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Why We Must Cultivate a ‘Beginner’s Mind’ … And How To Do It

How can we see–really see, and not just project–what’s in front of us?

That’s the writer’s ultimate job. The best writer is an observer. The best writer sees what others do not see. This writer pays attention, carefully and with an open mind, to what’s going on. Rather than falling into lazy habits and assumptions, the best writer looks to see what is not instantly apparent.  

Which reminds me of a morning encounter on Election Day 2016.

The Encounter: A Story

I was walking down Wall Street. As I crossed Water Street, I saw a car stopped at a red light.

I was intrigued enough to stand in the intersection to take a picture. I saw a Honda covered in pro-Donald Trump signs. The signs weren’t printed professionally. It looked like an amateur job.

Then I wondered about who would drive such a car. I imagined a “typical” Trump voter — a blue-collar worker, white, probably stocky, maybe tattooed. There’s no way to read someone’s heart from a distance, but I imagined someone thrilling to Donald Trump’s nativist rhetoric, his disdain for immigrants and minorities. I thought of Trump’s depiction of cities as dens of crime and disorder. I thought of Trump’s claims about illegal immigrants and how a wall along the Mexican border would keep them out — even the people who overstayed a visa or came to the U.S. from places beyond the Americas.

So who was this Trump supporter? Maybe he was a veteran, but more likely he was a middle-aged guy from … who knows? Queens? Jersey? Out of town?

Automatically, I imagined a picture of something that I did not see.

Then I crossed the street. I took a few steps before deciding to go back to see who this Trump supporter was. I clicked another picture before the light changed.

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I was surprised. I was not expecting to see a black man behind the wheel. This was not the prototypical Trump supporter. Sure, I knew that Trump got some black support. Nationwide, we would soon know, Trump won 8 percent of the black vote. He also got 29 percent of the Hispanic vote. Both totals, for what it’s worth, were better than Mitt Romney’s numbers in 2012. Romney got 6 percent of the black vote and 27 percent of the Hispanic vote.

My guess about the Trump support was not unreasonable. Statistically, it was correct.

The Built-In Imperative to Predict

The brain, says the business consultant David Rock, is a “prediction machine.” Before we’re even aware of what we’re doing, we guess what’s going on.

“Your brain receives patterns from the outside world, stores them as memories, and makes predictions by combining what it has seen before and what is happening now,” Rock writes. “Prediction is not just one of the things your brain does. It is the primary function of the neocortex, and the foundation of intelligence.”

When you experience something, your mind begins to search through your memories. Rather than paying close attention to the scene in front of you, your brain looks for something familiar. If there’s a “match,” the brain makes a prediction. If X happened before, something like X will probably happen again.

Biologically, we have a craving for certainty. That makes sense when you think of man’s evolution. For most of human history, people’s lives were “nasty, brutish, and short,” to use Thomas Hobbes’s famous phrase. People faced danger daily–from predatory animals, starvation, attacks by rival tribes, and disease. When we achieve a measure of certainty, we feel a rush of dopamine.

Robert Burton, a neurologist at Mount Zion Hospital in San Francisco, explains: “At bottom, we are pattern recognizers who seek escape from ambiguity and indecision. If a major brain function is to maintain mental homeostasis, it is understandable how stances of certainty can counteract anxiety and apprehension.  Even though I know better, I find myself somewhat reassured (albeit temporarily) by absolute comments such as, “the stock market always recovers,” even when I realize that this may be only wishful thinking.”

The Writer’s Need to Resist

But here’s the thing: As writers, we have to work hard to avoid making conclusions before discovering the facts. A statistical is not a story. A probability does not provide the complex, nuanced information we need to understand the world.

In law, it’s a truism that eyewitnesses are notoriously bad witnesses. Eyewitnesses don’t see. Like the rest of us, they view something–often without paying close attention to the details that matter–and then construct a picture based on their existing knowledge and biases. That’s why circumstantial evidence (like fingerprints, items left at the scene of a crime, phone records, and the like) is usually more valuable in legal cases than eyewitness accounts.

The only way to discover something new — whether you’re witnessing an event, sifting documents, asking questions, or interpreting data — is to avoid predicting what you’re seeing.

The Beginner’s Mind

It takes work to avoid jumping to conclusions. The Buddhists have a term for this. It’s called the “beginner’s mind.”

“In the beginner’s mind there are many possibilities, but in the expert’s there are few,” says Shunryu Suzuki in his classic work Zen Mind, Beginner’s Mind. The more we know something, the less conscious and thinking we are about it. We take it for granted. We lose the sense of mystery and puzzlement when we know something as an expert. Too often, we cannot see something in front of us.

About the beginner’s mind, Abraham Maslow writes this: “They are variously described as being naked in the situation, guileless … without ‘shoulds’ or ‘oughts,’ without fashions, fads, dogmas, habits, or other pictures-in-the-head of what is proper, normal, ‘right,’ as being ready to receive whatever happens to be the case without surprise, shock, indignation, or denial.”

In conceding the election to Trump, Hillary Clinton said: “We owe him an open mind and the chance to lead.” An open mind does not mean acquiescence or a compromise of values. It does not mean forgiving the ugly or dishonest things he said in the campaign. It means only paying attention, carefully, to what you see. Only then can you really know what’s going on and respond appropriately.

Ten Steps to Cultivating the Beginner’s Mind

(1) Scanning: whenever you encounter something–new or old–make a point of scanning for surprises

Start by looking where you usually look. When you enter a park or a building or a mall, you have a tendency to lean in a particular direction, especially if you’ve been there before. As you look, stop. Pause for a few moments. And then look, deliberately, in different directions. If you veer to your right, toward the Starbucks, stop and start scanning to the left. Look up. Look into the distance. Look into a corner. Zoom in and look at the details.

(2) Note your predictions, then un-do them. Every time you assume something is going to happen–every time you make a prediction–stop and take note.

Just pausing will dramatically improve your beginner’s mind. Researchers say we have from 50,000 to 70,000 thoughts a day. They come in a rush, unbidden. They come along, like tourists bustling through Times Square, in bunches. Often they veer off into new bunches of thoughts.

Just hitting the “Pause” button will improve your awareness of this constant sc=tream of thoughts and predictions.

Now take it a step further. Label your thoughts and predictions. Like: “Oh, I just assumed…” Or: “Without pausing, I just thought that…”

Once you label your predictions, they fall apart on their own. You come into a park and see kids racing around. If you’re a grumpy old man, you might assume–you might predict–that they’re aimless youth, irresponsible, reckless, etc. When you stop and label that assumption, it falls apart. You start to notice more about them.  Rather than projecting your own assumptions, you’re now paying attention.

(3) Be patient. We have a tendency–all day, every day–to jump to conclusions. Research shows that people’s first impressions, in a job interview or a social setting, make a greater impact than anything else. When we see, hear, or read something, we make snap judgments.

To control this tendency, we need to consciously slow things down. We need to say to ourselves: “OK, what just happened? What was that sequence of events that just happened?”

Let your ideas unfold, deliberately. If you find a salesman’s gambit persuasive, break down the experience into pieces. How did he greet you? What did he say? How did he appeal to your ego? To your insecurity? What kinds of promises did he make? How well did he answer questions? When did you get carried away, daydreaming about the wonders of that new purchase?

(4) Be childlike … and play dumb. It’s a cliche that children are full of wonder, with a desire to explore the world around them. They ask questions constantly. Unlike adults, they are not afraid of not knowing. “Why?” is the constant refrain of the curious child. All too often, parents mask their ignorance of a subject, when it would be far better to say, “I don’t know. Let’s find out.”

We’ll never get that childlike wonder back. But we can try. We can pretend we don’t know as much as we do. That actually shouldn’t be too hard, as long as we remember to try. Most of our knowledge, after all, is superficial.

When you encounter a scene, turn everything you think you know into a question. Rather than assuming, open up the possibilities. If you’re sure that the checkout clerk was dumb or the driver who cut you off was aggressive, open yourself to doubt. If you assume that the student was lazy or the athlete a great guy, open yourself to doubt.

(5) Avoid judgment: Avoid the words “should” and “ought.” Catch your assumptions and judgments–about everything–and deliberately un-do those assumptions and judgments.

When someone asks you something, start with, “I’m not sure.” When someone asserts an opinion with which you want to agree or disagree, pause for a moment. Ask yourself how you might conclude the opposite.

Notice when you label things as smart or dumb, creative or dull, cheap or expensive, beautiful or ugly, etc. Then, un-label them. Become agnostic on the question. Imagine not knowing or thinking or even caring, at least for the moment.

Every time you catch yourself thinking that something’s right or wrong, normal or abnormal, beautiful or ugly, smart or dumb–in fact, any time you find yourself thinking in dualities–stop!

(6) Be like Picasso. I’m talking about the late Picasso, who embraced a more abstract vision of the world.

Pay close attention to the shapes, colors, lights, textures, and sounds of things–not their meaning. Look for the circles and curves. Then look for squares and rectangles, and then the triangles. Observe how the pieces fit together. Notice the colors and how the colors define the shapes and play off each other.

Then listen. First, notice what you usually notice. Then pause and cock your ear for distant sounds. Listen to those sounds intently. Then listen to how the sounds collide against each other. If you’re in a cafe, listen to the sounds of the baristas and the customers making orders, then the sounds of people conversing at tables and the clack-clack-clack of laptops. Tune into whatever music is playing.

Do the same thing on the street and at a ballgame, in a college quad or cafeteria, in an office lobby or conference room.

Do. Not. Try. To. Make. Sense. Of. It. Just. Listen. And. Notice.

(7) Beware of bewitching stories. The human race is a storytelling race. We make sense of the world by making everything a story. When we encounter a great storyteller, we listen with rapt attention. Stories entertain and instruct. They give meaning to the world. That’s all good.

But stories, inevitably, leave lots out. Storytellers want you to pay attention to some things, but not others. They’re like magicians: “Behold as I distract your attention with this flashy trick, while I slip my hand into your pocket and take your wallet.”

Don’t trust stories. They are told to deceive as much as to inform. The simpler the story, the more you need to question it. Distrust, especially, the stories that depict whole groups as having the same qualities. Bigots assume that people from certain groups–race, religion, class, age, profession, education, etc.–behave certain ways. Maybe they do, usually, as I note in my Election Day story. But just because most people behave a certain way, don’t assume that everyone in the group does so.

Observe people, one by one, to see what they actually do. Look for ways that they contradict your assumptions.

(8) Let things unfold. A good writer acts like a tour guide. The tour guide does not point out everything on the tour. By focusing on a few telling details, she helps us to ignore irrelevant details.

Too often, writers attempt to explain every aspect of an issue at once. We pack lots of background information into a paragraph or two, tight as a tin of sardines. But too much information, too soon, overwhelms readers.

The more complicated your topic, the simpler you need to explain. Express one simple idea at a time, so that the reader follows every step of the process. Unpack the many complex aspects of an issue and explain them, one by one. Use simple, familiar terms.

Recipes offer another useful model for explaining. Cooks must perform their tasks one at a time, in the right order. To make a dish, you must move deliberately, step by step. Preheat the oven to 450 degrees. Then gather the eggs, flour, vanilla extract, sugar, chocolate chips, and so on. Then sift the flour. Then beat the eggs. Then mix the ingredients. Then grease the sheet. Then …

I once convened a writing class in a kitchen, where we made a pie. Each student participated. As students sifted and whipped and rolled, they spoke into a recorder. The student who organized the event narrated the process, offering comments the way about ingredients and her grandmother’s baking tips. Other students talked about family cooking traditions, special kitchen tricks, and likes and dislikes. Afterward, I transcribed the conversation. The result was a good first draft of an essay on cooking. From that point, the students knew how to explain anything well.

Writing requires the same process as cooking: take your time, do one thing at a time, in the right order, and explain as you go.

Here’s a good way to master this skill. Get a video of anything that interests you. It could be a great sports game, like the Super Bown or NBA Finals or an Olympic event. It could be a movie or live coverage of a news event. It could be a documentary by Frederick Wiseman. Play a scene a few times. Then go back and play it in slow motion. Write down every micro-event in the scene. You’ll be amazed at how much happens in just a few seconds. You can train yourself to notice.

(9) Reject causality–or look at things backward–at least for the time being. To understand anything, we need to get a sense for what causes what. We need to identify the “variables” that contribute to an outcome. But even when we gather lots of evidence for a proposition–like the idea that higher levels of education create economic opportunity–we have to be careful.

On its face, it makes sense. College graduates earn an average of $1 million more than non-college grads, according to research at Georgetown University. Annually, college grads earn $17,500 more than non-grads, according to Pew Research Center. The more skills you have, the more you can offer employers–and the higher wages you can earn.

But as Nassim Nicholas Taleb notes, the causal arrows often point in the opposite direction. The more money you earn, the more you use it to get an education. You don’t make the money because of the education; you get the education because of the money.

In fact, Taleb argues, education is often a barrier to economic achievement. “It’s good to have a class of people who are educated,” he says. “But education is the enemy of entrepreneurship.” Scrappy, dedicated, focused people, who think differently than educated people, are the ones who invent new products and services. Education can mess that up. “If you start having a high level of education, you start hiring people based on school success,” he said. “School success is predictive of future school success. You hire an A student if you want them to take an exam, but you want other things like street smarts. This gets repressed if you emphasize too much education.”

So think backward. Like Taleb, whenever you hear some “truism,” ask when that truism does not hold. Or ask whether the opposite might be true.

(10) Imagine something different. Sometimes the best way to think differently is to take in a scene and then subtract specific things from that scene. Imagine what the scene would look like if one object was missing or broken. Now imagine something else being missing or broken.

Imagine what a classroom would be like without the latest technology. Imagine what a city street would be like without sidewalks or benches or street signals.

On that last point, a number of European cities have removed stop lights in the hope of reducing the number of accidents at intersections. How can that be? Don’t red lights help to monitor street movement; don’t we need to make some cars stop so that other cars can go? In fact, with no street signals, drivers pay greater attention and learn how to cooperate better. Traffic management sifts from a command-and-control system to a cooperative system. Steven Johnson an experiment of a Dutch traffic engineer named Hans Monderman:

“As an experiment, he replaced the busiest traffic-light intersection [that handled] 22,000 cars a day, with a traffic circle, an extended cycle path, and a pedestrian area. In the two years following . . . the number of accidents plummeted to only two, compared with 36 crashes in the four years prior. Traffic moves more briskly through the intersection when all drivers know they must be alert and use their common sense, while backups and the road rage associated with them have virtually disappeared.”

Hans Monderman could create a real-world experiment to test his theory that less control produces more order. But you can create whatever mind experiments you want, to open your mind to new possibilities. The point is to get your mind to consider–and pay attention–to more possibilities.

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Follow This Day-by-Day Guide To Write Your Book (Not Just During NaNoWriMo)

The first piece of advice that all writers get is to “write what you know.”

By the time we have decided to write for an audience—to share thoughts, voluntarily, with anyone who will listen—we have developed a whole storehouse of experiences and memories, thoughts and feelings, hopes and fears, and insights and ideas.

The trick is to use this storehouse to inspire and drive your writing—without creating unnecessary barriers.

National Novel Writing Month, a k a NaNoWriMo, offers an ideal opportunity to plumb your conscious and subconscious minds. Day by day, you can make deliberate efforts to understand yourself—and use that understanding to create something new.

But you don’t need to wait till November. Set yourself a goal to get a complete a draft of a novel–or memoir or how-to book or any other major piece of writing–in a month.

Without further ado, here’s your 30-day plan for connecting what’s deepest inside you to the novel you want to write—the novel you will write—this November.

1. “Writing is a code.” That’s what Margaret Atwood says, anyway. We all communicate all whole lives. But to become masters, we need to master specific skills and “tricks of the trade.”

Tasks: (1) Spend 15 minutes brainstorming the codes you’re going to have to crack as a writer. (2) Write 2,000 words describing what challenge your hero faces, how he’s going to crack the code

2. The journey. The ancient Greeks said: “Look to the end.” Every story takes the characters—and the reader—on a journey to some powerful ending. The novelist John Irving actually writes the last paragraph of his books first. He keeps that last paragraph as a North Star for his writing process. So ask yourself: Where do you want your characters to end up? How d you want them to differ b y the time they have experienced their adventure?

Tasks: (1) Imagine finishing your novel—how it all comes out. (2) Write your last paragraph and your last 2,000 words or the first and last paragraphs of many scenes of summaries.

3. The Arc. Aristotle said that great drama resembles an arc, which begins by introducing the characters and their world, then confronts the hero and others with increasingly intense challenges, and finally resolves with a new understanding and significant change in the character’s lives.

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Tasks: (1) Sketch out an arc for your life—first, as if your life were to end today; second, as if you would live till 90. (2) Write full action passages for one or two of the following points along the arc: Opening scene … The challenge … Crisis 1 … Crisis 2 …  Crisis 3 … Recognition …  Reversal … Denouement.

4. Scenes and summaries. All stories move back and forth between scenes and summaries. Scenes engage the reader physically; summaries allow a moment of respite and an opportunity to explain ideas and background. Scenes show particular people doing particular things at particular times and places, with particular motions and emotions. Scenes zoom in to capture the details of people’s lives, with a moment-by-moment description of action. Summaries offer sweeping assessments of the bigger picture, with an emphasis on what it all means, in order to set up scenes.

Tasks: (1) write does tabloid headlines for as many scenes and summaries as possible. (2) Write one scene and one summary, each 1000 words long. With the scene, just show the characters doing one thing after another—no exposition!

5. The hero. Who’s your hero? What’s his dilemma? All great stories offer the reader a character to root for—often superior in many ways, but still human with a need to deal with flaws and difficult situations. Is the hero young or old, virtuous or troubled, sociable or hermetic, tall or short, dark or light, fit or flaccid, rich or poor, happy or dissatisfied, knowing or clueless, young or old, male or female?

Tasks: (1) Brainstorm the various challenges you’ll face as an author. Make a list. Tack it over your computer. (2) Write one scene and one summary describing the hero’s deepest challenge.

6. World of the Story. The setting not only offers a “container” for a story, but also reveals much about the characters and their community. The setting is rich with clues about the characters, their struggles, their ideals, and their capacity to act.

Tasks: Describe your situation, your setting, a “day in the life,” and how it affects your work. (2) Describe one or two settings, in a total of 2000 words, by showing the characters moving around. Have each one of these as the openings of a chapter or scene. Example: Herb Clutter’s promenade.

7. The Crisis or Call. Every hero needs to face a crisis or call to action. In the midst of living a settled life, something happens to challenge the hero. Something internal (unresolved feelings and relationships, goals and ambitions, memories from the past) or external (an economic, romantic, social, professional, or other upheaval) takes the hero out of her comfort zone. Or some event issues a challenge. At first, she refuses to answer the challenge. But over time, she realizes she has no choice to do so.

Tasks: (1) Write down three times when you have faced a new, unexpected challenge in your life—and how you responded. Note how you felt physically amidst these challenges. (2) Describe the moment when your hero was first introduced to the challenge that he must face—and how he responded. Include denial and selfmisunderstanding. 2000 words.

8. The hero’s dossier. To tell a satisfying story, you need to know your hero—and other characters—inside and out. Who are these people? What do they look like? Where do they come from? What do they want? What have they done? Who do they spend time with? What do their mannerisms and habits betray about them?

Tasks: (1) Brainstorm intensely on your life and values. (2) Fill out a “character dossier” and write one scene and one summary to show that character to the reader. 2000 words, 1000 words for each fragment. 5. 6. 7. 8.

9. The wheel of character types, Part 1. The best stories use action to reveal something about the hero and other characters—especially what those characters repress. Every character has an opposite. These opposites resist each other, but they’re also drawn to each other. What’s different in the opposite character is something that exists in all of us, but repressed. Start by considering the most consequential of character types—the hero and villain.

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Tasks: (1) Think of your biggest rival at one or two specific moments in your life. (2) Show the first interaction with the hero and villain (1000 words). Show a later interaction that reveals something totally surprising—but not, in retrospect since the hero and villain contains parts of each other.

10. The wheel of character types, Part 2. Other characters help to draw push the story forward. The pairs of opposites include the mentor and tempter … the sidekick and skeptic … and the mind and heart. Each one of these three pairs of types represents something in all of us.

Tasks: (1) Brainstorm for 15 minutes, feverishly, about two character types in your life. (2) Create scenes two characters—besides the hero and villain—acting or speaking with reference to the hero. Could be mentor, tempter, sidekick, skeptic, heart, or mind.

11. The wheel of character types, Part 3. Things get really interesting when three characters are part of a scene. Whenever two characters develop a relationship—of alliance or opposition—a third party lurks to scramble that relationship. Two lovers, for example, encounter a past lover. Two business partners encounter a revolt among workers. Parents encounter the demanding desires of a child. And so on.

Tasks: (1) Brainstorm about the dynamics of the triangles in your life—what make them stable, what made them volatile and changing. (2) Create scenes with interactions of TWO triangles. By now, make sure you cover all of the character types in the last three days. 9. 10. 11.

12. Act by Act. Give your story three distinct acts, using the narrative arc: The World of the Story, rising action, and resolution. In the World of the Story, show the people and places in a state of calm and order. Think of this as a settled status quo. Then show the hero confronted with something difficult—something so difficult, in fact, that hero cannot bear to face it head-on. Show that hero slowly, painfully, dealing with different aspects of that challenge, one by one. Show the character change with these encounters. Finally, give the hero an “aha”: moment, when he begins to understand the true nature of his life and world—and the need to change for his own survival and wellbeing.

Tasks: (1) Think about your life as a three-act play. How satisfying is the “conclusion”? Sketch your story on a sheet of paper. Ask what you need to reach your own “resolution.” (2) Review your story to date. Write opening and closing paragraphs for each part, making sure that you start and end strongly. Write a total of 200 new words, however distributed.

13. Dialogue. People’s language—their choice of words, their use of slang, how quickly they speak, their conversational tics— reveal much about their character. How they interact with others—whether they listen, interrupt, stay on the subject, show respect—reveals even more. And of course people speak differently in different places with different people.

Tasks: (1) List three important conversations you’ve had in your life. Show how you connected—or failed to connect—with the other persons. Try to understand what made the conversation work or fail. (2) Write three scenes, 750 words apiece, with only dialogue.

14. Parallel arcs. The best stories are really two or three stories rolled into one. Besides the main plot, which involves the hero’s journey, there are two or three subplots involving other characters or ideas. These plots and subplots intersect at critical moments in the story.

Tasks: (1) Write down the essence of the “plotline” of your life. Then write down the various subplots, involving friends and family and others, that intersect with your story at critical times for both. (2) Sketch out two subplots of your story. For each, describe the main character, the journey, barriers along the way, moments of intersection with the main plot, and how the journey ends.

15. Denial. Most stories are about one thing: How the hero and other characters deny some essential reality, and then struggle because of the denial. When the hero is first presented with his challenge, he does everything in his power to avoid confronting the truth. And for good reason: Change is painful, emotionally overwhelming. But a series of events force the hero to deal with pieces of the challenge.

Tasks: (1) Honestly, with no self-editing, make a list of the problems in your life that you avoid and try to deny. (2) Write a scene in which another character confronts the hero about a problem that he has been denying. Then write the background summary that shows the origin of this denial, with reference to past events—and try to build scenes into that summary as much as possible.

16. The Time Element. “Nothing concentrates the mind like a pending execution,” Samuel Johnson once said. Time pressures force characters to think, act, respond energetically—making more mistakes, but also discovering more things. Suspense begins with a ticking clock. TV shows like “Mission: Impossible” and “24” explicitly race against time. Even stories that suspend time, like Ivan Goncharov’s Oblomov, create tension about the question: Will the hero reenter the real world in time for a decent life? =

Tasks: (1) summarize all the tasks still ahead to finish your novel draft. (2) Write TWO scenes, 1000 or so words apiece, describing the hero or other character racing against the clock.

17. Taking Risks. The “Hail Mary” is one of the most exciting plays in football. With the game at stake, the quarterback launches a long pass with the hope of scoring big. But it’s also a risk—the other team could intercept the ball. Life is like that too. Sometimes we have to risk losing a lot to gain a lot.

Tasks: (1) Make a list of the riskiest things you have done, either on purpose or by neglect or recklessness. (2) Write a scene in which the character takes a big risk, then write a scene where his villain takes a big risk.

18. Beats. Every scene is a series of actions, one after another. Characters constantly thrust and parry, sometimes dramatically and sometimes subtly. To give your scene pacing and meaning, you need to make sure that every moment advances the story.

Tasks: (1) For ten minutes, write down everything that you said with a friend in a recent conversation. Show a constant move back and forth from positive to negative values and back again. (2) Write two scenes of about 1000 words apiece. Make sure that every moment produces some reaction and/or advances the story. Take out all details and actions that do not move the scene toward a memorable conclusion.

19. Suspense. Engage the reader best by creating a sense of uncertainty, which gets the reader guessing, and then solve that uncertainty. Cliffhangers bring the story to a point when something important is about to happen—and then break off the action.

Tasks: (1) For ten minutes, write down the moments in your life when you know something big was about to happen—but you didn’t know what. (2) Write two 1000-word scenes that do just this. Move the scene forward, beat by beat, and then end with an almost-dramatic conclusion. Save that conclusion—the answer to an important dilemma for the character—for the next section.

20. Senses. People— even reader—are physical creatures. So you need to make your story crackle with physical details. Make sure you use specific, precise words to evoke sights, sounds, and feelings.

Tasks: (1) write down as many sensory words as possible. Make as many observations as possible about the sights, sounds, and tactile qualities of people and things in your vicinity. (2) Go over all your fragments so far and replace all general descriptions with something visual, auditory, or kinesthetic.

21. Sentences. If you can write a good sentence, you can write anything. All too often, we get lost in long and meandering sentences. It’s only natural when you are engaged in such a creative process: one idea prompts another idea, then another and another.

Tasks: (1) Write down, one sentence at a time, all of the writing tasks you need to finish to complete your novel this month. Use full sentences. (2) Go through your drafts so far, sentence by sentence, and make sure that each one takes the characters—and the reader—from one place to another, different place.

