. The appeal of Southern states went like this: How long do we need to get approval over our voting laws? We weren’t the ones who banned blacks from voting. We’re not the ones who are guilty. Give us control over our own elections. That was so long ago!
When the Roberts Court agreed, giving the old Confederacy power over its election rules, states across the South and beyond enacted rafts of new rules and procedures that made it harder for blacks to register and vote. Voter ID laws. Purges of voter rolls. Shorter voting hours. Not enough provisional ballots. Closing polling stations. Hacked voting machines.
The Roberts Court’s reasoning was the same reasoning of many whites who oppose addressing the issue of race: We’re not responsible. We didn’t create the problem. We didn’t own slaves. We didn’t benefit from Jim Crow. We didn’t redline black communities. We didn’t push blacks into toxic-waste zones. We don’t support the cops who abuse blacks. All of which is to say: We are innocent.
The concept of “white privilege” is intended to refute this claim of innocence. Even if they did not actively participate in racist policies and practices, whites still benefit from them. Generation after generation, whites get advantages in all areas because of this nation’s long history of direct and indirect racism. Inequality and unfairness and one moment begets inequality and racism at another moment … and another and another and another.
But that feels abstract, like a long game of telephone where everyone has forgotten the words spoken at the beginning of the line.
In her new book Caste, Isabel Wilkerson offers a much more useful metaphor for the enduring injuries of race in America: The broken-down house.
Wilkerson notes the discovery of a long-festering welt in a ceiling, which, unfixed, could undermine the integrity of the house’s structure. “Choose not to look … at your own peril,” she writes. “Whatever is lurking will fester whether you choose to look or not. Ignorance is no protection from the consequences of inaction. Whatever you are wishing away will gnaw at you until you gather the courage to face what you would rather not see.”America’s race problem, she says, is like an old house that has performed many basic roles well but has carried forth damaging imperfections. We have made some patches and additions to improve this structure. But many basic flaws have remained and festered.
We in this country are like homeowners who inherited a house on a piece of land that is beautiful on the outside but whose soil is unstable loam and rock, heaving and contracting over generations, cracks patched but the deeper ruptures waved away for decades, centuries even. Many people may rightly say: “I had nothing to do with how this all started. I have nothing to do with the sins of the past. My ancestors never attacked Indigenous people, never owned slaves.” And yes. Not one of us was here when this house was built. Our immediate ancestors may have had nothing to do with it, but here we are, the current occupants of a property with stress cracks and bowed walls and fissures in the foundation. We are the heirs to whatever is right or wrong with it. We did not erect the uneven pillars or joists, but they are ours to deal with now.
And any further deterioration is, in fact, on our hands.
Unaddressed, the ruptures and diagonal cracks will not fix themselves. The toxins will not go away but rather will spread, leach and mutate, as they already have. When people live in an old house, they come to adjust to the idiosyncrasies and outright dangers skulking in an old structure. They put buckets under a wet ceiling, prop up groaning floors, learn to step over that rotting wood tread in the staircase. The awkward becomes acceptable, and the unacceptable becomes merely inconvenient. Live with it long enough, and the unthinkable becomes normal. Exposed over the generations, we learn to believe that the incomprehensible is the way that life is supposed to be.
No, as a white, I was not present at the creation of racism in America. I didn’t own slaves. After the Civil War, I did not prosper from sharecropping or Jim Crow. I did not fight the right to vote or blacks’ access to education or housing or public accommodations. I have never used racist slurs. I embrace the equality of all. I support Black Lives Matter. I would like to sit at Martin Luther King’s table of brotherhood.
And yet …
Like all Americans, whatever their age, I have grown up in this house with enduring (sometimes growing) structural flaws. I didn’t build the house. I was not responsible for the flawed foundation or construction. But here I am, living in it.
I have, without doubt, benefited from the flawed house. Weeks after my birth in 1960, in Chattanooga, Tennessee, I returned to the hospital with pneumonia. Looking through a family scrapbook as a teenager, I discovered that I was treated in the “white baby’s ward.” I have often wondered whether I would have gotten the care I needed in the other ward. I doubt it.
Here’s another example: Years ago, eager to meet a friend, I sped down a highway in Georgia–passing a black driver and then seeing a cop pull over the black guy and not me. I was probably going 75 miles an hour; he was probably going 65. He was driving while black; I wasn’t.
Those are two of countless examples from my life of privilege.
I should also note the everyday, structural advantages I have gotten by living in our sturdy but flawed national house: great schools, great communities, a smile when I offer my resume, access to any place with nary a second look. No one has ever treated me badly because of my skin color, not that I can recall anyway.
I never asked for privilege. I did not create it. But I have gotten it.
Now, I might not be responsible for how the house was built or how it has evolved over the years–and who it houses well and who it houses badly. But it’s my job, as one of 330 million occupants of that house, to do something about it. Rather than just putting buckets under leaks and taping the rattling windows, it’s my job to help get down to the bones and fix the structural problems.
How we fix the house can be a matter of debate. Liberals have some good ideas, and so do conservatives. But we can’t avoid the matter forever. Using the latest tools–the equivalent of the housing inspector’s infrared lenses that spot flaws under the structure’s bones–we need to find the broken parts and repair or even replace them.
Isabel Wilkerson’s new book is priceless for many reasons. But its greatest value, for the debate over structural racism, might be this metaphor of the dilapidated house. It gives us a way to understand our common home–and its flaws and the job that needs to be done–without the self-serving and avoidant claims of innocence.
You are in grad school, working for your M.A. or a Ph.D.
To succeed, you need to write a dissertation or thesis. This is a major project–50 pages or so of dense writing in the hard sciences, hundreds of pages in the humanities and social sciences. Chances are, you’ve never written anything that long. What do you do? How do you start? How do you pick a topic? How do you set goals and organize ideas? How do you write? How do you edit your drafts?
Most programs don’t offer much good advice. Where I went, I heard “Don’t get it don’t right–get it done” and “Say what you’re going to say, say it, and say you said it.” Not terribly helpful.
In this post, I show you ten simple strategies that you can use–starting right now–to get the project done faster than all your peers. The trick is to break the project into manageable pieces, follow the right sequence, and do at least something every day.
(The post is most relevant for work in the humanities and social sciences. But many of these tricks will be helpful for work in the hard sciences as well.)
Start by treating the project as a management challenge. Good managers set a clear goal goal (the whole) and keep track of all the pieces (the parts). In some ways, writing a thesis is no different than running a grocery store or coordinating a lab experiment. To succeed, you need to break projects down, work in a smart sequence, get clear and useful feedback, keep track of all raw materials, and make good final decisions.
And so, without further ado, ten simple tricks for managing your dissertation process.
1. Find a topic that intrigues you–then constantly narrow and expand that topic.
You will live with your topic, 24/7. You better love spending time exploring it.
Yes, love.
Some graduate students select a “practical” topic–one that’s limited, with lots of data, with a clear research question that (might) yield a clear answer. Their “practical” thinking might include the prospect of getting a publication. If you do all that and still find a “practical” topic rich enough to intrigue every single day, that’s great. Practical + Intriguing = Winner.
But do not talk yourself into a topic because your advisor or someone else thinks it makes sense. Sure, explore all reasonable possibilities. But if you feel dread in the pit of your stomach, be careful.
For sure, you need to be able to do the research. You can only write about a topic if you can get access to the data, lab experiments, archives, interview subjects, and so on, depending on your field. If you can’t get the raw materials, you can produce the final product. depending on your discipline, you’d also benefit from colleagues with whom you can share ideas and critiques.
But if you don’t love your topic, you won’t have the zest to do the research and struggle to make sense of it.
So here’s what you do: Make a list of a bunch of different topics, then check them out for their passion and practicality. Look for the sweet spot — the topics that both fascinate you and promise lots of access to information. If you get lots of data, you’ll love the project more than if you can’t find any data. And if you love a topic, you’ll be better at digging for data.
2. Focus, maniacally, on finding The One Idea.
Most dissertations start out as a “topic.” But they need to finish as an “idea.” That idea has to serve as the North Star for everything you discuss. (For a detailed blog post on this challenge, go here.)
Let me explain the distinction. When I began my research, my topic could be stated like this:
Almost every major league city in the U.S. is now facing pressure to build new stadiums and arenas for its teams. When teams threaten to leave unless they get their new palace, mayors and civic leaders cave in to their pressure. And so cities (with state and regional governments and authorities) are spending hundreds of millions to benefit private franchise owners.
That was fine–to start. But eventually, I had to find my ONE Idea. Here’s how I concluded:
In the battle over team location, leagues and their teams hold two advantages: (1) They are part of a monopoly and (2) They can move. They use these advantages to “steer” public dialogue. If everyone in the community got together to decide stadium proposals, they would usually lose. Why? Because they do not improve local economic development. But the sports industry’s unique traits allow them to steer and control the dialogue and bargaining. So they usually win.
The “topic” said: Something happening. The “idea” said: Here’s the one factor that determines the result.
3. Carry (and use) a cheap notebook wherever you go.
Every day, you have 50,000 to 70,000 thoughts. Most of those thoughts are trivial and fleeting. You are happy to brush them aside as soon as they arrive. But you might have (I’m guessing) 100 thought that are worth keeping and developing. Those ideas arrive, unbidden, as we sleep and shower, walk and drive, doodle in a meeting and sit in a lecture.
Unless you capture your ideas when the arrive, you almost always lose them. Some variant of the diea might pop back later, but you can’t count on it.
Notebooking ideas also helps you process them. By transferring an ideas from a shower “aha” moment to ink on paper, you begin to transform those ideas. One idea leads to another. One concept reminds you of another concept.
I suggest getting a cheap and flexible notebook. Too many people spend $20 on a
4. Outlines for dissertations: Yay or nay?
Usually, the first thing your advisor asks you to do is write an outline. Don’t! Outlines can be awful straitjackets that limit your research and creativity and keep you from breakthrough ideas.
Instead of an outline, keep a running list of problems and ideas you want to explore. You might want to keep that running tab on Evernote, some other notes app on your phone, or your cheap notebook from Staples. Whatever works.
At first, don’t try too hard to organize the ideas. Once you have 20 or so topics, you’ll want to cluster them into different categories. Fine. But don’t think of it as an outline or blueprint. It’s really just an extended log of ideas.
Don’t worry too much about separating Big Ideas from small ideas. They’re all important. My nephew did a dissertation at Cal-Berkeley on robotics. His Big Idea was that nature offers powerful lessons for designing the way robots move and perform actions. But to explain that idea, he had to give lots of definitions, describe the literature on animal movements, explain ideas about miniaturization and batteries, describe distinct coding challenges, and more. You need all kinds of ideas, big and small, to help you explain The One Idea.
Another point: You can’t always know what ideas are Big and which ones are small until you develop them. The Big Idea of my dissertation, many years ago, concerned the structure of dialogue in cities. That idea started out as a side note. As I got deeper into my research, I realized that it explained the whole issue. It started as a trivial aside and then became my Big Idea. Since you cannot know which ideas will bloom, gather them all. Don’t worry how important they might be until later in the process.
5. How do you organize your notes and research materials?
In many ways, an ambitious project is as much a management process as a creative process. Just as a supermarket manager manages the food deliveries, the departments and aisles, the equipment, the workers, and so on, you as a dissertation writer will manage your books and articles, notes and transcripts, lab results, spreadsheets and other data holders, videos, paper and electronic files, and, of course, fragments and drafts.
Your key tool is the folder, both paper and electronic. Into each folder, you can put all kinds of resources. To make it work, you need the right categories and sub-categories. In my work, I have two kinds of categories–topics and types of materials.
Take a look at the computer folders for my forthcoming book on Woodrow Wilson’s 1919 Western Tour for the League of Nations:
Click the image to get a careful look. The first column shows all of the major folders in the project. The second two columns show what’s in a couple of those folders.
It’s not always easy to figure out the best topics for the folders. They have to be as simple and intuitive as possible. You don;t really know what makes sense until you’ve gotten deep into the work. I renamed and reorganized the folders countless times. Every time, it gets easier to find what I want.
A good organization also makes it easy to get a gestalt view of the project. Any time I want to get a bird’s eye view of the project, I view my folders.
6. Understand the research challenge.
Some research will revolve around one kind of information. Research in biochemistry will revolve around lab work; research on literature will revolve around the text. But many research projects involve a wide range of research challenges. When I wrote Nobody Turn Me Around, a study of the civil rights movement, I used books, journals, and periodical; papers and oral histories in archives, museums, and libraries; videos and artifacts; interviews with both experts and participants in my story; and site visits.
My challenge was to blend together all this information to create a compelling story with a compelling point.
Whats the best way do do this? If you get into the habit of creating fragments, it will be easy. You’ll write about specific moments (scenes) and specific ideas (summaries). Different research materials will be useful for different fragments. Some of my favorite fragments for Nobody Turn Me Around came from videos; others from interviews; others from archives; others from a blend of sources.
Don’t decide to do a fragment based on a single piece of research material (like a great oral history or video). Instead, remember to figure out what One Idea you want to convey in the fragment. Use whatever speaks to that One Idea. It could be obe poece of evidence or it could be many.
7. Write fragments first–and organize them into distinct categories.
The biggest mistake most writers make–besides using traditional outlines–to to try to write whole chapters from the beginning to the end. It cannot work. Any sophisticated piece of writing is really a collection of smaller fragments. Therefore, write fragments.
A fragment is a short piece about one aspect of a subject. It could be as short as a few hundred words or as long as 10 or 20 pages. It depends on the complexity of the subject, the audience’s knowledge of key concepts, the density of the writing, and more.
I first discovered the fragment idea while reverse-engineering Truman Capote’s true-crime classic In Cold Blood. Capote does not use traditional chapters. Instead, he collects and arranges short fragments into four sections. Each fragment takes the story one step forward–never more.
8. Don’t obsess about its overall structure … but do play around with the possibilities.
Every piece of writing is a journey, which takes the reader from one place to another different place. So when you organize your fragments and chapters, think of that journey. Where do you want to “meet” the reader at the beginning? What does the reader know at the beginning? Then, where do you want to take the reader? What do you want them to know at the end that they didn’t know before?
Once you know the beginning and end, figuring out the steps gets easy. It’s like taking a trip. When I took a cross-country trip, I could figure out all the middle steps once I knew I would start in Charlottesville, Virginia, and end in San Diego, California. I could break the trip into eight-hour legs, each of about 400 to 500 miles. At each stop I plotted my way to the day’s destination. I even decided when I wanted to take a detour, like my visit to my college pal randy or a few hours at the Grand Canyon.
That’s how writing a big project works. Don’t outline the piece in the traditional way. Instead, break it into mini-journeys. Go to just one destination in each mini-journey. Collect a bunch of mini journeys on different topics. Then when you have enough — it could be anywhere from 20 to 40 of them — see what order works best.
Great writers like John McPhee and Robert Caro create 3×5 cards or sheets of paper that note their books’ many pieces. They tape or tack them on a wall, stand back, and look at the overall shape … then move them around. They spend countless hours, at the end of their process, moving these pieces until they fight the perfect flow from beginning to end, in all the fragments, sections, chapters, and whole work.
9. Edit like a pro.
In every great creative work, the finishing touches can spell the difference between good and great. If you’ve done an amazing job researching and writing, congratulations. You are nine-tenths of the way home. But that last one-tenth can determine who reads it, what kind of respect you earn, and how it might evolve into a book or articles.
I have described a simple and fail-safe editing process in The Elements of Writing, but allow me to sketch out some simple procedures and techniques.
First, go from big to small. You would not begin a kitchen renovation with the detail work on window ledges and plates for light switches; you’d begin with the basic structure–the walls and flooring, electricity and plumbing systems, cabinets and appliances, etc. After dealing with these big pieces, you’d move to smaller elements like furniture, woodwork, lighting, painting, and window and other details.
The same goes for big pieces of writing. Once you have gathered and organized your fragments into a whole work, start to examine all the elements. Start with the overall structure. Does your ONE Idea structure all the pieces? Do all the sections and chapters take us on a journey to that One Idea? Does each section and fragment explore one distinct piece of the whole? Does it start strong and finish strong? Then focus on smaller details? Do all these pieces move, like a pendulum, from scenes to summaries? Do all the paragraphs state and explain one idea? Then focus on the granular details: clunky phrases and repetition, words and phrases, spelling and grammar, and of course style and flow.
Start big, go small.
10. Give yourself a productive (not overwhelming) routine.
Writers give each other all kinds of advice on the writer’s life. Work in the morning. Work at night. Write at least two hours a day–no, four hours. Do research first, then write. No, write as you gather information. Stop in mid-thought. Set an agenda for the next day. Go where your information and imagination leads you.
Look, everyone’s different. You have to find your own routines. But I do have some ideas that everyone seems to accept.
First, write something every day. If you want to set a target, like 500 words a day, great. But write something. My experience is that you should almost always avoid big word targets. Why? Because you’ll usually fail. Better to say that you’ll write something every day than 500 words and miss your target. People tend to abandon goals when they fail to meet them. But you should be able to write something every single day. And here’s the magic: When you write something every day, you will often get into a groove where you accomplish more than you would have ever imagined. If you can stay in that groove, great–keep going. The next day, just say you’ll write something. You might only write 250 words, but that’s OK. Your work will set you up for bigger days later on.
Second, read something every day. When I was in grad school, my friend Nathalie had to finish her thesis in a year because she was moving back to Paris. But she refused to deny herself fun exploring the U.S. So every day she photocopied and read five journal articles. She set aside time, between classes, to knock off 10 or 20 or 30 pages at a time. These articles accumulated and before long she had lots of information to explore her topic.
What you need to read will vary according to your discipline and topic. But set a reachable daily goal–and meet that goal every day.
Third, schedule your other work. Whether you need to interview subjects, travel to archives, or conduct experiments in a lab, keep some kind of calendar. We tend to do what we put on a schedule. Again, don’t get too ambitious. But the more explicit you are, the more real these tasks become.
Fourth, avoid all distractions. This might be the most important tip of all. You cannot think if you get interrupted by texts, Netflix shows, noise in the apartment, friends who want to go get a beer, etc. You need total concentration. You will be at least twice as productive with total concentration than with fragmented work time. So when you work, just work. Focus on just one challenge at a time. Turn off your phone. Nobody needs you when you’re working. You’re not the president or CEO; you just a grad student.
Don’t just turn off your phone. Put it in another room. Studies show that a phone is distracting even if it’s off and face-down on the table. The phone’s mere presence is a siren song. Get rid of it. If you really love your phone and all its magical apps, think of it this way. If you remove it during your work time, you’ll have more time to immerse yourself in it later.
Do something to get into the flow. I often listen to New Age/acoustical music (my go-to site is Hearts of Space). Research shows that the rhythms and wavelengths of New Age music improves concentration. You get lost in time as you move deeper and deeper into your subject. When you need to puzzle out a problem, you can isolate the key ideas and think about their relationships. To me, the key to acoustic music is that I rarely tap my toes. If I listen to Springsteen or Rachmaninoff, I start paying attention to the music. My attention shifts from work to tunes. Somehow, this doesn’t happen with Libera or Andreas Vollenweider or Clannad or Enya.
By the Numbers: Distraction
The hardest thing to do these days is to concentrate. But that’s the single most important skill for writing. Here are some relevant numbers, from Deloitte Global Mobile Consumer Survey’s survey of 1,634 smartphone users in July 2017:
47: Number of times smartphone users in the U.S. check their phones each day.
85: Percentage of people who use the cellphone while talking to family and friends.
80: Percentage of people who check their phone within an hour of going to bed or getting up.
35: Percentage who do it within five minutes.
47: Percentage who have tried to limit their cell use in the past.
30: Percentage who have successfully limited their cell use.
In many professional schools–business, public policy, public health, medicine, and law–students learn through the “case method.” Students read case studies, usually 10 to 20 pages long, about a specific situation that presented real-world professionals with a difficult dilemma. The case study details the history, issues, concepts, and conflicts involved in the case. Then, in class, the professor and students discuss the best approach op the dilemma.
Students love case studies because they offer the kind of “real world” challenges that they might face in their careers. Professors love them because they offer a great vehicle for exploring key theories and concepts and stimulate great discussion and debate. Professionals find them useful for exploring the knottiest problems they face in business, government, and nonprofit organizations.
So what makes a great case study? Five key elements, which I will explain in this post: (1) A time- and issue-bounded dilemma that would be difficult for even smart and seasoned professionals; (2) brief explanations of issues and concepts; (3) The backstory, with vivid characters and moments and a “narrative arc”; (4) data and other information that students can use to support different positions; and (5) Scenarios that could lead students in several different directions.
I have been involved with case studies for years. While serving as executive director of the Rappaport Institute for Greater Boston at Harvard, I worked with case writers and used cases in seminars with graduate students. Later, at the Yale School of Management, I was a case writer and editor. So I have a special appreciation of their value.
Before we get to the case study “formula,” let’s explore why case studies are such great learning tools.
The Power of Great Case Studies
Case studies are also great for businesses and professional organizations. Most professionals encounter a limited number of difficult challenges. The specifics differ, but the challenges are regular. If the company can capture these challenges in case studies–and then debate the kinds of issues that come up and how to respond–the organization will perform better.
Let me give you an example.
David Luberoff, a friend and colleague at Harvard’s John F. Kennedy School of Government, has written a number of terrific case studies on urban transportation issues. One concerned the “Big Dig,” Boston’s multi-billion-dollar project to remove the elevated Interstate 93 and replace it with an underground tunnel. This project has been described as both a boondoggle and a visionary work of urban revitalization. Without taking sides, Luberoff explores the project’s origins, political pressures and tradeoffs, engineering and design challenges, and spiraling costs. David’s case study offers great value not just to professors and students, but also to policy makers. As a longtime resident of Massachusetts, I wish the state and city had a case study like this when the Big Dig project was first proposed and debated.
Here’s another example:
One of the most popular case studies at Harvard explores a 1970s controversy over a proposal to develop the Park Plaza Hotel, near the Boston Common. Written by Colin Diver, it asks a specific question: “What should Miles Mahoney do?” Mahoney was the head of the Massachusetts agency with authority over such projects. When he decided that the Park Plaza failed to meet five of six key criteria, he ignited a firestorm of protest. The city’s mayor, the redevelopment director, and the project’s developers all lobbied the governor to reverse Mahoney’s decision. Then the developers “revised” their proposal and the governor responded favorably. But the “new” plan was really the old plan. Should Mahoney have held his ground, against all the leading development and political interests–or should he have caved in?
Got time for one more example?
I recently talked to a doctor friend, in a major midwestern city, who was developing new systems for managing extreme health problems like addiction, chronic disease, and homelessness. All too often, my friend explained, hospitals treat patients like products on an assembly line. Patients comes along and health-care professionals address one or two challenges and then put them back on the streets. But effective care requires coordinated help, with social service agencies, families and friends, employers and others, as well as health professionals. How should the hospital coordinate this challenge? What kind of investments should it take? And once the work is done, how can the hospital learn from the experience? A case study would provide the perfect learning tool for doctors, nurses, and others to identify issues, problems, and opportunities for similar situations.
In each of these cases, case studies would be great not just for classes, but also for professionals on the job. Each would give professionals useful frameworks for debating and decision making on their own issues and problems.
So how do you create a great case study?
The Elements of a Great Case Study
A great case study, like a great book or movie, provides a complete, satisfying experience. A great case study brings the audience into a different world, where ordinary people struggle to solve difficult problems … where people struggle to assess the costs and benefits of different actions … where people often struggle against each other to pursue their interests and ideas.
Now, let’s take an overview of these elements of a great case study.
(1) A time- and issue-bounded dilemma
A case study should never–EVER–attempt to provide a comprehensive or universal answer to a problem. As policy makers and managers, we often want to develop policies that solve a big problem. But that’s exactly what you should avoid doing with case studies.
Whatever problem you take up, make sure you discuss specific people, addressing specific challenges, at a specific time and place.
Let me illustrate with the dilemmas of some case studies I wrote for the Yale School of Management:
Manchester United Football Club: How should investors determine a value for Manchester United, the most successful sports team in the world, when it goes public and offers stock shares on the market?
Samsung Electronics: Should Samsung attempt to beat Apple, head on, in the smartphone market?
Herman Miller: How can the producer of high-end furniture maintain its character as a value-based company while expanding its operations with acquisitions of other companies with different cultures?
San Miguel de Proyectos Agropecuarios: Should San Miguel, the producer of the superfood amaranth, expand operations as a for-profit or a civic-oriented company?
These questions are not only practical. They also give people a “north star.” They provide a model that all smart leaders and managers should follow, which is to focus on The One Thing. No matter how complicated a problem is in business, government, or the nonprofit sector, people need to figure out what matters most. Good case studies model how to do just that.
(2) Explanations of issues and concepts
In most professional situations, people must deal with a wide range of technical issues and ideas. In order for students to address the dilemma, they need a working knowledge of these issues and ideas. Some readers of case studies do not use this technical vocabulary, so they need guidance to the issues under discussion.
Therefore, case studies need to clearly define technical terms. These definitions should provide enough examples for the reader to see how the terms are used.
These terms can be defined in the body of the text or in “sidebars” or “boxes” outside the main columns of text. When these terms are simple and straightforward, I suggest offering the definitions in the main text. The more you can create a “flow” for the reader, the better. But when you need to define and explain several terms–and when the terms require some time and attention to understand–I suggest using sidebars or boxes. That way, readers can find terms easily if they need help understanding a passage.
(3) A story, with vivid characters and moments
As Jaques tells Duke Senior in Shakespeare’s As You Like It: “All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players.”
Likewise, all professional challenges are really challenges, which play out as stories and need resolution.
Therefore, give your audience a story. As we have explored elsewhere, a story takes a simple structure:
Beginning: To start we get introduced to the characters and their world–and their dilemma. The characters offer a vehicle for exploring the different elements of the challenge, why they’re hard to solve, and what possible responses might present themselves.
The story often begins in media res, Latin for “in the middle of the thing.” We see the protagonists facing some difficult dilemma and wondering what to do. In this scene we get to know the characters and the world, their motivations and limitations. Then, once we see the character at this moment of truth, we can explore the backstory (how they got here in the first place) and the challenges moving forward.
Right away, we need to start learning about the values of the characters and organizations. People’s choices depend on what they want to achieve in life. The values of “Chainsaw Al” Dunlop (Scott, Sunbeam) differ from those of Steve Jobs (Apple), Wendy Kopp (Teach for America), Warren Buffett (Berkshire Hathaway), Indra Nooyi (PepsiCo), Jeff Bezos (Amazon), or Angela Ahrents (Burberry, Apple). And of course, their values differ from the people who run the departments and programs of these companies.
In all difficult dilemmas, people struggle to reconcile their values and goals with those of others inside and outside the organization.
Middle: In the middle lies the struggle. Decision makers face a number of options, none of which is perfect. All the options carry costs as well as benefits. And so they struggle to figure out the best course of action. They gather information, they look for angles, they debate, they argue, they cajole and bargain. This deliberation has many starts and stops, many points where people and issues could have gone in different directions.
The case study should reflect all of these issues and options. Ideally, the case study breaks them down into separate fragments, with headlines and subheadlines, so the readers/students can explore these issues, one by one.
End: In a class drama, the final section of a story offers a resolution of the dilemma. In a case study, the final section does not offer one resolutions but suggests many possible resolutions. This is the basis of class discussion and debate. Should the company take the product to market … move into a new product line … embrace this or that marketing strategy … go public with a stock offering … keep or fire its CEO … invest in new or different R&D … create a new partnership … lobby for or against government legislation of regulations … ? These are just some of the dilemmas that students face.
In the end, the students will propose–and then argue, in class–which resolution to give the story.
This is the power of the case study. It invites everyone–the professor and students and professionals–to finish the story.
Stories are powerful learning tools because they invite the reader to become part of the story. The author Neil Gaiman puts it best: “In reading, you get to feel things, visit places and worlds you would never otherwise know. You learn that everyone else out there is a me, as well. Empathy is a tool for building people into groups, for allowing us to function as more than self-obsessed individuals.”
(4) Data and other information
If you need good narrative to give the dilemma a shape–and to engage the reader, with empathy and imagination–you need good data and other information to analyze the dilemma.
The data and information depend on the case and dilemma. It could include statistics, testimony and quotations, definitions, excerpts from company records, and descriptions of products.
So where should you put this data? Some cases cite the information at the place where the case study’s characters might use them. Consider this example from my case study of Herman Miller, where I describe the company’s acquisition of the retail company Design Within Research:
Over the years, DWR had experienced extreme highs and lows. The company went public in 2004, valued at $211 million on opening day—70 times total earnings the year before. Management increased the number of physical stores to 63 by 2006, but the expansion was too much, too fast. “We got cocky, silly, fat,” one top official later admitted. … John Edelman and John McPhee took over in 2010. … Immediately, they overhauled DWR’s operations and moved headquarters from San Francisco to Stamford, Connecticut. Quickly, they closed 30 stores. They developed a new retail strategy and increased sales from $113 million in 2010 to $218 million in 2013.
In this case, data was essential for understanding the flow of the narrative. It belonged in the text. Too much data, of course, would have interrupted that flow.