22. Shapes. Writing uses three basic shapes—a straight line, a circle, and a triangle.

Tasks: (1) Sketch out your life, so far, using a line, circle, and triangle. (2) Write three separate passages of about 750 words apiece, either scenes or summaries. In one passage, take a straight, linear path. Don’t double back, don’t skip off to provide background; just show one thing after another. In the second passage, show a character or idea begin one place, develop, and end up where you started. In the third, depict the interaction of three characters and/or three ideas. Show how, when two interact with each other, the third has the potential to change their interactions.

23. Numbers. All good ideas can be expressed as ones, twos, threes, or longer lists of things. Ones put a person or place, hope or fear, thought or idea, front and center. You look at that one thing from different angles, as if inspecting a diamond. Twos present complements and oppositions—sidekicks and enemies, reinforcing or opposing ideas, consonant or conflicting feelings. Threes present the opportunity for real complexity. Think of the lover’s triangle. Whenever two sides bond, the third party lurks nearby, ready to upset everything.

Tasks: (1) Write down the most important idea in your life, something about your relationship with one important person in your life, then the most dynamic triangle in your life, and finally the five most important people, events, or values in your life. (2) Write four fragments of 500 to 750 words. In one fragment, focus on one person, thing, or idea. Make everything else revolve around that one person, thing, or idea. In another fragment, show two people, things or ideas competing with each other— and, below the surface, reinforcing each other. In the third passage, show a triangle of people, things, or ideas. Show how any two corners of the triangle can get stabilized or destabilized by the third. Finally, create a passage that explains or shows the complexity of things by listing a whole bunch of things—people, events, things, tasks, debts, fears, etc.

24. Discovery/exploration of sketchy places. Steven King says he writes scenes by imagining places and events that would scare him. Scary places are all around us—roads and highways where we can crash or get hit by a car … pools where children can fall and drown … parking garages or alleys where we can be mugged … hospitals where we can be mistreated or even tortured … taxis where drivers can take us to dangerous places … even offices where nightmare bosses and colleagues torture us emotionally.

Tasks: (1) Describe the freakiest place you’ve ever been in your life, with as many precise details as possible. (2) Create one sketchy place—a place that’s weird, gross, dangerous, sickly, otherworldly, creepy, Disneyesque, or otherwise alienating—and make something consequential happen to your character there.

25. Love. What captures the heart—the emotions, longing, deep and abiding interest or even obsession—of the hero or other characters? How the hero encounters and responds to love defines that character like nothing else.

Tasks: (1) Make a list of the loves of your life, with specific details about what was good and what was bad— and what were most moments in these relationships was most revealing about your character. (2) Write two scenes. In the first scene, show the moment when the hero meets his or her love interest for the first time. Show the character surprised by his or her interest—and holding back for some reason. In the second scene, show a major conflict between the two lovers. Don’t explain the conflict—show the conflict, so the reader can make sense of it on her own.

26. Failure and Frustration. Nothing matters more to a story than failure and frustration. How a character fails—coming up short in an honest effort or neglecting or denying something important—reveals something about his self-mastery. And how he responds—whether he learns and grows or rigidly rejects opportunities for growth—reveals his character.

Tasks: (1) Write down three moments of failure in your life— with as many details as possible about how you responded. (2) Write two short scenes—anywhere from 250 to 500 words—describing the moments when a character experiences failure. Try to show how their expressions and body language change at the moment when they realize they have failed.

27. Not What It Seems. The best stories operate on at least two levels—the level of the obvious and the level of the meaningful. Characters carry out different tasks, interact with others, make mistakes and grow—but underneath, they are really struggling with deeper challenges.

Tasks: (1) Think of three times in your life when you worked or played hard to achieve something (e.g., success in school, sports, work, love)—when something larger was really at stake (e.g., pride, dignity, revenge, honor, vindication). (2) Create two scenes of 1,000 words apiece in which your character strives for one thing, obvious for all to see—but gets his or her motivation from a deeper psychological yearning.

28. Powers. What are the hero’s greatest powers— and how does he deploy them? Does the hero possess extraordinary physical might? Intellectual powers? Emotional insight? Social wherewithal? Or does he possess some supernatural connections to other beings?

Tasks: (1) Make a list of people you know with the greatest physical power, intellectual power, social power, financial power, and moral power. (2) Write two scenes, each 1000 words, describing clashes of characters with different powers. Show how these characters attempt to use these powers, and how they respond to each other. For example, show someone of great wealth interacting with someone with social charisma or someone with a strong moral compass.

29. Surprises. What surprises can you sprinkle throughout the story? Above all, good stories show us things we cannot imagine without some prodding. If everything is predictable, after all, why bother reading? Storytelling is a two-way process. The writer offers a series of moments, with just enough details for the reader to add her own memory and imagination. Think of storytelling as a relay race, where the writer offers something surprising, then the reader adds her own thoughts.

Tasks: (1) List the ten most surprising things to happen in your life. Looking back, identify the missed signals that would have made these events less surprising. (2) Create two scenes in which important surprises happen to the hero and one other character, either together or separately. Then write scenes or summaries that provide the backstories, setting up those surprises.

30. Recognition and Reversal. Great stories end with a new level of understanding—for the story’s leading character’s and for the readers.

Tasks: (1) Make a list of three times in your life when you came to a brand new understanding of yourself, your values, and how the world works. Write down what caused you to gain this new wisdom. (2) Write the climactic scene of your novel. Show the character saying and doing something that he would not have been able to say or do before. Show how this new wisdom changes everyone around him.

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Beyond the Character Dossier: Fifty Questions for Donald Trump

Every four years, the American people make history-bending choices when they elect a president. The choice amounts to a bet on character. Who will have the right character–the right knowledge, experience, values, and fortitude–to tend to the nation’s needs?

Back in 2016, I was eager to get some answers from Donald Trump, the Republican nominee. As a longtime developer and TV celebrity, Trump had not been involved in any of the major issues of the day. He spoke out occasionally but never had to work through the complexities of war and peace, the economy, the budget, crime, immigration and labor, and more.

To develop a great character for a story, I often advise writers to use a “Character Dossier.” The dossier poses 33 questions about the character’s background, upbringing, desires and passions, conflicts and problems, and more. When you answer these questions, you not only create a great character. You also go a long way to plotting the story.

I realized, after posing 50 questions for the GOP candidate, that the exercise offered a good model for questioning all your story’s characters. It offers a way to go beyond the Character Dossier. After getting the basic information from the Character Dossier, fashion a set of follow-up questions. Go deep. Explore the questions that the character would rather avoid.

In that spirit, here are 50 questions for Donald Trump.

Personal life

1. Can you say something about your relationship with your father and mother? Were they caring and attentive? How did they discipline you? What worked — and what didn’t? In what ways do you model yourself after them — and in what ways do you depart from their examples?

2. What events played the greatest role in your moral development — at military school, Fordham College, Penn, your early years in business, your early years as a celebrity?

3. Why did your first two marriages fail? Did you grow apart? What kinds of mistakes did you make? How have you learned from them?

4. What role have you played in raising your children? What “values” did you seek to instill in them?

5. What attracts you to Melania? What do you talk about with Melania?

6. What is the biggest personal mistake you have made? How have you learned from that mistake? How did you change your behavior as a result?

7. Explain, in your own words, any of the following concepts or parables of Christ:

• Turn the other cheek.
• Love thy neighbor as thyself.
• Jesus turning out the moneychangers at the temple.
• Blessed are the meek for they shall inherit the earth.
• Jesus washing the feet of the prostitute.
• Jesus caring for the leper.
• Christ’s sacrifice on the cross.
• Christ’s sacrifice on the cross.

8. What book most influenced you growing up? Have you read any books in the last year? If so, what was it? How about the last five years? Ten years? Besides The Bible and The Art of the Deal, what are your favorite books?

9. You have bragged for decades of sleeping with as many beautiful women as you can, whether you are they are married or not. Has this behavior ceased? If so, when and why?

10. You characterize the Billy Bush video as “locker room talk.” In the second debate you said that you have not done any of the actions you boasted about with Bush? So you were lying to Bush? What kinds of other topics do men talk about in the locker rooms you have visited? Without naming names, can you talk about how athletes boast about assaulting women? How do the others respond, typically?

11. Just curious: How do you think beauty pageant contestants feel when a lecherous old man enters their dressing rooms when they are changing and sometimes wearing little or nothing? Is it OK for the pageant owner to do this? Why or why not?

12. In one of your attacks on Fox news reporter Megyn Kelly, you said that she had “blood coming out of her wherever.” You have dismissed the idea that you were talking about menstruation. But how can it be decent to conjure images of blood and gore, coming out of wherever, from someone who was simply doing her job?

Psychology

13. Most accomplished people feel no need to brag about their success. You seem to need to affirm your own greatness in every conversation. Why is that, do you suppose?

14. Why do you lie so repeatedly and brazenly? I’m thinking of whoppers (like your five-year birtherism campaign, your claim to see thousands of Muslims celebrating 9/11 in New Jersey, and that you opposed the Iraq war from the beginning) and less consequential lies as well (like your statement that Hillary Clinton was not at Ground Zero).

15. You have criticized a number of women, like presidential candidate Carly Fiorina, for their looks, face, weight, and so on. What exactly do looks reveal about character? What do your looks reveal about you? What does your hair reveal? Your gut?

16. Psychologists say you are a psychopath or a narcissist. Do you see where they’re coming from? Can you define these terms and explain why your behavior does or does not fit these descriptions?

17. You talk a lot about “winners” and “losers.” Can you define these terms, perhaps with examples from history? How do you get to be a winner or a loser?

18. When challenged to state what sacrifices you have made in your life, you mentioned that you started and ran businesses that make you billions of dollars. Hmmm. Back up. Can you define sacrifice? Then can you respond to the question again?

19. Is there anything innate about blacks, Jews, Muslims, Hispanics, Mexicans, Chinese, Russians, and other groups that makes them “good” or “bad”? Or “winners” or “losers”?

20. Do you think America has become too enamored of celebrities and not adequately respectful of quiet, modest people who work hard and care for others? What qualities do celebrities have that we should emulate or avoid?

21. Why did you attack Ben Carson, Jeb Bush, Carly Fiorina, Chris Christie, Marco Rubio, Ted Cruz, George Pataki — actually, everyone — in such personal terms during the GOP nomination contest? Did you really mean it when you called Carson a child molester and Cruz’s father a conspirator in the Kennedy assassination? Did you sincerely believe everything — or anything — you said? Or did these insults simply offer a blunt way to eliminate rivals?

22. Some psychologists say your harshest criticisms of others are really forms of “projection” — that is, that your criticisms actually reflect your own fears about yourself. So for example you called Cruz “Lyin’ Ted” as a way of diverting attention from your cascade of lies and distortions? Do you believe that people sometimes project like that?

23. You have railed against “political correctness,” saying that people need to toughen up and deal with the everyday knocks of life. Yet you have displayed thin skin when other people disagree or criticize you. What gives?

24. Can you see why people might be concerned about your penchant for violence — saying at rallies that “I’d like to punch him [a protester] in the face,” “knock the crap out of him,” and “in the old days [protesters] would be carried out on a stretcher,” and offering to pay legal fees for Trump supporters accused of assault? Do you not believe that people cannot disagree civilly?

Business practices

25. You have acknowledged not paying contractors who do work for your companies. In a debate, you said you didn’t pay them because you didn’t like their work. Did you specify what aspects of their work dissatisfied you?

26. Over the years you have sued people — or threatened to sue — hundreds or perhaps thousands of times. To what extent is that a tactic of intimidation rather than a sincere desire for redress of wrongs?

27. Have you ever worked with the mob on construction projects in New York, Atlantic City, Florida, or other locations?

28. What lessons did you learn from your many bankruptcies? How did you apply those lessons to later ventures?

29. What’s the toughest business problem you have ever faced? How did you deal with it?

Policy

30. Pick any policy issue. Tell us about five variables that make the issue complex and difficult to manage or solve.

31. You say you “know more than the generals” about ISIS and other foreign policy challenges. Name one fact or insight you can offer that “the generals” do not know or appreciate.

32. How would a wall along the Mexican border prevent people from coming into the U.S. from other entry points? Also, are you aware that there is now a net migration of Mexicans out of the U.S.? Will your wall keep those Mexicans in the U.S.?

33. In your campaign announcement, you called Mexican immigrants rapists and killers but acknowledged that “some of them” might be good. Can you talk about the “good ones.”

34. You have stated repeatedly that you want to create a “deportation force” to locate and remove 11 million illegal immigrants from the U.S. You have also said you would not. Which is the case these days? How would the deportation force work? How much would it cost? What criteria would you use to set priorities?

35. In one of the GOP debates, you said the Trans-Pacific Partnership is stacked in favor of China, which you have identified as the biggest trade threat to the U.S. Now you know (right?) that China is not part of the TPP. So what countries does the TPP involve and what provisions of the pact undermine U.S. interests?

36. Can you explain how currency manipulation works — and how the markets may or may not “correct” for it with changes in exports and imports?

37. You say you will “bring back” manufacturing jobs from overseas. Just how might that work? Given companies’ investment in billions of dollars worth of factories, would you expect them to shut those facilities down and build new ones in the U.S.?

38. Do you really believe that NATO — which won the Cold War and has kept the peace in Europe for decades — is a waste of money?

39. Do you really believe that adding more nuclear powers — Japan, South Korea, even Saudi Arabia — would make the world safer?

40. You say that American companies planning to move their operations overseas would face a major tariff on goods they sell to the U.S. Could you do that unilaterally? Would that possibly provoke other countries to slap tariffs on U.S. products?

41. About the nuclear triad: As Marco Rubio explained, when you looked doe-eyed at the mention of the concept, this refers to the readiness of nuclear weapons on land, sea, and air. Can you say something — anything — about some of the complexities of nuclear policy?

42. Given your stated expertise about tax policy, what specific provisions would you alter to prevent billionaires (?) like you avoiding taxes despite being on a “budget” of $450,000 a month?

43. You have said that your tax dodging and lobbying practices — using government to your advantage, to the detriment of others — is just smart business. Where should a business person draw the line? Do you support any limits on special-interest lobbying?

44. Do you favor — or not — the intervention of Russia or other foreign powers in U.S. elections? What would you do to respond to such interference in the democratic process?

45. Just to be straight, you oppose abortion but now (after stating otherwise) would not prosecute and jail women who received abortions. Is that correct? When does life begin? How would you enforce the law?

46. In your outreach to “the blacks,” you have portrayed African American life as a depraved world of crime, violence, joblessness, and fear? Are you ware that the black middle class is bigger then ever before in history?

47. Likewise you have said that crime has raged back to record highs. Are you aware that crime rates are the lowest in decades, even after small upturns in some crime categories in recent years?

48. Your stance on the minimum wage varies. Should it be raised, right now and in coming years? How much and when? Should the minimum wage be indexed to the cost of living?

49. Unions: Pro or con? Name three things that make unions “good.” Name three things that make unions “bad.”

50. Do your business dealings give you insight about how to deal with organized crime, both domestic and foreign? If so, what?

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Interviewing Tips from the Pros

Page for page, Robert Boynton’s The New New Journalism offers the best practical advice for writers anywhere. Rather than insisting on one true approach, Boynton gives room for a wide range of writers to say what works for them.

Boynton asks his subjects the same questions, so you get a useful sense of different approaches to all aspects of nonfiction narrative.

I have broken down the interviewing tips into 10 categories: (1) Approaching the Subject, (2) Getting the Story Before Getting Quotes, (3) Where to Conduct the Interview, (4) Should You Get Smart of Act Dumb? (5) Scripting Interviews, (6) Establishing Rapport, (7) Using Letters and Phone Calls, (8) Strategies for Getting the Subject to Talk, (9) Should You Record the Interview? (10) Taking Notes.

Now, without further ado, the advice of the masters:

(1) Approaching the Subject

Most authors have to develop a strong persona before they approach subjects. While respecting the people they want to interview (Jon Krakauer writes old-fashioned letters and sends along copies of his books), others focus on their own needs (Lawrence Weschler insists that “I see myself as an equal. I am not in the supplicant mode. I have the chutzpah to imagine that I am a fellow human being. And I have experiences that are potentially as interesting as theirs”).

Calvin Trillin offers the best advice for dealing with big-shot subjects. “I save the most important people for last,” he says. “I like to have talked to a lot of people, and learned more about the central characters, before I talk to them.” Why blow the most important conversation when you don’t know enough? Work around the edges—talking to all the secondary characters—before zooming in on the main target.

That’s also Ron Rosenbaum’s approach: “I often begin on the outside and move in. I start with the heretics. They are usually angrier, more outspoken, less inhibited. They are more willing to talk about the competing agendas, hostilities, and crosscurrents of any given debate. The freedom comes from being marginal. That doesn’t mean they don’t have as much, or more, of the truth as those who are in the mainstream.”

(2) Getting the Story Before Getting Quotes

To get the best quotes, you need to know the story. Gay Talese didn’t even really want to interview Frank Sinatra for his famous Esquire piece. He just wanted to practice the art of hanging around. “I got more from watching him, and the reaction of others to him, that I would have had we talked.”

Eric Schlosser strives to build a relationship before getting down to the official interview. “I want to have as natural a conversation as I can with people,” he says. Surprisingly, Schlosser doesn’t care that much about quotes. “The vast majority of my interviews are off the record and done so I can find out what’s going on,” he says.

(3) Where To Conduct the Interview

Where you interview often matters, but not always.

Adrian Nicole LeBlanc likes to interview people where they are happiest, on the theory that they’ll be less defensive and open up. “Interviewing people in a car is great because it is quiet,” she says. “Kitchen tables are warm, an easy place to talk with someone.” Susan Orlean likes to start in the home, where “I’m essentially running a lint brush over their life. I’m able to pick up a thousand little threads of who they are and how they lead their life.”

Jonathan Harr also scans the personal habitat for clues: “I notice what books are on the shelves, what paintings are on the walls, how they keep their house, what kind of car they
drive.”

Richard Preston wants to see people where they do what makes them interesting. “I want to see the person in the lab, out in the field doing research. That way I get to tag along and be introduced to everyone in that person’s world.”

Tagging along helps Michael Lewis break down the interview-subject barriers. “The first question I ask is whether they have plans to go anywhere, and whether I can come with them,” he says. “I learned this technique in college [when interviewing for a job]. He said he was in the middle of moving his furniture from one office to another and asked if I could help… The way he interviewed people was to make them do something with
him.”

Noise causes problems. “I hate interviewing people in restaurants,” Krakauer says. “The background clatter makes it hard to transcribe tapes, an the public setting can inhibit the
subject.. … I prefer to interview people in their homes, or at a place with a strong connection to the story, or while driving.”

Jonathan Harr disagrees. “I’ve had good experiences interviewing people in restaurants. They sometime reveal amazing things when they are eating and drinking. Especially drinking.”

Think of interview locations as scenes for the story, William Finnegan says. “When I was writing about Moctar, the former slave, we drove to Washington to see some friends of his. On the way down we stopped at Gettysburg, which he actually wanted to see, but which I
also wanted to see him in.”

(4) Should You Get Smart Or Act Dumb?

When it comes to showing your own cards, authors take divergent approaches—what we might call the Bum Phillips and Truman Capote approaches. Phillips was an NFL coach who hid his smarts behind a dumb-ass persona; Capote got his best material for In Cold Blood by telling his story before asking questions.

“I pose the dumbest questions in the world,” says Richard Ben Cramer. “When I go into an interview, I don’t prepare any questions. … I just look at him and say, ‘Look, here’s my situation. And I explain my problem. … And he can’t brush me off with a prepared statement, because he’s never rehearsed an answer to this kind of question.”

Talese usually doesn’t ask questions until he’s developed a working relationship with his subjects and their coteries. “In the beginning, the interview is all but meaningless,” he
says. “All I’m trying to do is see people in their setting.”

Richard Preston takes a modified Capote approach. “I tell them about my struggles as a writer,” he says. “I’ll say, ‘This book is driving me crazy. I’m having all sorts of problems.’ It
turns the interview into a participatory experience. Some of the scientists see
it as another ‘problem’ they can solve.”

Ron Rosenbaum feels the need to show his own knowledge of the subject. “People want to feel that you respect them enough to have done your homework, rather than having been scattershot and casual. The worst thing you can do is come in and pretend that you are more sophisticated, or know more than they do.”

(5) Scripting Interviews

Even when you don’t know a subject very well, you know the realms of people’s lives. That’s where Leon Dash starts. “I divide the initial interviews into four sections—home life, school, church life, and social life.” Looking at their different roles  in life opens many subjects’ eyes, Dash says: “This is the first time in their lives that they understand that they themselves are the products of multiple influences by many people and experiences over a long period of time.”

Jonathan Harr goes from general to specific, like he’s zooming in on a scene in a movie. That approach allows him to test the subjects.

“I begin by asking some general questions, the answers to which I already know. … Just to get the motor turning over. Plus, they serve to triangulate the answers against the answers I’ve been getting hearing from other people.

“I always prepare about a dozen questions, which I type up in advance. I never want to be at a loss for where to go next. But that doesn’t mean it’s a script that I stick to. I usually list them in order of importance and I always try to keep it to a single page.”

(6) Establishing Rapport

Sir Laurence Olivier once said that he goal as a performer was to seduce every woman in the theater. Janet Malcolm wrotes that she woos her subject with friendship and understanding, then turns around and uses them for her own purposes. Most writers try to find a middle ground.

“Being someone’s companion, that is my ultimate goal,” says Gay Talese.

“One of my gifts as a journalist is that, for some reason, people see me as innocuous and harmless,” says Krakauer. “So people tell me all kinds of stuff that isn’t in their best interest. A lot of people I write about have been marginalized in some way.”

Disagreeing shows respect, Krakauer says. “I’ll sometimes engage in good-natured debate. I’ll say, ‘Oh, really? Do you really believe that?’ I won’t outright argue with someone. In my experience, people don’t generally need to be provoked.”

(7) Using Letters and Phone Calls

When you can get people to write about their experiences, you can get especially rich material. First of all, the writing process is so creative that subjects discover things that they did not know themselves—or forgot. Jon Krakauer: “Letters are a great way to conduct interviews. After I interviewed him in prison, Dan Lafferty and I had an extensive correspondence.” Plus, you don’t have to transcribe recordings.

Writing is also just practical. Lawrence Wright says: “ I do a lot of my corresponding with sources via email. It’s an easy way to fire off queries to factual questions.”

Some avoid the telephone as lacking intimacy, but Ron Rosenbaum disagrees. He says the phone helps break down barriers. “People are actually more forthcoming over the phone because they are not distracted by looking at you and seeing how you are reacting to what they say.”

William Langewiseche: “Never by letter or email. Sometimes by phone, but that works only if I already know the person.”

(8) Strategies for Getting the Subject to Talk

Just shut up, says Willam Langewiesche.

Too often researchers are so eager to establish their own bona fides that they don’t stop talking long enough for the subject to get in a groove.

“The secret is: Let the guy talk,” Langewiesche says. “You never know where they’re going, and it really gets interesting when you let people run on. Every once in a while they say something that makes me want to stop them, but I resist the impulse, because I might lose the jewels that are about to fall from their lips.”

When you let people talk, you can start to connect the scattered dots in their lives. Their lives often have an order that no one else—the subjects included—do not realize.

“The interview is an organic process. I let the interviewee take over the interview and decide, essentially, what questions will be asked,” says Richard Preston. “This is extremely time consuming. … It’s a little bit like fishing. I’m there with a line in the water, pulling something out once in a while.”

Adrian Nicole LeBlanc sometimes did not even attend her own interviews. She gave her subjects tape recorders and told them to talk whenever they wanted. She caught her subjects in more real situations than standard interviews allow.

(9) Should You Record the Interview?

Writers also disagree, sometimes violently, about recording interviews. “I like to tape as much as possible,” Gay Talese says. Eric Shlosser agrees. “I like to tape as much as possible. If I’m only taking notes, I’ll always get back in touch with someone to make sure the quite I’ve written down matches with what they said.”

Transcribing recordings can consume months for a book. Willam Langewiesche tries to cut down on transciption time by simply noting the times when people address different topics. Lawrence Weschler also looks for ways to avoid transcription: “If I use a tape recorder, I also take notes. I don’t want to have to transcribe interviews. If I take notes while I tape, I can consult my notes to learn where a quote is on the tape. Then I can look it up and get the exact quote.”

Jon Krakauer takes notes while recording conversation. That way he can soak up the whole scene while the interviewee holds forth.

“When I take and take notes, the person I’m interviewing usually thinks I’m using the tape as backup,” he says. “In fact, most of what I’m writing down are observations: what they guy is wearing, the way his eyes dart, the nervous way he pulls his earlobes. … I grew up admiring writers who could render landscape well, so I full my notebooks with observations of the weather, the scent of the wind, what plants are growing in the vicinity.”

(10) Taking Notes

Some reporters still rely on scribbles on pads. “So much of the time I spend with people is just blabbing,” Susan Orlean says. “Do I really want to transcribe hours and hours of tape of that?”

Notetaking is its own art form. William Langewiesche uses the right side of his notebook for notetaking, and the left side for notes about the notes.

Jonathan Harr types up his notes right away, so he can remember words, expressions, mood. Typed notes also help him stay organized. “I always print a copy of the typed notes and put them into a physical file. … The hard copy is important to me. I annotate it, cover it with marginalia.”

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Russell Banks on Staying Unknowing

Some wisdom from Russell Banks, the author of novels and the recent travel/memoir Voyager:

Asked at a recent book signing how his writing process has evolved over the years, Banks took the Zen stance.

When I was in my 20s and even 30s and even 40s, but most especially in those earlier years, I really had no idea what I was doing and that frightened me and intimidated me. Yet I kept going. It wasn’t until much later, in my 50s and 60s and now 70s, that I began to realize that that’s the whole idea–not knowing what you’re doing. And as I’ve gotten older it’s gotten more and more difficult  not to know what I’m doing. And so I have to find ways to induce that condition where I really don’t know what the hell I’m doing. It came so natural to me when I was young. It’s something that I’ve become increasingly aware of. I can see myself coming and going and I have to find ways to trap myself into that state of mind [of unknowing].