As an extra resource, you might want to put other data and information at the end, as “exhibits.” In that Herman Miller case, here are some examples of these kinds of exhibits:
• Descriptions of iconic Herman Miller products (text)
• Excerpts from Herman Miller’s mission statement “Things That Matter” (text)
• Leadership of Herman Miller (biographies of CEOs, board chairmen, and presidents)
• Images of the Herman Miller campus (photographs)
• Herman Miller financials (statistics)
• Trends in manufacturing in a variety of industries (statistics)
• Major company acquisitions of Herman Miller (list)
What to put certain data and information is a judgment call. When you’re deciding, answer three questions: (1) What does the reader need to know when? (2) What is essential information and what is an extra resource? (3) What enables the best possible flow for the reader?
(5) Scenarios that lead in different directions
Here’s where the rubber meets the road. Once we have offered students the stories and information, the dilemmas and the context, the technical terminology, we need to guide them toward responses.
Usually, the best scenarios begin with a single question: What should X do?
After posting that question, offer key concepts or models to guide debate. Give people different “angles” on the debate, so they can consider all possibilities. These angles will be great for the debates that occur among students, professors, professionals, reporters, or whoever is reading and discussing the case study.
Let me give an example. I wrote a case study about Samsung’s battle with Apple over control of the smartphone industry. The key question was: What should Samsung do next? Should Samsung try to battle Apple over the high end of the market? Should Samsung compete where Apple already has captured the market (like the U.S.)? Should Samsung pick a more fluid, open market (like India or China) before Apple wins dominance? Should Samsung focus on the longterm battle by investing in R&D to great the next-generation phone?
We might rephrase these questions more broadly: Fight locally or fight in a bigger arena? Focus on a niche or a whole product line? Win with superior products or cutting-edge marketing? Battle to win now or later? Attack directly or pick an outside fight? Seek advantage from government or not? Get outside investments or devote existing resources?
These are broad questions frame the debate in a way that almost any company, in any industry, faces. These “frames” get readers thinking about their own challenges. That’s the ultimate value of a case.
One Last Thing . . .
A good case study works magic. It brings people into the world of business, politics, health care–whatever field where professionals need to make hard decisions.
As Katherine Boo and Suzanne Goldsmith write, in The Washington Monthly: “What case studies have in common isn’t length but the ability to recreate the historical moment, in all its complexity and idiosyncrasy.”
A compelling way to focus on what matters–and to debate complex issues–is exactly what we need to do our jobs well, whatever our profession.
In another post, I describe the importance of finding The One Idea for everything you write.
I have both succeeded and failed in this quest.
Success: Nobody Turn Me Around
About a decade ago I was in the midst of writing a book about the 1963 March on Washington. At the same time, I was maniacally studying the elements of writing. I devoured books and articles about the brain, learning, memory, storytelling, and writing mechanics. I looked for any and all insights that would give my book the drama that the subject demanded.
That’s when I first realized the importance of The One Thing. The brain, research shows, simply cannot manage more than one idea at a time. Sure, as research in the 1950s showed, people can remember a list of seven ideas or things. But that doesn’t mean they can do anything with those ideas. To really act in the world, people need to focus on one thing.
At all levels of my book, Nobody Turn Me Around (Beacon Press, 2010), I tried to identify The One Thing that should serve as a North Star for readers. Here’s what I came up with.
The book
The One Idea, driving everything else in this book, is this: The March on Washington was essential to hold together the disparate factions of the civil rights movement, at a time when support was fraying for the movements integrationist and nonviolent ideals–when President Kennedy’s civil rights bill offered an opportunity to create historic reform.
The book explores all kinds of issues, but they all relate to the need to hold the movement together.
This throughline animated every action of the movement’s organizers (Philip Randolph, Bayard Rustin, Martin Luther King, Roy Wilkins, and others) and allies (Kennedy, congressional supporters, leading celebrities, ministers, organizers, and more). It also animated the opponents (like Strom Thurmond and other congressional segregationists, conservative intellectuals, the FBI, and others), who worked to divide the movement.
The parts of the book
The book had five parts, mirroring Aristotle’s narrative arc. Each section had One Idea:
1. Night Unto Day: In the wee hours of August 27, 1963, people made their final movements to the march. Dr. King prepared his speech, ignoring advisors’ counsel to avoid talking about a “dream.” Philip Randolph and Bayard Rustin set the march’s goal: to put the movement’s bodies on the line to force Washington to act–and to do so nonviolently. Meanwhile, thousands streamed into the capital, with varied values and goals but a commitment to following the movement’s highest ideals and to ignore figures on right and left who would divide the movement. The One Idea: United, we stand.
2. Into the Day: As people arrive at the Mall, the systems are in place for a successful march. bayard Rustin successfully managed all the logistics, as did the Justice Department. The One Idea: Plan it right to avoid problems.
3. Congregation: As the March on Washington began, the movement’s far-flung members were on full display. They came from all walks of life, from all over the U.S. and beyond. They included rich and poor, intellectuals and laborers, blacks and everyone else, radical and moderate, Northerners and Southerners, religious and nonbelievers, believers in nonviolence and “any means necessary,” and more. The One Idea: There is unity in numbers and diversity.
4. Dream: After performances from musicians and speeches by notables, the afternoon program began. Each of the ten leaders of the March offered their own perspectives, from a faith-based confession of apathy (Matthew Ahmann) to a youthful cry of impatience (John Lewis) to a movement veteran’s call for reform (Roy Wilkins) to a labor leader’s warning about America’s world reputation (Walter Reuther) to an urbanist’s call for jobs and opportunity (Whitney Young) … to the transcendent call for a dream (Martin King). The One Idea: Civil rights is the underpinning of all progress.
5. Onward: At the end of the day, everyone returned home, determined to fight for civil rights in their communities, aware that that fight would be long and hard. The One Idea: Struggles require fighting hard, not just expressing grand ideals.
Each section has One Idea. Each of those ideas, in some way, supports the book’s One Idea.
Fragments in the book
Each of the parts comprises a number of smaller pieces–what I call “fragments,” vignettes and background information. Fragments range from a page and a half to nine pages. Each fragment advances the One Idea of the section, and therefore the One Idea of the book.
Let me mention a few examples–the sections that offer portraits of Phil Randolph, Bayard Rustin, and Martin Luther King. Each brought an essential quality to the civil rights movement. Randolph insisted on mass demonstration. Rustin insisted on nonviolence. King understood that the movement had to be transformational, inspiring courage and commitment.
Those three forces–body, mind, and soul–were essential to pursue the movement’s long-term strategy. They were also essential to hold the movement together (the book’s One Idea).
Paragraphs and sentences in the book
Every paragraph and sentence also contains just One Idea also. This is important. All too often, writers treat the paragraph as simply a container for a bunch of ideas. In his book on writing, Steven Pinker actually argues that “there is no such thing as a paragraph.” When we break the text into paragraphs, Pinker says, we’re doing nothing more than providing “a visual bookmark that allows the reader to pause.”
But that’s not right. When you look at great writers, from Hemingway to McPhee, you see how they state and develop just one idea per paragraph. In my classes, I require students to label each paragraph with a “tabloid headline.” That way, they learn not to stray off course. If anything in the paragraph does not address the label, it’s gotta go.
I’ll offer just one paragraph from my book, about the writer James Baldwin, for illustration:
In all of his years in the U.S., Baldwin struggled to understand his own alienation. “It was in Paris when I realized what my problem was,” he told the New York Post. “I was ashamed of being a Negro. I finally realized that I would remain what I was to the end of my time and lost my shame. I awoke from my nightmare.” The whole race problem, Baldwin argued, required the same kind of rebirth nationwide. But he despaired that such a rebirth would not occur. Black communities from Harlem to Watts were committing slow suicide with violence, drug and alcohol abuse, violence, and alienation from schools and jobs.
My tabloid headline for this paragraph would be “Alienation of All” or “Split Souls” or some such. By the way, that paragraph speaks to the One Idea of the book, its section, and its fragment.
Think of each One Idea as part of a Russian nesting doll. The One Idea of the whole piece contains The One Idea of all its smaller parts.
Failure: Little League, Big Dreams
I didn’t fully understand The One Idea when I write a previous book about the Little League World Series.
Originally, I hoped to present the drama of the LLWS the way the documentary Spellbound presented the National Spelling Bee. I wanted to show different contestants prepare and then advance through many rounds until the drama of the final competition.
And so I tracked the monthlong Little League tournaments, from districts to states to regions to the final tournament in Williamsport, Pennsylvania. Along the way, I found some great stories and explored some fascinating issues. When it was over, I spent time in the hometowns of the two finalists in Ewa City, Hawaii, and Willemstad, Curacao. I learned lots more.
Then I started writing. I liked what I wrote, mostly anyway, but it lacked the power and drama. The deadline approached and I turned in a draft. My editor liked it. We debated titles. We settled on Little League, Big Dreams. I didn’t like the title; it seemed too mushy and too upbeat for the story I wrote. But the publisher gets the final call on titles. So we passed the manuscript to a line editor.
Then I had a eureka moment. I realized that one word captured the essence of the book. I called my editor. “Can I have more time?” I said. “I figured out what it’s about–hustling.” The book was about the kids’ hustling, their dedication and earnestness, their willingness to work hard for something. But it was also about a more negative form of hustling–coaches manipulating rules, driving kids too hard, helicoptering and bullying parents, Napoleons who run the local leagues, pressure from sponsors, the glaring spotlight of TV. I wanted to give the book a simple title–Hustle or Hustling–and realign the text to tell that story. It would have taken just a week.
The answer was no. “We’re too far into this,” he said. “Sorry.”
Without The One Idea, the book was a mishmash. One reviewer said it was like a long Sports Illustrated article, not a book. She was right. Books gain their power when they state and develop One Idea, with a variety of stories and exposition.
If you chase two rabbits, you will not catch either one.
–Russian proverb
In projects small and large–everything from an email to a book–we often struggle to develop and state a clear point. Too often, we spit out a mess of ideas rather than deliver a clear message. The result is confusion–for both the writer and the reader.
To think this problem through, I recommend a business book by Gary Keller called The One Thing. The answer for all business problems, Keller argues, is to be clear on a simple question: What’s “The One Thing” that matters most for your business? The same principle holds for writing. To write well–clearly, with energy and creativity–you need to know what is “The One Idea” that you want to convey to your readers.
Keller is the founder and CEO of Keller Williams, a real estate company that beats the worldwide competition on all the key measures, like the number of agents, the sales volume, and the number of units sold. He is, in other words, a salesman, and good salespeople understand communications. They know how to approach a prospect, how to connect, and how to close. Their knowledge, properly understood, can be applied to any challenge involving communications and relationships.
It’s worth quoting Keller:
People can actually do two or more things at once, such as walk, talk, or chew gum and read a map; but, like computers, what we can’t do is focus on two things at once. Our attention bounces back and forth. This is fine for computers, but it has serious repercussions in humans. Two airliners are cleared to land on the same runway. The patient is given the wrong medicine. A toddler is left unattended in the bathtub. What all these potential tragedies share is that people are trying to do too many things at once and forget to do something they should do.
When you try to do two things, one or both suffer from inadequate attention. But when you figure out The One Idea, magic happens.
When you have a definite purpose for your life, clarity comes faster, which leads to more conviction in your direction, which usually leads to faster decisions. When you make faster decisions, you’ll often be the one who makes the fastest decisions and winds up with the best choices. And when you have the best choices, you have the opportunity for the best experiences.
The single greatest challenge in life–in all endeavors–is to decide “The One Thing.” If you’re a business, what’s The One Thing you offer that your competition does not?
The ‘One Thing’ for Books
Keller’s book The One Thing is, naturally, proof of his thesis. His book focuses on a single idea–namely, that success requires a total, fanatical dedication to one single approach to your challenge.
After reading Keller’s book, I surveyed my shelves to see what other books focused on just one idea. Here are ten seminal books that state and develop just one idea:
• Albert Hirschman, Exit, Voice, and Loyalty: All people and organizations face a simple choice when they don’t like how things are going in their organization: leave, speak out, or stick around.
• Peter Thiel, From Zero to One: To succeed in business, find a product or service that no one now offers (zero) and become the single, dominant provider (one).
• Konstantin Stanislavski, The Actor Prepares: To portray a character, feel what you would feel if you were in that situation.
• Greg Albert, The Simple Secret to Better Painting: To produce engaging art, put key elements off-center.
• Clayton Christensen, The Innovator’s Dilemma: Companies can fail when they do everything right. As they refine their production process, they can lose control of their business by farming out parts of their production process.
• Virginia Postrel, The Future and Its Enemies: The real divide in politics and policy concerns people’s attitude to change. Dynamists love change and seek to play a part in making it happen. Stasists fear change and fight it at every step.
• Karl Marx, Capital: Everything in market economies turns on the battle over “surplus value”–its creation and distribution–and that battle is inherently expansionist and unstable.
• John Stuart Mill, On Liberty: All political arrangements should be subjected to a single question: What arrangements produce the greatest happiness for the greatest number? Over the long haul, the greatest happiness requires guaranteeing the widest possible freedom for individuals (something known as “rule utilitarianism”).
• James David Barber, The Presidential Character: All presidents (and all leaders?) can be assessed by two dimensions–their levels of energy and affect.
• Arthur Schesinger Jr., The Cycles of American Politics: American politics moves, back and forth, from periods of government expansion and reform to periods of government contraction and conservatism.
I could list 50 more books, but you get the idea. In each of these works, the author states and develops just one idea. The book’s idea, though, is so powerful that it requires us to look at it from a number of different angles, the way a jeweler examines a diamond.
Identify The One Idea for All Levels of Writing
Identifying The One Idea is essential not just for books, but for everything you write.
For every email, letter, memo, report, proposal, query, RFP, web copy, speech, presentation, make sure you can name The One Idea you want to discuss.
Sometimes, when I teach this idea, I get pushback. Strangely, the pushback comes most intensely on smaller pieces, like emails and memos. “Do you really want me to send two emails just because I talk about two issues,” business people ask.
“Yes,” I respond.
Let me explain.
Whenever you communicate, you need to make sure your audience knows exactly what you want to accomplish. Confusion at any point will create a long string of confusion. Confusion results when one idea gets mixed with other ideas.
Suppose you send an email about two issues in your company–like whether to spend X dollars on a new web consultant and what strategy to take on the Y campaign. You’re sure about X but uncertain about Y; meanwhile, a colleague is uncertain about X but sure about Y; another is sure about both; yet another is uncertain about both.