Only by becoming unknowing, Banks said, can we really create something new. When you know anything–even technique–your sense of curiosity and wonder may atrophy. You can lose your attachment with the moment. You can lose your ability to see and feel and think with openness.

The “will to knowledge,” Nietzsche taught, is one of the great diseases of modernity. Living in the age of science and psychology and rationality, we moderns somehow believe that we have to have all the answers. We get anxious when we don’t have the answers. Too often, we force answers on ourselves and others, rather than dwelling in a more aware state of unknowing and curiosity.

When we know something–or think we know something–we hold fast to that knowledge. We cling to it.

What’s wrong with that? What’s wrong with being confident in our knowledge? Nothing really, as long as we’re loose with that confidence.

Attachment, the Buddha taught, is suffering. When we get attached to relationships, things, ideas, resentments, dreams, stories, rationalizations, myths, that’s when the suffering begins. And of course suffering narrows our minds.

That’s what Banks was talking about, I think. To create something, we need to have a sense of openness and curiosity, a sense of striving. Mastery is worthwhile. It’s great to have a toolbox and to know how to use the tools. But somehow, as Banks says, we have to find ways of being unknowing and unattached as well.

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Editing as a Process of ‘Kondoing’

We live in the age of excess. Westerners accumulate more material goods than previous generations could ever imagine. Overwhelmed, we struggle to organize our stuff. Over time, we lose control of our lives.

In extreme cases, hoarding creates a kind of madness, now listed in the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders. Hoarders refuse to throw away even useless junk—old newspapers and magazines, cheap SWAG, books and records, clothing, plastic bags, food leftovers, broken appliances and electronics, collectibles, dead plants, old pet toys, broken dishes, empty bottles, you name it.

Hoarders—and others who just have a hard time getting rid of stuff—develop an emotional relationship with their things. “I paid good money for that,” people say. “I want to get some use out of it.” They also have a fear of the future. “What if I need it?” they ask, trembling. We develop relationships with things, so we actually feel sorry for the things we discard: “That clock’s been with me since my wedding day. It needs a home.”

But when we keep too many things, they get in the way of living. In a cluttered home, we spend endless hours searching for things. We forget what we own, so we waste money buying more. With an untidy home, visitors avoid us. We lose or ability to make distinctions between what’s useful and what’s not. Over time, the tyranny of stuff isolates us from the rest of the world.

To the rescue comes a Japanese woman named Marie Kondo, a consultant for people who struggle with hoarding. Her tidy little book, The Life-Changing Magic of Tidying Up, has become a global sensation. Last year, Time magazine called her one of the 100 most influential people in the world.

Kondo–or Konmarie, as she is also known–works as an organizing strategist. With the discipline and unwavering commitment of a general, she moves into people’s homes and clears out the mess. Her strategy is simple:

Begin with the end in mind: “Before you start,” Kondo says, “visualize your destination.” Imagine the world where you want to live—where you know where to find everything, where every possession brings not only utility but joy, where you don’t waste a minute looking for things. Get specific. Don’t say, “I want to life a clutter-free life.” Say: “I want to live a more feminine lifestyle.” Or: “I want the kind of place my kids want to bring their friends.” Or: “I want to hold dinner parties and sing songs around the piano.”

Gather and arrange your stuff: Take all your belongings out of closets and bureaus and other containers—all of them, every last piece—and lay them on the floor.

Sort things by category, not location. You can never know how many things you have unless you bring them all together, in one place. Many of our duplicates are scattered into different rooms and containers. Because our things are scattered into other rooms, we often don’t know how much we own. We might think we own eight pairs of pants and actually own 40 or 50 or more. So get them all out into the open.

Only by bringing them all out into the open can we see the absurdity of our accumulation. “In one spot, you can also compare items that are similar in design, making it easier to decide whether you want to keep them.”

Discard: One by one, decide what items to discard and which ones to keep. “Discarding must come first,” she says. “Do not even think of putting your things away until you have finished the process of discarding.

Keep only the items that “spark joy.” If you have not used something for a long time, it’s probably because that item doesn’t excite you. So discard it. “Keep only those things that speak to your heart,” Kondo says. “Take the plunge and discard the rest.” Love is the answer.

Work from easy to hard: Start with the easiest items to assess. Begin with clothes, then books, then papers, and then other supplies and equipment. Go from easy to hard. Getting rid of a garish or torn piece of clothing makes it easier to discard the artwork with sentimental value that no longer matters.

Deal with emotional attachment: If you have difficulty getting rid of something, for emotional reasons, pay your respects as you would with a friend who’s moving out of town. Thank them for the joy and service they have brought you. Think of the good they can do elsewhere. “Let them go, with gratitude,” Kondo says. “Not only you, but your things as well, will feel clear and refreshed when you are done tidying.”

These principles also work for editing. Start with a vision of what you want to give your reader. Lay out all your stuff: the good, bad, and ugly. Examine one category at a time, in the correct order, from big to small.

Start with the whole piece, then move to sections, then to sub-sections, paragraphs, sentences, and specific elements (quotes, stats, metaphors, observations, clever wordings).

Solve your easy problems first; sometimes fixing easy problems makes more difficult problems disappear; other times, it just makes them easier to handle.

Keep only those passages that work—the ones that truly say exactly what you want to say, simply, clearly, and convincingly. When you cut a passage you like, take a moment to appreciate how it helped you to understand your topic. Then let go.

Let’s give the final word to Marie Kondo.

“As you reduce your belongings through the process of tidying,” she says, “you will come to the point where you suddenly know how much is right for you. You will feel it as clearly as if something clicked in your head and said, ‘Ah! This is just the amount I need to live comfortably. This is all I need to be happy. I don’t need any more.’ The satisfaction that envelopes your whole being at that point is palpable.”

How To Rewrite Even the Most Turgid Academic Prose

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:

Foucault’s approach (subject) reversed (verb) previous philosophical traditions (object).

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.

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Why Writing Matters, Even for Non-Writers

Someone asked me to explain why learning how to write–the process and discipline–matters for people who have no intention to write.

Some thoughts:

Writing is a process of discovery and questioning, breakdown and assembly, imagination and logic.

When you can write, you have the template for exploring just about any question imaginable.

What happens when we set out to write? First, we take inventory, sort possibilities, test those possibilities, and make (tentative) conclusions about our subject. Then we imagine ourselves in another’s shoes: What do they know already? What don’t they know? Then we figure out how we might understand something, if we knew only what our reader understood. Finally, we try to gather and arrange the ideas we explored in our inventory, to suit our reader.

But that’s just the beginning. When we write, we need to see how well our words do their job. Sometimes we score and sometimes we don’t. So we fix what’s broken and work to improve what’s already good. We listen–intently–not just to our own curious mind but to others’ minds as well.

Funny, this is also what we do when we conduct scientific experiments, create a business plan, teach a class, build a cabinet, or whip up a meal.

But writing has another quality that makes it even more transformative.

When you write, you find that sweet spot between your own needs and those of others. To write is to share, but to share requires awareness; that awareness requires focused attention. When we write, then, we need to get “within ourselves” first. And as we focus, our minds travel to places we never could imagine in the beginning. And as we travel, we bring others along for the ride.

The Clue Where You Sit

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.

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Style and the Internet

Every new system for transmitting text leads to innovations in formatting and style.

We forget sometimes, but Gutenberg’s press helped to invent the clever little unit of writing called the paragraph. Before the printing press, most text continued without interruption, page after page. Which was OK at the time, since monks and scholars had few distractions and plenty of time to focus. No chirping iPhones or noisy neighbors for them.

The Internet has introduced three major innovations in style — the space between paragraphs, the hyperlink, and now the in-text footnote. Each innovation makes reading easier for the attention-challenged citizen of the 21st century. Let’s look at them in turn.

Double-spacing between paragraphs: For centuries, paragraphs have been marked off with an indentation. If you want to start a new stream of thought, you indent by three to five spaces. You could just hit the space bar three to five times. For you could set the tab key to move in as many spaces with just one whack of a key. Computers allow us to set the indentation for a whole manuscript at the top of the file.

But people using the Internet tend to be more rushed. Reading on a computer screen causes some eye strain, to say nothing of the hunched-over feeling while reading on a laptop of desktop machine. Internet readers are constantly tempted to click away from the text, not only by hyperlinks and ads and embedded video, but also by the cacaphony that is modern life.

Double spacing between paragraphs creates enough white space for the reader to find her place after getting pulled away for a moment. White space is also visually pleasing.

People in business and government had already started to double-space between paragraphs before the Internet. They understood that their text was often bland and clunky and that the reader was usually distracted. So they printed reports and memos with the white space between grafs.

White space has a tendency to reinforce the telegraphic pace of writing. Sure, we often write long paragraphs with white space. But seeing paragraphs as separated units reinforces our tendency to skim rather than dive in for a deep read.

Hyperlinks: Before the Internet, of course, the very idea of hyperlinks was just a fantasy. Who could have imagined being about to jump from what you’re reading to a completely different document or video in an instant? Maybe Alvin Toffler and a few other futurists, but the idea never occurred to me until it started happening. And, in fact, the early web used few hyperlinks. Now they’re everywhere.

Hyperlinking was actually first imagined by Vannever Bush, way back in 1945. Writing in The Atlantic, he mused: “Wholly new forms of encyclopedias will appear, ready-made with a mesh of associative trails running through them, ready to be dropped into the memex and there amplified.” But it took computers and the World Wide Web to make hyperlinks part of everyday literary reality.

Hyperlinking, like most innovations, can produce either positive or negative effects. On the one hand, it’s nice to get instant answers to questions as you move through a text. When did Bobby Thompson hit that home run? How long was Shackleton marooned in Antarctica? Who discovered the dendrite? It’s also nice to get instant definitions for words, as today’s ereaders provide as a matter of course.

On the other hand, these hyperlinks can make us distracted. Sometimes, the best way to explore a new subject is to make sense of ideas through context. When we click off to another text, we lose the sense of immersion. That’s a huge loss. Not only do we lose the ability to plunge into a great text, but we also lose the ability to figure things out for ourselves. All meaning, as Wittgenstein taught us, is contingent. We lose that sense of context when we move away from a text, again and again.

The in-text footnote: If you read Joe Posnanski, the entertaining writer for Sports Illustrated, you know what I’m talking about. JoePo — not to be confused with JoePa, about whom JoePo is writing a biography — regularly skips off the subject for historic or philosophical asides. Sometimes you want to read these asides, and sometimes you don’t. The effect, as I imagine JoePo hopes, is a conversational style.

Conversation is a funny thing. Sometimes you want to follow every stray thought your partner pursues; sometimes, you wish he’d just get to the point. This is an example of the in-text footnote.

Of course, Posnanski could hyperlink to an aside. But then you’d get pulled away from the main text. You could also use a sidebar. But then the aside would not feel like part of the story. So JoePo uses the in-text footnote. I like it, especially for more informal writing. I also think it would work great for “serious” news, on topics ranging from Iraq to Newt.

These innovations democratize writing and reading. They make it easier for ordinary folk — as opposed to use serious, professional writers — to express themselves. I support anything that democratizes such an important activity. But it’s easy to get sloppy. Using white space between paragraphs, for example, doesn’t do anything to improve the quality of the paragraph. It just creates a visible moment to pause. And hyperlinks and in-text footnotes can create needless distractions.

Let’s give Aristotle, who lived two and a half millennia ago, the final word on this 21st-century conundrum. Do everything in moderation, he said. Avoid the extremes. Fit the practice to the challenge at hand.

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How to Develop Your Own Style as a Writer

What is style? And how do you get it?

Ask anyone about style, and they’ll nominate their own icons of pizzazz. Oldtimers talk about Frank Sinatra, Marilyn Monroe, John Kennedy, Louis Armstrong, and Grace Kelly. Contemporaries name Meryl Streep, Michael Jordan, Scarlett Johansson, and Denzel Washington. Writers talk about the styles of Ernest Hemingway, Virginia Woolf, James Joyce, William Faulkner, Isak Dennison, John Updike, Toni Morrison, Joyce Carol Oates, and Laura Hillenbrand.

And so on. Style here concerns rhythm and tempo, glitter and surprise, shine and ease.

Style taps our desire for mastery, creativity, and originality. We want to stand apart from the ordinary, to be better than the rest. Even when we best the rest, we want some distinctive marker that we can call our own. Lacking that, we want to identify with someone or something else with great style.

But what is style? How do you define it? The dictionary offers a useful start: “a manner of doing something … a distinctive appearance, typically determined by the principles according to which something is designed.” Fine, but we follow all kinds of “manners of doing things”; we do not call all of them “stylish.” So consider this definition:

Style is a distinctive way of doing things, seemingly without effort. Style begins with a mastery of basic principles and then advances to some original and delightful form of expression.

As a writer, what does that mean? Let’s explore two varieties of style.

Classic Stylists

Classic style treats writing as a conversation. The writer wants to show the reader things, as if leading a tour of a subject. Rather than entertaining the reader with verbal pyrotechnics, the classical stylist wants to make the subject of writing the focus of attention. The classic stylist seeks to make writing simple, clear, logical, and delightful—and wants to make it look easy. Anything else is a distraction.

The classic stylist treats the reader as an equal. The reader knows the subject better, but the reader is equally intelligent. The two converse, on the page, as friends. Neither is superior. The writer just happens to be leading the conversation.

The classic stylists of our time run from Ernest Hemingway to John McPhee to Laura Hillenbrand. Kay Redfield Jamison, the author of a memoir of suicide called Night Falls Fast, is another. See how she engages readers in this simple passage about the complexities of the brain:

Everywhere in the snarl of tissue that is the brain, chemicals whip down fibers, tear across cell divides, and continue pell-mell on their Gordian rounds. One hundred billion individual nerve cells—each reaching out in turn to as many as 200,000 others—diverse, reverberate and converge into a webwork of staggering complexity. This three-pound thicket of gray, with its thousands of distinct cell types and estimated 100 trillion synapses, somehow pulls out order from chaos, lays down the shivery tracks of memory, gives rise to desire or terror, arranges for sleep, propels movement, imagines a symphony, or shapes a plan to annihilate itself.

Jamison takes the brain’s unfathomable billions of operations and makes them simple to comprehend. Rather than lording her superior knowledge over us, she explains how we, too, can learn what she has learned.

The Stylistics

If classical style means simplicity, clarity, and equality, its opposite means complexity, opacity, and superiority. For want of a better umbrella term for this approach, let’s call its adherents the stylistics.

Stylistics, reveling in wordplay and razzle-dazzle and discovery, go beyond mere description. They flaunt their knowledge and command of language; they challenge and unsettle and wow the reader. Stylistics make words get up and strut, dance, tease, trick, and otherwise play with the reader. Stylistics use language to express—to embody, imitate, and dramatize—the infinite oddities of life. As for the writer and reader having some sort of equality? Nonsense! Writers spend ungodly blocks of time mastering their subjects and their medium. Why should ignorant readers get treated as equals? Their job is to revel in the stylistics’ verbal pyrotechnics.

The ranks of stylistics include James Joyce, Henry Roth, Robert Penn Warren, Hunter S. Thompson, and David Foster Wallace. Take a look at this passage from David Foster Wallace’s novel Infinite Jest:

We all have our little solipsistic delusions, ghastly intuitions of utter singularity: that we are the only one in the house who ever fills the ice-cube tray, who unloads the clean dishwasher, who occasionally pees in the shower, whose eyelid twitches on first dates; that only we take casualness terribly seriously; that only we fashion supplication into courtesy; that only we hear the whiny pathos in a dog’s yawn, the timeless sigh in the opening of the hermetically-sealed jar, the splattered laugh in the frying egg, the minor-D lament in the vacuum’s scream; that only we feel the panic at sunset the rookie kindergartner feels at his mother’s retreat. That only we love the only-we. That only we need the only-we. Solipsism binds us together, J.D. knows. That we feel lonely in a crowd; stop not to dwell on what’s brought the crowd into being. That we are, always, faces in a crowd.

Like many stylistics, Wallace often meanders, juxtaposes seemingly unrelated ideas, pokes us from our expectations in order to reveal something fresh.

The Vast Middle Ground

Most writers work in the vast region between the classical and stylistic approaches. We try to lay down tracks that keep our ideas clear and true. Still, sometimes, we jazz it up—creating unexpected detours, pointing out odd details, even imitating the sounds and sights along the way … and not always caring so much about the destination.

Always, though, we need to know how to lay down those tracks. We need to master the core skills of writing before we can dazzle.  That way, when we take a detour or ogle the sights, we do not crash or leave the readers behind.

How To Develop Your Own Style

Years ago, I met one of the seminal figures in modern baseball–Jim Bouton, who rocked the sport in 1970 when he published Ball Four, an expose of the outrageous and puerile exploits of big-leaguers. But as he aged, Bouton embraced the game’s traditions. Over his life, his style shifted from breaking the rules to honoring the game.

I introduced Bouton to my charges. They wanted to know: What’s the best way to develop the best pitching motion?

“Long-tossing,” he said.

Long-tossing is just what it sounds like—throwing the baseball over long distances, as much as 200 or 250 feet. To throw long, you can’t worry about what you look like. You have to lean back and then rock forward, slinging your arm forward like a slow-moving whip. Most people long-toss the same way, with just small variations for their size and strength. But long-tossing offers nothing fancy.

After tossing from the longest distances, you move closer and closer to your partner. When you get to the standard pitching distance—60 feet, 6 inches—you are pitching with your natural style.

And so it goes with writing.

Style in writing comes only after years of long-tossing. Without being too conscious of style, you learn to write great sentences, paragraphs, and longer passages. You don’t worry about whether you want to be like Hemingway or Faulkner, Wolfe of Woolf, Didion or Capote. You just create clear, lean sentences and paragraphs and passages. When you do all the little things right, your style slowly emerges. You develop tendencies—toward shorter or longer sentences, greater or lesser use of commas and semicolons, formal or vernacular speech, more or less use of quotations and statistics and other forms of explaining.

Everyone does it that way. Read early Faulkner. You see hints of his later serpentine sentences, but mostly he offers simple, clear, basic writing. Only when he mastered these basics–only when he completed his training with literary long-tossing–did he develop his own distinctive styling.

As you master the basics, pay attention to the maneuvers of different stylists. When I was first writing for publication—in a small weekly newspaper on Long Island—I idolized Red Smith, a columnist for The New York Times. I also admired Hemingway and Fitzgerald, read biographies, and pushed myself to understand some philosophy. I noted the maneuvers of these writers and occasionally copied them. Which is fine.

Mostly, though, you will discover that your truest style comes from the voice you find mastering the simple tricks and maneuvers of language.

Don’t Go Too Far

In a review of Bruce Boyer’s True Style, a guide to looking spiffy without overdoing it, Henrik Bering notes:

The renaissance author Baldasar Castiglione, who in the “Book of the Courtier” (1528) introduced the concept of sprezzatura, advising his reader “to steer away from affectation at all costs, as if it were a dangerous reef, and to preach in all things a certain nonchalance [sprezzatura] which conceals all artistry and makes whatever one says or does seem uncontrived and effortless.”

But the word sprezzatura conveys more than mere thoughtless spontaneity, notes Mr. Boyer: it is “a matter of reaching for perfection, while cultivating the impression of never having given it thought.” By holding back, it “implies greatness unseen, . . . a strength held in reserve.” Thus the general mistake of the nouveaux riches is that they tend to put it all on display. The impulse, Mr. Boyer suggests, is akin to the owners of the French formal garden that was designed, in the supposed words of the playwright George S. Kaufman,“to show what God could have done if He’d have had money.”

That idea is close to the classic ideal of writing style. Show some pizzazz–use words cleverly, plant a surprise, add a dash of color–so long as you don’t distract the reader in the process.

The Appearance of Effortlessness

True style looks effortless. In sports, you think of style with players like Joe DiMaggio and Derek Jeter, Magic Johnson and Tom Brady, Arnold Palmer and Tiger Woods. In movies, think of Paul Newman and Meryl Streep, or even Gene Hackman. In music consider Miles Davis and Frank Sinatra.

Trying to look stylish is like putting on too much cologne or makeup, Again, Bering:

The problem with the dandy, a figure whom Max Beerbohm defined as “a painter whose canvas was himself,” is that not everybody possesses Brummell’s restraint: One can easily end up looking like an overdressed Easter egg or a rare and extremely poisonous tropical flower. “Your clothes should not in themselves be more memorable than you are,” notes Mr. Boyer. “Individuality should be in evidence quietly.” This is what marks the difference between the gentleman and the poseur. Mr. Boyer’s own preference is for a slightly faded elegance, “the mildly rumpled” rather than “the new and shiny.”

True writing style can be found in diverse figures–Papa Hemingway and Scott Fitzgerald, Raymond Carver and John Updike, Joan Didion and Laura Hillenbrand.  Read ’em, imitate ’em, and develop your own style without pretense.

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Explaining Complex, Dense Topics

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.

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Effective Strategies for Editing

The brain loves simple, clear tasks. When you only search for one problem at a time, you stay sharp. You spot problems better and don’t run out of energy.

Therefore, follow this simple approach to editing: Start big, working your way to smaller issues, one challenge at a time. Let’s see how to do it.

Start by blocking sections. Most writing—even pieces as short as a two-page memo or a newspaper op-ed article—consists of a number of chunks. Each chunk presents distinct ideas.

Put a label on each major section. It’s easier to manage a handful of well-marked sections, each with well-marked parts, than a piece with 75 unmarked parts.

For each section, express a clear “umbrella” concept. Everything in that section should fall under the umbrella concept. If any ideas veer off topic, cut it or move it.

Make sure your whole piece starts and end strongly. Make sure all its sections do as well. Consider writing the first and last paragraphs before anything else. If you know the beginnings and endings of your journeys, the pieces in the middle sort themselves out easily.

Label ideas in paragraphs. Every paragraph should take the reader on a simple journey, starting and finishing strongly. Make every paragraph a mini-journey, following Aristotle’s narrative arc. Make sure you can explain this mini-journey with a simple tabloid headline. Make sure just glancing at your paragraph labels reminds you, instantly, about what journey it takes the reader. (More on this point in a moment.)

Check sentences for the Golden Rule. Make sure every sentence takes a journey, starting and finishing strongly.

Find the modifiers that make sentences run on and on. Sometimes it seems that crafting a simple sentence is the toughest chore of writing. As our minds whir with ideas, we get tempted to veer off track. Then we fail to make simple points.

Often, we get off track with prepositional phrases. Prepositions, remember, express relationships between things. The most common prepositions—of, to, in, for, on, with, out, from, by, and out—are among the 37 most commonly used words in the English language.

Prepositional phrases offer details about the subject. Notice how the prepositions work:

• Franklin Roosevelt was the son of a wealthy family from Hyde Park.

• Jimmy Carter came from a town in southern Georgia.

• I once lived in a house by the side of the Mississippi River.

These prepositional phrases provide useful information. But when you put too many of these ideas into a sentence, you lose sight of the main action—who’s doing what to whom. The reader struggles to keep up with the twists and turns.

Let’s look at an example from an academic history journal:

After the Second World War, the general drift of American public opinion toward a more liberal racial attitude that had begun during the New Deal became accentuated as a result of the revolution against Western Imperialism in Asia and Africa that engendered a new respect for the nonwhite peoples of the world, and as a result of the subsequent competition for the support of the uncommitted nations connected with the Cold War.

In this 72-word sentence, the author uses 16 prepositions—after, of, toward, during, as, of, against, in, that, for, of, as, of, for, of, and with. Each one adds a new thought, but pulls the passage off course. It’s overwhelming, like asking a driver to turn 16 times to travel a short distance. To rewrite that passage, I broke it up. Look at this new version:

After World War II, Americans adopted more liberal attitudes about race. The New Deal began this process. Revolutions against imperial powers in Asia and Africa created new respect for the nonwhite populations. The Cold War also prompted the U.S. to consider how racial strife damaged America’s image.

The revision breaks one monster sentence into three ordinary sentences. It uses 47 words, 25 fewer than the original. And it uses only five prepositions—about, against, in, for, and in—instead of 16. That’s fewer than two prepositions per sentence—a more manageable number of twists and turns for the reader.

Root out repetition and needless words. Most drafts contain meandering, repetitious, and clumsy phrasing.

Too often, writers repeat ideas by using just slightly different words for the same thing. Politicians say they will care for “each and every” voter. Business executives tell us that “first and foremost,” we have to cut costs. Advertisements offer a “free gift” for opening a bank account. We also hear people talk about future plans, end results, armed gunmen, unconfirmed rumors, living survivors, past history, actual experience, advanced planning, and natural instincts. Each of those expressions repeats a simple idea. So cut ’em!

Eliminate hedges and emphatics. Too often, when we want to emphasize a point, we use vague language.

A hedge limits or qualifies statements. By expressing conditions or exceptions, the hedge tells the reader, in effect, “I’m not completely sure what I’m going to tell you.” Hedges include words like almost, virtually, perhaps, maybe, and somewhat. Such words pretend to modify a point, but give the reader little real information. Writers use them to avoid taking a clear, distinct stand.

An emphatic shows strength of conviction but lacks adequate evidence or certainty. Emphatics assert something without showing it. As everyone knows is a classic emphatic. So are of course, naturally, understandably, usually, almost always, interestingly, and surprisingly. Consider this passage from a portrait of Andrew Carnegie:

The Carnegies were poor—very poor—but not quite destitute. Their home was a hovel, but not quite a hellhole. Allegheny, Pittsburgh, and the environs were ugly and just plain awful. But there were worse places in the world then, and there are now.

The passage tells us little. The author wants to emphasize points with locutions like very poor and just plain awful; he backs off his points when he refers to a hovel, but not quite a hellhole. The author would do better note the food the Carnegies ate, the clothes they wore, the size and furnishings of their home, and whether they had heat and water. Details, not emphatics and hedges, offer a clear picture.

Address details, one by one. Now address all the other problems: spelling and punctuation, noun-verb and non-pronoun agreements, adjectives and adverbs, dangling modifiers, passive verbs and imprecise nouns.

As you move from big to small problems, you’ll see something amazing. By fixing the big problems, many smaller problems disappear. Why? When we structure a piece poorly—with the wrong chapters or sections, arranged poorly—we lose clarity about the smaller points. Because we’re fuzzy on the big stuff, we’re fuzzy on the little stuff.