Inevitably, the conversation gets tangled and confused. When you zap ideas back and forth, people are talking about both … or are they? (Cue Hitchcock’s Psycho music here.) As both conversations continue, people aren’t always sure what they’re talking about. Some discuss X, others Y, and others both; meanwhile, others drop out. The conversation gets vague and muddied–or, worse, a few know-it-alls take over. Meanwhile, the string of missives fills the email queue. Unless you settle both issues, the emails keep coming.
If you send one email on one issue you can isolate the issue till it gets settled. The issues are always clear. You don’t lost in a thicket of confusing messages about many topics. You focus wholly on one topic that can be settled, one way or another.
The One Idea, of course, can contain several sub-issues. But those sub-issues should relate to The One Idea. You can’t veer off to other topics. Otherwise, you create uncertainty and confusion: “Hold it–I thought we were talking about X. How did Y get into the conversation?”
When people get confused, they often drop out. You hoped to “save time” by knocking off two ideas–two rabbits–at the same time. But now you don’t know the status of either.
When your pieces have The One Idea, everyone gets on the same page. You always know the topic of discussion. You always know the issues, the pros and cons, and the to-do list. You know when the issue gets settled–and when it still needs attention.
How to Do It: Gather, Sort, Apply
So how do you find The One Thing for your writing? And how do you respond when readers say they want a bunch of things? Take it in stages.
First, gather lots of material. Start by brainstorming what you already know. Get it all down on a single piece of paper, so you can see it all at once. Look at that sheet. Draw lines and arrows showing relationships.
Once you have a picture of your current mind, figure out what’s missing. The extent of your research depends on your topic and the scale of your project. Do research. Talk to people. Google the topic. Search databases online. Go to the library. Dig into archives. Do surveys or experiments. Analyze data.
Second, sort your ideas. Let the ideas play out. Don’t rush. When you rush, you have a tendency to force your preconceived ideas on yourself.
As you sort your material, write down possibilities for The One Idea. You should have lots of candidates for most of your project. You will think X is your One Idea. Then you’ll think it’s Y. Then you’ll think it’s Z. That’s OK. It’s important to consider a range of possibilities. You’ll only find your One Idea if you have considered–seriously–lots of ideas.
Third, discover and apply your One Idea. See if you can organize the different level of your piece to The One Idea. If something doesn’t fit, ask why. It might be that you’re wandering off topic. Or it might mean that you have not sharpened your One Idea well enough. Continue to play with your ideas.
Often you cannot discover The One Idea until you’ve been struggling a long time. That’s fine. This is a process; it’s not flipping a switch. Once you get The One Idea, you can use it to restructure and sharpen your points. All the work–all the research, all the debate, all the confusion–will be worth it because you’ll produce a piece with total clarity.
Push for the One Idea
So my advice to you: Push yourself to identify the One Idea. Whatever you’re writing–an email or a report, an article or a book, a speech or web copy, and RFP or a proposal–make sure you have One Idea.
The football great John Madden insisted that only one quarterback can lead a team. When two QBs share duties, you lose. “When you have two,” he said, “you have none.”
Sometimes it takes a long time. Usually, you change your mind as you proceed through research to rewriting to rewriting to editing. That’s OK. But when you get it right, it will give meaning and unity to everything in the piece.
(Oh, by the way. Did this essay state and develop just One Idea?)
One of the hardest jobs for writers is describing a complex process. In everyday life, we tend to gloss over the complexities of things. When we turn a car ignition, write a draft of a story, play a board game, cook a meal, or bargain in the marketplace, we pay attention only to the external appearances of things.
But you can’t write well unless you can explain complex processes. Here are a few ideas about this challenge.
The process process
Explaining a complex process is itself a complex process. Such an explanation requires close attention to a number of separate streams, as well as how the streams feed into each other. Each stream depicts a series of events. The streams do not operate independently. Often, the streams feed into each other. So we have to relate the streams to each other–and to the river–to describe the complex process. In the final analysis, this requires mastering the art of signaling.
Defining a complex process
First, let’s define what we mean by complex process. Here’s a tentative definition”
A complex process is a system of separate series of events or relationships, which somehow relate to each other and create a larger whole.
To see what I mean, think of the complex processes we see in cities—the ecology of a park, the economics of a sector, the operations of a business, or the maintenance of order on the street. Each one is complex, involving a number of different streams. The park, for example, involves animal and plant life, weather and other natural processes, the design and maintenance of the space, the usage and traffic at the park, the staging of events, and so on.
An economic sector, to take another example, involves products and markets, workers, technologies, taxes and regulations, and so on.
We would never claim to understand these complex processes unless we could describe their different streams.
Streams of processes
Now, let’s explore what we mean by these separate streams. The stream is simply a metaphor for a sequence of events. Often, the stream can be considered as a description of action. Sometimes, the stream can be considered a description of related ideas.
If you can describe an action, then, you should be able to describe a complex process. Just think of the complex process as a collection of related actions. To describe an action, we say, in effect: First, … Then, … Then, … Then, … Finally, … To describe a complex process, we describe three or four or more such actions.
Suppose you wanted to describe the complex process of a political campaign. We might break it down like this:
Mastering the issues and developing a platform: First, … Then, … Then, … Then, … Finally, …
Campaigning and public events: First, … Then, … Then, … Then, … Finally, …
As we describe those separate streams, we might note when one stream affects the others. We might indicate, for example, how polling affects the development of a platform. Or we might describe how elite support (like newspaper editors and interest-group leaders) shapes advertising.
Besides describing each “stream” of the process, we also need to capture the unifying themes. Not just with the campaign, but with all such descriptions of complex processes, we need to answer the question: What gives a campaign coherence–or prevents it from gaining coherence?
The elements of a process
To begin any process description, start by identifying all the pieces of the process. By naming and defining these elements, you make it easier to explain how they all relate to each other.
Consider an analysis of a car transmission. As the name suggests, the transmission is the part of the car that transmits power from the engine to the wheels. A slew of parts are necessary for that process, including the input shaft, countershaft, the output shaft, drive gears, idle gear, synchronized sleeves or collars, gear shifter, shift rod, shift fork, clutch, planetary gears, torque converter, oil pump, hydraulic system, valve body, computer controls, governor, throttle cable, vacuum modulator, seals, and gaskets.
Once you’ve defined those terms, show how they operate in a number of separate sequences. First, … Then, … Then, … Finally, …
Most complex processes have different kinds of processes. Your car may use a manual, automatic, or a continuously variable transmission. The processes vary for these different types.
The point is to break things down into their simplest component parts–making sure to define the parts and then to show how they interact.
Not analysis
Do not confuse a description of a complex process with an analysis. The two seem similar. Both show you “how the world works. ” They often show causality. But they differ about their levels of certainty and universality.
Process pieces tend to focus, modestly, on specific, one-and-only streams of events. They say, in effect, “This is what I see.” Analysis pieces tend to focus on general, many-times-over phenomena. They say, in effect, “This doesn’t just happen once or twice; it happens, predictably, over and over.”
Analyses usually take two critical steps. First, they gather enough data to provide a representative sample of the subject. Second, they attempt to identify the causal relationships that determine how the process works.
Reporting, not arguing
A description of a complex process is a kind of reporting job, involving careful observation. A description of a process description does not necessarily show what causes what. It simply lays out what can be observed, what happens and in what setting and in what sequence.
A description of gentrification, for example, shows a range of activities that happen—real estate values changing, newcomers “discovering” the area, risk-takers investing in properties, longterm residents moving out, new lending taking place, “oddball” activities rising, and so on. This description does not necessarily analyze how or why all these activities happen or to what effect.
An analysis, on the other hand, needs to explain the causes of these activities. An analysis needs to gather evidence to make generalizations about these activities.
Details, details, details
As in other kinds of writing, details make these descriptions come to life. But the details differ in process descriptions and analyses.
Process details are like a camera zooming in on action. That camera captures moments for us to notice possible patterns. Often, those details show one-and-only moments, without trying to universalize.
The details of analysis, on the other hand, always look to universalize. They say not “I saw this” but “Everyone will see this, over and over. ”
The anthropologist’s way
You might think of a process piece as a work of anthropology or ethnography. Clifford Geertz, in his classic work The Interpretation of Cultures, uses the term “thick description.”
Geertz calls for “deliberate doubt” and “the suspension of the pragmatic motive in favor of disinterested observation.” One of the writer’s primary jobs is to see things that other people don’t. To do that requires patience. Writers, like anthropologists, need to make a conscious effort to overcome their automatic inclinations.
If we tend to look in one place, we need to make ourselves look elsewhere. If we are naturally interested in one kind of person, place, or event, we need to make ourselves interested in another. This is, in a sense, a Zen practice; it’s all about living consciously.
‘Pre-analysis’
You might also think of a process piece as a pre-analysis piece. To describe a process, you observe patterns. You note the way things work. But you focus on description, not on making judgments.
Geertz argues that careful observation is the beginning of scientific explanation. Only when we observe closely, with as little prejudice as possible, can we “grasp the world scientifically.” In a process piece, you don’t seek to persuade other people to agree with your “take” on how the world works. You do, however, suggest some tantalizing possibilities. And your observations might pave the way for later analysis. But first things first.
A test
Here’s a quick test.
If you’re writing a process piece and you begin to explain why things work the way they do—with the certainty of a scientist—then you’re probably going too far. Stop and get back to detailed descriptions of what you observe.
Observation can be harder
In a way, a process piece can be harder to write than an analysis. Process pieces avoid jumping to conclusions, explaining what it all means. But that goes against our nature.
As neuroscientists have demonstrated, people have a tendency to want to explain everything they see. People are not usually content to simply watch and observe something unfold. They need the need to explain why or why not things happen.
Nietzsche had a term for this pushy desire to make sense of everythin,g even without the necessary information. He called it the “will to knowledge,” which he related to the “will to power.” Both are kinds of compulsions, unhealthy for people trying to live fully.
A life skill
Writing about process requires no small amount of constraint. We have to learn how to be “in the moment,” rather than always jumping to conclusions. That takes great resolve. To avoid getting pulled into the undertow of analysis—the compulsion to explain and persuade—we need to cultivate a sense of mystery and curiosity. But when we master writing about process, we combine the mind of a scientist with the soul of a poet.
Mad Men is not only one of the greatest TV shows of all time. It’s also a guide to the techniques of persuasion. Here are a half-dozen of those techniques, arranged by the arc of life.
The Innocence of Babies: ‘You’ve Got the Cutest Little Baby Face’
In her new job at Cutler, Gleason, and Chaough, Peggy devises an ad campaign for Koss headphones. The ad shows a man in a toga, listening to music on headphones. The slogan: “Lend Me Your Ears.”
Then a comic’s appearance on “The Tonight Show” creates a crisis. The comic jokes about an Army G.I. in Vietnam who cut off the ears of Vietcong and created a necklace with the ears. The G.I. was court-martialed. The incident, symbolizing the brutality of the war, has gone viral.
And so late one December night, Peggy gets a call. The people at Koss are upset about the potential association of the headphones with the atrocity in Vietnam. The slogan “Lend Me Your Ears” has to go. Koss will air a commercial on the Super Bowl and needs a new campaign—right away.
At first, Peggy resists. “As horrible as this is,” she says, “I don’t think anyone has made this connection outside of this comedian.” But the client insists on a new campaign. So Peggy gets to work.
She brainstorms the way Don Draper taught her. She writes a letter to a friend, describing the product, , how it works, how it makes her feel, why she loves it so much. As she brainstorms, she gives the headphones to her boyfriend Abe and asks him to think of words that describe the experience.
As Abe gets carried away by the music, bobbing and swaying, she smiles. That image plants a seed.
Peggy and three of her underlings continue to work on the campaign on New Year’s Even Her boss Ted Chaough shows up to offer moral support. Peggy shows Ted an outtake of a shoot of a guy “clowning around” while listening to music on Koss headphones.
Peggy describes her latest idea: “I think you can show him with no sound, making these faces and no music and saying something like: ‘Koss headhones: ‘Sounds so sharp and clear you can actually see it.’”
Ted is immediately impressed. He likes it better than the “Lend Me Your Ears” campaign. “Makes me smile more than the original,” he says.
Tip: Evoke the Universal Appeal of a Baby
What will viewers of Peggy’s ad experience when they view the images of a pudgy, smiling man, softly rocking and swaying to the sounds from Koss earphones?
Subconsciously, they will see a cute baby. And that image will arouse feelings of attraction, a desire to approach and engage. Baby-like traits include a round face, high forehead, big eyes, and a small nose and mouth. Psychologists call this cuteness factor a “baby schema.”
Cute infants are rated as more likeable, friendly, healthy and competent than the less cute infants, an effect that may be mediated by the baby schema. Furthermore, cute infants are rated as most adoptable. The baby schema response can have behavioral consequences. For example, cute infants are looked at longer, and mothers of more attractive infants are more affectionate and playful. Other factors such as an infant’s behavior or the caretaker’s familiarity with the infant may also be important for adult’s evaluation of children. Nevertheless, our results show that baby schema in infant faces is an intrinsic trigger of cute- ness perception and motivation for caretaking. This effect generalizes to adult faces with enlarged eyes and lips who elicit more helping behavior than their mature counterparts.
As Linda Meisler and her associates found, the cuteness effect translates to the design of products. When a product has many of the same expressive traits as babies—like a Volkswagen Beetle or a Mini Cooper—people are attracted in the same ways they are attracted to babies.
Cuteness doesn’t just arouse people. It also prompts a need to dosomething. Consider an experiment by Yale graduate students Rebecca Dyer and Oriana Aragon. The psychology students presented 109 subjects with pictures of cute, funny, or normal animals. They asked the subjects how they wanted to respond after seeing the pictures. How much did they agree with statements like “I can’t handle it” and “Grr” and “I want to squeeze something”?
The cuter the image, the more respondents agreed with those statements about needing to act on their feelings.
Then, to test the response further, Dyer and Aragon conducted another experiment with 90 respondents. The purpose of the study, they told the subjects, was to test motor activity and memory. Dyer and Aragon gave subjects sheets of bubble wrap and told them to pop as many bubbles as they desired. Subjects viewing the cute images popped 120 bubbles; those viewing the neutral slides popped 1`00 in the same period of time, and those viewing the funny slides popped 80 bubbles.
In the right context, cuteness sells. If the Koss ad prompts automatic smiles, if it causes the viewer to want to approach the subject of the ad, it will cause people to at least consider getting headphones.
Peggy understands the power of this attachment to babylike cuteness. Remember the first season when Peggy gave birth and immediately gave up her baby for adoption? The nurse brought her the baby and asked her if she wanted to hold it. She refused. She knew that if she held the baby, she might want to keep it.
She knew the power of a baby to arouse uncontrollable feelings. And now she was using that power to sell earphones.