If you get the big pieces right, the smaller pieces take care of themselves.

Read to Others

Until modern times, most people experienced great literature—or even news reports—by listening to others read. This oral tradition, in fact, produced the greatest works of literature. Storytellers would recount, from memory, great myths, histories, comedies and tragedies, philosophical works, and religious works. The constant retelling polished these works over the centuries. Audiences acted like focus groups. When a phrase worked with audiences, it stayed; when it didn’t, it got cut.

The best way to edit is to read drafts to other people. If a passage sounds unclear or clunky, we see it in the restlessness or confusion of our audiences. Unfortunately, most writers these days labor in isolation. We read our drafts, silently. And so we lose the opportunity for feedback.

Read Aloud

Reading aloud helps you find clumsy or ungrammatical passages. Any time the reader stumbles over a phrase or repeat ideas, you know something’s wrong. It’s like putting on glasses and noticing the blemishes on someone’s face. Something easy to overlook becomes all too visible.

When the words flow easily, we know that we have done our job. So read everything aloud. Or transmit drafts to your Kindle and listen to a synthesized voice read it back. Ask yourself: Does one idea lead to the next? Can you follow the story or argument? Does the piece stay on track? Also pay attention to the technical issues, like typos and clumsy, wordy, or vague passages.

Pick up a great book—a classic—right now. Read something by Truman Capote or John McPhee or F. Scott Fitzgerald. Find the poetry of Wordsworth or Shakespeare or T.S. Eliot or e.e. cummings. Or find a well-edited magazine, like The New Yorker or The Atlantic. Read a passage aloud. Notice how the words glide.

Power Editing

Reading aloud has its own problems. It takes an awful lot of time. If you’re editing a book or a long article, it’s impossible to read without getting tired or distracted. After a while, you lose your focus. You’re just mouthing the words, without really paying attention to word choice, syntax, and so on. At some point, you start reading silently — which defeats the whole purpose. Soon, you’re moving as slowly as Heinz ketchup coming out of a bottle.

That’s what has happened with my new manuscript. I sit down to read it aloud, I get five or ten pages into it, and I drift off. Or the phone rings or email pings.

Frustrated, I asked myself when I got to work this morning: How can I do this faster and better? The answer: Do it faster and you’ll do it better. In other words, read the manuscript as fast as possible. Race through the text, as if you’re hopped up on caffeine or you’re double-parked. Let’s call it power editing.

Reading a text fast actually reveals the clunky passages better than reading at a normal pace. You can read good writing fast, but flawed writing causes you to mess up. So you not only get through a text faster, but spot problems better. Every pothole on the road shakes you up. So you mark the problematic passage or edit it on the spot. And then you continue.

You take the brain out of its comfort zone. When you read fast, you have to activate your whole brain. You have to concentrate. Your whole body gets into it.

P.S. This is exhausting. Maybe you can only do 2,000 to 5,000 words at a time. Most people, of course, don’t have to edit much more than that. If you’re editing a book or long report, you might have to do it in spurts. But you’ll get better results, faster, than with the slow Heinz-ketchup approach.

Sdrawkcab krow

To combat familiarity, read backwards. Read the last paragraph first, then the penultimate paragraph, then the ultra-penultimate paragraph, and so on. You will be surprised at how easily you can spot—and kill—bad and repetitive writing.

By reading backwards, you also see the piece’s outline clearly. Does paragraph 17 follow paragraph 16 logically? Does paragraph 7 develop the ideas of paragraph 6?

Athletes work backwards all the time. They imagine the result they want—say, a tennis ball landing in the corner of the court, just beyond the reach of the opponent—and then think backwards to imagine the sequence of events leading to that result. After imagining the ball landing in the ideal spot, a tennis player can imagine the ball flying across the net … then hitting the ball … then bringing the racket back to hit the ball … then getting into position, planting feet … then seeing the opponent hit the ball over the net … and so on.

Think of writing that way. Think of how you want to complete a passage, and then what came before, and then what came before that, and so on.

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Who’s Teaching Writing, Anyway?

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.

What do you think?

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‘Chunking’: The Most Important Skill for Explaining Complex Topics

Let us stipulate, as the lawyers say, that the primary goal of everyday writing is to communicate clearly.

How, then, would you grade this brochure produced by Maryland’s BayStat initiative?

BayStat, the brainstorm of former governor and current presidential candidate Martin O’Malley, aims to use data to guide the restoration of the Chesapeake Bay.

The bay’s degradation has been severe. Sealife of all kinds–from many species of fish to the grasses which once made the estuary an underwater savannah–has been threatened for generations. Runoff of nitrogen and phosphorus and sediment has seriously degraded 250-mile long bay and its rivers and streams. So has overfishing. The natural elements that once sifted these pollutants–forests and fields, swamps and bending riverways–have themselves been decimated and degraded.

For a generation, people like O’Malley have been working to restore the bay to health.

This simple checklist of “10 simple steps” advises Sam and Suzy Citizen what they can do.

The problem is that the list is a grab-bag of unlike things. It’s as if I sent you shopping with this list: toothpaste, organic spinach, socks, milk, pencils, corn, coffee, a baseball hat, cat food, and this morning’s New York Times.

To understand ideas, people need similar ideas to be chunked together. Maryland’s list for Sam and Suzy is valid. But they’re not going to understand or remember their civic duty unless similar ideas are “chunked” together.

Like this:

At home

  • Recycle
  • Use less water
  • Conserve energy
  • Plant a tree

Shopping

  • Eat foods grown locally
  • Be picky about paper

Out and about

  • Drive less
  • Pick up after your pet
  • Dispose of chemicals properly

Chunking is easy but it makes a huge difference.

Whatever you write–memos, emails, flyers, articles, papers, and so on–make sure you chunk ideas so the reader can absorb and use those ideas easily.

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Shut Up and Listen: Brian Lamb’s Approach to Interviewing

How frustrated do you get when interviewers talk so much that the interviewee has a hard time answering? How often do you turn off the TV or radio because the interviewer thinks his insights matter more than his guest’s?

One interviewer who has never put himself above his subjects is Brian Lamb, the founder of C-SPAN and the host of Book Notes.

In his interviews, Lamb asks a series of simple questions and lets the subject answer. Lamb does his homework on his subjects. And he does not hesitate to repeat questions or ask followup questions. But he lets people talk.

To see how simply Lamb approaches his subjects, look at this compilation of questions from an interview of the late Christopher Hitchens.

Notice how almost every question is a W question – who, what, when, where, or why.

Now, for the full intellectual delight of this conversation, watch the whole interview.

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Lessons from Boston 400’s struggles for Walsh’s urban planning

By Charles Euchner
The Boston Globe, May 13, 2015

When I heard that Mayor Martin J. Walsh had announced the city’s first comprehensive plan process since 1965, I was surprised. After all, 18 years ago I was hired to coordinate the city’s first citywide planning process since 1965.

I don’t blame Walsh for slighting Boston 400, the process Mayor Thomas Menino launched in 1997. The initiative’s 250-page report never got released.

Despite his interest in downtown development and neighborhood projects like Main Streets, Menino was not a planner at heart. The Boston Redevelopment Authority’s planning director, Linda Haar, suggested the comprehensive plan as a way to demonstrate Menino’s “vision” for the city as he prepared to run for reelection. He took a flier on the idea. If it caught fire, he would embrace and promote it. If not, it would die a quiet death.

I worked full time, with one other planner, for two and a half years. We made community input the center of the process. We held more than 100 neighborhood meetings, in addition to seeking input from professionals on urban design, open space, transportation, and economic development. We also worked with planners at the BRA and at other city agencies.

Over time we compiled a detailed portrait of the city, with a modest set of proposals for improving neighborhood business districts, connecting green spaces, and promoting affordable housing. Our centerpiece proposal — to promote “transit-oriented development” — moved forward. So did a few other ideas.

But the mayor never showed much interest in Boston 400. He focused instead on separate projects for the South Boston Waterfront, Roxbury and East Boston, Harborwalk, and Downtown Crossing. One of his top aides pulled me aside one day to explain why.

The mayor will embrace the effort, he said, when community activists pepper him with praise for Boston 400. “Until then,” he said, “you’re on your own.”

That was, of course, a Catch-22. Neighborhood residents were skeptical until they knew Menino was committed. Well over a thousand residents showed up at meetings to share their ideas to improve their neighborhoods. But they doubted that the BRA would ever do anything with the plan. They were right.

When Menino ran unopposed in 1997, the whole vision thing became unnecessary. Menino’s strategy as a politician was simple. First, he stayed visible in the neighborhoods, where people loved his “urban mechanic” persona. Second, he brokered big deals in development all over the city. For Menino, every parcel and project presented an opportunity for a transaction. To his credit, he appointed strong managers to run the schools, police, and parks departments. Along the way he raised campaign donations that scared away any plausible candidates for his job.

A successful citywide plan has three basic prerequisites:

Strong support from the mayor. The boss needs to make the plan central to all its planning processes. Everyone in City Hall needs to cooperate or else risk the mayor’s ire.

Clear definition of the plan. What is the desired result? Is it a set of principles? Passage of clear, binding rules for planning and development? The launch of major projects on the scale of the Big Dig or the “high spine” of skyscrapers from the waterfront to the Back Bay?

A rigorous process. Above all else, planning requires broad engagement and clear deadlines. What isn’t urgent doesn’t get done. Planning also requires extensive input from activists, ordinary residents, and professionals. Today that means not only meetings and committees, but also social media to keep conversations alive.

Lacking these essentials, Boston 400 became a BRA orphan. Toward the end, we drafted a report that offered a detailed portrait of the city’s planning issues with principles to guide planning. The BRA director and his chief of staff, Tom O’Brien and Matt O’Neil, gave us the go-ahead to publish our report. Then the mayor fired them.

We tried. I hope Walsh and his team fare better.

Charles Euchner is a case writer and editor at the Yale School of Management.

 

Brainstorming and the Creative Process

To write, you must first generate ideas. You can’t sit down at a laptop and just start spilling out coherent prose. Just as a builder needs construction materials, a writer needs ideas. And you need to figure out how to organize ideas–what’s most important and what’s less important, how to cluster the ideas, and how to identify the ideas that will arouse the reader.

Yes, we’re talking about brainstorming. It’s a process of searching your whole mind, with few preconceived ideas about what you want to say. It’s a way of digging deep. It’s a process of discovery.

So how does brainstorming work? Actually, brainstorming takes a number of forms. It doesn’t begin when you’re ready to write. It takes place when you’re sleeping and when you’re daydreaming.

So let’s look at the major dimensions of brainstorming.

Why Brainstorming?

To explore any topic, you must start with lots of research. But also get your subconscious involved. Allow your lifetime of knowledge and insight to contribute to your analysis.

When you tell yourself to do something, the brain rebels. Think of our failed New Year’s resolutions. We vow to stay on a diet, exercise regularly, pay bills on time, or control our temper. Despite our sincere efforts to make change, we fail.

The problem is twofold—narrow minds and resistance.

Making resolutions narrows the mind. Rather taking in the full range of possibilities, the mind focuses on the command’s subject. If I tell you not to eat ice cream, what are you going to think about? Ice cream.

Whatever you decide to do, your subconscious mind resists change. Our subconscious is a complex web of memories, associations, fears, and desires. Many of these thoughts we repress, so they feel illicit. But they remain, under the surface. And when they are challenged, they assert themselves.

Start With Research

Before brainstorming, do as much research as possible. When you read a book or article, write down a label for each idea in the margins. That way, when you go back to brainstorm, you can review all the key concepts in a few minutes.

Now, how do you arrange these ideas? Some writers cluster similar ideas together; others show connections between opposites. Some writers list data in one part of the sheet and general ideas or principles in another. Others cluster major concepts with specific data. One thing you must always do: draw diagrams and lines making connections among the ideas and data.

Whenever possible, draw charts and pictures. Show how ideas relate to each other. When you scribble, you excite your mind. You move away from linear thinking—first one thing, then another, then another … —when you draw pictures. You can see a whole bunch of ideas, and how they relate to each other, at a glance.

Simple stick figures work fine. Use them to illustrate the relations among characters (who), their passions and activities (what), the timing of actions (when), the location of activities (where), the reasoning behind activities (why), and their methods (how).

When you write, you need to arrange your ideas logically. But don’t rush this process. To brainstorm well, you need to create a free flow of ideas, without too much order.

Dreaming

A study at Beth Israel Deaconess Medical Center, reported in the journal Current Biology, reminds me of my early days as a college teacher.

Back in 1988 and 1989, I was teaching fulltime at St. Mary’s College of Maryland while completing work on my dissertation. I taught three classes every week. Every lecture was brand new. I knew a lot about these classes but also had to learn as I went.

Every night, I was able to do all the prep work for two of the three classes. But I was too exhausted to prep for the third class. So, before turning in, I quickly reviewed materials for the third class. I made no effort to write a lecture.

When I woke up the next morning, I knew exactly what to do with the third lecture. I turned on my computer and completed the lecture in short order. That third lecture, as it turned out, was usually better than the other two.

The reason is simple. I primed my mind to do all the hard work while I was sleeping. My dreams took the raw materials — the review of class notes — and organized the material for me.

Ever since then, I have tried to go to bed with an agenda. Whatever problem was vexing me — as a writer, teacher, friend, family member — I try to figure out while sleeping. And it usually works.

I am fond of saying that writing is, more than anything else, a series of problems that need solutions. How am I going to organize this book? How am I going to open this chapter? What evidence do I need for this argument? What’s the best way to introduce a character?

Of course, you cannot solve problems without useful information. So you need to gather and consider as much information as possible before hitting the pillow.

The key to getting the brain to work while dreaming, I have found, is letting go. When I push too hard to solve a problem, I tend to freeze my brain. Not only that, but it’s also harder to fall asleep. You can’t dream if you don’t sleep.

So here’s the formula for solving writing problems:

1. Review all the information and the possible solutions.

2. Get away from the issue by getting ready for bed — brushing teeth, having a glass of water, and so on. Don’t eat or drink alcohol before going to bed. If I have even a glass of wine after 7 or 8, I have a hard time sleeping through the night.

3. If your mind is too active, take a melatonin pill so you can settle down and sleep.

4. Dream away.

5. When you get up, take up the problem you were trying to solve. Chances are, if you had enough information before sleeping, you will come up with at least one or two possible solutions.

Daydreaming and Doodling

When his friends and associates thought about Bayard Rustin, they pictured a restless man, moving kinetically at rallies and demonstrations, exhorting and advising Martin Luther King, speaking in his high-pitched faux British accent, and exposing himself to the worst kind of abuse because of his commitment of nonviolent action.

I had the pleasure of exploring Rustin’s life while researching Nobody Turn Me Around, my account of the 1963 March on Washington. And what a life it was. Rustin was probably the greatest polymath of the civil rights movement. He was a great speaker, strategist, theorist, writer, and organizer. He did more than anyone else to etch nonviolence into the movement’s DNA. And, for extra measure, he was a first-rate singer, a lover of art, and an inspiration to generations of activists in the labor, antiwar, civil rights, and gay rights movements.

Even though I can picture him speaking and singing and leading marches, my indelible image is of Rustin doodling.

When I worked my way through the archives of Rustin and the March on Washington, I found a number of his doodles. They were usually Escher-like images, with layers of squares that curved toward some destination. When I saw the doodles, I guessed that they helped him visualize the complexities of the movement in the tumultuous summer of 1963.

Then I found one of the interns at the March on Washington headquarters. Peter Orris was then a high school student in New York; in the intervening years he has become a doctor but remained active in social causes. He’s a smart and decent man. Did he remember Rustin’s doodles? Yes, he said. He was so impressed that he asked Rustin to autograph one of the doodles.

All this came to mind when I discovered a recent TED talk by Sunni Brown about the power of doodling. Contrary to doodling’s reputation — at best, it’s considered a lazy diversion; at worst, it’s considered a sign of moral laziness and inattention — Brown sees doodling as an essential part of learning and creativity.

She points out that doodlers remember 29 percent more of verbal content than non-doodlers. Even more impressive, doodling excites the senses. We perceive the world through four “modalities” — verbal, auditory, kinesthetic, and symbolic. If you can engage two of those modalities, you will work more efficiently and creatively. Doodling engages all four!

And so her proposed definition of doodling: “to make spontaneous marks to help yourself think.”

So, writers of the world: Doodle! Don’t press yourself when blocked. Don’t just make lists (so linear). Don’t refine definitions. Don’t just read more or interview more. Doodle! Awaken the doodler within!

Brainstorming: From Wildness to Order

When we ask ourselves questions, the brain responds positively. The brain loves scavenger hunts. When you state a goal in the form of a question—like “How can I avoid having a high-calorie lunch today?”—the brain shifts into search mode. It comes up with all kinds of possibilities, rather than resistance.

That’s why brainstorming is so powerful. It sends our brains into search mode. And when it searches, it opens up your whole mind—even ideas that have been buried for years.

So what’s the best approach to brainstorming? Start by writing down everything you know about your topic—on a single piece of paper. Look at all your ideas, all at once. Grab a big sheet of paper—you can buy an 11-by-17 sheet at a copy center—to hold all your ideas.

Get wild. Let your thoughts run free. Use the “divergence” strategy to generate as many creative ideas as possible.

What’s the divergence strategy? Businesses use “divergence tests” in hiring to find the most creative candidates. Here’s how these tests work. Interviewers ask job candidates to list all the ways to understand a word or phrase. Narrow, literal-minded candidates list only obvious ideas; creative candidates list a number of surprising ideas.

Here’s an example: Name all the possible uses of a book. You could say books offer reading materials, cutouts for posters, doorstops, and goods to barter and sell. You might use a book as kindling, weapons, writing surfaces, cutting boards, straight edges, fans, noisemakers, blotters, coasters, Rorschach tests, and symbols. How many more uses could you find for a book?

Divergence tests offer a good way to approach brainstorming too. The more ideas you scribble on your page, the more creatively you can explore a topic.

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Make Even Analysis Suspenseful

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?

TEOW-cover

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.

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How to Create Cliffhangers and Surprise

Good writing needs cliffhangers and surprise to excite desire. By stopping the story and leaving a character’s fate in doubt, cliffhangers tease the reader. We want to know what happens next. Will the hero be safe … or get the girl … or track down the criminal … or save the business?

God is my witness. Look at the surprises that fill The Bible. God torments Job, his loyal servant. The father rushes out to greet his prodigal son. Jesus allows a prostitute to wash his feet. Jesus expels the moneychangers from the temple. When skeptics challenge Jesus to display his extraordinary powers, he refuses. These cliffhangers and surprises tease the reader.

To create a cliffhanger, create a situation where a character faces a fateful moment—and then shift the scene just before the character acts. Leave the reader guessing about what’s coming next.

A cliffhanger is a gap in knowledge. You create a problem and give the character a chance to act—but then don’t tell the reader how the character will respond. You create a puzzle and withhold a critical piece of information. You reveal some facts, raise a question, then back off. And as soon as you close one gap, you open another one.

The Idea of the Cliffhanger

The term cliffhanger originated in Thomas Hardy’s A Pair of Blue Eyes, which shows a character named Henry Knight hanging from a cliff for dear life. The suspense intensifies when the hanging man contemplates the whole history of the earth:

Knight was a geologist; and such is the supremacy of habit over occasion, as a pioneer of the thoughts of men, that at this dreadful juncture his mind found time to take in, by a momentary sweep, the varied scenes that had had their day between the creature’s epoch and his own. There is no place like a cleft landscape for bringing home such imaginings as these.

We don’t know whether Knight will fall. Pages pass before his rescuer arrives. And at that point, we don’t know whether she can save him. And so we remain, like Knight, dangling.

You can also create a series of mini-cliffhangers. Break away from the action in each paragraph. Tease the reader. Describe one moment, then back away to give background information. Describe the next moment, then break away to provide more background information.

At their best, cliffhangers bring out the complexity of the story. They raise questions, complications, doubts, and possibilities. So when you use cliffhangers, you not only engage the emotions. You engage the mind, too.

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The Power of Status Details

Simple constructions can create a dynamic, even dazzling style. Details make all the difference. When you show readers things that they would not notice on their own, and then arrange them in a pleasing way, you’ve got style.

So what kinds of details make the biggest impact on readers? Tom Wolfe answers this question in The New Journalism, an anthology he edited a generation ago. In short, it’s all about status. Wolfe defines status details as:

the recording of everyday gestures, habits, manners, customs, styles of furniture, clothing, decoration, styles of traveling, eating, keeping house, modes of behavior toward children, servants, superiors, inferiors, peers, plus the various looks, glances, poses, styles of walking and other symbolic details that might exist within a scene.

Symbolic of what?

Symbolic, generally, of people’s status life, using that term in the broad sense of the entire pattern and behavior and possessions through which people express their position in the world or what they think it is or what they hope it to be. The recording of such details is not mere embroidery in prose. It lies as close to the center of the power of realism as any other device in literature.”

So when you write, show the reader all the status details that they never noticed but, once they see them, they say, “Ahhhhhhh.” Find the 101 ways that people vie for status, consciously, but would never admit in 101 years.

 

Make those details fresh. How? Make the familiar unfamiliar . . . and the unfamiliar familiar. Bring the periphery to the center and the center to the periphery. Give your characters just enough rope to hang themselves with their self-indulgent ways . . . and just enough hope to help them find a way to make what they have meaningful. When someone shows off, look for the tic of insecurity; when someone shrinks, look for the surge of strength underneath the shell.

And have fun.

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Spinning the Wheel: Change Your Characters’ Roles

In The Elements of Writing–and in portions that appear in The Elements of Storytelling–we explore how to develop a whole cast of characters for your story.

We start with the Character Dossier, a complete inventory of each character’s traits and backgrounds. If you answer every question in the Dossier, I have found, you will create a character who is complex both internally and externally.

Then we move on to the Wheel of Character Types. The wheel contains eight universal types. We work with four pairs of opposites–hero and villain, sidekick and skeptic, mentor and tempter, and heart and mind.  These character types reflect the essential qualities or tendencies that we all contain within us. A healthy person or community manages to balance these traits; most of us struggle to maintain this balance. Your story shows how this process occurs, from scene to scene.

What comes next is even more intriguing.

I call it “Spinning the Wheel.” Once we have established our cast of characters, we imagine the characters are their polar opposites. In other words, imagine the hero as the villain, the mentor as the tempter, and so on.

Geoffrey Maguire “spun the wheel” in his bestselling novel–which became the long-running Broadway play–called Wicked that turns The Wizard of Oz on its head. In this work, the good witch Glinda is portrayed as a bullying, narrow-minded mean girl. The wicked witch of the west is the victim of Glinda and others, who mock her and exclude her because of the color of her skin.

Consider another example–that lovable rogue Falstaff.

John Falstaff plays the sidekick in Shakespeare’s Henry IV, Part I. But in Verdi’s opera, Falstaff plays the hero. Still an egotistical, irresponsible partier, Falstaff now takes center stage. In this tale, he seeks to recover his fortune by wooing a pair of wealthy matrons named Alice and Meg. When they discover Falstaff’s dishonesty, they plot revenge. Alice and Meg lead a group into the forest; dressed as spirits, they scare Falstaff. Falstaff loves a good prank, even when he’s the target. “Stupendous!” he cries when he discovers the gag. In the final scene, Falstaff joins the other characters in singing:

Jesting is a man’s vocation;
Wise is he who is jolly,
Ready to laugh upon slight provocation,
Proof against dull melancholy.
Each man makes fun of his neighbor
The merry world around:
Solace for pain and for labor
In gay laughter is found!

Say what you will about Falstaff’s irresponsible and manipulative behavior. You have to appreciate his forgiving spirit. And rather than continuing his deception, he overcomes it when he celebrates the practical joke.

Spinning the Wheel allows you to show all sides of the character. All of us have bright and dark sides. We are brainy and emotional too. We can be loyal, but also betray others. We can be wise but also surrender to temptation. make sure your characters are complex enough to surprise your readers. If they aren’t, they might not be worth writing about in the first place.

This post is adapted from The Elements of Writing, the only comprehensive, brain-based system for mastering writing in all fields.

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Tom Wolfe’s Lesson on Writing with Pizzazz

Two kinds of mindsets prevail among writers.

Style 1, the Clear and Simple School, insists that the purpose of writing is to inform and entertain as simply as possible. Partisans of this style call for short sentences, simple words, and uncomplicated messages. Forget about symbolism or erudite allusions. The Clear and Simple School is the literary version of Joe Friday: Just the facts, ma’am.

Style 2, the Rococo School, insists that clear and simple is really shallow and boring. Why not jazz up the prose? the Two Group asks. Why not create several layers of meaning, even in the simplest phrases? Why not offer the reader new discoveries with every reading of a piece?

In fact, the two schools are not as incompatible as they might seem. You see, even the most ornate prose is usually just a collection of simple phrases and ideas. When you break down a master of literary riffing, like Tom Wolfe or Hunter S. Thompson, you see a string of simplicity.

Consider this passage from Wolfe’s From Bauhaus to Our House, in which Wolfe peals with horrified glee at the foolishness of modern builders. He shows a horde of interior designers and construction crews swarming over a law office, carrying faux-classical materials to dress up the sterile modernist design.

Every great law firm in New York moves without a sputter of protest into a glass-box office building with concrete slab floors and seven-foot-ten-inch-high concrete slab ceilings and plasterboard walls and pygmy corridors-and then hires a decorator and gives him a budget of hundreds of thousands of dollars to turn these mean cubes and grids into a horizontal fantasy of a Restoration townhouse. I have seen the carpenters and cabinetmakers and search-and-acquire girls hauling in more cornices, covings, pilasters, carved moldings, and recessed domes, more linenfold paneling, more (fireless) fireplaces with festoons of fruit carved in mahogany on the mantels, more chandeliers, sconces, girandoles, chestnut leather sofas, and chiming clocks than Wren, Inigo Jones, the brothers Adam, Lord Burlington, and the Dilettanti, working in concert, could have dreamed of.

Now look at this passage, idea by simple idea:

Every great law firm in New York moves
without a sputter of protest
into a glass-box office building
with concrete slab floors
and seven-foot-ten-inch-high concrete slab ceilings and plasterboard walls and pygmy corridors
and then hires a decorator
gives him a budget of hundreds of thousands of dollars
to turn these mean cubes and grids
into a horizontal fantasy
of a Restoration townhouse.
I have seen the carpenters and cabinetmakers
and search-and-acquire girls
hauling in
more cornices, covings, pilasters, carved moldings, and recessed domes,
more linenfold paneling, more (fireless) fireplaces
with festoons of fruit
carved in mahogany on the mantels,
more chandeliers, sconces, girandoles, chestnut leather sofas, and chiming clocks
than Wren, Inigo Jones, the brothers Adam, Lord Burlington, and the Dilettanti,
working in concert,
could have dreamed of.

Each line is as simple as an Amish barn. This passage gets its energy form two things: the specificity of details and the piling-on of these details in just a couple of sentences.

When you want to pepper your prose with style, don’t think you need to be elaborate. In fact, think the opposite — that you need to be as simple as possible. If you find the specific details that others might not notice — and pile these details on top of each other, to create a collective portrait that overwhelms the reader — then you’ll wow the reader.

One warning, though. Don’t overdo it. Audiences love to be dazzled. They love the energy and the color of passages like this. But they can get overwhelmed too. Alternate this kind of linguistic pyrotechnics with a simpler, shorter style. Then you’ll have the best of Style 1 and Style 2.

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The Lede: How to Start Your Piece

Sir Laurence Olivier once said his goal, whenever he walked out on stage, was to seduce every woman in the audience. Whether he played Hamlet or Macbeth or Richard III, he wanted to draw his audience into an intense and sensual relationship. And he did not want to wait.

In this too-busy world, the writer needs to seduce the reader right away. If you do not lure the reader, he will go elsewhere. Every lead should somehow make the reader want to turn to a friend and say, “Hey, get a load of this.”

Whether you write a newspaper article, a short story or novel, a memoir or historical story—or even an academic argument about presidential power or the psychology of twins—you need to draw the reader into your piece. You cannot expect a reader to want to read just because you want to write. As Tom Wolfe asks, “Why should the reader be expected to just lie flat and let these people come tromping through his mind as if it were a subway turnstile?”

Leads can be as short as a single word or several paragraphs. Depending on the subject, audience, and medium, you will have more or less space to bring your reader into the story.

A Simple Trick

Fred Strebeigh, a  writing teacher at Yale, gives his students an essay and asks students to mark the end of the introduction with a slash. Some put the mark after a sentence, others after a paragraph, and others still after seven or eight paragraphs. But most students usually agree on a place where the story’s questions and themes have been laid out. There is no right answer, but the exercise shows his hard it can be to say enough but not too much, quickly but not too quickly.

Hook the Reader Right Away

How much time do you have to seduce the reader? Media experts say TV commercials have only two or three seconds to grab the viewer. People giving business presentations—before a captive audience!—only have a couple minutes to engage the audience. Donna Britt, a columnist for The Washington Post, says: “I have a couple of paragraphs, at most, to convince my reader: You don’t know everything you need to know about this. Given that, it’s really important to start off with a bang.”

Make it a Preview

A good lede requires more than a big come-on. You also need to preview the story or argument. Read the first lines of The Glass Castle, by Jeannette Walls:

I was sitting in a taxi, wondering if I had overdressed for the evening, when I looked out the window and saw Mom rooting through a Dumpster. It was just after dark. A blustery March wind whipped the steam coming out of the manholes, and people hurried along the sidewalks with their collars turned up. I was stuck in traffic two blocks from the party where I was heading.

Want to read more? Of course you do. Walls brings you directly into the story. Using concrete images, she puts you in a particular place (a cab on a city street) and introduces you to a compelling character (her mother). She gives you the sensual details you need to feel the moment (“blustery March wind,” “steam,” collars turned up”). And she tells you something that demands an explanation (why her mother roots through a dumpster).

In sixty-nine simple words, Walls either reveals or teases us about the five W’s and one H—who (she and her mom), what (mother-daughter estrangement, eccentric behavior), when (an ordinary night), where (in the city), why and how (she will tell us—we hope). Just three sentences into a 288-page book, she has given us a cliffhanger that makes us want to read more.

Writers get in trouble when they open with an anecdote that does not explore the story’s core question. If you open with lush details about a person or place, or if you open with a vivid story, that might not be enough. You need to show, somehow, why these characters, places, or events matter. As Chekhov said, “One must not put a loaded gun on the stage if no one is thinking of firing it.”

Beyond the Five W’s

In the old days, before 24-hour news cycles, reporters learned to present the five W’s in every opening paragraph. The reader needed a quick overview of the story. The classic formula delivered. Nowadays, readers need a different kind of lead. They still need the five W’s, but they need an angle on old information.

Whether writing a hard-news story for a newspaper or more complex lead for a magazine or book, the goal remains the same. Think of the opening statement, the thesis, as a promise or a contract. The bargain is simple: In exchange for the reader’s time, the writer will deliver important arguments and enough evidence to prove those arguments. The reader deserves to know what she is getting into. She deserves to know whether the expedition is worth her while, and she deserves the information she needs to hold the writer accountable.

Read These Winning Leads

Read these leads from recent winners of the Pulitzer Prize:

Eric Newhouse (Great Falls Tribune in Montana) on the pervasiveness of alcohol in American society: “’When they put my baby on my breast, I knew something was wrong, so I lifted my head to look at him,’ Maza Weya said of her newborn. ‘I could smell the alcohol on his breath,’ she said. ‘My baby was born drunk.’ After years of drinking everything she could get her hands on, Maza Weya has managed to become sober. Her son isn’t so lucky.”

Gene Weingarten (The Washington Post) on how the public responds to a virtuoso violinist working as a street musician: “He emerged from the Metro at the L’Enfant Plaza Station and positioned himself against a wall beside a trash basket. By most measures, he was nondescript: a youngish white man in jeans, a long-sleeved T-shirt and a Washington Nationals baseball cap. From a small case, he removed a violin. Placing the open case at his feet, he shrewdly threw in a few dollars and pocket change as seed money, swiveled it to face pedestrian traffic, and began to play.”

Julia Keller (The Chicago Tribune) on the awful power of a tornado: “Ten seconds. Count it: One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten. Ten seconds was roughly how long it lasted. Nobody had a stopwatch, nothing can be proven definitively, but that’s the consensus. The tornado that swooped through Utica at 6:09 p.m. April 20 took some 10 seconds to do what it did. Ten seconds is barely a flicker. It’s a long, deep breath. It’s no time at all. It’s an eternity.

Rick Bragg (The New York Times) on the rebuilding of New Orleans: “The little shotgun house is peeling and the Oldsmobile in front is missing a rear bumper, but Larry Bannock can glimpse glory through the eye of his needle. For almost a year he has hunkered over his sewing table, joining beads, velvet, rhinestones, sequins, feathers and ostrich plumes into a Mardi Gras costume that is part African, part Native American.”

Kenneth Weiss (Los Angeles Times) on the pervasive pollution of the oceans: “The fireweed began each spring as tufts of hairy growth and spread across the seafloor fast enough to cover a football field in an hour. When fishermen touched it, their skin broke out in searing welts. Their lips blistered and peeled. Their eyes burned and swelled shut. Water that splashed from their nets spread the inflammation to their legs and torsos. ‘It comes up like little boils,’ said Randolph Van Dyk, a fisherman whose powerful legs are pocked with scars. ‘At nighttime, you can feel them burning. I tried everything to get rid of them. Nothing worked.’”

Diana Sugg (The Baltimore Sun) on the tragedy of stillborn children: “That chilly night in late October, the delivery room was so quiet. The doctor wrapped the 8-pound, 21-inch newborn girl in a pink-and-blue striped cotton blanket, pulled a matching cap over her brown hair and gently passed her to her mother. Margarete Heber cradled the baby. In the dim light, Heber could see the infant had her dark eyes, turned-up nose and distinctive chin. Perfect, except she was tinged blue. She had died just hours before she was born. Her birth would be her good-bye. “I am sorry,” Heber whispered, kissing her stillborn daughter on the forehead. “I am so, so sorry.”

Each of these leads puts the reader in a specific place. Usually, that place offers telling clues about the story’s characters and struggles. Often, that place shows a contradiction, which introduces a story of unexpected success or failure.

To test a lead, read it to someone and ask: “Now that know the topic, what else do you want to know?” If the listener cares and asks lots of questions, the lead probably works. Those questions can actually create a workable outline. When you frame an issue the right way, everything else follows naturally.

The Art of the Long Lead

Sit back for a few moments and read his 1997 Sports Illustrated profile of a family of tightrope walkers:

Consider your sister-in-law. Picture your whole family round the dining room table or the holidays, and start with your sister-in-law as she’s spooning the gravy. Think of all her strengths, her good intentions, as well as all the things that make you want to stick your fork into your thigh.

Look, I know you don’t know me from Adam—but just indulge me for a minute before the showstopper comes on. Turn to your brother now. You’re studying him as he drains his third beer, thinking of all the stupid arguments you’ve had, all the quirks of his that have made your teeth grind since you were kids.

Now your spouse. Don’t worry, she’s oblivious; she’s yapping to her sister. Consider her moods, her hormones, her chocolate addiction—the whole works. Got it?

Now close your eyes and imagine this. Imagine all of you at that table—brothers, sisters, in-laws—forming a human pyramid. Seven of you, stacked up in three tiers, except you’re not on the ground. You’re on a wire the width of your ring finger…three stories above the ground…the person on top standing on a chair…and no safety net below. To survive, your family has to synchronize every step and walk from one end of the 34-foot wire to the other. Just one failure to accommodate one of the niggling little pushes or pulls from that sister-in-law, one old jealousy between you and your brother, one bad night with your wife—hell, one cough or sneeze—and it’s coffins for all of you.

One more thing. You have to do this not once, but seven days a week, for two years, all over the country. Traveling and eating and sleeping and dressing together, hating one another and loving one another and handing one another your lives again and again and…. Look, the Guerreros are almost ready now.

LADEEZ and GENTLEMEN! You are about to witness CIRCUS HISTORY! Fifty years after the Wallenda family ASTONISHED the world with an UNPRECEDENTED seven-man pyramid on the high wire….

I read this lead to a writing class at Yale and asked students what else they wanted to know. They shouted out all kinds of questions: How did the Guerreros get involved in this business? What are their family feuds? Anyone ever get killed? How much do they make? How do they do it? And more. Guess what? The students’ questions formed a perfect outline of Gary Smith’s piece.

That is the sign of a great lead—when people want to know more, and they have a sense of what additional information they get by reading on.

Gary Smith’s lead does it all. He brings us into the world of the story—the circus, with all its odd characters and mysteries. He shows us something about the dizzying world of the characters—that high wire is three stories above the ground! He shows us something human—do they actually bicker? He gives us suspense—will they fall?

Are you ready to read more? I am.

The best leads combine vivid characters, conflict, and suspense about something that matters. Whether writing about a presidential assassination or a feature story about acrobats, you need to give the reader useful information and an emotional stake in the story.

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The Power of Parables and Fairy Tales

The master of suspense, Alfred Hitchcock, often stepped away from the movie set to refer to a small guide called “Plotto.” The guide lists three sets of 92 ideas that can be mixed and matched to create 1,462 permutations of stories, each with a beginning, middle, and end. Plotto’s plot points were elemental, involving love and death, money and fame, and scheming and revenge.

Hitch might just as well have used “Grimm’s Fairy Tales,” for “Plotto” gave Hitchcock a connect-the-dots formula for writing modern, adult fairy tales. As Marina Warner shows in Once Upon a Time, few things in the human experience run deeper than fairy tales. In enchanted forests and other fantastical worlds, flat characters live outrageous lives, cutting to the core of human fears and desires. Fairytale plots and characters, in fact, offer the tropes that can be found in just about every story we tell.

All Stories Are Mashups

Stories are really mashups of set pieces. The stories remain the same; only the particulars vary.

In fact, Christopher Booker argues that there are only seven plotsthe quest, rags to riches, overcoming the monster, homecoming, comedy, tragedy, and rebirth. Others argue that there is only one plot–man’s desire to return to a state of innocence or unity, as expressed by the story of Adam and Even in the Garden of Eden.

Fairy Tales

In Once Upon a Time, Marina Warner shows that few things in human experience run deeper than fairy tales. In enchanted forests and other fantastical worlds, flat characters live outrageous lives, cutting to the core of human fears and desires. Fairy-tale plots and characters, in fact, feature the tropes that can be found in just about every story we tell. Warner surveys centuries of fairy tales and academic research about them. She ties these tales to virtually every aspect of culture — mythology, art, music, movies, games, and psychology. We need them, she says, to make sense of the world.

On one level, she notes, fairy tales seem childish and unworthy of attention. The basic rules of physics are suspended. Fairies and monsters of all descriptions lurk, using magical powers to seduce, fool, metamorphose, taunt, torture, rape, maim, and kill. Sexuality, jealousy, and revenge animate everyone, even innocent girls bringing picnic baskets to dear old grandmothers. Enchanted trees, streams, and inanimate objects come to life, producing tabloid-style gore.

Gruesome and Extreme

Fairy tales come steeped in gruesome and explicit imagery. In contrast to today’s politically-correct sensibilities, folk stories revel in death, torture, sexual perversion, and betrayal. But one tale by the Brothers Grimm went too far.

In “Playing Butchers,” a man slaughters a pig as his children watch. Afterward, one child says to another: “[Y]ou be the little pig, and I’ll be the butcher.” The possibility of copycats horrified 19th-century Germans. Wilhelm Grimm argued that the story taught a valuable lesson about make-believe and real life. But no matter. The story was cut from the anthology.

Fairy tales also speak to everyday terrors as well as hellacious monsters. “The Boy Who Wanted to Learn How to Shudder,” for example, “passes unscathed through a series of fearsome and ghoulish tests, and never shrinks: hanged men from a gallows, a haunted castle, a game of skittles with skulls and bones.” But when the princess spills a bucket of minnows onto a bed, he freaks out. Thus the ultimate lesson and role of fairy tales. Sometimes it’s the trifles that touch us most profoundly.

The Power of Imagination (and Projection)

So much perverse action fills these tales that the characters themselves are not rounded but mere vessels for wild imagination. “There is no psychology in a fairy tale,” notes Philip Pullman, the British author of fantasy novels. “The characters have no interior life. . . . One might almost say that the characters in a fairy tale are not actually conscious.” With the characters lacking depth, the readers project their own lives — and fears and fantasies — onto them.

If fairy tales seem childish, they often embed dangerous adult messages. The more fantastical a story, Warner writes, the greater the opportunity to take on serious issues — and to confront powerful forces without retribution. Dissidents from Christ to Havel understand the power of parables, coded with messages about morality and power. These tales offer “protective camouflage” to speak truth to power. Kings and rich people alike are unmasked as petty and treacherous.

Confronting Evil

Classic tales like “Little Red Riding Hood,” “Bluebeard,” “Cinderella,” “Hansel and Gretel,” and “Snow White” all depict evil beings in charge of isolated, enchanted worlds. The victims’ innocence dooms them, until someone comes to the rescue. But even when the world is set right again, the world’s brutality never leaves consciousness. Fairy tales accept that life is tragic, horribly unfair.

Warner examines the French story of Bluebeard, a wealthy aristocrat shunned by society. Bluebeard tells his young wife that he must take a trip. He gives her a key that unlocks doors to his chateau’s many treasures — then warns her against opening one particular door. Naturally, she can’t resist. When she opens the door she discovers an ocean of blood and Bluebeard’s former wives, murdered, hanging on hooks. In the end her brothers rescue her by killing Bluebeard.

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The Enduring (And Sometimes Creepy) Power of Fairy Tales

This originally appeared in The Boston Globe on December 30, 2014.

Fairy tales come steeped in gruesome and explicit imagery. In contrast to today’s politically-correct sensibilities, folk stories revel in death, torture, sexual perversion, and betrayal. But one tale by the Brothers Grimm went too far.

In “Playing Butchers,” a man slaughters a pig as his children watch. Afterward, one child says to another: “[Y]ou be the little pig, and I’ll be the butcher.” The possibility of copycats horrified 19th-century Germans. Wilhelm Grimm argued that the story taught a valuable lesson about make-believe and real life. But no matter. The story was cut from the anthology.

In Once Upon a Time, Marina Warner shows that few things in human experience run deeper than fairy tales. In enchanted forests and other fantastical worlds, flat characters live outrageous lives, cutting to the core of human fears and desires. Fairy-tale plots and characters, in fact, feature the tropes that can be found in just about every story we tell.

In this lively, scholarly work, Warner surveys centuries of fairy tales and academic research about them. She ties these tales to virtually every aspect of culture — mythology, art, music, movies, games, and psychology. We need them, she says, to make sense of the world.

On one level, she notes, fairy tales seem childish and unworthy of attention. The basic rules of physics are suspended. Fairies and monsters of all descriptions lurk, using magical powers to seduce, fool, metamorphose, taunt, torture, rape, maim, and kill. Sexuality, jealousy, and revenge animate everyone, even innocent girls bringing picnic baskets to dear old grandmothers. Enchanted trees, streams, and inanimate objects come to life, producing tabloid-style gore.

So much perverse action fills these tales that the characters themselves are not rounded but mere vessels for wild imagination. “There is no psychology in a fairy tale,” notes Philip Pullman, the British author of fantasy novels. “The characters have no interior life. . . . One might almost say that the characters in a fairy tale are not actually conscious.” With the characters lacking depth, the readers project their own lives — and fears and fantasies — onto them.

If fairy tales seem childish, they often embed dangerous adult messages. The more fantastical a story, Warner writes, the greater the opportunity to take on serious issues — and to confront powerful forces without retribution. Dissidents from Christ to Havel understand the power of parables, coded with messages about morality and power. These tales offer “protective camouflage” to speak truth to power. Kings and rich people alike are unmasked as petty and treacherous.

Classic tales like “Little Red Riding Hood,” “Bluebeard,” “Cinderella,” “Hansel and Gretel,” and “Snow White” all depict evil beings in charge of isolated, enchanted worlds. The victims’ innocence dooms them, until someone comes to the rescue. But even when the world is set right again, the world’s brutality never leaves consciousness. Fairy tales accept that life is tragic, horribly unfair.

On one level, she notes, fairy tales seem childish and unworthy of attention. The basic rules of physics are suspended. Fairies and monsters of all descriptions lurk, using magical powers to seduce, fool, metamorphose, taunt, torture, rape, maim, and kill. Sexuality, jealousy, and revenge animate everyone, even innocent girls bringing picnic baskets to dear old grandmothers. Enchanted trees, streams, and inanimate objects come to life, producing tabloid-style gore.

So much perverse action fills these tales that the characters themselves are not rounded but mere vessels for wild imagination. “There is no psychology in a fairy tale,” notes Philip Pullman, the British author of fantasy novels. “The characters have no interior life. . . . One might almost say that the characters in a fairy tale are not actually conscious.” With the characters lacking depth, the readers project their own lives — and fears and fantasies — onto them.

If fairy tales seem childish, they often embed dangerous adult messages. The more fantastical a story, Warner writes, the greater the opportunity to take on serious issues — and to confront powerful forces without retribution. Dissidents from Christ to Havel understand the power of parables, coded with messages about morality and power. These tales offer “protective camouflage” to speak truth to power. Kings and rich people alike are unmasked as petty and treacherous.

Classic tales like “Little Red Riding Hood,” “Bluebeard,” “Cinderella,” “Hansel and Gretel,” and “Snow White” all depict evil beings in charge of isolated, enchanted worlds. The victims’ innocence dooms them, until someone comes to the rescue. But even when the world is set right again, the world’s brutality never leaves consciousness. Fairy tales accept that life is tragic, horribly unfair.

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The Gettysburg Variations

On this date in 1863, Abraham Lincoln delivered the Gettysburg Address, the greatest oration in American history.

In 262 words, Lincoln gave fresh meaning to the Civil War and redefined America. He honored the nation’s founders and the soldiers who fought on both sides of the Civil War. He looked forward to the day when the war would end and America could return to its true mission: expanding liberty and equality for a growing nation.

The Gettysburg Address has become a model of rhetoric for its brevity, generosity, and vision of redemption. Lincoln understood that rhetoric must speak to both mind and heart. He understood that you need to say as much as necessary, but no more. He also understood that moments of ceremony and commemoration deserve more elevated prose than, say, a memo.

Back in the 1950s, a journalist named Oliver Jensen used the address to poke fun at President Dwight Eisenhower’s more prosaic manner of speaking.

To honor Lincoln, we present his speech in its entirety, along with the Powell spoof and a simple, just-the-facts version that we’re glad Lincoln did not give.

Lincoln’s Version

Fourscore and seven years ago our fathers brought forth on this continent a new nation, conceived in liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal. Now we are engaged in a great civil war, testing whether that nation, or any nation so conceived and so dedicated, can long endure. We are met on a great battlefield of that war. We have come to dedicate a portion of that field as a final resting-place for those who here gave their lives that this nation might live. It is altogether fitting and proper that we should do this. But, in a larger sense, we cannot dedicate…we cannot consecrate…we cannot hallow…this ground. The brave men, living and dead, who struggled here, have consecrated it far above our poor power to add or detract. The world will little note nor long remember what we say here, but it can never forget what they did here. It is for us, the living, rather, to be dedicated here to the unfinished work which they who fought here have thus far so nobly advanced. It is rather for us to be here dedicated to the great task remaining before us…that from these honored dead we take increased devotion to that cause for which they gave the last full measure of devotion; that we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain; that this nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom; and that government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth.

The Eisenhower Spoof

I haven’t checked these figures but 87 years ago, I think it was, a number of individuals organized a governmental set-up here in this country, I believe it covered certain Eastern areas, with this idea they were following up based on a sort of national independence arrangement and the program that every individual is just as good as every other individual. Well, now, of course, we are dealing with this big difference of opinion, civil disturbance you might say, although I don’t like to appear to take sides or name any individuals, and the point is naturally to check up, by actual experience in the field, to see whether any governmental set-up with a basis like the one I was mentioning has any validity and find out whether that dedication by those early individuals will pay off in lasting values and things of that kind. . . . But if you look at the over-all picture of this, we can’t pay any tribute – we can’t sanctify this area, you might say – we can’t hallow according to whatever individual creeds or faiths or sort of religious outlooks are involved like I said about this particular area. It was those individuals themselves, including the enlisted men, very brave individuals, who have given the religious character to the area. The way I see it, the rest of the world will not remember any statements issued here but it will never forget how these men put their shoulders to the wheel and carried this idea down the fairway. Now frankly, our job, the living individuals’ job here is to pick up the burden and sink the putt they made these big efforts here for. It is our job to get on with the assignment – and from these deceased fine individuals to take extra inspiration, you could call it, for the same theories about the set-up for which they made such a big contribution. We have to make up our minds right here and now, as I see it, that they didn’t put out all that blood, perspiration and – well – that they didn’t just make a dry run here, and that all of us here, under God, that is, the God of our choice, shall beef up this idea about freedom and liberty and those kind of arrangements, and that government of all individuals, by all individuals and for the individuals, shall not pass out of the world-picture.

A Vanilla Version

Eight-seven years ago, rebels declared the start of a new nation. The mission: foster liberty and equality. A civil war now threatens that nation (and others like it). We’re here to honor the dead, which is appropriate. But are we good enough? No! The fighters already did it. Nobody will remember what we say; everyone will remember what they did. Now we have to win the war, so it wasn’t just a big waste. Let’s hope the nation can get a fresh start creating a more democratic system.

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Writers on Writing: Books for Your Library

Writing needs its own Mount Rushmore–a single place where you can get the very best advice on storytelling, mechanics, and more. Toward that end, consider these fine guides:

Marie Arena, editor, The Writing Life: Writers on How They Think and Work (New York: Public Affairs, 2003). Five- to ten-page essays on all aspects of writing—routines, research, creativity, and style. Authors in this anthology include Francine DuPlessix Gray, Joyce Carol Oates, Scott Turow, John Edgar Wideman, Ray Bradbury, Edmund Morris, Umberto Eco, Cynthia Ozick, Carl Sagan and Kay Redfield Jamison.

Will Blythe, editor, Why I Write: Thoughts on the Craft of Fiction (Boston: Little, Brown and Company, 1998): Selections from a New York Times essay series by some of the most important authors in the world.

Robert Boynton, editor, The New New Journalism: Conversations with America’s Best Nonfiction Writers On Their Craft (New York: Vintage, 2005: Interviews on every aspect on nonfiction writing — research, interviewing, writing, rewriting, and style — from the best practitioners working today.

Roy Peter Clark, Writing Tools: 50 Essential Strategies for Every Writer (New York: Little, Brown, 2006): A terrific store of tips on the mechanics of writing, tricks to give writing greater meaning and life, strategies of storytelling, and the habits of good writers.

Malcolm Cowley, editor, Writers at Work: The Paris Review Interviews (New York: The Viking Press, 1958). Tricks and wisdom from the great men and women of American letters, including William Faulkner, Robert Penn Warren, Truman Capote, and Thornton Wilder.

Stephen Denning, The Leader’s Guide to Storytelling: Mastering the Art and Discipline of Business Narrative (San Francisco: Jossey-Bass, 2005): Inspired by Robert McKee, a guide to business writing that helps lift writing beyond dreary memos and PowerPoint.

Lajos Egri, The Art of Dramatic Writing: Its Basis in Creative Interpretation of Human Motives (New York: Simon and Schuster, 1942): A classic of playwriting, with a focus on characters and conflict.

Angus Fletcher, Storythinking: The New Science of Narrative Intelligence (Columbia University Press, 2023): A neuroscientist, college professor, and Hollywood story guru explains why the brain insists on breaking the rules, creating conflict, and shifting scenes. See my interview here.

Angus Fletcher, Wonderworks: Literary Invention and the Science of Stories (New York: Simon and Schuster, 2021): A survey of 25 key moments when storytellers broke the rules and invented new ways of telling and understanding stories. Don’t bother bringing a highlighter. Everything in this book is golden. See my interview here.