Help for the Overwhelmed Mother: Keep It Simple
The conclusion of Roman Polanski’s horror movie “Rosemary’s Baby” gives Peggy and Ted an idea for the St. Joseph’s Aspirin account.
In that scene, Rosemary has given birth to the devil’s baby. A crowd gathers in a living room to look at this unusual creature. An Asian man snaps pictures. Rosemary decides to raise the child, as best as she can, even though it is full of evil.
Peggy wants to depict Rosemary’s sense of being overwhelmed to sell St. Joseph’s children’s aspirin. The TV commercial will take the point of view of the baby, who is surrounded by forces trying to force themselves on him.
Peggy asks Don to sit down and pretend to be the baby in the commercial. Imagine, she says, feeling completely overwhelmed as a series of people press a solution on the infant with a headache or some other minor malady.
“What you need is a mustard plaster,” a crazy old lady, played by Peggy, says.
“You need a compress,” says a wrinkled old man, played by Ted.
“How ‘bout a bowl of chicken soup?” says an annoying nebbish neighbor.
One by one, the faces in the crowd press in on the baby. A Japanese man takes a picture, causing the scene to go white with the popping of the flashbulb.
Finally, the baby sees his radiant young mother. She holds out a St. Joseph’s aspirin. Ted intones the message of the ad: “You don’t need anyone’s help but St. Joseph’s.”
Tip: Find the One Thing to Overcome Overwhelm
Childbirth is a joyous occasion for new parents and their families. After months of anticipation, an innocent being enters the world. In a room filled with flowers and balloons and cards, the newborn coos and cries to the delight of loving family and friends. The miracle of birth touches even the most cynical among us.
Underneath those joys are (often) fear and pain and a sense of overwhelm. Most modern mothers usually do not have to worry about losing their baby or dying in childbirth. But childbirth can be a major operation, which requires both physical and psychological recovery. The famed doctor T. Berry Brazelton notes:
The immediate neonatal period is fraught with constant adjustment. Often she feels she has not fulfilled her ideal regarding delivery. … Any minor difficulty with the baby—psychological, psychophysiological—even the normal drowsiness of the newborn is blamed upon herself. These guilty feelings may obstruct her early adjustment. … Emotional depression joins forces with physiological depletion to produce the commonly recognized “blue period.”
Most young mothers—and fathers too—experience a feeling of being overwhelmed by the experience. Other people’s efforts to help them sometimes make young parents feel even more overwhelmed. In this time of transition, young parents welcome simple answers to their problems.
Peggy’s St. Joseph’s Aspirin pitch exploits young parents’ need for simplicity in a suddenly complicated life.
The ad depicts the infant as the overwhelmed character. Surrounded by busybody family and friends, the baby cries for help. That help comes when the baby’s mother—beautiful and radiant, who has nurtured the baby for months and now offers absolute love and sustenance—comes to the rescue. She holds out an aspirin made especially for children.
But make no mistake: It’s the mother who really needs the help that St. Joseph’s Aspirin offers. The mother needs to comfort this extension of herself—and to overcome the insecurity that comes with the awesome responsibility of motherhood.
Peggy has entered the most euphoric and scary moment in the mother’s life. She has stilled the noise with a simple offer of relief.
Tapping the Memories (and Projections) of Family
Kodak has invented a new device for projecting slidesonto a screen. It’s a wheel that holds the slides in slots, and turns around to capture one image at a time.
It’s a funny device—old-fashioned and cutting-edge at the same time.
Few inventions are older than the wheel. The wheel turns in countless machines—cars, engines, factories, shelving, doors.How much can you say about a wheel?
But at the same time, this wheel offers a great innovation. Until now, slide shows required placing one slide into the machine at a time. Making presentations was a clumsy process. It’s hard to produce a flow, to explain a sequence of ideas or tell a story, with those constant interruptions.
Now this new technology makes it easy to project a seamless, continuous show.
After much soul-searching—looking though old family photographs, reflecting on the passages of life—Don discovers the answer.
In his presentation to the Kodak executives, Don starts by discussing the lure of technology.
“Technology is a glittering lure. But there’s the rare occasion when the public can be engaged on a level beyond flash, if they have a sentimental bond with the product.”
Don tells about his first job, writing copy in-house for a fur company, he talks about his Greek boss, a man named Teddy, who extolled the virtues of “new” because it “creates an itch.”
So Don sets up the explanation of his idea not with an abstract discussion, but with a story, with a character the audience can picture right away. Who cares if Teddy actually existed—or if the ideas Don attributes to Teddy were his. Don is creating anticipation with his sentimental yarn about his mentor.
Teddy, Don says, also understood that newness can be trumped by a deeper value—nostalgia. “It’s delicate,” Don says, “but potent.”
Now Don signals to turn on the projector. As he turns toward the screen, he talks about the deep meaning of nostalgia.
“Nostalgia, in Greek, means the pain from an old wound. It’s a twinge in your heart far more powerful than memory alone.”
Now Don gives a slide show of his own family—Don and Betty and Sally and Bobby—at a cookout, on Christmas morning, playing on the sofa, kissing.
“This device isn’t a space ship. It’s a time machine. It goes backwards … forwards … it takes us to a place where we ache to go again.”
The images click, one after another, to illustrate the power of memory and longing, dreaming and loving.
Don connects this device to the merry-go-round in an amusement park or a county fair, which creates a never-ending swirl of smiles and memories. This merry-go-round symbolizes family, youth, innocence, and memory.
“It’s not called the wheel,” Don tells his stunned Kodak clients. “It’s called the carousel. It lets us travel the way a child travels, round and around, back home again, to a place we know we are loved.”
Tip: To Understand Desire, Tap Into the Past
Nostalgia, the old quip goes, ain’t what it used to be.
In fact, it ain’t. In the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, doctors treated nostalgia as an illness. In the nineteenth century and into the twentieth, nostalgia was considered a mental disorder. But now research suggests that it might actually offer benefits.
Nostalgia, researchers say, happens in all cultures across history. It inspires art, music, architecture, understanding of history, teaching pedagogies, and much more. So it must offer some kind of help in understanding and navigating the world.
Nostalgia operates on three dimensions.
First, stories and artifacts of nostalgia often conjure up a specific person important to the community. In families, we think of a grandparent or a parent. In politics, we think of legendary personages like John Kennedy or Ronald Reagan. In sports, we think of transformative figures like Babe Ruth or Vince Lombardi.
Second, nostalgia focuses on a specific place. Family homes, old buildings or stadiums, lakes and beaches, workplaces and bars—all burn images into our memories. When we talk nostalgically, we remember what the place looked like, sounded like, even smelled and felt like. It’s a total sensory experience.
Finally, nostalgia often revolves around a specific event. The most memorable events involve surprise. Birthdays, promotions, weddings, first dates become the stuff of nostalgia. So do formal ceremonies, which draw people from distant places. But routine events and rituals—Thanksgiving dinners, summers at the lake, bar mitzvahs—also tap our nostalgia.
Don Draper’s carousel pitch merges these three elements perfectly. His slides show people, places, and events that touch all families emotionally. The very process of sharing family pictures is itself a nostalgic act; people do it when they come together for special moments..
To connect the past with the future, understand the power of nostalgia.
What Matters: Glamor or Functionality?
Playtex has given the Mad Men a challenge: Make its practical, utilitarian bra sexy.
The men at Sterling Cooper theorize, like graduate students, the deeper meanings of the bra—identity, appearance and reality, psychology, and the power of the subconscious.
Paul Kinsey reports that Playtex “has an amazing bra, but it doesn’t take you anywhere.”
After a murmur of approval from Don, Paul continues his thesis on the psychology of women.
Women, he says, have fantasies—but they’re not fantasies of adventure, of travel or conquest. Instead, women fantasize about matters much closer to home. And they live those fantasies every day.
“It’s right here in America—Jackie Kennedy and Marilyn Monroe,” he says. “Every single woman is one of them.”
He walks the other Mad Men to the door for a peek into the vast open office space of the firm. Their eyes dart from one secretary to another. Here is a woman with brunette hair and a businesslike dress, like Jackie. There is a woman with blonde hair and a more suggestive dress. Jackie. Marilyn. Jackie. Jackie. Marilyn.
Don is impressed. Peggy is too, but she doesn’t see herself in either role.
“I don’t know if all women are a Jackie or a Marilyn,” she says. “Maybe men see them that way.”
Pete falls back on a standard chauvinist line—that women care only about pleasing men, so all products should be designed for men.
Sal distills the discussion.
“You’re a Jackie or a Marilyn,” he says. “A line or a curve. Nothing goes better together.”
Don later summarizes the thinking to Duck Phillips: “Jackie by day, Marilyn by night.”
Tip: Appeal to People’s Views of their Whole Selves
How we look at people depends on whether we see them as whole beings or as a collection of their body parts. We see figures like Jacqueline Kennedy as a whole—a refined, educated, charismatic wife, mother, and social icon. We see figures like Marilyn Monroe as a collection of body parts—lips, cheeks, hair, breasts, legs, and bottom.
Sexism—viewing women as less than complete, whole beings—results in part from this bias.
In an ingenious 2012 study published in the European Journal of Social Psychology, research subjects viewed photographs of both men and women from the waist up. Then they viewed two more pictures—the original picture and another with one of the body parts altered in some way.
After looking at the pictures, respondents were asked which picture they had seen before. Men and women both identified the altered pictures of women by focusing on the body parts. They identified the altered pictures of men by looking at the whole pictures.
People look at objects in two ways—globally or locally. When we look globally, we see the whole image or idea; we might call this the right-brain or forest approach. When we look locally, we focus on the discrete parts of the picture or idea; we might call this the left-brain or trees approach.
The tendency to look at women locally—that is, to pay attention to their lips or breasts or hips or legs, rather than their whole body—objectifies women. It makes women important not for their whole selves, but for their pieces.
But all is not lost. In another experiment, the researchers showed subjects pictures of letters made up of collections of tiny letters—an H made up of lots of tiny T’s, for example.
When participants focused on the little pictures—all the T’s—they then viewed women as collections of body parts. But when they focused on the big picture—the single H—they viewed women as whole persons.
“Our findings suggest people fundamentally process women and men differently,” says the study, written by Sarah Gervais of the University of Nebraska and four colleagues. “But we are also showing that a very simple manipulation counteracts this effect, and perceivers can be prompted to see women globally, just as they do men. Based on these findings, there are several new avenues to explore.”
The upshot: With prompting, all of us can view women as Jacqueline Kennedys rather than as Marilyn Monroes.
Focus on What People Want, Not What They Fear: ‘It’s Toasted’
Don has been struggling for weeks to come up with a new idea for Lucky Strike.
Finally, Don has to deliver. But in his meeting with his Lucky Strike clients, Don’s doom deepens as they complain about U.S. regulators.
“Might as well be living in Russia,” says Lee Garner, Jr., the son of the company’s chairman.
“Damn straight,” his father says, as the smoky table breaks out in coughs.
Roger Sterling, the Mad Men’s silver-tongued front man, expresses concern for their plight. “Through manipulation of the media,” he says, people have a “misguided impression” that cigarettes cause death.
But that only angers the clients.
“Manipulation of the media? Hell, that’s what I pay you for!”
Not ready to make his presentation, Don stares at his notes.
Pete Campbell, the accounts manager who fears any unscripted moment, jumps in. He repeats a marketing consultant’s idea about making the “death wish” the driving idea of a campaign. “So what if cigarettes are dangerous,” he says. “You’re a man!”
That only enrages Lee Garner, the head of the company.
“Is that your slogan: ‘You’re going to die anyway, die with us?’ … Are you insane?”
The Lucky Strike clients begin to leave. Then, after a long silence, Don speaks.
The government’s ban on health claims, he says, might be a blessing, he says. It means that none of Lucky Strike’s competitors can make those bogus claims either.
The feds have cleared away all the confusing claims of cigarette manufacturers. Health claims, in fact, invite debate—they remind people of all the reports about cancer, emphysema, heart disease. Now, with the health claims gone, so are the reminders of tobacco’s deadly properties.
“This is the greatest advertising opportunity since the invention of cereal,” Don says.
A clever company—and its clever ad firm—can now grab market share with a clever campaign.
Don leaps up to the easel. He starts asking questions. How do you make Lucky Strikes?
Garner is unimpressed, but his anger has disappeared.
“We breed insect-repellant tobacco seeds,” he says, “plant them in the North Carolina sunshine, grow it, cut it, toast it—“
Don has what he needs.
He writes the following on the board:
LUCKY STRIKE. IT’S TOASTED.
Silence takes over the room. First incomprehension. Then recognition. Then excitement.
“It’s toasted.” That’s a fact. It contains no health claim. And yet it sounds so healthy, so natural.
The perfect end run around the whole controversy.
Tip: When the Truth Is Ugly, Reframe
People who face uncomfortable truths have two choices: They can face the issue directly or devise strategies of avoidance.
To face any issue directly, we need to be “mindful.” That is, we need to consider, openly, to all of the issues, concerns, fears, and conflicts of the matter at hand.
At the core of honesty/mindfulness is acceptance of even the scariest, most uncomfortable truths of life. Jon Kabat-Zinn, one of the great teachers of mindfulness, says: “Mindfulness practice is really a love affair with what we might call truth …how things actually are, all embedded here in this very moment.”
So that’s one approach. The other approach is avoidance.
Avoidance is the opposite of a love affair with truth. It’s a fear or even hatred of truth. It’s a desire to deny and squelch all information that might challenge a difficult habit or idea. Here’s how a psychologist named Trish Bartley describes avoidance:
Avoidance is an almost universal response to painful experience. It is part of the behavioral repertoire available in the face of danger, where the body is physiologically primed to get into fight, flight, or freeze mode. Avoidance may be conscious or more automatic, and can operate at the level of cognition (deliberately not thinking about aspects of the diagnosis), behavior (avoiding situations that remind you of cancer), or affect (distracting oneself from negative emotions. At its extreme end, avoidance can become denial.…
Avoidance happens either directly or indirectly. Direct avoidance entails denying or swatting away the truth. Indirect avoidance entails simply pretending the truth doesn’t exist.
Most persuasion entails aspects of both truth and avoidance of truth. The most moral persuasion offers the audience information and insights that allow people to make the best decisions.
But self-interested persuasion—the approach that Don Draper is devising for his clients at Lucky Strike—is largely an exercise in avoidance.
That tobacco industry’s avoidance once took the form of outright lies, claiming that tobacco actually enhanced health. At other times it focused on the taste and physical pleasures, and at other times the social benefits. When health dangers arose, tobacco companies introduced innovations—like the filter tip and low-tar and low-nicotine brands—that promised (falsely) to provide a safer smoking experience.
Now, with the “toasted” campaign, Don simply changes the subject. “Toasted” sounds wholesome and natural. It doesn’t deny the health risks of smoking. But it gives the smoker an opportunity to avoid thinking about them.
The Need to Choose Authenticity: ‘It’s Not Ann-Margret’
A star was born in 1963. And what was obvious about her appeal—her busty, wholesome good looks—sometimes obscured the charisma that she brought to the silver screen.
The star, Ann-Margret, played a high school girl named Kim McAfee in the movie Bye, Bye Birdie. Kim won a competition to participate in the final performance of a rock star named Birdie, who has been drafted by the Army and is leaving to serve.
The high point of the film is its opening, when Ann-Margret sings a song written especially for the movie. Her energy—sexual but safe—bursts onto the screen.
Now Pepsico wants to use that excitement to sell Patio, its new diet soda. And so the executives at the soda company ask the Mad Men to adapt Ann-Margret’s effervescent scene to a commercial for Patio.
After showing the opening scene to Don, Peggy asks whether Ann-Margret’s voice is “shrill.”
“She’s throwing herself at the camera,” Don says. “It’s pure. It makes your heart hurt.”
The Mad Men find an Ann-Margret type, film her homage to the “Bye, Bye Birdie” number, and show the clients their work.
“Bye, bye, sugar!” the alluring young woman in the commercial croons. “Hello, Patio!”
But when the lights go up, there’s an uneasiness in the room.
“I don’t know, this isn’t what I thought it would be,” the client says. “There’s something not right about it. I can’t put my finger on it.”
“It’s an exact copy, frame for frame,” accounts manager Ken Cosgrove protests.
“I’m sorry, I wish I could explain it but it’s just not right,” the client responds.
After the clients leave the room, Harry Crane agrees with the clients: “It’s true. It’s not right. It doesn’t make any sense. It looks right, sounds right, smells right. Something’s not right. What is it?”
Roger understands the ineffable quality of charisma. He looks at his young ad man. “It’s not Ann- Margret,” he says, arching an eyebrow and walking away.
Tip: Know What’s Authentic
How do we know what’s authentic? It’s something that we feel, deep down, based on a lifetime of experiences with real and fake things. And experts can tell in the blink of an eye.
Consider the kouros that an art dealer named Gianfranco Becchini tried to sell to the Getty Museum—until, in a blink, experts on art warned was a fake.
A kouros is a Greek statue that dates back six centuries before Christ. Archaologists have found only 200 of these relics, so another would be a great find.
When Becchini offered to sell the statue for $10 million, the Getty inspected the relic. Becchini offered documents to verify its authenticity. The Getty hired a geologist to inspect the statue. Using the latest equipment, the expert concluded that the statue was genuine. It was made of dolomite marble and it was coated with a layer of calcite—just what you would expect with an old object like this. The people at the Getty were giddy.
But when the statue went on display, art experts immediately suspected something was wrong. Federico Zeri sensed something about the statue’s fingernails that didn’t seem right. Evelyn Harrison intuited that something was amiss in the first split-second she saw it. Thomas Hoving instantly thought it looked “fresh” for a 2,600-year-old relic. Geogios Dontas said he “felt as though there was a glass between me and the work.”
Something in these experts subconscious told them the kouros was a fraud. Their collective centuries of experience working with ancient art burned images into the brains of what an authentic one looked like. They didn’t have to think to know; in fact, thinking might have undermined their assessment. And this statue didn’t pass muster.
Malcolm Gladwell recounts the case of the fake kouros in Blink, which argues that people make smart decisions without thinking. In a wide range of situations—gambling, chicken farming, marital relations, hiring decisions—people can make good decisions in a snap.
That’s why the Patio representative didn’t like the Ann-Margret lookalike. Superficially, she looked and sounded like Ann-Margret. But there’s only one Ann-Margret.
Creating Ersatz Family in a Distracted Age
To overcome it, embrace it. —Nietzsche
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold; Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world, The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere The ceremony of innocence is drowned; The best lack all conviction, while the worst Are full of passionate intensity. —William Butler Yeats
What happens when groups fall apart? When the anchor gets pulled away? And how can the center be restored in a time of tumult?
Those are the key issues at play as Don Draper struggles to become relevant once more in Mad Men’s mythical advertising agency Sterling Cooper and Partners, just as Peggy Olson struggles to find a pitch for a fast food restaurant.
Sterling Cooper loses its mojo when Draper, its creative mastermind, Don Draper, is banished from the company and then brought back only to be humiliated and marginalized.
Lots of creative people still work at the agency. Peggy has a first-class mind; as Pete says in his ever-insulting way, “You know, she’s every bit as good as any woman in this business.” Stan’s got his own creative chops. Ginsberg is a genius—that is, until his paranoid schizophrenia kicks in and he begins to imagine conspiracies in the VW-size IBM computer humming in the glass room.
But every team needs a leader, someone who not only has the brains to solve problems, but also creates a guiding vision and makes everyone better. That’s Don. But because of his boozing, self-destructive ways, he has been dislodged from his leading role in the firm. Now, even though he’s still a partner, he is a minion whom other partners humiliate at every turn. Even his protege Peggy looks down on him.
Now Peggy is leading the creative process for the Burger Chef campaign. Burger Chef is one of the many McDonald’s wannabes. To grow, it needs an identity. It needs to speak to people’s inner longings the way McDonald’s does. It needs to come to mind when distracted and harried Americans need to eat but don’t want to cook or even take TV dinners out of the fridge.
Peggy comes up with an idea aimed at the era’s frazzled mother: Make Burger Chef an expression of love. “All the research points to the fact that mothers feel guilty,” Peggy explains in her pitch to Lou Avery, SC’s new creative director. “And even when they get home they’re embarrassed. Our job is to turn Burger Chef into a special treat, served with love.”
Somehow, Peggy says, “we need to give mothers permission” to take the easy way out and order a bag of fast-food burgers and fries. To Lou, the answer is simple: “Well, who gives moms permission? Dads.”
Peggy’s TV commercial shows a mom in a car with her two kids. The mom is talking to herself about all the things that need to be done: Let’s see. Check that list for the marching band fundraiser. Get the sink trap checked. Get Jim to take down the storm windows…. Then, as she realizes that her husband’s about to get home, the kids start complaining that they’re hungry. “One more stop,” mom announces. Then, as if in a dream, a handsome man comes bearing a bag full of Burger Chef food—and then kisses her deeply. It’s Jim, the husband! Triumph!
The idea is forced, but Lou is too witless to know and Don knows that he can’t speak up. Later Don suggests changing the POV from the mother to the kids. Still resentful and scornful of Don, Peggy rejects Don’s idea as “terrible.” But she’s got this nagging feeling that her own pitch is terrible too.
How can Peggy get the Burger Chef pitch right?
Working on a weekend, Peggy is surprised to see Don come into the office. She dismisses him for presuming to save the day. “Did you park your white horse outside?” she huffs. “Spare me the suspense and tell me what your save-the-day plan is.”
Don has no plan, but he knows how to start over. And so Don and Peggy start brainstorming a new concept.
Now, over the course of the episode, all of the characters in this drama look more alone than ever. Megan leaves for L.A. after a brief visit. Pete’s estranged wife avoids him, his child barely recognizes him, and his new amour leaves for L.A. Joan rejects Bob’s foolish proposal. No one’s happy. No one belongs to the kind of family these ad gurus celebrate in commercials. And Peggy, who sleeps alone every night and gets testier by the day, is full of regrets.
“Does this family exist anymore? Are there people who eat dinner and smile at each other instead of watching TV?” She’s pensive. “What the hell do I know about being a mom?” Peggy’s just turned 30 and now frets about never making her own family.
Don admits his own worries: “That I never did anything … and that I don’t have anyone.”
“What did I do wrong?” Peggy asks.
“You’re doing great,” Don says.
Finally, after letting down her guard and getting in touch with her real feelings, Peggy has the ability to follow Don’s advice earlier in the scene. “You can’t tell people what they want,” Don told her. “It has to be what you want.”
So Peggy asks: “What if there was a place where there was no TV and you could break bread and whoever you were sitting with was family?”
She’s finally got her campaign.
At the heart of the best Mad Men stories beats an existential truth. The truth of this story was expressed best by Orson Welles: “We’re born alone, we live alone, we die alone,” Welles said. “Only through our love and friendship can we create the illusion for the moment that we’re not alone.”
That’s the foundation for Peggy’s new Burger Chef campaign. The fast-food joint isn’t just for takeout. It’s a third place, between work and home. It’s a gathering place for family, friends, classmates, colleagues, everyone. The traditional family might be disintegrating in the heat of the 1960s, but the core need for companionship—to overcome the aloneness of life—remains.
Peggy and Don introduce the idea to Pete at a Burger Chef restaurant. “Look around,” Peggy says as she parcels out cokes and burgers. “I want to shoot the ad in here.”
“It’s not a home,” Pete grumps.
“It’s better,” she says. “It’s a clean, well-lighted place. … It’s about family. Every table there is the family table.”
And so the three of them—whose only true family is each other—eat their meal. In a scene reminiscent of Hopper’s “Nighthawks,” the three are alone, together.
Finding Your Zen Set Point: ‘I’d Like to Sell the World a Coke’
Don Draper’s journey has been a long one, from the bloodshed of Korea to the hustling of New York to the utopian promise of California.
By 1970, Don’s lies and betrayals have caught up with him. He has failed in two marriages. He remains close to his daughter Sally but barely knows his sons. People he cares about have died, at least one because of him. He heard about another, the department store heiress Rachel Mencken, only because a model in a casting call rekindled his lust. His value, as an ad man, is his ability to extract the hope and joy from life’s tragedies and ugliness long enough to turn them into a pitch. Now it looks like he’s lost that ace card.
So Don takes a road trip. He first tries to track down a waitress who he had a short affair with. His lies don’t fool her ex-husband. His standard practice—to use his charm to win people over, until he gets bored or scared and drifts away—doesn’t work. So he goes further west. He arrives at the home of the real Don Draper, the one from whom Dick Whitman stole an identity and a ticket home from the war. There he meets Stephanie, the real Don’s daughter, who has endured tragedies of her own. Stephanie takes him north, to an esalen retreat in northern California. This is not a comfortable place for Don. Here, people speak unspeakable truths. When a woman attacks Stephanie in an encounter group, she flees. The next morning, she is gone. She takes Don’s car, so he is stuck at the retreat for two or three more days.
The guilt that Don has been carrying—for all his life as Don—leads him to despair. He calls Peggy. She’s angry. Where the hell have you been? Get back here! Don’t you want to work on the Coke account? But another account is far from where Don want to be right now. He cracks.
“I messed everything up. I’m not the man you think I am,” he says. Peggy’s confused. She knows about his philandering and alcoholism, but not about growing up in a whorehouse, going AWOL in a war, or stealing another man’s identity.
“I broke all my vows. I scandalized my child. I took another man’s name. And made … nothing of it.”
After saying goodbye to Peggy—is he going to commit suicide?—a sympathetic woman brings Don to another encounter group. Here he listens to an anti-Don—a loyal, reliable, unremarkable, unnoticed, and unappreciated normal—who breaks down because he is invisible to everyone in his life. Don walks across the room and embraces him. The two cry. For the first time, maybe ever, Don can hear and care about another person on that person’s own terms.
In the next scene we see Don, sitting lotus style, on the edge of a hill. Dozens of others sit nearby. A bell chimes. The gathered, all together chant their mantra: Ommmm. For a flash, a Mona Lisa smile crosses Don’s face.
Fade to one of the iconic television advertisements of all time—Coca-Cola’s “I’d Like to Teach the World to Sing (In Perfect Harmony).”
What just happened? Matthew Weiner, the creator and head writer for Mad Men, obviously wants to maintain some room for debate. Maybe Don, having found peace—if only for a brief ommm—has decided to pursue a new life of enlightenment. But then, as he contemplates the oneness of the world at a time of war and riot and “ credibility gaps,” imagines people of all ages, races, creeds joining together. What brings them to gather is sharing a Coke, the modern equivalent of breaking bread.
I’d like to teach the world to sing
In perfect harmony.
I’d like to hold it in my arms
And keep it company.
Or maybe not. Maybe Don embraces the communal life, while Peggy and the other creatives at McCann Erickson dream up the Coke ad. Maybe Don sheds his fake identity, befriends the invisible man, joins in a new communal life . . . We’ll never know. After all, it’s an ambiguous ending, right?
(Well, maybe not. Creator/director/writer Matt Weiner explains his final episode in this interview.)
If Don does in fact go from an experience of oneness to masterminding an ad campaign that exploits the longing for oneness, what are we to think of him? That he’s just a cynical con man? That, on the edge of enlightenment, he can’t stand the truth and needs to return to his life of lies? Maybe. But Edward Boches, an ad man and professor at Boston University, has a different idea:
“Somehow Matthew Weiner actually understands the motives that drive creative people,” he says. “They need to create. They can’t stop. They can doubt themselves. They can try to escape. They can question the value and purpose of what they do, but the never-ending urge to make something creative that solves a problem never goes away. And when a good idea comes? You have to see it through.”
Bird fly, fish swim, creators create. Don Draper finds himself—truly finds himself—when he creates something fresh and new. Fulfillment comes not from sitting on a hill, vibrating, but by doing something that changes the way people experience life.
To give real value to the reader, you need to offer something they cannot predict
You have to be prepared to fail. That’s how you’re going to expand yourself and grow. As you work through that process of failure and learning, you will really deepen into the human being you were capable of being.
I had a grad school professor who pushed me to do research on why Baltimore was the last major American city to build a modern sewer system. Why did everyone else—New York, Boston, Chicago, Charleston—build systems decades before Baltimore? Why did Baltimore take so long? It was, he said, a “deviant case analysis.” You can often learn more from the outliers than from the norms.
Neil Strauss, a former writer and editor for The New York Times and Rolling Stone and the author of The Game and The Truth, is always looking for deviant cases.
He once asked a billionaire about “the way your mind works.” What separates a billionaire from everyone else? “The biggest mistake you can make is to accept the norms of your time,” he responded. “Not accepting norms is where you innovate, whether it’s with technology, with books, with anything. So, not accepting the norm is the secret to really big success in changing the world.”
The biggest mental trap, says Stephen Dubner, the coauthor of Freakanomics, is to allow your moral values to guide your inquiry. Moral values, after all, are conclusions about the world—and you need to go in with an open mind.
“If you try to approach every problem with your moral compass, you’re going to make a lot of mistakes. You’re going to exclude a lot of possible good solutions. You’re going to assume you know a lot of things, when in fact you don’t, and you’re not going to be a good partner in reaching a solution. With other people who don’t happen to see the world the way you do.”