Jon Franklin, Writing for Story: Craft Secrets of Dramatic Nonfiction By a Two-Time Pulitzer Prize Winner (New York: Plume, 1994). Mechanics and art from an award-winning newspaper reporter.

Elizabeth George, Write Away: One Novelist’s Approach to Fiction and the Writing Life (London: Hodder, 2004). A practical guide, from research to writing and rewriting, from a British master of suspense.

Diana Hacker, A Pocket Style Manual (Boston: Bedford, 2004): A quick reference book for all aspects grammar and style.

Constance Hale, Sin and Syntax: How to Craft Wickedly Effective Prose (New York: Broadway Books, 1999): A lively book that shows how to make writing zippier and more telling at the same time.

Ted Kooser and Steve Cox, Writing Brave and Free: Encouraging Words For People Who Want To Start Writing (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 2006). The former U.S. Poet Laureate and his editor provide a concise guide to every aspect of writing, from composing sentences to publishing books and articles.

Mark Kramer and Wendy Call, editors, Telling True Stories: A Nonfiction Writers’ Guide from the Nieman Foundation at Harvard University (New York: Doubleday, 1994) : A collection of talks and commentary from the Nieman Foundation’s annual conferences.

Anne Lamott, Bird By Bird: Some Instructions on Writing And Life (New York: Doubleday, 1994) : An intimate story showing how you, too, can use the best of your right and left brains.

Norman Mailer, The Spooky Art: Thoughts on Writing (New York: Random House, 2003). Everything that the late know-it-all knew about writing.

Scott McCloud, Understanding Comics (Washington: DC Comics, 1999): A comic book explaining how storytelling can merge words and images to tell a more compelling story. Amazing insights about how the mind works, how stories unfold, and how meaning shifts with different formats and perspectives.

Robert McKee, Story: Substance, Structure, Style, and the Principles of Screenwriting (New York: ReganBooks, 1997): A classic work by Hollywood’s most famous “script doctor.” McKee understands the eternal principles of storytelling. Written for film scriptwriters, the book has inspired countless of novelists, nonfiction writers, business people, and more.

Louis T. Milic, editor, Stylists on Style: A Handbook With Selections and Analysis (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1969) : Great passages from great writers, with very useful commentary.

Larry W. Phillips, Ernest Hemingway on Writing (New York: Simon and Schuster, 1984). Passages about writing from the late novelist’s books, interviews, and letters.

Steve Pressfield, The War of Art: Break Through the Blocks and Win Your Inner Creative Battles (New York: Warner Books, 2002): A Zen guide to dealing with the emotional trials of writing.

Dan Roam, The Back of the Napkin: Solving Problems and Selling Ideas with Pictures (New York: Portfolio, 2008): Using simple graphics to tell a story that communicates complex ideas.

Norman Sims and Mark Kramer, editors, Literary Journalism: A New Collection of the Best American Nonfiction (New York: Ballantine Books, 1995): An anthology of great narrative nonfiction, with strong commentary.

Sol Stein, Stein on Writing (New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1995): The basic of storytelling.

William Strunk Jr. and E.B. White, with illustrations by Maira Kalman, The Elements of Style (New York: The Penguin Press, 2005) : The classic guide, updated with whimsical art.

Francis-Noel Thomas and Mark Turner, Clear and Simple as the Truth: Writing Classic Prose (Princeton, 1994): A detailed explanation of classic prose—briefly, writing that engages the writer and reader in a one-on-one conversation—with a “museum” of classic examples of the classic style.

John Truby, The Anatomy of Genres: How Story Forms Explain the Way the World Works (New York: Picador, 2023): A work of genius. A comprehensive guide to the 14 genres for storytelling, with detailed breakdowns of the “beats” in each. See my interview with Truby here.

John Truby, The Anatomy of Story: 22 Steps to Becoming a Master Storyteller (Ferrar Staus and Giroux, 2008): A landmark analysis of the essential elements of top-level stories. Essential for any storyteller’s library. See my interview with Truby here.

Joseph M. Williams, with Gregory G. Colomb, Style: Toward Clarity and Grace (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1990): The comprehensive guide to “practical” writing.

William Zinsser, On Writing Well: The Classic Guide to Writing Nonfiction (Collins, 2006). The North Star for generations of writers. If nothing else, read the chapter on clutter. If you have not read it yet, your writing will improve dramatically, right away.

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How to Turn Clichés into Fresh Metaphors

A Facebook friend posted an image of Marc-Andre Cliche, who plays center for the Colorado Avalanche of the National Hockey League.

My friend quipped: “You know he gives 110 percent.”

Ah, sports cliches. As we settle into the baseball’s World Series, we are surrounded by cliches. Hundreds of reporters have descend on Kansas City and San Francisco to report every movement and utterance of the event. Consider this quick sampler of quotes after Game 3 of the Fall Classic:

“This is the way our games have gone all year,” Yost said, adding: “It’s not me doing it. It’s the guys that we put out there that are doing it.”

“Whatever he does, we go with it,” Cain said of his team’s manager. “We just try to go out and get it done.” (The New York Times)

“We’ve got to keep grinding. It’s going to be a tough series,” said Royals center fielder Jarrod Dyson. (ESPN)

“Our bullpen’s been lights out. We’ve got 100 percent confidence in them guys getting their job done,” Dyson said. (ESPN)

“It was a hard-fought game on both sides, like everybody probably anticipated,” Hudson said. “We just came up a little short. They just did the little things they needed to beat us.” (ESPN)

“It’s the reason why they’re here,” Giants manager Bruce Bochy said. “You get late in the ballgame and you’re going to face those guys, you have your work cut out . . . I don’t know if there’s a better bullpen.” (Boston Globe)

“Everybody is still confident,” Hudson said. “We have a lot of guys that have been on this stage before and understand what it takes to win. We’ll come out tomorrow and give it our best shot, try to even this thing up.” (New York Daily News)

“We trust the core. We trust the process,” Giants right fielder Hunter Pence said. “Vogelsong’s an outstanding big-game pitcher. [We’re] looking forward to going out there and playing behind him.” (New York Post)

“We’ve got to relax. We’ve got to play our game. We’ve got to execute pitches, we’ve got to play defense, we’ve got to get timely hitting. That’s how we’ve won. That’s what got us here.” (USA Today)

None of this means anything. It’s a waste of everyone’s time–that of the players, managers, coaches, and writers and editors, as well as the readers.

What to do?

Try this: Only use quotations when they add value to the story–when they offer an insight or authority that you cannot otherwise find. Rather than just scribbling the usual post-game comments, keep asking questions until you get something worthwhile. Maybe interview other players or coaches. Or just do without quotes. Maybe go a little deeper on the game description–with, say, a description of a major play or situation. Observe more intently. See what the reader doesn’t have the eyes or time to see.

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About

El•e•ment \’e-lə-mənt\ n [ME, fr. AF & L; AF, fr. L elementum] (13c)

1. one of the parts of something that makes it work, or a quality that makes someone or something effective: the heating element of a toaster.
Ex.: Having a second income is an important element for most homebuyers.They had all the elements of a great team.
2. in chemistry and physics, a substance that cannot be reduced to smaller chemical parts and that has an atom different from that of any other substance.

The beauty of any great thing—in nature, in people, in the arts and crafts, in science—lies in how simple elements can be combined in different ways to create something original.

In nature, scientists have identified 118 chemical elements that serve as the basic units of our world. An element is a pure substance consisting of one type of atom. It cannot be broken down into a smaller part or transformed into another element. It’s basic, fundamental, core. ,Elements—which fall into the three categories of metals, metalloids, and nonmetals—are combined with each other to create compounds. Water is a compound, made up of two molecules hydrogen and one molecule of oxygen. Chemical elements and compounds combine in countless ways to create everything we experience in the world, from the vitamin C in our oranges to the metal in our cars.

We can find basic elements—core building blocks—in all our endeavors. An artist’s composition includes a number of elements, from the form of a composition of an image to the colors used to represent that image. A photograph’s elements include light, shutter speed, and distance. An engine’s elements include cylinders, pistons, valves, rods, crankshafts, and rings. An economy’s elements include producers, commodities, sellers, buyers, money, and prices.

You get the idea. We can reduce everything in life to its basic elements. When we understand the elements, we can deploy them to create something bigger and more complex.

Welcome to The Elements of Writing.

The Mighty Pinker Has Struck Out

Somewhere, right now, someone is bemoaning the decline of writing. Grammar scolds lay down the law on the “proper” ways to speak and write. Business executives complain about the poor quality of emails. Government bureaucrats wade through piles of regulatory documents. And teachers grouse that texting and social media make their jobs impossible.

Statistics support the complaints. By one account, American businesses suffer $204 billion in lost productivity every year because of poor writing. Businesses and colleges must run remedial courses on writing. But writing programs—in schools and companies—usually make little difference. Less than half of the 2,300 students tracked in a four-year study said their writing had improved in college.

To the rescue comes Steven Pinker, the rock-star language maven from Harvard. Pinker is celebrated for his friendly and lucid style. The subtext of his writing might be: Here, let me translate what those eggheads are saying—and how you should think about these academic debates.

Pinker seems the perfect candidate to write a definitive writing guide. After writing two scholarly tomes early in his career, he has become a popularizer of intellectual ideas. In The Language Instinct, The Blank Slate, and How the Mind Works, Pinker offers erudite tours of the mysteries of thinking and acting. In The Better Angels of Our Nature, he shows that the world is becoming a safer, less violent place.

Alas, Pinker fails. His guide The Sense of Style is a mess. He does a decent job explaining “classic style,” in which the writer “orients the reader’s gaze,” pointing out interesting or important things in a conversational style. But he gets lost in a maze of academic exercises and random prescriptions. For 62 pages Pinker expounds on abstract models for analyzing writing. For 117 pages, he renders judgment on a random assortment of quarrels on word usage. Very seldom does Pinker actually explain how to write well, sentence by sentence and paragraph by paragraph.

The manual we need

A good writing manual would begin with the two essential elements of writing: the sentence and the paragraph. Hemingway once noted that “one true sentence” was the foundation of all good writing. The good news is that anyone, with the right basic skills, can write that one true sentence—and then a second, a third, and so on.

So where is Pinker’s advice on composing a sentence? Nowhere and everywhere. Pinker jumps from topic to topic—from the minutiae of grammar to disagreements over word meanings—but he never shows how to craft good sentences for all occasions. When he explores the way sentences get tangled, the dazzled/befuddled reader has no real foundation for the discussion. It’s as if someone described the infield fly rule in baseball without first explaining that pitchers throw, hitters swing, and fielders catch.

Maybe Pinker finds the basics too, well, basic. Maybe he doesn’t want to dwell on the simple subject-verb-object structure because, well, it’s just so obvious. But until we master these basics, we can’t understand more complicated structures—how to build complex and complicated sentences, how modifiers work, how to identify subjects, how to connect ideas, and when to break rules. Since we lack that basic point of reference, Pinker’s more esoteric explorations often get lost in the shuffle.

What about paragraphs? Forget it. “Many writing guides provide detailed instructions on how to build a paragraph,” Pinker says. “But the instructions are misguided, because there is no such thing as a paragraph.” It’s true that the paragraph offers “a visual bookmark that allows the reader to pause.” It’s also true, if you want to understand writing with Pinker’s tree analogy, that paragraph breaks “generally coincide with the divisions between branches in the discourse tree.”

But that’s a copout. We can do better. Try this working definition: A paragraph is a statement and development of a single idea.

All too often, when we first begin writing a passage, as Pinker notes, our thoughts spill out, one after another. We begin with one thought and then, without developing it, jump to another thought. And so paragraphs become jumbles of thoughts, some developed and some not. After a while, we hit the return key. We think we have written a paragraph just because we have created, as Pinker says, a brief pause.

To avoid catch-all paragraphs, you should be able to identify the ONE idea that you’re developing in that paragraph. To make sure you express and develop just one idea in each paragraph, label each idea. If a paragraph contains two ideas, break it up in to two paragraphs—or get rid of the extra idea if it’s not germane to the piece.

Most strong writers over the past century—Ernest Hemingway, Scott Fitzgerald, Eudora Welty, Gay Talese, Elizabeth Gilbert, Laura Hillenbrand—follow the one-idea rule. Each paragraph is a mini-essay, a complete expression of an idea, which follows the previous idea and sets up the next.

Complicating matters

How does Pinker fail so badly? Quite simply, he falls victim to the “curse of knowledge,” which he describes in the book’s second chapter. Immersed for decades in academic writings on neurology, evolution, and linguistics, Pinker takes simple questions and turns them into complex academic discourses. Few if any writers—students, business people, journalists, or even academics—will get clear direction from Pinker about turning their muddy writing into clear, vivid prose.

Consider the following sentence: “The bridge to the islands are crowded.” Can you spot the error? It’s simple, really. Since “bridge” is the subject, the verb should be the singular “is,” not the plural “are.” Alas, since the verb follows “the islands,” too many writers make the verb plural.

How does Pinker analyze this sentence? He sees it as a tree, with various branches and branches of branches. To analyze the sentence, he offers a diagram that looks like strands of spaghetti (some cooked, some raw) thrown together. It’s a sight to behold: curved and straight lines, arrows, ovals, a triangle, with some (but not all) of the words in the sentence under study.

I’ve shown the image to friends and colleagues and they shake their heads. “Above my pay grade,” one said.

As a linguistic play structure, I suppose, Pinker’s tree diagrams might offer some amusement. But must we make matters so complicated?

Here’s an easier way. Find the subject and verb. Put brackets around modifying phrases (usually prepositional phrases). Therefore:

The bridge [to the islands] is crowded.

By bracketing the subject’s modifier—the prepositional phrase “to the islands”—you can see the core structure: “The bridge is crowded.”

Let’s take another example—Pinker’s concept of “the gap.” Look at the following sentence:

The impact, which theories of economics predict are bound to be felt sooner or later, could be enormous.

To get this passage right, Pinker suggests inserting a “gap” into the middle of the sentence, like this:

The impact, which theories of economics predict ____ are bound to be felt sooner or later, could be enormous.

Huh? This makes my hair hurt. Rather than focusing on simple structures, Pinker begins with complicated structures. Then he constructs a complicated user’s manual to examine them. Hello, Ikea.

Strangely, Pinker never offers a step-by-step process for writing from scratch. In this book, the only real instruction he offers is in rewriting awkward passages. When he rewrites, he usually maintains the basic structure of the passage. But why? So often, two shorter sentences work better than one long sentence. But Pinker pays no attention. He wants to play with something complex, not create something new by starting simply.

Confusing organization

Perhaps the book’s biggest problem in Pinker’s book comes from his aversion to signposts. A signpost is any device that orients the reader along the way. Think of the signposts you see when driving: GAS/FOOD/MOTEL … JOHNSON CITY, CORPUS CHRISTIE, NORTH ALAMO STREET … LAGUARDIA AIRPORT. These signs indicate, clearly and without any fuss, just where you  are on the journey. 

We need signposts for writing as well. As cub writers in middle school, we we learn to use the transition: “As we have seen …,” “The second objection …,” “On the other hand …,” “Therefore …,” and so on. In longer pieces, like research papers and books, we use sub-headlines to signal new topics. (Can you see the signposts in this too-long blog post?)

Signposting, ultimately, reveals the basic outline of a piece. Pinker would benefit from such a breakdown. Had he broken chapters into clearer sections and subsections, he would have seen just how rambling his prose can be. And he could have reorganized his thoughts into a logical sequence.

Without these signposts, Pinker skids all over, like a car on ice. In his chapter about “classic style,” for example he jumps from one technique to another: similes, metaphors, showing, analogy, narrative, metadiscourse, signposting, questions, asides, voice, hedging, intensifiers, just to mention a dozen. You need to hunt for these ideas, though. In the end, Pinker’s guide is no guide at all.

To nitpick or not to nitpick?

Pinker seems happiest when sorting the do’s and don’ts of grammar. He is, after all, the chair of the usage panel of the American Heritage Dictionary. He revels in the endless debates about etymology, slang, context, neologisms, and anachronisms.

Pinker amiably dismisses the concerns of Chicken Little stylists. Language, he explains, evolves. We need to adapt old words to new circumstances and invent new expressions. (True, dat.) Pinker scolds the stylists who scold others for using words like “contact.” He also takes on the purists who cling to outdated definitions for words like “decimate,” which people now user to say “destroy most of” (nopt the original meaning “reduce by one tenth”). He dismisses concerns about split infinitives and ending sentences with prepositions. He even comes to the defense of passages like “Me and Amanda went to the mall.” On that last point, Pinker explains that the Cambridge Grammar “allow[s] an accusative pronoun before and.” Of course.

Pinker wants language to breathe, grow, adapt—and sparkle. Good for him. But then, over 117 pages, he acts as the Grand Poobah of Word Usage. Often he provides a cogent explanation; often he doesn’t.

Pinker deems that we can “safely ignore” language purists on the following expressions: aggravate, anticipate, anxious, comprise, convince, crescendo, critique, decimate, due to, Frankenstein, graduate, healthy, hopefully, intrigue, livid, loans, masterful, momentarily, nauseous, presently, raise, transpire, while, and whose.

But for the following expressions, which he calls malapropisms, Pinker rules that we must hold fast to classical meanings: as far as, adverse, appraise, begs the question, bemused, cliché, compendious, credible, criteria, data, appreciate, economy, disinterested, enervate, enormity, flaunt, flounder, fortuitous, fulsome, hone, hot button, in turn, irregardless, ironic, literally, luxuriant, meretricious, mitigate, new age, noisome, nonplussed, opportunism, parameter, phenomena, politically correct, practicable, proscribe, protagonist, refute, reticent, simplistic, starch, tortuous, unexceptionable, untenable, urban legend, and verbal.

All of this is debatable. To decide, I would consider the rule’s logic as well as the expressive goal. I would disagree with Pinker, for example, on anxious. Its longtime meaning is worried and, to me anyway, the word still carries an edgy kind of anticipation. But Pinker and the AHD Usage Panel shrug and accept the growing use of the word to mean eager. I disagree, respectfully. That’s the point: We need to debate these matters as language evolves.

Pinker is proof of his own critique of experts–that they sometimes know so much that they struggle to take the make the simplest and most important points.

Repeat after me: Subject–Verb–Object.

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Writers as Innovators

Take a look at my review of Walter Isaacson’s new book The Innovators here.

While working on the review, I kept thinking about how the lessons of innovation apply to thinking and writing. Some quick thoughts:

1. The Combining Process: “What is imagination?” Ada Lovelace, one of the early visionaries of computing, asked in 1841. “It is the Combining faculty. It brings together things, facts, conceptions in new, original, endless, ever-varying combinations.” Same for writers. In a sense, all we do is gather and recombine ideas and expressions into new packages.

2. Begging, Borrowing and Stealing: “Xerox PARC researchers developed the mouse and visual displays that made the modern computer possible; stuck in a lab mindset, they let Steve Jobs steal them. When Google’s Sergy Brin and Larry Page offered to sell their secret search recipe for $1 million, Yahoo and others yawned and said no.” What kinds of great ideas can you appropriate from other thinkers? How can you make your writing the “best of” other people’s work in your field?

3. Thinking in Metaphors: “Breakthrough thinkers see the world metaphorically. Einstein famously got his “aha” moment for relativity theory while pondering the sight of two trains, traveling in opposite directions, passing a platform. Computer innovators used the metaphors of fabric looms, phone switchboards, race relays, assembly lines, railroad punchcards, painting brushstrokes, market baskets, and spider webs to visualize the operations of ever more sophisticated computers.” What metaphors help you express ideas better to your audience?

4. The Importance of Ego: “Innovators bring big egos to develop visions bigger than themselves. Contrary to the myth of the lone inventor, innovation requires teamwork.” To write, you must believe that you have something important to tell someone. That’s ego. With a healthy ego, you can perform some terrific work for your readers. So don’t be so modest that you diminish your subject.

5. The Importance of Collaboration: To express your big thoughts, you often need help. Journalists rely on expert sources and street-level folks to give their ideas gravitas. Those sources are, in a sense, their collaborators. Academics rely on the literature of their fields. In either case, the best writers find ways to let other people express their ideas. Sometimes, expressing many voices makes it easier for you to offer your own contributions.

Hitchcock on the Element of Time


In his interviews with French filmmaker Francois Truffault, Alfred Hitchcock constantly emphasized one point: Emotion. Good storytelling connects with audiences at the most visceral level.

And what better technique to create tension than time? By setting deadlines, we create a race against time. By slowing time, we offer an opportunity to look carefully at people, places, and moments.

Every scene, Hitch said, has to consciously manipulate time. We can’t just let one thing happen, then another and another. We have to create a sense of urgency,

The very nature of suspense require a constant play with the flux of time,” Truffault noted, “either by compressing it or, more often, by distending it. …  A fast action has to be geared down and stretched out; otherwise, it is almost imperceptible to the viewer.”

Hitch agreed on the need for a “bold manipulation of time.” He suggests using pieces of dialogue, references to time (like clocks and setting suns) to foster a sense of urgency.

In the thrilling Strangers on a Train, Bruno meets a fading tennis star named Guy and suggests the two swap murders. Bruno will kill Guy’s estranged wife and Guy will kill Bruno’s father. Guy wants no part of the “criss-cross” deal. But Bruno kills Guy’s wife and demands that he reciprocate. When he won’t Guy goes to the amusement park where he committed murder to plant Guy’s cigarette lighter to implicate him.

“When he asks someone at the amusement park, At what time does it dark around here?’ everything is decompressed,” Hitch explains. “Real-life time takes over while he waits for nightfall. That dramatic play with time is really stunning.”

Playing with time can also emphasize the dreary parts of life.

In Psycho, the camera zooms in on a clock in the hotel room where Marion Crane has an affair.

“I did that to lead up to a very important fact: that it was 2:43 in the afternoon and this is the only time the poor girl has to go to bed with her lover,” Hitch said. “It also allows the viewer to become a Peeping Tom.”

To create mystery, Hitch advised showing the same incident over and over from different perspectives:

“I had a car accident [in a TV show]. … What I did was use five shots of people witnessing the incident before I showed the accident itself. … These are moments when you have to stop time, to stretch it out.”

This slow,  desultory scene raises several questions.

“The basic question: When will the girl be found out? That’s one question and the other one is: What’s the matter with this girl” Why won’t she go to bed with her husband?”

Time is tricky. Sometimes moving quickly can elongate a moment. In Rear Window, Lisa Fremont moves into Jeff Jeffries’s apartment unannounced and moves toward him directly to kiss him. Hitch wastes no time in getting to that moment, but then slows down the action to bring the audience into the embrace.

“I want to get right to the important point without wasting any time,” Hitch said.

Arnold Toynbee once said that history is “just one damn thing after another.” Hitchcock said that stories are just one moment of tension after another.

“Sequences can never stand still,” he said. “They must carry the action forward, just as the wheels of a ratchet mountain railway move the train up the slope, cog by cog. … There must be this steady development of the plot.”

Great storytellers use time, the most finite of all resources, to strengthen all the other tricks of narrative.

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The Power of Beats

Every story is a journey – from one distinct place to another, different place.

So what goes in between the starting and ending points? A typical scene in a movie contains dozens of moments, which movie people call “beats.” Each one moves the story forward. If a moment does not move the story forward, it doesn’t belong in the scene.

 

Track the beats in your scenes. Does every beat move you, in some way, toward the end? If not, does it at least give you essential information to understand that journey?

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The Narrative Wisdom of ‘Charlie Bit My Finger’

You can find all you need to know about writing in this iconic YouTube video.

(Since we posted this video, we have changed the name of our business from the Writing Code to The Elements of Writing. Nota bene.)

Before you go . . .
     • Like this content? For more posts on writing, visit the Elements of Writing Blog. Check out the posts on StorytellingWriting MechanicsAnalysis, and Writers on Writing.
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Use the 1-2-3 Code to Give Your Writing Clarity and Power

Years ago, I went to paradise in search of the secret of youth sports champions.

A team of work-class families from an old Hawaii plantation town of Ewa Beach won the Little League World Series in 2005. They beat the top-seeded American team, an affluent band of year-round players from suburban San Diego, and then they beat the defending champions from Curacao.

And they did it without breaking a sweat. As other teams collapsed physically and emotionally, the bunch from Hawaii won easily. Even when they were losing in the final game, they were loose.

So what was the secret to their success?

The coach of the team was an ink-haired forty-something grandfather named Layton Aliviado. We met in the living room of Layton’s house in a development of Ewa Beach, a booming section of Oahu. Like other fathers on the team, Layton drove a truck for a living. Like the other parents, he was devoted to helping his kids go places he could never go—starting with private school and college. In his living room, he sat amidst baseball and football gear, trophies and balls, boxes of commemorative tee shirts, and pictures of his kids.

Layton described the team’s drills for hitting, running, and fielding. In all the baseball drills, Layton taught his young athletes to generate power from the lower parts of the body (the legs and butt), transfer that power with the core (the abdomen), and then to perform specific actions, like throwing and hitting, with the upper body (arms, shoulders, wrists).

Aliviado grabbed a bat to demonstrate how he taught hitting.

“One: stride forward.

“Two: get the hips going, get the hands going.

“Three: bring the hands around into the zone, snap everything forward.”

The key, he said, was to put everything in threes.

“In the beginning of the season, I do 1-2-3 drills,” he said. “I keep it simple for the kids. Everyone can count. Just count out what to do and explain by showing. Then they have it stuck in their heads: 1-2-3. I do the same thing with throwing and pitching. Every kid can count, right?”

That’s exactly what we need to do to master writing. Too often, teachers and editors fail to explain how to do what they demand . They say: “Keep it simple!” And: “Cut Clutter!” And: “Use details!” And: “Show, don’t tell!” And: “Tell a story!” But they don’t say how.

But the key is to break everything down into three parts.

The Power of Three

Groups of three work because they make sense of the world. We think in threes for logic (syllogisms), religion (father, son, holy ghost), dynamic relationships (two people and a disruptive third), architecture (foundation, walls, roof), politics (executive, legislative, judicial), economics (producers, products, markets), the learning process (demonstration, trial, correction), the psyche (id, ego, superego), and families (mother, father, children). Threes give us simple but dynamic models for understanding the world.