Chris Sacca, an investor in companies like Twitter, Instagram, Uber, and Kickstarter, says to embrace your inner weirdo. That does not necessarily mean acting out, like the class clown. It means taking away the filters of your “polite company” self.
“Weirdness is why we adore our friends,” he says. “Weirdness is what bonds to our colleagues. Weirdness is what sets us apart, it gets as hired. Be your unapologetically weird self. In fact, being weird may even find you the ultimate happiness.
9. Storytelling
At the center of all great thinking is narrative. A great story gives every enterprise a spine, a vehicle for understanding and focus, energy and creativity.
What Scott Adams says about humor probably applies to other forms of expression. Adams is the creator of the cartoon “Dilbert” and a self-taught “master” of the science of communications. All great humor, Adams says, comes from combining at least two of the following six elements: naughty, clever, cute, bizarre, mean, and recognizable.
Stories have a downside. When we tell ourselves distorted stories, filled with grievances and suspicion and resentment and prejudice, we toxify our relationships. We make excuses for ourselves. We get stuck when we cling to old slights and failings. We believe the BS that others pound into us. If we get stuck in the past–especially in negative histories–we cannot take charge of our work.
In our lives as well as in our writing, we have the power to get the story right. Tony Robbins, takes a three-step approach to getting things right. Start with “state,” his term for your emotional frame of mind. You can change your state in seconds if you want to. Simply changing body language can help you shift from sad-sack gloominess to energy and confidence.
Once you’ve got your state right, get your story right. Figure out what tale you’re going to tell by the way you live your life that day. Finally, develop a strategy—identifying options, resources, and paths to follow.
Despite his success, Ferriss acknowledges the way his own stories have blocked his progress. “The stories we tell ourselves can be self-defeating,” he says. “One of the refrains that I’ve adopted for myself, which I wrote in my journal after some deep ‘plant medicine’ work, is: ‘Don’t retreat into story.’”
10. Integrity
And now a few closing words on integrity.
Above all, as the pompous Polonius counsels Hamlet, to thine own self be true.
Or, as Riann Wilson quotes Oscar Wilde: “Be yourself. Everyone else is taken.”
We live in a mad, distracting, self-referential age. It’s easy to get pulled away from your core values. So you have to be vigilant against getting too big for your britches—or the opposite, thinking too little of yourself to take charge of your life.
We are not good judges of ourselves. The vast majority of us, in fact, think of ourselves as above average, in intelligence, looks, humor, and compassion. Naval Ravikant quotes Richard Feynman: “You must never, ever fool yourself—and you are the easiest person to fool.”
As artists—and, pretentious as it may sound, all writers are artists of a sort—we need to avoid getting distracted by all that glitters. Seth Godin, the serial bestselling author, puts things into perspective: “Once you have enough for beans and rice and taking care of your family and a few other things, money is a story. You can tell yourself any story you want about money, and it’s better to tell yourself the story about money that you can happily live with.”
Care not what the other kids on the bus say or do. If you believe in something, do it. Seek out constructive criticism, but do your thing.
“When I articulated that I didn’t care anymore about what anybody thought about what I did except me,” actor Kevin Costner says, “all the weight of the world came off my shoulders, and everything became possible. It shifted to everybody else being worried. Now they’re worried. But everything for me, it shifted to a place where itself free.”
Like most people, I find myself weary and bloated from the end-of-year and end-of-decade awards and appraisals. But I also find myself longing for one of the great awards that ceased operations more than a decade ago.
The Bad Writing Contest ran for only four years, from 1994 to 1998, but it seemed like a venerable tradition. I miss it, like, really bad.
Just as I used to look forward to Ellen Goodman’s hathotic annual musings on the slow summer days in Casco Bay, Maine, I loved the tortured and pretentious passages that Denis Dutton “honored” to highlight the professorial penchant for obfuscation. It’s all about Schadenfreude.
But rather than just smirk, I’d like to break these passages down — “deconstruct” them, to use the voguish term — to see why they fail. More important, I’d like to translate them into plain English. My point is simple. You don’t need to write tortured language to explain complex ideas. Even the simplest ideas can, and must, be explained with plain words.
If Albert Einstein and Stephen Hawking can use plain language to express complex thoughts, a po-mo prof — even when writing about the ontological or teleological status of this or that — should be able to do the same.
Let’s look at the last three winners of the Bad Writing Contest to analyze how they went so wrong and see if we can make them a little bit right.
Judith Butler (1998)
Writing in Diacritics, the feminist scholar Judith Butler wrote an essay titled “Further Reflections on the Conversations of Our Time,” which includes this passage:
The move from a structuralist account in which capital is understood to structure social relations in relatively homologous ways to a view of hegemony in which power relations are subject to repetition, convergence, and rearticulation brought the question of temporality into the thinking of structure, and marked a shift from a form of Althusserian theory that takes structural totalities as theoretical objects to one in which the insights into the contingent possibility of structure inaugurate a renewed conception of hegemony as bound up with the contingent sites and strategies of the rearticulation of power.
The biggest problem, of course, is the use of too many abstract words in too little space. It’s fine to use specialized terminology. If you cannot think of a better way to say “coming from the same source,” go ahead and say homologous. If you cannot think of a better way to say complete intellectual dominance, say hegemony. If you need to refer to the work of Louis Althusser, fine, go ahead. Use all the fancy vocabulary you want. But just don’t pile it up. Remember that even the most knowledgable specialist can better understand ideas in chunks. Use specialized terms only when you need ’em, then define ’em and spread ’em out.
Another problem is the sentence length. Long sentences, of course, are not necessarily bad. Sometimes you need a long sentence to create a mood or to connect several ideas. But sentences ought not overwhelm the reader. Butler uses 94 words in this passage. How does this happen? As Deep Throat would have told Woodward and Bernstein if they were investigating this scandal of a sentence: Follow the prepositions.
This passage contains 21 prepositions: from, in, in, to, of, in, of, into, of, from, of, as, to, in, into, of, of, as, with, and of.
Prepositions help to show the relations of words and phrases. So when you use 21 prepositions in one sentence, you show 21 different relations of words within that sentence.
Here’s one way to translate Butler:
Structuralists say capitalism operates as a powerful “top-down” system, making businesses, schools, and other institutions look and operate the same way. We now think of power as a series of smaller, decentralized interactions. Power does not come from some big force, but from countless interactions throughout society.
I understand that we may lose some ideas with this simple passage. But we don’t lose the reader. And if we keep the reader with us, we can develop the more complex concepts, one at a time.
Here’s the irony of the whole mess: Judith Butler is not only smart, but she can write well when she makes the effort. When she “won” the Bad Writing Award, she protested with an op-ed in The New York Times. She explained, cogently, why she needed to be so incoherent in her academic writing. By writing so well, she disproved her own point.
Fredric Jameson (1997)
Fredric Jameson, the only two-time winner of the Bad Writing Context, makes outrageous statements that need to be questioned (“interrogated,” in the academic argot) one by one.
In his book Signatures of the Visible, Fredric Jameson writes:
The visual is essentially pornographic, which is to say that it has its end in rapt, mindless fascination; thinking about its attributes becomes an adjunct to that, if it is unwilling to betray its object; while the most austere films necessarily draw their energy from the attempt to repress their own excess (rather than from the more thankless effort to discipline the viewer).
This 63-word sentence also goes on too long for most readers. So he and Butler have that in common. But Butler’s major problem stemmed from too many modifiers, which we see with all those prepositional phrases. But Jameson uses only four prepositional phrases here: in, about, from, and from. So why is this passage so bad.
That’s easy. It’s nonsense. The visual is essentially pornographic? The visual “has its end” (someone should call the teleology cops on Jameson, an avowed skeptic of teleological thinking) in mindless fascination. Really? Does that mean that gazing at the works by Leonardo or Brueghel is pornographic? Or Chagal or Rodin? Does Jameson really mean, as he says later, that anything embedded in mass culture is porn? Really? So great photography and modern art and everything in newspapers and magazines and the web … it’s all just porn?
I like the point about austere films drawing their energy by “repress[ing] their own excess.” It’s an interesting idea. You create excess (like the scenes involving the horse head and car explosion in “The Godfather”) and then you draw it back with some kind of contrary idea (“A la famiglia!“). But is that really just modern? Sure, the modern era has multiplied images and ideas, and then broadcast them globally. But are visuals really new? Interesting idea, but debatable.
Anyway, let’s try to simplify Jameson’s passage:
When mass media focus on an object, they inevitably take away its basic integrity. Like pornography, media encourage rapt, mindless fascination. The most artful films, though, generate energy by pushing the subject to extremes and then pulling back.
If I lost or distorted any ideas here, sorry. Sometimes when you pull out deep weeds you also pull out benign plants.
Roy Bhaskar (1996)
The British philosopher Roy Bhaskar’s passage is easy to solve once you understand how he structures his sentence (X challenges a, b, c, d, e, f, g . . .). In Plato Etc., he writes:
Indeed dialectical critical realism may be seen under the aspect of Foucauldian strategic reversal — of the unholy trinity of Parmenidean/Platonic/Aristotelean provenance; of the Cartesian-Lockean-Humean-Kantian paradigm, of foundationalisms (in practice, fideistic foundationalisms) and irrationalisms (in practice, capricious exercises of the will-to-power or some other ideologically and/or psycho-somatically buried source) new and old alike; of the primordial failing of western philosophy, ontological monovalence, and its close ally, the epistemic fallacy with its ontic dual; of the analytic problematic laid down by Plato, which Hegel served only to replicate in his actualist monovalent analytic reinstatement in transfigurative reconciling dialectical connection, while in his hubristic claims for absolute idealism he inaugurated the Comtean, Kierkegaardian and Nietzschean eclipses of reason, replicating the fundaments of positivism through its transmutation route to the superidealism of a Baudrillard.
OMG, I’m speechless. But let’s get to work.
First of all, we need to break down this 134-word monstrosity, with its 23 prepositional phrases, into pieces. We learned how to do that with Butler. So let’s move on to some special problems of Bhaskar.
The sentence has two main parts. In part 1 (from “Indeed” to the em-dash), he introduces the idea of the Foucauldian reversal. In part 2 (from “of the unholy” to the end), he says what gets reversed. You can state this idea with the simple SVO sentence:
Ah, simplicity! But hold on. Stated that way, the whole passage looks absurd. Roy, you really think all those characters you lump together — Parmenides, Plato, Aristotle, Descartes, Locke, Hume, Kant, Comte, Kierkegaard, Nietzsche, Hegel, Baudrillard — would take the same side in a debate? While you’re at it, why not throw in the Marx Brothers too? (Note to self: Send movie idea to the makers of “Bill and Ted’s Excellent Adventure.”)
Look, I understand you want to say Michel Foucault did something consequential. Great. I agree. You also want to say that even competing traditions shared some underlying assumptions. Again, great.
I know I’m oversimplifying here, Roy, but you forced my hand. Your way out — the way you can make your stuff intelligible — is to slow down. Breathe in, breathe out. Now, step by step, tell us what you mean.
You suffer the “Whoa, Nellie!” problem. You think of so many related ideas, and you want to talk about all of them. So you start and it’s like you get taken over by a runaway horse.
Start by getting rid of the compound modifiers: Parmenidean/Platonic/Aristotelean; Cartesian-Lockean-Humean-Kantian; and Comtean, Kierkegaardian and Nietzschean. Just explain how these ideas relate to each other. Don’t try to do too much too soon. Avoid sardine writing, packing ideas densely into the tin.
Let’s look at all the philosophical traditions that Foucault et al. “reversed”:
The Parmenidean/Platonic/Aristotelean “unholy trinity.”
The Cartesian-Lockean-Humean-Kantian paradigm.
Foundationalisms.
Irrationalisms.
“The primordial failing of western philosophy, ontological monovalence, and its close ally, the epistemic fallacy with its ontic dual.”
Plato’s “problematic,” which “Hegel served only to replicate,” blah blah blah.
Other stuff.
Whew. Did I get that right?
Whatever. Here’s what you do. Explain one of them in plain English, like this. Start like this:
Foucault’s approach undercut the ancient debates about idealism and materialism. Foucault also challenged the extensions of those debates– including Kant’s demand for rationality, Descartes’ separation of mind and body, and Nietzsche’s appeal to primal urges.
Or something like that. I’m sure I’m not precise enough here. Which is the point. You need to say what you mean rather than packing all so many sardines into such a small tin. Remember, you have a whole article to explain yourself. The rule: One at a time.
In summary . . .
Nobody said writing about complex matters — like the vast sweep of philosophy — would come easily. It’s hard enough to accumulate information about all these thinkers. To explain them, and then analyze them, poses a daunting challenge.
So what? You write not for yourself or your elite colleagues, but for a broader audience. You owe your readers clear prose. You must break it down, make relationships clear, define terms, and use simple words and sentences whenever possible. It reminds me of something a grad-school housemate once told me.
Tomas was a German literature student. When I was reading Marx’s Capital, he told me that German students read Hegel and Marx in the English translation. Why? Because the translators broke down the meter-long words and interminable sentences into manageable pieces.
Whenever you write about something complex or technical, put yourself in the position of a translator. Talk with the reader plainly. Sure, some discussions will hover beyond the reader’s reach. That’s OK. Sometimes understanding a text requires having some background. But when you read about complex subjects, you shouldn’t have to fight the writer along the way.
Everyone knows about the Type A personality — the driven, impatient, narrowly focused, executive with a bad temper and high blood pressure.
How this personality type was discovered in the 1950s offers a good lesson for writers about paying attention to details. More about that in a few moments.
In Elements of Writing seminars, we talk about the importance of the setting for the story. The setting — what I call “the world of the story” — doesn’t just hold the story. It doesn’t just provide a place for characters to pursue their passions and goals. It plays a kind of character as well. The world of the story establishes possibilities and constraints, just like all the other characters. It establishes values. It shapes what matters to the characters.
To understand the world of the story, I think of Fenway Park in Boston. Say what you will about other great ballparks and stadiums. Rave, if you will, about the newer venues like Camden Yards and CitiField and Turner Field and Miller Park. They’re all terrific. But Fenway Park changes things. It expresses values. When I lived in Boston, I went to a dozen games a season, in good years and bad. My favorite moments came when the Sox were down by three runs in the ninth inning in a game that didn’t matter. The place came alive. Everyone stood and chanted. If the Sox got a baserunner, forget it. The place rocked. It was like seventh game of the World Series in a meaningless game in June.
But all that’s obvious, right? After all Fenway has sold out for 712 straight games, going back to May 15, 2003, when Pedro Martinez faced the Texas Rangers. That’s more than 250 games better than the next best streak in baseball history. Fenway’s appeal is common knowledge. Just read John Updike’s paean from 1960.