The core skills of writing—storytelling, construction, and analysis—begin with that one-two-three structure. Linguists have found, in fact, that children learn words and language in three parts. To understand a simple word like cat, for example, a child first learns the beginning (the letter “c”), then the ending (the letter “t”), and finally the middle (the letter “a”). One, two, three.

The one-two-three code overlaps for all three writing skills. When you learn the 1-2-3 Code, you learn all you need to know about writing.

The reading and writing process: The literary process always involves three elements—author, subject, and reader.

Story structure/narrative arc: In The Poetics, Aristotle explains that stories move from a beginning (1) a settled and stable world, upset by a basic challenge to that world to a middle (2) a series of challenges for the hero to an end (3) a resolution and dénouement, and a new world emerges.

Triangulation: Francis Ford Coppola summarizes the formula for a great scene like this: “Put three people in a room.” Most action involves the interaction of three characters—or the interaction of two characters and something else (a desired object or goal).

The content of stories: Most stories concern the gossipy question, “Who’s doing whom?” Readers want to know about relationships. Relationships reveal all in stories. Word structure: Readers first process the beginning, then the end, and finally the middle.

Sentence structure: Most good sentences begin with a core of subject, verb, and object/predicate. If you build that three-part core into every sentence, the reader will always follow what you say.

Sentences, paragraphs, sections, and whole pieces: The 2-3-1 principle—put the second most important idea first, put the least important information second, and put the most important stuff last. I also call this “start strong, finish strong.”

Analysis: The basic structure of every question and analysis can be stated simply: what causes what? The first “what” refers to the variables that cause change. “Causes” refers to the process of change. The second “what” refers to the outcome.

Why Threes Are Powerful

Threes are powerful for three reasons.

Pattern recognition: The human brain is a pattern-recignition machine. To gain control over our lives–to understand what’s happening and what might be about to happen–we see the world as a three-step process.

Suppose I tell you a number—2, for example. Do you see a pattern yet? No, of course not. Suppose I give you two numbers: 2 and 4. Do you see a pattern? You bet. There are two obvious possibilities. I might be doubling the numbers … or I might be counting by twos.

When will we really know the pattern for sure? With the third term. If the pattern is to increase the numbers by two, then the pattern will be 2, 4, 6. If the pattern is to double the numbers, the pattern will be 2, 4, 8.

Prompt-process-resolution: Every day, researchers tell us, we experience 50,000 to 70,000 thoughts. From the time we awaken to the time we fall asleep, a long train of troughts enter our minds, unbidden.

Those thoughts have a 1-2-3 structure. First we get some kind of prompt. Something happens to draw our attention. The alarm goes off, a driver honks, an aroma wafts across the restaurant, a group of people burst into a house.

When we get that prompt, we process it. We try to make sense of it. When the alarm sounds, we get pulled out of our dream state and into the real world. When someone honks a car, we are startled and pay attention to the traffic and possible pronlems on the road. When the aroma wafts across the restaurant, we wonder it it’s our order or someone elses and also wonder what it is. When people burst into a house, we look up from our book or laundry (or whatever we’re doing) to see who has arrived.

When we process information, we have an internal dialogue that can be short or go on for a while. Once we have processed the information, we resolve the issue.

Dynamism and sturdiness: Mathematicians say that a triangle is at once the sturdiest and most dynamic of all shapes. Moving one corner alters the other two, but does not necessarily upset everything. Triangles create a process of constant adjustment. No wonder, then, that we see triangles in all structures—of art, literature, scientific inquiry, you name it.

Why do so many systems and structures work so well in threes? I’m not sure, but the dynamic relations of a lover’s triangle offers some hints.

Think of Oedipus, Laius, and Jacosta (Oedipus Rex)…Catherine, Heathcliff, and Edgar (Wuthering Heights)…or even Carrie, Big, and Aiden (TV’s “Sex and the City”). A couple can achieve some stability, apart from the world. But when you introduce some outside force—say, a former lover of one of the partners—that stability totters.

How does the arrival of the third party affect the couple? Does it bring them closer together? Create temptation? Jealousy? Anger? Fear? Whatever the case, the couple is challenged—singly and together—when they have to deal with outside forces. The third element, then, reveals all.

Threes in Stories

The greatest single work on storytelling, Aristotle’s The Poetics, describes three parts to all stories.

Part 1: The World of the Story. In the beginning, we meet the story’s hero and learn about his or her home, values, desires, and challenges. We see what’s “normal,” what kind of “comfort zone” the characters inhabit. We also see hints of characters’ limitations.At the end of the first part, the hero must face some crisis or answer a “call to action.” Most people are reluctant to answer the call. They have established a life already and don’t want to do the work — or acknowledge their own psychological or moral limitations — and so they try to avoid doing things differently.

But before long, the hero realizes that he has to do something to respond to the challenge. Typically, he addresses a small aspect of the challenge with the hope that the larger crisis will go away. But it doesn’t.

Part 2: Rising action. The second part of the story focuses on a series of crises. The hero tries, again and again, to avoid the crisis. But to fend it off, he has to confront a piece of it. Each time he confronts a piece of it, he hopes the problem goes away. But it doesn’t. So he takes on a bigger piece of the problem … and then a bigger piece … and then a bigger piece. Finally, over time, the hero learns the enormity of the crisis. He also begins to understand that he cannot remain in denial.

Part 3: Resolution. And as he deals with these pieces, he comes to a new understanding of himself and his situation. And so the story reaches a climax. The hero has to take on the crisis in its entirety.

By the time of the climax, the hero opens his mind and expands his skills.


And so, in the final part of the story, the hero reaches a new recognition of his situation. And he reverses his previous approach to the crisis and to his life. This is what Aristotle called the denouement, the winding down of the action. Now, the hero settles into his new life with a new understanding of his own character and the world.

Threes and the Inner Structure of Writing

The structure of a story offers that same three-part “template” for all other elements of writing. In fact, everything else is really just a particular kind of story. A sentence is a mini-story. A paragraph is a slightly larger drama. And so are sections and larger pieces of writing — even non-narrative pieces like emails, memos, reports, and analysis.

All of these elements of writing take that 1-2-3 format, from beginning (world of the story) to middle (rising action and conflict) to end (resolution and closure).

Once we master mechanics, we can move into the most abstract challenge of writing — analysis. Whether we’re analyzing problems of science, medicine, policy, business, psychology, or other topics, we are really telling a story. What makes analysis different is that the story concerns concepts and categories, rather than particular people,. places, actions, and outcomes.

Storytelling provides just the first building block of all writing skills. Once we master storytelling, we can easily develop skills in mechanics of writing — sentences and paragraphs, grammar and punctuation, editing and style.

We see the three-part code wherever we look, in storytelling and in the movement from storytelling to mechanics to analysis. Consider:

• The core of a sentence: Subject-verb-object

• The sentence and paragraph: Start strong, finish strong, with “bridge” material in the middle

• The elements of a great scene: Triangles

• The joke or scene: Background/setup, expectation, surprise

• Dialogue: Positive, negative, positive statements (or negative-positive-negative)

• Cliffhanger: Situation, response, unresolved conclusion (with lots of guessing)

• Sensory sensations: Visual, auditory, kinestheticDialectics: Thesis, antithesis, synthesis

• Analysis: Dependent and independent variables and result

Here’s something magical: If you can get in the habit of looking for threes in whatever you do — writing a sentence or paragraph, structuring a scene, debating an idea — you will not falter.

What Are the Threes in Your Work?

Threes in your life: Make a list of the threes in your life — relationships, ideas, conflicts, events. Identify how these three elements came together, what kind of conflict resulted, and how that conflict was resolved.

Your three-part story: Sketch out, as quickly as possible, the three-part structure of your NaNoWriMo novel. Follow Aristotle’s narrative arc, moving from the beginning (“world of the story”) to the middle (“rising action” of ever-more intense conflict), and end (recognition and reversal, setting into a new world of the story).

Scenes: Write three scenes, at least 700 words apiece. Use Aristotle’s arc for each scene. Open by showing the characters living in their normal, everyday world — only to confront something new, unexpected, and threatening. Show the characters deny and then, reluctantly, deal with the challenge. And end with the whole situation getting resolved, with the characters at least a little more aware, knowledgable, and capable.


(Click the poster to download.)

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Malcolm Gladwell’s Rejection Letter

A  rejection letter to Malcolm Gladwell for a draft of “David and Goliath.” We are publishing the letter because the author suggested some “writing hacks” that would have made the book better.

Dear Mr. Gladwell,

We were pleased to get the manuscript of David and Goliath for consideration at [name of publisher redacted]. We know of your success with previous pop-scholarship books. The title suggests a powerful “high concept” book. And we love—lovelovelove—high-concept books like Salt and Cod and A History of the World in Five Glasses and, yes, The Tipping Point and Blink and Outliers. When you see the title, you instantly get the premise. So we loved your title and what it promised.

We’re going to have to pass on the manuscript, though. I’d like you to rethink the concept and do more research. Right now, the book is a loose collection of anecdotes, which take huge leaps of logic, offer scanty evidence, and contain contradictions that undermine your case.

The biggest problem, though, is that the book doesn’t really take on the David and Goliath phenomenon. Sure, some sections talk about the ability of the little guy to defeat the big guy (my favorite story is about the girls basketball team that triumphs with aggressive full-court play). But more often, your discussion ranges far from that theme. Your themes include, in no particular order: the importance of “multiple intelligences,” the power of grit and willpower, the effect of peers on behavior, the dynamics of civil disobedience, the power of buzz, the strength of love, the potential of detailed research to yield new insight, and the psychological need for belonging. I’ll get to all that in a minute.

I want to publish your book—what editor doesn’t want to acquire a best-selling author?—but I simply cannot find a theme in this pudding.

Theme

Rather than just saying “there’s no there there,” let me explain what I mean. If you were to conduct more rigorous research and recast the work, you might consider a number of frameworks. Consider, for example:

The Master-Slave Dialectic: This is a key insight in Hegel’s Phenomenology of Spirit, probably due for a popularization. (If you don’t do it, Alain de Botton will!) The idea is simple: Even powerful people need recognition from the peons below them. When peons refuse to acknowledge the legitimacy of their superiors, those peons gain surprising leverage. This is close to the David-and-Goliath theme, but still different. Hegel’s dialectic shows the complexity of the psychological give-and-take in human affairs, rather than a simple confrontation of powerful and weak. A couple of your stories fit this theme:

Andre Trocme is a minister in a Vichy-occupied village in France. When the Nazis demand recognition of their rule, should he accede or fight? Or is there a third way—strategic defiance and withdrawal?

Wyatt Walker, Martin Luther King’s assistant, is eager to find a way to break the back of segregation in Birmingham. How do you change the dynamic of the civil rights movements when King has suffered defeats and most of white America is indifferent? Do you create a spectacle—or is it more complicated than that?

Achieving Mastery in a Messy and Indifferent World: Sounds like a how-to book, I know, but you could get away with it. This might be your best bet, if you want to keep most of your anecdotes. Everyone in your manuscript has to confront more difficult situations than they might choose. The world is messy, complex, and quite frankly indifferent to any person’s fate. (There’s an idea for a title: Man’s Fate. Andre Malraux might not approve, but he’s dead.) Think of the subjects of your work:

Vivek Ranadive wants to coach his daughter’s basketball team to play well. But his players are small, weak, and inexperienced. Stronger teams won’t give his girls a break. Or will they, unwittingly? How can he exploit opponents’ lack of imagination?

Caroline Sacks discovers that science courses at Brown are hard—and her classmates are competitive and not eager to share. Should she give up? Buckle down? Get out of Dodge?

Teresa DeBrito is a principal of a middle school where enrollment has declined drastically, taking away some of the buzz of the class routines. What can she do to engage distracted teenagers in the classroom?

Finding Voice in a Noisy World: To deal with huge challenges, people need to ignore the babel of voices around them. They need to hear their inner voice and find their truest values. When you know what really matters, everything else is easier to bear.

Wilma Derkson loses her daughter to an awful murder. Should she lash out with anger—or find a way to deepen her considerable love and humanity and to build a better world?

Rosemary Lawlor is a Catholic mother and housewife in Northern Ireland during the Troubles. The British police run roughshod over Catholics. What can change the dynamics of this war-torn isle?

David Boies is dyslexic and struggles to read. Should he work construction or find a job that challenges him more intellectually? Since he’s a lousy reader, how can learn and communicate?

Beating the Odds: What happens when you live in a world of rigid standards and practices? How can you persevere in the face of widespread disapproval—and make gambles that might pay off for years, if ever?

Jay Freireich wants to find new ways to treat children with leukemia. But other doctors and researchers are dubious—and even say Freireich’s aggressive treatment is inhumane. How can he find a way to give his “cocktail” of medications—and relentless chemotherapy—a chance?

Maybe these themes lack the same sex appeal of David and Goliath, which is, after all, one of the great parables of western civilization. But they deal, more coherently, with the stories you tell.

Maybe you can’t use all the stories you offer in this manuscript. That’s OK. The best works of literature come not just what’s in them but also what’s not in them. Anyway, you simply need to work hard—adding and subtracting and shaping—till you get the theme that truly unifies your work without simplifying too much.

If you want to keep all your pieces, don’t present them as a unified argument. Just say: Musings of a Pop Journalist, or some such.

Research and evidence

“When you can’t create,” Henry Miller once said, “you can work.”

David and Goliath feels like a mish-mash. Maybe you focus so much on creating a neat theory that you didn’t do the necessary work to test and prove that theory.

Sometimes, the separate pieces read like first drafts of magazine or newspaper articles. You often rely on one or two books or articles, it seems, when you could do a lot more research—doing library research, digging into archives, and interviewing participants. I noticed that your weakest passages—like your strange attack on the Hotchkiss School—did not appear in The New Yorker. I’m not surprised. No way David [Remnick, the editor] would allow that in his magazine.

Which reminds me. You once said something at a conference that concerns me.

I attended a Nieman conference on narrative journalism back in 2003, when you were the keynote speaker. You said you need to spend only a day or two with a subject to understand what makes him or her tick. Your point, I think, was that your profiles focus more on ideas than personalities. You care about Lois Weisberg because of the idea she represents—that “weak ties” bind communities better than strong ties—and not because of her life story.  Fair enough.

Now, I know you conduct more than one interview with some of your subjects. But David and Goliath takes a one-and-done approach too often. In fact, your section on Wyatt Walker shows no real first-hand understanding of the subject. You could have interviewed dozens of the Birmingham movement’s activists, including Walker himself, but instead you relied mostly on Diane McWhorter’s book Carry Me Home. As a result, your account is thin and misleading. I wish you had read The Origins of the Civil Rights Movement, by Aldon Morris, which offers a better idea of how the Birmingham campaign succeeded.

Let’s get specific. True, as you say, Americans were shocked by the photograph of dogs attacking a slight black boy near a demonstration. True, most people don’t realize that the dog’s victim was not a protester but a bystander. True, Walker was pleased by the ugly display of police brutality, since it revealed the fundamental violence of segregation.

But the Birmingham campaign was much more than a photo op. Fundamentally, Project C was a “withdrawal of consent” from the segregationist regime. No regime, King understood, lasts long when people reject its legitimacy. In the campaign’s many phases—the sit-ins, boycotts, marches, jailings, and eventually the occupation of downtown—activists refused to play by segregationist rules. Yes, the photo was dramatic. But without everything else, it would have revealed little more than one nasty man’s meanness and temper. Oh, yes: Why no word about King’s iconic “Letter From Birmingham Jail”?

I also wonder about your account of the Impressionists. You depict them as renegades who snubbed the Salon in order to display their work in their own shows. But that’s not quite right. They pursued the Salon, again and again. And when Manet got in, his work created a buzz. Granted it was a negative buzz—but people were talking. Later, when the Impressionists held their own show, they benefitted from the advance PR.

And why the animus toward the Hotchkiss School? You argue—with no evidence whatsoever—that its small classes “so plainly make its students worse off.” Huh? Parents send kids there, you say, because they “fell into the trap” of assuming that “the kinds of things that wealth can buy translate into real-world advantages.” Seduced by Hotchkiss’ gorgeous campus and amenities, you say, parents spend big bucks and get those awful small classes. Malcolm, get a grip. Have you ever taught a class? I don’t mean standing in the front of a vast auditorium, but working closely with people, on their terms? Do you know what happens when students gather around a Harkness Table? Think back to your days at the University of Toronto. Do you remember seminar classes, with a dozen students? Those seminars can be amazing. Where is your evidence that small classroom conversations fail? You don’t have any because it doesn’t exist.

You say bigger classes produce greater diversity. But large numbers don’t always produce diverse, open-minded discussion. A class of 20 or 30 often explores fewer ideas than a class of 12. It depends on how engaged the students are, how challenging the culture. If you think diverse expression comes from students with different life experiences, consider that Hotchkiss students come from 28 countries and most of the states of the U.S. Yes, it’s elite—and rich. But Hotchkiss also offers generous scholarships. Some 37 percent of all students receive financial aid, with an average grant of $32,500.

One more thing. Why sneer at the Steinway pianos at Hotchkiss? If you had written about Hotchkiss in Outliers, you would have extolled the virtues of making instruments available to young musicians. You celebrated Bill Gates’s unusual access to computers in high school; why not celebrate the future maestro’s access to great instruments? After all, don’t musicians need 10,000 hours of practice too?

The Logic

Your logic regularly misses the mark. You often state (or imply) that X causes Y when you see X and Y together. But of course, the world is never so simple. Lots of variables swirl around all the X’s and Y’s of all stories. You need to define the variables—and then use consistent definitions. Then you need to “isolate the variables” to show which ones exert more force than others.

Take the story of Caroline Sachs. You argue that she made a mistake in choosing Brown over Maryland because she struggled with core science courses at Brown. Why not star at a lesser school, you say, instead of struggling at a great school? Why not, in your terms, be a big fish in a small pond rather than a small fish in a big pond? Your charts show that students in the top decile of a number of schools – public and private – publish more papers and win more honors than students lower in the class rankings. Let’s put aside your own incredulity at the fact that non-Ivies do good work. Your point is that middling achievement at Brown “made her feel stupid,” damaged her self-esteem, killed her love of science.

Maybe, but I’m not persuaded. Let’s start with definitions. True, Brown is a more elite school, but that hardly makes it a bigger pond.  Strictly by the numbers, Maryland is more than four times bigger than Brown (26,000 to 6,000 students). I know you mean Brown has a “bigger” status, but this can be confusing.

I asked the science coordinator at Maryland for his perspective. He started with the numbers:

“Maryland is a much bigger pond than Brown. We have more than 5,000 natural sciences/computer science/math majors and 3,800 engineering majors. Brown University’s total enrollment in all disciplines is 6,100.  [Note: Brown graduates about 600 science students a year.] Therefore we have many more STEM fish than Brown has undergraduates.

“We also have many big fish, earning distinctions like Goldwater Scholarships, other national fellowships, etc.  Such outcomes are not the province of the Ivies alone. In fact, publicly available data on Goldwater Scholarship Winners over the last 5 years – University of Maryland 14, Brown University 3. Even if you compensate for total undergraduate enrollment (our undergrad student body is four times that of Brown), we are still ahead.  And both schools only get 4 nominations each year.”

OK, maybe you didn’t mean big and small pond in such a literal way. You were referring to Brown’s “big pond” status and Maryland’s “small pond” status, right? But that’s not quite fair either. Sure, Ivy admissions are absurdly competitive, state universities less so. But does that mean their STEM classes require less work? Not necessarily. Back to the University of Maryland official:

“A student who struggles with early science classes at Brown will also struggle with early science classes at Maryland. In fact, it may initially be even more difficult for such a student at a flagship university, as introductory classes tend to be larger, and students who are struggling may not stand out as much. However, I suspect Brown’s introductory courses are fairly large as well.

“However, she may find herself among more female science and engineering majors than she would see at Brown, and this might encourage her persistence and success!”

By your own account, Caroline took too on many classes and extracurricular activities in her freshman year. And she did get a B-minus in the critical chemistry class. Who says struggling with a difficult subject should drive her away? If she were a true David, why shouldn’t she face those tough challenges? Won’t that sharpen her resolve?

Since you like anecdotes, let me tell you one. When I was a student at Vanderbilt I had a friend named Tom who desperately wanted to be a doctor. But he struggled, semester after semester. So he started taking liberal arts courses and enjoyed himself for the first time. But he still had the science bug. So after Vanderbilt, he took pre-med classes at Millsaps College. He excelled, went to med school, and eventually did a residency at Vanderbilt. You might say he made it by going to a small pond. But he excelled in both the big and small ponds. Years later, he looked back with happiness that he had learned how to struggle. He felt “stupid” sometimes, sure. But he persevered, looked for different routes to his goal. He didn’t succeed right away. But he found his own path. Maybe that approach would work for Caroline too.

If Caroline really loves science—really loves science—don’t you think she’ll find her place? Maybe Maryland would have been a better choice, maybe not. But she doesn’t need to take a straight line to her goal. In fact, a meandering route, with some wrecks along the way, might make her a more complete human being.

Doesn’t a college education mean more than grades and job prospects? In one of your most moving sections, you describe the courage of Andre Trocme against the Nazis. Why did he settle in this remote village in the first place? Not because of his job prospects, but because his pacifism isolated him from the French Protestant Church. If he had cared about conventional success, he wouldn’t have taken this route. But he wanted to live a decent life.

Won’t Caroline live a good life if she pursues what she loves, regardless of where she finishes in her class and what accolades she receives? If she’s smart, hard-working, and open-minded, she’ll find her sweet spot. It’s when we try to game the system that we lose out on what matters.

For such a contrarian, you seem to accept some tired old ideas about how education works. In a Gladwell school, teachers stand in the front of the room and tell their kids what they need to learn, then solicit responses from the kids. You quote, approvingly, a teacher fretting about students “talking about something that has nothing to do with what they’re supposed to be working on.” Ah, so everyone in your big classes should all focus on the teacher in the front of the room. In a Gladwell school, success is measured by tests and awards, rather than the joint exploration of ideas. This is a sad, impoverished ideal of education, Malcolm. I suggest you put Ken Robinson’s The Element on your reading list.

You take logical leaps all over the book. Consider the story of Jay Freireich, the doctor who fought to provide more aggressive treatment for leukemia. But your explanation—that his unhappy childhood gave him the determination to fight the good fight— is facile at best. All our joys and sorrows make us who we are. But without some kind of inspiration—which he got from his family physician and high school physics teacher—his rough childhood might have broken him. So maybe it was the nurturers who gave Freireich his fire, not the tragedies of his childhood. It’s hard to say. Lots of people with rough childhoods fail to persevere; lots of people with happy childhoods do persevere.

So here’s another logical problem. You depict Freireich as an SOB, a tyrant with “no patience, no gentleness.” In fact, one colleague remembers him as “a giant, in the back of the room, yelling and screaming.” You call him a David. But is he? Freireich started out a David, for sure. But after he was inspired by others and enrolled at a great state university, he turned into a Goliath. Thank goodness. It took a Goliath to fight the hospital’s approach to leukemia treatment. But that doesn’t fit your neat interpretation.

Let’s look at one more definitional problem. In your account of the Nazi’s bombings of London, you note that Winston Churchill and others feared mass panic. But instead, London responded with bravado. Why? The psychologist J.T. MacCurdy argues that those who survive such attacks fall into two groups: the “near misses” and the “remote misses.” The near misses, MacCurdy says, “feel the blast, they see the destruction,” and experience trauma. The remote misses don’t experience the horror first hand, avoid the trauma, and respond with a strange sense of invincibility. Fair enough. Experiencing something awful affects people more than hearing about it.

Then you apply this typology to the experience of Fred Shuttlesworth, Martin Luther King’s associate who fought for civil rights in Birmingham. You describe the awful day when Klansmen bombed his home. The force of the blast blew windows a mile away. Shuttlesworth was calm. “The Lord has protected me,” he said. “I am not injured.” Malcolm, you call this “a classic remote miss” because he wasn’t maimed or badly injured. But he was there, Malcolm—right in the middle of the bombed-out house.

Maybe Shuttlesworth maintained his equanimity because he had already endured so much violence and hatred and survived it? Shuttlesworth and other civil rights heroes knew they faced mortal danger every day. They faced that danger squarely because the cause was too great not to do so.

Maybe something else was involved. Maybe Shuttlesworth found comfort in his faith and in the love of his family and friends? Maybe that faith—a belief in God’s undying love and mercy—sustained him. Consider also Dr. King. How did he maintain his serenity and humor when a woman stabbed and nearly killed him at a book signing? How did Pope John Paul maintain his spirit when he was shot at St. Peter’s Square? I would submit that their faith gave them a heart that helped them overcome the tragedies of life.

Style

Now for a few quibbles about style …

I love simple writing. When exploring complex ideas, breaking points down into small pieces makes sense. When a complex term comes along—an idea from scholarly research, for example—it makes sense to define it slowly. Let the reader absorb each piece fully. Let the reader build knowledge, block by block.

This, I must say, you do well. You never—ever—get stuck in the quicksand of arcane, abstract, complex verbiage. I remember when I read your explanation of the “strength of weak ties,” an idea that a sociologist named Mark Granovetter developed. I was thrilled because you took this obscure but important concept and you made it simple and compelling for a broad audience. You deserve credit for encouraging journalists of all kinds to explain complex ideas well.


Now, though, you sometimes write like a kindergarten teacher. Your leading questions are cloying. Your use of italics to emphasize points already made well is insulting. Your use of “we”—as in, “Giants are not what we think they are,” “We think of underdog victories as improbable events,” “We think of things as helpful that actually aren’t”—not only grates but sets up straw men. Language matters.

With these approaches, I think you mean well. So I was even more annoyed with your snide comments. In describing a Harvard student’s move away from the sciences, you say: “Harvard cost the world a physicist and gave the world another lawyer.” I have no love of lawyers, but it’s a cheap shot—and, in your own reckoning, some lawyers are decent people, like David Boies. And maybe—just maybe—the Harvard student wasn’t cut out for science. And are all lawyers really so bad? What about your hero David Boies?

It’s also hard to stomach the easy omniscience of your style. You say Jay Freirich—couldn’t remember the name of the woman who raised him “because everything from those years was so painful.” Maybe, but it sounds facile. And it’s unnecessary.