To earn your chops as a writer, notice the things that no one else does.
Now, back to the story of the discovery of the Type A personality.
In this account, it was a chair upholsterer who first noticed that a cardiologist’s patients were killing themselves with anxiety. Watch how Robert M. Sapolsky, a professor of biology and neurology at Stanford University, explains the discovery:
When you create the world of your story, find the chair that reveals an important idea. Find the piece of furniture — of the book, piece of art, toy, tshotshke, piece of clothing, window dressing, dish or glass, or other artifact — that helps the reader understand the world of the story.
When I taught essay writing at Yale, students write a different type of essay every other week — profile, action, memoir, idea, parody, review. One of the essays was a complete story about an artifact. It produced some of the best work. Students worked hard to find meaning in objects that could easily be ignored.
Find that artifact that matters. Find the chair roughed up by Type A personalities.
Art uses different kinds of space. Visual art uses the area of a canvas, paper, or screen. Music uses the “space” of time. Cinema combines the moment-by-moment experience of music with the visual experience of art. Sculpture and dance use full three-dimensional space, one still and the other moving.
The concept of density shows how writers fill their space. In architecture, density refers how many buildings and people fill a given space. Old cities like Rome pack together people and buildings. Towns like Amherst, Massachusetts, have an open look and feel.
Denser communities pack more people and activities into a given space. They are, therefore, harder to understand, at least right away. You have to work harder to get to know, say, a block in Rome than a block in Amherst
Writing also has different degrees of density. Sparse writing presents ideas simply, without making too many demands on the reader’s attention. Dense writing, on the other hand, packs lots of different ideas into a small space. Unless you know your way around the subject, like an urbanite knows her way around the city, dense writing can be too hard to understand.
Dense writing uses more “content” words, that is, specific, specialized terms. In their study Writing Science, M.A.K. Halliday and J.R. Martin detail the density of five sentences. Look at these sentences below (content words are italicized, and density scores follow the sentences):
But we never did anything very much in science in our school. [2]
My father used to tell me about a singer in his village. [4]
A parallelogram is a four-sided figure with its opposite sides parallel. [6]
The atomic nucleus absorbs and emits energy in quanta, or discrete units. [8]
Griffith’s energy balance approach to strength and fracture also suggested the importance of surface chemistry in the mechanical behavior of brittle materials. [13]
We read the first few sentences easily. But the later sentences come hard. If we know only six of the eight content words in the fourth sentence, we might not understand the point. Even when we know all eight terms, we might still struggle. It’s just too much to process. Packing so many technical words so close together makes it hard to relate the ideas.
Distracted by bunches of complex words, readers struggle to process passages. So always look for the simplest word. When you need to use a technical word, define it. If you define it well, it becomes simple for your reader. Take the term atomic nucleus. Until we reached high school physics, that was a complex, abstract term for most of us; afterward, it became simple.
The master: John McPhee
My favorite model of simple (but not simplistic) writing on technical topics comes from John McPhee. Take a look at this passage from The Curve of Binding Energy, McPhee’s book about nuclear proliferation:
The material that destroyed Hiroshima was uranium-235. Some 60 kilograms of it were in the bomb. The uranium was in metallic form. Sixty kilograms, a hundred and 32 pounds, of uranium would be about the size of a football, for the metal is compact—almost twice as dense as lead. As a cube, 60 kilograms would be slightly less than six inches on a side. U-235 is radioactive, but not intensely so. You could hold some in your lap for a month and not suffer any effects. Like any heavy metal, it is poisonous if you eat enough of it. Its critical mass—the point at which it will start a chain reaction until a great deal of energy has been released—varies widely, depending on what surrounds it.
On and on McPhee goes, describing the most complex topics with simple little words.
McPhee he shows us what we don’t know by referencing what we do know. To explain density, he makes references to lead and footballs. To describe radioactivity, he reassures us that we can hold on our laps, without any danger, the same amount of U-235 that comprised the bomb dropped on Hiroshima.
Here, McPhee’s In Suspect Terrain explains the geologic foundations of New York’s skyscraping buildings:
The towers of midtown, as one might imagine, were emplaced in substantial rock, … that once had been heated near the point of melting, had recrystallized, had been heated again, had recrystallized, and, while not particularly competent, was more than adequate to hold up those buildings. Most important, it was right at the surface. You could see it, in all its micaceous glitter, shining like silver in the outcrops of Central Park. Four hundred and 50 million years in age, it was called Manhattan schist. All through midtown, it was at or near the surface, but in the region south of Thirtieth Street it began to fall away, and at Washington Square it descended abruptly. The whole saddle between midtown and Wall Street would be underwater, were it not filled with many tens of fathoms of glacial till.
McPhee sprinkles technical terms in this passage, but not so many that you need to scramble to a dictionary. Anyone with a high school education can understand this erudite, rich writing.
McPhee uses contrast to show New York’s in its deep hard geologic foundation:
New York grew high on the advantage of its hard rock, and, New York being what it is, cities all over the world have attempted to resemble it. The skyline of nuclear Houston, for example, is a simulacrum of Manhattan’s. Houston rests on 12,000 feet of montmorillonitic clay, a substance that, when moist, turns into mobile jelly. After taking so much money out of the ground, the oil companies of Houston have put hundreds of millions back in. Houston is the world’s foremost city in fat basements. Its tall buildings are magnified duckpins, bobbing in their own mire.
Because his words are mostly simple, McPhee can offer unfamiliar terms (like montmorillonitic) when he wants to offer precision. Like all great writers, McPhee offers value to both specialists and lay readers. Commonplace reference points, offered one by one, help us to understand less familiar ideas.
Above all else, McPhee shows patience, so he can introduce complex ideas without overwhelming the reader. McPhee is happy to take as long as he needs to expand our vocabulary as much as we need to follow his story.
Make It Physical
Picture a child curled up on a window bench reading a book. Or a commuter as she grabs a strap on a subway while reading a newspaper. Or a college student peering into a computer screen to read a blog or document.
Reading looks passive, but really it’s physical. Our job, as writers, is to provide enough energy—and enough emotion—to keep the reader physically engaged.
Specific, precise words help us to get the reader physically involved. Abstract words create a distance between the subject and the reader. If I read about the “collateral damage” of war, I will approach the subject with detachment; if I read about guerrillas or drones killing innocent people, I get a sense of the violence and feel empathy for the victims. If I hear abstract arguments about global warming, I feel detached; if I see the human tragedies of Hurricane Katrina, I respond emotionally.
But emotions don’t just prompt us to care. They also prompt us to think.
Consider debates about diet. When we think of “meat” or “poultry” abstractly—as just another commodity in the grocer’s refrigerator—we think shallowly. But when we think about how chicken farms operate—when we see the animals confined in small spaces without light, pumped with hormones, made so fat they cannot even stand—we develop a deeper understanding of the issue.
When possible, then avoid abstractions. Use words that touch people physically and emotionally. Use words that connect the reader with the subject, vividly and intimately. Then you’ll be able to combine the best of both heart and mind.
Everyone these days complains about students’ poor quality of writing. We need more classes, they say, to force students to master the craft.
But maybe the problem isn’t a lack of training. Maybe the problem is that writing instructors don’t always know how to write themselves.
Consider the description of a writing program at a top-tier university, in the left column. It’s full of jargon and academic nonsense. Then check out our rewrite in the right column.
Gobbledygook Version
The program in Writing and Critical Inquiry (WCI) is intended to introduce new students to intellectual inquiry at the university with a focus on academic writing. The seminar U UNI 110, required for students matriculating Fall 2013 and thereafter, is devoted to rigorous practice in writing as a discipline itself and as an essential form of inquiry in postsecondary education. It reflects the importance of writing as a vehicle for learning and a means of expression. It also emphasizes the essential role of writing in students’ lives as citizens, workers, and productive members of their communities.
Based on established principles of rhetorical theory, Writing and Critical Inquiry provides students opportunities for sustained practice in writing so that students gain a deeper understanding of writing as a mode of inquiry and develop their ability to negotiate varied writing and reading tasks in different academic and non-academic contexts. Through rigorous assignments that emphasize analysis and argument, students learn to engage in writing as an integral part of critical inquiry in college-level study, become familiar with the conventions of academic discourse, and sharpen their skills as researchers, while improving their command of the mechanics of prose composition. Writing and Critical Inquiry also helps students develop competence in the uses of digital technologies as an essential 21st century skill for inquiry and communication.
Writing and Critical Inquiry seminars are limited to 25 students, which enables students and their instructors to work together closely as they explore the nature, uses, and practice of writing. The small size of the seminars also provides opportunities for students to explore the rich diversity of thought and the varied perspectives that are an integral part of the university experience. Through shared experiences as writers, students will learn to think critically and carefully about the complex questions that are the focus of inquiry across the many different academic disciplines that make up the university curriculum.
Writing and Critical Inquiry provides a foundation for students to continue to develop their abilities to think critically about the world around them, to communicate effectively in written and oral discourse in a variety of settings, and to engage in sophisticated inquiry as a way to address the questions they will confront in their classes and in their lives outside the university.
Simple Version
Writing and Critical Inquiry (WCI) introduces students to the challenges of academic writing. The seminar teaches writing as a discipline and as a means of exploring a range of academic subjects. In our classes, we explore how writing sparks learning. We also see the power of writing in professional and creative life.
In the program, students write constantly. That way, they can understand writing as a process of inquiry in all fields. As they master analysis and argument, students make writing central to their learning. They sharpen their skills as researchers, master the mechanics of writing, and learn the conventions of academic discourse. Classes also teach skills in digital technologies, which are essential for writing in the 21st century.
Classes are limited to 25 students. In these seminars, students and teachers work closely together on a wide range of topics. Students learn to think critically about complex questions in academic disciplines.
Writing and Critical Inquiry guides students to think critically about the world around them–to explore complex topics and to communicate clearly in many fields.
Maybe we need a new approach to teaching writing. For decades, high school and college teachers have treated students as future academics rather than as future citizens and workers. Rather than focusing on thesis statements, academic terminology, literature reviews, and other elements of academic work, we need to make writing ]simple, clear sentences and paragraphs the top priority.
Of course, that requires finding teachers who write well themselves.
If you can turn an analysis into a suspense story, you’ll own the reader. And you’ll be able to offer a balanced and powerful critique.
When you pose a question but delay the answer, you create a state of anxiety in the reader. Just the right measure of anxiety keeps the reader involved. “Think of the brain as a prediction machine,” says David Rock, a business consultant and lecturer on cognition. “Massive neuronal resources are devoted to predicting what will happen each moment.”
To keep any reader involved—whether you’re penning a murder mystery, a biography, a sports story, or a technical or political analysis—create cliffhangers. Create situations where the reader frantically tries to predict the outcome.
Think of arguments as intellectual stripteases. Reveal only enough to pique the audience’s interest … and then, only when your readers get bored, reveal some more. Raise a question, then tease them with possible answers. When you conclude one point, tease your readers on another point.
One last point: When you use suspense to make an argument, you not only keep the reader engaged. You also have a chance to explore all sides of an issue. By lining up a number of “suspects,” you make it easy to give each possibility its due. If you treat each suspect fairly—showing how much it contributes to the outcome—you will earn the reader’s respect.
Consider this example from the field of economics. In his study of deindustrialization—the decline of manufacturing in the U.S. economy, with the severing of the “social contract” between workers and companies—Barry Bluestone wonders: Whodunit? Who or what caused this economic transformation? Why did manufacturers lose their competitive edge? Why did they pick up stakes and leave their communities?
One by one, Bluestone explores the possibilities as if they are suspects in a murder mystery. Is it technology? The service economy? Deregulation? The decline of unions? Downsizing? Winner-take-all labor markets? Trade? Capital mobility? Immigration? Trade deficits? Bluestone reviews the literature on economic and social policy. He finds a conclusion that avoids easy answers.
“What do these results suggest?” Bluestone asks. “[T]he answer to our mystery is the same denouement as Agatha Christie’s in Murder on the Orient Express. They all did it.”
That might not be the most satisfying response—you always want to point a finger at one villain—but Bluestone’s writing creates some suspense while educating us about a complex issue.
To make an argument successful, dole out details and evidence slowly. Don’t reveal your whole argument at once. Trick the reader sometimes. Make a strong case for an argument, then reveal its flaws. Do the same for other arguments, until you have sorted all ideas and come to a convincing conclusion.
This hide-and-reveal strategy has two great virtues. First, you will break down questions into manageable pieces. Rather than explore the factors behind deindustrialization all at once, Barry Bluestone explored those factors one at a time. Because he explored only one factor at a time, Bluestone was able to corral the evidence systematically. And so he was able to show just how important each factor was.
This post is adapted from The Elements of Writing, the only comprehensive, brain-based system for mastering writing in all fields.
Man is a pattern-seeking animal. To understand anything—from brewing coffee in the morning to understanding Trevor Noah’s jokes at night—we need to see patterns. When we “get” the pattern, we can understand complexity within the pattern.
The catchier we can make the pattern, the easier it is for the reader to follow along—and get invested emotionally.
Consider, for example, the most famous piece of music in the western world, Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony. Everyone knows the opening, the foreboding four notes that announce, in Beethoven’s own words, “death knocking upon the door.” The piece has been imitated everywhere, from the Beatles’ song “Because” to the disco classic “A Fifth of Beethoven.” The Allied forces in World War II used the piece as its victory march, since the opening motif spells out V (for victory) in Morse code.
Go anywhere in the world, whistle or hum those four bars, and you will get an instant look of recognition. Why?
It’s not just that Beethoven makes such a bold statement. Think about how he does it. He starts with triangles: DA da da DUM. That three-part structure looks and feels like Aristotle’s narrative arc. We see a clear beginning, middle, and end. The beginning establishes the theme, the middle moves it forward, and the end brings closure.
We could also look at Beethoven’s Fifth as a simple march of notes and themes, one leading to the next. This march of notes could look like a straight chronology—a long line of experiences, with clear movement and direction, going in one direction. Again, a complete experience with closure.
Or we could see the piece as an endlessly repeated cycle, with the same themes different only in the details.
Finally we could experience a movement back and forth, from heaviness to lightness. We experience power, energy, excitement, and dread from the pounding notes; then we experience lightness, sweetness, and hopefulness from the light notes.
All the structures of writing in one thirty-seven-minute symphony! Maybe the best piece moves forward, one moment after another … three steps at a time, like a triangle or an arc … with a recurring cycle, which advances and develops the piece’s themes … yo-yoing, back and forth, from heaviness to lightness, from specificity to generality.
An interesting thought, anyway: Beethoven’s Universal Theory of Composition.
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