Moving Forward

So far I have outlined problems with framing your argument, making theory simplistic, using terminology imprecisely, failing to offer evidence (or ignoring contrary evidence), and creating a simplistic world with your kindergarten style.

But the problem is deeper—and I can explain it best with reference to your book Blink.

Recall your enthralling account of fake kouros, a marble Greek statue said to date back to the sixth century before Christ. The Getty Museum paid millions to acquire the piece after using the latest scientific analyses to vet its authenticity. But then art historians had a visceral reaction—what one called “intuitive repulsion”—to the statue. For reasons they could not articulate right away, the statue didn’t look right. It looked too “fresh.” In concluding your discussion, you celebrate the power of the “blink” judgment. “Just as we can teach ourselves to think logically and deliberately,” you say, “we can also teach ourselves to make better snap judgments.”

In that rendering, it sounds like magic. But in Outliers, you get closer to the point: it’s all about experience. Those artists could tell the statue was fake because they were immersed, deeply, in art and archaeology. They lived and breathed the world of antiquity. They understood not just surface appearances, but the deeper essence of the thing. That—not just facile understanding of definitions and rules and patterns—is where real understanding comes from.

And that’s what you’re missing. Over the years, you have become entranced with quirky “rules,” “theories,” and “patterns” that explain complex realities of life. But you never go deep. You don’t spend significant time with your subjects. You find a great parable and match it with a fun theory. When the theory doesn’t fit the parable, you ignore the misfit. Lacking deep knowledge of any subject, you cannot respond critically. And lacking the scientist’s respect for difficult problems and disdain of simple answers, you skate forward to new parables and fun theories.

So, Malcolm, I’m afraid that we cannot accept this manuscript, as is, for publication. I realize that it would sell millions of copies. But in this age of ebooks, we publishers have a challenge. When we take on a major new work, we need to make sure it meets our highest standards. Anyone can patch together a collection of anecdotes and research notes. We need to expect more.

Please consider our ideas for sharpening the book’s focus and strengthening its research and argumentation. If you are committed to producing the best book possible, we will be too.

If you want to pass on our offer, you might consider taking the manuscript to Little, Brown. They might publish it…

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Writing Tips from the Pros

From fourteen eminent men and women of letters, courtesy of the Guardian of London, come 247 rules for writing fiction.

My favorites:

Be prepared

From Geoff Dyer, a mind game, namely, tricking yourself into a good choice:

Have more than one idea on the go at any one time. If it’s a choice between writing a book and doing nothing I will always choose the latter. It’s only if I have an idea for two books that I choose one rather than the other. I always have to feel that I’m bunking off from something.

From Hilary Mantel, a suggestion for a how-to book:

Read Becoming a Writer, by Dorothea Brande. Then do what it says, including the tasks you think are impossible. You will particularly hate the advice to write first thing in the morning, but if you can manage it, it might well be the best thing you ever do for yourself. This book is about becoming a writer from the inside out. Many later advice manuals derive from it. You don’t really need any others, though if you want to boost your confidence, “how to” books seldom do any harm. You can kick-start a whole book with some little writing exercise.

From Will Self, an alert to be always alert:

Always carry a notebook. And I mean always. The short-term memory only retains information for three minutes; unless it is committed to paper you can lose an idea for ever.

From Rose Tremain, a word to the wise to forget the most common piece of advice:

Forget the boring old dictum “write about what you know”. Instead, seek out an unknown yet knowable area of experience that’s going to enhance your understanding of the world and write about that.

From Michael Morpurgo, the command to get out of the garrett once in a while:

The prerequisite for me is to keep my well of ideas full. This means living as full and varied a life as possible, to have my antennae out all the time.

From P.D. James, a word to the wise about words:

Increase your word power. Words are the raw material of our craft. The greater your vocabulary the more effective your writing. We who write in English are fortunate to have the richest and most versatile language in the world. Respect it.

Getting to work

From Neil Gaiman, encouragement to just do it:

Write.

Put one word after another. Find the right word, put it down.

Finish what you’re writing. Whatever you have to do to finish it, finish it.

Put it aside. Read it pretending you’ve never read it before. Show it to friends whose opinion you respect and who like the kind of thing that this is.

From Roddy Doyle, exhortations not to beat yourself up — and, in fact, to give yourself some illusion of mastery and progress:

Do be kind to yourself. Fill pages as quickly as possible; double space, or write on every second line. Regard every new page as a small triumph.

Until you get to Page 50. Then calm down, and start worrying about the quality. Do feel anxiety – it’s the job.

Building stories

From Anne Enright, this pearl about perspective and POV:

Description is hard. Remember that all description is an opinion about the world. Find a place to stand.

And focus on the point of (almost) all writing:

Concentrate your narrative energy on the point of change. This is especially important for historical fiction. When your character is new to a place, or things alter around them, that’s the point to step back and fill in the details of their world. People don’t notice their everyday surroundings and daily routine, so when writers describe them it can sound as if they’re trying too hard to instruct the reader.

From Andrew Motion, a mind game:

Lock different characters/elements in a room and tell them to get on.

 From Sarah Waters, this sobering advice to cut, cut, cut:

Cut like crazy. Less is more. I’ve often read manuscripts – including my own – where I’ve got to the beginning of, say, chapter two and have thought: “This is where the novel should actually start.” A huge amount of information about character and backstory can be conveyed through small detail. The emotional attachment you feel to a scene or a chapter will fade as you move on to other stories. Be business-like about it.

Style

From Elmore Leonard, two rules against describing:

Avoid detailed descriptions of characters, which Steinbeck covered. In Ernest Hemingway’s “Hills Like White Elephants”, what do the “Ameri can and the girl with him” look like? “She had taken off her hat and put it on the table.” That’s the only reference to a physical description in the story.

Don’t go into great detail describing places and things, unless you’re Margaret Atwood and can paint scenes with language. You don’t want descriptions that bring the action, the flow of the story, to a standstill.

From Jonathan Frantzen, sobering words about the value of words in the Information Age:

When information becomes free and universally accessible, voluminous research for a novel is devalued along with it.

From Esther Freud, something impossible:

Cut out the metaphors and similes. In my first book I promised myself I wouldn’t use any and I slipped up during a sunset in chapter 11. I still blush when I come across it.Getting help

One more . . . 

From Geoff Dyer, an admonition to embrace the labor-saving possibilities of technology:

If you use a computer, constantly refine and expand your autocorrect settings. The only reason I stay loyal to my piece-of-shit computer is that I have invested so much ingenuity into building one of the great autocorrect files in literary history. Perfectly formed and spelt words emerge from a few brief keystrokes: “Niet” becomes “Nietzsche”, “phoy” becomes “photography” and so on. Genius!

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Wacking Weasel Words

One quality, above all, separates writing from speaking. Speakers can see how people respond to their words. Writers can’t, so they tend to repeat themselves and use all kinds of weasel words to emphasize their points—in the hope that the anonymous reader gets the point.

What’s a weasel word? A word that attempts to emphasize a point but ultimately lacks conviction. When so say something is “really big” (emphatic), you are trying to emphasize magnitude–but you don’t really give the reader much information. Or when you say describe something as “for the most part” (hedge), you are giving yourself wiggle room. When you call someone “strong” (adjective) or say someone walked n”briskly” (adverb), you also leave matters vague. And when you use long, fat, clunky phrases like “ascertain” or “enumerate” (bureaucratese), you may think you sound impressive but you’re really showing how indirect you are. (Kind of like when a politician says “frankly,” you know he’s about to speak less than frankly.)

Let’s look at these weasel words. In this post, we’ll focus on emphatics and hedges. Other posts will explore adjectives and adverbs and bureaucratese.

Emphatics and hedges

Writers use emphatics to say they really, really think something but cannot offer much evidence. Hedges serve the opposite purpose—to argue a point, but hold back in case the proposition proves wrong. Beware of these weasel words:

  • a preponderance
  • almost always
  • as everyone knows
  • for the most part
  • interestingly
  • maybe
  • most often
  • mostly
  • naturally
  • obviously
  • of course
  • often
  • overwhelmingly
  • perhaps
  • predominantly
  • someplace
  • sometimes
  • somewhat
  • surprisingly
  • understandably
  • usually
  • virtually

Adjectives and adverbs

Mark Twain once quipped: “If you catch an adjective, kill it.” Adjectives improve some writing, but too often they force an interpretation on the reader or show that the writer has not gathered enough evidence for his observations or argument.

Suppose, for example, I called my sister Claire “compassionate.” What in the world does that mean? Does it mean she loved her children? Feeds homeless people? Donates to charities? Votes for government assistance programs? Unless you say, no one can ever know.

Such is the case with adjectives. In general, adjectives work only to set up a detailed explanation. But how often do you need the setup? Not often. If you find adjectives like these, kill ’em:

  • awesome
  • fat
  • beautiful
  • fine
  • best
  • gentle
  • better
  • good
  • big
  • great
  • complex
  • huge
  • complicated
  • intelligent
  • dumb
  • lame
  • exemplary
  • loud
  • mad
  • strong
  • nice
  • stupid
  • overwhelming
  • super
  • pretty
  • talented
  • quick
  • tiny
  • quiet
  • unintelligent
  • slow
  • weak
  • small
  • smart

Years ago, Gabriel Garcia Marquez vowed never to use another adverb in his work. Adverbs, you see, do little more than emphasize the meaning of verbs. If you use strong verbs, why would you need to emphasize the point? To track down and kill adverbs, look for words ending in –ly.

Cliches and bureaucratese

Cliches are once-clever observations that have grown stale with time. Beware of these clichés:

  • ameliorate
  • articulate
  • ascertain
  • basically
  • closure
  • commence
  • components
  • concerning
  • consequently
  • contradistinction
  • currently
  • downsize
  • elements
  • elucidate
  • employ
  • empower
  • enhancement
  • enumerate
  • expedite
  • facilitate
  • facility
  • factor
  • feasible
  • finalize
  • formulate
  • functionality
  • functioning
  • fundraise
  • has issues
  • have a tendency
  • have knowledge
  • hence
  • hereafter
  • herein
  • herewith
  • i.e.
  • impact
  • implement
  • in agreement
  • in the vicinity
  • incenting
  • incentivizing
  • inception
  • indicate
  • indices
  • individuals
  • individuate
  • initiate
  • input
  • inquire
  • integrate
  • interface
  • irregardless
  • issue
  • leverage
  • litmus test
  • logistical
  • make no mistake
  • materialize
  • matrices
  • matrix
  • maximize
  • mitigate
  • modification
  • moreover
  • multiple
  • necessitated
  • nevertheless
  • numerous
  • obviate
  • of the conviction
  • of the opinion
  • on a daily basis
  • on my plate
  • on the occasion
  • ongoing
  • operational
  • optimal
  • optimize
  • optimum
  • orientate
  • outreach
  • paradigm
  • parameters
  • perameter
  • perceive
  • perpetrator
  • peruse
  • point in time
  • present time
  • presently
  • preventative
  • prior to
  • prioritization
  • prioritize
  • proactive
  • process
  • procure
  • push the envelope
  • raise the bar
  • ramp up
  • ratchet up
  • recur
  • regarding
  • remediate
  • render
  • renumerate
  • reside
  • retain
  • signify
  • solely
  • strategize
  • subsequent
  • synergy
  • terminate
  • that said
  • therefore
  • therein
  • thus
  • transmit
  • transpire
  • ultimate
  • unit
  • utilize
  • vis a vis
  • with regard

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Secrets of High Achievers

How do high achievers think? That’s the question Carl Beuke asks in Psychology Today. His take:

Positive affirmations are a staple of the self-help industry, but there is a problem with standing in front of the mirror every morning and saying something like: “I prosper wherever I turn and I know that I deserve prosperity of all kinds.” “I am my own unique self—special, creative and wonderful.” Or “I will be king of the world in just five days, I just know it.” It makes you feel kinda silly (and sometimes worse). What does research show about how high achievers really think? High achievers are often marked, unsurprisingly, by a strong motive to achieve. Less accomplished individuals are often more motivated to avoid failure.

Beuke offers six keys to achievement:

1. Success is your personal responsibility
2. Demanding tasks are opportunities
3. Achievement striving is enjoyable
4. Achievement striving is valuable
5. Skills can be improved
6. Persistence works

In essence, the gist is this: Take responsibility and strive, strive, strive. Beuke’s approach reminds me of Witold Rybczynski’s central argument in Flow — namely, that we need to set a series of goals that just elude our easy grasp and then care enough to reach out to grab those goals.

In my work offering seminars to people in all groups (from high school dropouts to Fortune 500 executives) I find another powerful strategy for high achievers. You need to script your success. Some people talk about vision and affirmation and afformation. But scripting is different. Not only do you envision an ideal but achievable outcome, but you begin to write a story that shows how you reach that outcome.

HR folks, for example, might ask new hires and longtime employees alike: What would you like your story to be at our organization over the next year? The next five years? Then you start to think about all of the challenges that you might encounter along the way and how you might deal with those challenges.

In fact, an article in the December 2011 issue of the Harvard Business Review, by Gary Hamel, shows how the Morning Star Company does just that. Morning Star, a producer of tomato goods, runs without managers, positions, or salary structures. Instead, the company’s far-flung work groups — in manufacturing, marketing, distribution, accounting, maintenance, etc. — meet as groups every year and agree on a plan. All year, they hold each other accountable for meeting their individual and group goals.

Once they agree on their script for the year, they enjoy wide latitude. If you need a $5,000 piece of equipment, you buy it. Because you have a stake in the operation — and know you’ll be held accountable — you don’t make frivolous purchases.

In a way, the people at Morning Star write their own stories. And since their invested in those stories, they feel an emotional connection to their work.

To tell good stories, it’s best to be guided by an understanding of storytelling skills — developing a complete cast of characters, understanding the wide range of motivations of different character types, putting those characters on a narrative arc, understanding the obstacles on the way, etc. As everyone from Aristotle to today’s brain researchers will tell you, the classic story structure fits the way we all think about the world. When you understand this structure, you can make sense of even the most complex problems all around you.

When you combine this storytelling process with writing skills — which, these days, all professionals and many others need to get through the day — you have a powerful way to script high achievement.

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Fixing Academese: Harold Lasswell

I remember a moment in college when our professor explained how bureaucrats gain control over dissidents in the organization.

“It’s what Harold Lasswell referred to as ‘selective partial incorporation,'” he said.

That moment came back to me while reading Rachel Toor’s terrific philippic against bad academic writing in The Chronicle of Higher Education.

In class, I could hear the scribble-scribble-scribble around the table. I was always one of the biggest scribblers. You could use my notes to reconstruct any class. But I stopped short here.

Selective partial incorporation? What the . . .

1. Selective: You pick one or more people in the organization to buy off. You;re going to bribe them — or, to use the language of the collective action literature, offer them “selective inducements.”

2. Partial: You don’t engage your targets in all of the important affairs of the organization, just enough to get their cooperation.

3. Incorporation: You bring them inside your tent.

“Oh,” I said in my loud way, “you mean buying ’em off!”

After a brief moment of silence, with 12 sets of eyes darting back and forth from me to the professor, the professor agreed.

“Why, yes, Charles, if that’s the way you want to put it. It’s a little crude, but I guess that’s the point.”

The way I see it, bad academic writing and speech stem from two major sources: the Breakdown Problem and the Fake Razzle-Dazzle Problem. The expression “selective partial incorporation” is a good example of both.

The Breakdown Problem occurs when you’re analyzing all the factors that contribute to something. Take a simple example: To explain the concept of force, you need to understand the concepts of mass and acceleration (f=ma). To understand mass, you need to understand density and volume (m=dv). To understand acceleration, you need to understand velocity and time (a=dv/dt). To understand velocity, which means the rate of change of position, you need to understand the displacement and time (v=Δ x/Δt). On and on we go, defining one simple term with two or more other terms.

When my professor talked about “selective partial incorporation,” he was trying to break down the concept of the bribe and put it in the context of government bureaucracy. Each word contributed something to the idea.

But along the way, the real meaning of the term got obscured. You hear “selective partial incorpioration” and you can’t really picture the process of buying someone off. It’s too abstract for such a flesh-and-blood aspect of politics.

When academic writing gets filled up with this kind of vocabulary, the real meaning of everything can get confused. Even when all the experts understand the arcane language — when all political scientists, for example, understand that ‘selective partial incorporation’ means bribing — you shut out a broader audience.

Ten Simple Tricks to Improve Writing Mechanics

Clip and save this post. Any time you write something, use this as a checklist. If you meet these criteria, your piece will read well.

(1) Attack prepositional phrases

Too often, writers get lost in the stream of consciousness. One thing reminds them of another, then another, then … Make sure that of, with, by, under, over, etc., don’t just give you and excuse to go on and on. If you have a number of thoughts, use two or more sentences. Too many prepositional phrases can get you–and your reader–lost.

The profusion of prepositions was the major problem for Judith Butler, the last winner of the Bad Writing Award. It was also a problem in an analysis of the civil rights movement, which we explored in a previous post (see Passage 2).

(2) Avoid making nouns into verbs and verbs into nouns

One of the delights of language is its flexibility. I once heard Don Imus’s radio sidekick tell his boss that he would “effort” a task. He meant: try to do it. I kind of like it. It’s sprightly and, in context, makes fun of officious bureaucratese.

But too often nouning and verbing separates the words from their original meanings. Sometimes, it requires more words. One example: Government “spokespeople” and other officials often talk about “making an announcement,” as in: “The president made an announcement about new unemployment numbers.” Why not just say “The president announced new unemployment numbers”?

Whenever possible, use a single verb instead of a cluster of words.

(3) Root out the repetitions

We repeat ourselves for two primary reasons. First, as is the case with strings of prepositional phrases, we often repeat ourselves because our minds wander down a long stream of consciousness.

Second, because we cannot see our audience, we often repeat ourselves to satisfy ourselves we have made the point. When we speak directly to someone, we can see whether they follow us by their responses and body language. If I explain a math concept to a child doing homework, I know right away if she gets the concept. Not so with writing. Our audience is invisible. So, to clinch a point, we repeat it.

No need. If you explain something adequately, the reader usually will understand. If it’s a difficult concept, the reader can double-back to make sure she gets the concept. Repetitive writing can make things worse by altering the meaning enough to confuse the reader.

(4) Make sure you “start strong, finish strong”

Possibly my favorite rule. It’s simple, open with a strong statement, something that captures the reader’s imagination. Usually, that means a clear and vivid noun and verb. Stuff all the details, including attributions, in the middle. And then close with a memorable idea or image.

To reinforce this approach, I require my students to use a landscape format for their documents. Then I require them to write only one sentence per line. Two happy consequences occur. First, they can run their finger down both sides of the page to see if they start and finish strong. Second, they see sentences as the primary unit of writing. Often, the writing becomes both simpler and more poetic. (More on that in a later post.)

If you start and finish strong with everything you write–sentences, paragraphs, sections, essays, and books–you will almost never lose the reader.

(5) Flip the subjects of confusing sentences

Ultimately, writing works best when it gets the subject right. But often, we are thinking of several actors in the same sentence. And so we can fall into the trap of losing the real focus of the action.

Consider this sentence: “Administration sources said joint congressional committees would need to reconcile competing versions of the bill before President Obama decides whether to sign it.” What’s the subject? Administration sources? Joint congressional committees? President Obama? I think it’s President Obama. He’s challenging the committees to come up with the best bill.

(6) Cut adjectives and adverbs

You cannot write without adjectives and adverbs, of course. Well, you can write without adverbs, as Gabriel Garcia Marquez has shown in his recent work. Too often, adjectives and adverbs only wave at meaning. Better to state exactly what you mean, with specific actions and ideas.

Let’s get specific. If I say that Richard Nixon was a corrupt politician, what does that mean? Was he accepting cash bribes? Using his office to support political allies and punish opponents? Engaging in unlawful policies–like, for example, bombing countries without congressional approval? Withholding evidence from legal authorities? Using government agencies to attack political enemies?

Each of these kinds of offenses carries different ideas about corruption. Some people would argue that using office to reward friends is not necessarily corrupt (see, for example, Charles Peters’s argument for bringing back the spoils system). Others would argue that bombing countries without congressional approval is necessary under the president’s duties as commander in chief.

Here’s a simple rule of thumb: Use adjectives only when their meaning is unmistakable and when you follow up with clear examples of what you mean, so the reader can make her own judgments.

(7) Go after emphatics and hedges

Often we use emphatics like “very” and “really” and hedges like “sort of” and “probably” because we want to push the reader toward a conclusion but we don’t have enough evidence. Avoid that tendency. If you cannot provide specifics, maybe the emphatic or hedge says something false.

Quick quiz: What’s the emphatic I used in the previous paragraph? Often! What do I mean by that? Can I prove it? Or should I find a different way to say that emphatics and hedges pose a danger to clear writing?

(8) Simplify words

Simple rule: Always use the simplest word . . . except when a technical term makes your point more precisely.

Consider the words “facilitation” and “prioritization.” As far as I can tell, facilitation means “help” or “coach” or “assist.” Why would you want to use a gross word like facilitation when help can do all the work in one-fifth the time, with no confusion to the reader? Honestly, I don’t know.

I made this point in a seminar for small business people that included people who do training. One complained that facilitation holds a specific, technical meaning for people in his business. Facilitators, he said, get training in specific skills and processes. As an example, he mentioned facilitators for mediation professes. OK, if you want, use facilitator for such people. But really, don’t teachers and doctors and lawyers and accountants get specific training too? Would you can a lawyer a legal process facilitator? Any why not call that mediation facilitator a mediator?

(9) Make a stronger lead

Barry Gordy, the head of Motown Records, once said that he would not buy a record unless it captured the listener in three seconds. Writers have a little more time to capture the reader, but not much. In this distracted world, you need to show the reader right away why she should bother going beyond the first paragraph.

Amazingly, many opening passages do not clearly state the Five W’s–who, what, when, where, and why. You owe your reader a thorough preview of coming attractions. Teasing is fine in some forms of writing, like fiction. But even teases should offer enough information to orient the reader.

(10) Put the paragraphs in single-idea buckets

Make sure that every paragraph states and develops just one idea. If you try to develop two or three or more ideas, you will stray far off the subject. You will confuse yourself–and your readers–about what’s happening.

Just as you would not put football helmets and pads in your living room, make sure each paragraph keeps only what’s appropriate to do its job. Avoid going off on tangents that confuse both reader and writer.

One caveat: In narrative pieces, you sometimes use dialogue. The words of each speaker, typically, end with paragraph breaks. So, for example, you’d use six paragraph breaks for the following dialogue:

“Roy,” Bayard Rustin told Roy Wilkins, “someone has to announce that W.E.B. DuBois has died.”

“Not me,” Wilkins said.

“You should do it. He was the head of the NAACP, and that’s your organization.”

“I’m going to say anything about that damned Communist.”

“Then we’ll get Mr. Randolph to do it.”

“I’ll do it. Nobody’s speaking for my organization.”

I call the sum of these dialogues “paraclusters.” And so my one-idea-per-paragraph rule applies here to paraclusters.

That’s it. Ten rules that can transform any piece of writing. Learn ’em, use ’em, make ’em automatic. You’ll be glad you did.

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Getting College Writing Right

From The Chronicle of Higher Education comes a plea for more writing in college.

A worthy cause, I’d say.

Julie Reynolds, associate director of undergraduate students at Duke, says writing reveals students’ thinking process. “Anywhere we can make their thought process visible is where faculty can have the greatest impact in their teaching,” she says. So writing becomes a diagnostic tool, useful in the sciences and math as well as the arts and social sciences.

My thoughts:

True, writing reveals a person’s thinking process. True, wrestling with words forces you to wrestle with your subject. So writing ought to play a central role in a student’s life.

But how?

Writing for the sake of writing might not be a great idea. To write well, you need to understand how words and ideas work. The old saying that “practice makes perfect” is not quite right. If your practice a poor technique, over and over, you may end up in worse shape. You need to practice, consciously, using the best techniques.

So let’s not just assign more writing. Let’s make sure we teach all the basic skills of writing and give students strategies to apply those skills.

Stanley Fish, while dean at University of Illinois in Chicago, discovered that only four out of 104 “writing” courses actually taught writing technique. Did the students in the other 100 classes learn how to write? Doubtful. They just continued using whatever half-baked approaches they learned in high school.

You can teach anyone to write well, quickly, with the right technique. Of course, a person’s writing will only be as good as their knowledge about the subject and their willingness to apply writing skills. That takes hard work. But you can teach the skills in a matter of days.

Most high school and college courses teach writing — to the extent that they teach technique — focus on ACADEMIC writing.All too often, students learn a simple format (like the five-paragraph essay) and teachers use a protocol (like the six-traits method in high school). This can be abstract — and, for most students, besides the point.

In The Elements of Writing — a program I developed while teaching at Yale and SUNY-Purchase, working on my own books, and developing seminars for professionals — I take a different approach.

I begin with this simple truth: Humans are a storytelling species. Nothing matters more to us than constructing narratives — and we do it well, usually with little or no help. So when you engage learners with storytelling techniques, they come alive.

That simple truth leads to another, more surprising truth: Once you’ve mastered the basic skills of storytelling, the more abstract skills come more easily. Why? Because the basic structure of stories offers a “template” for all the other skills of writing.

The best writers give every level of writing — sentence, paragraph, essay, section, etc. — a narrative thrust. They make everything, at every level, a “journey.” They take the reader from one place to another, different place. When students understand the narrative structure of all writing, they can convey ideas with clarity and verve. Even challenges like grammar, punctuation, and editing come more easily with this approach.

Learning with this approach makes writing more relevant and the skills more transferable to the “real world.” And the reality is that almost all professionals have to write — a lot — in their jobs these days. If they learn a simple, natural approach, they’ll succeed. If not, they’ll struggle.

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The Power of Patterns

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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Writing as Construction

An excerpt from the recently updated edition of The Elements of Writing:

Carpentry, said Jack McClintock, a writer who chronicled the construction of his own home in Florida, “is largely a matter if getting the sequences right. If you perform Job C before Job A, you end up … wasting time and materials, getting annoyed, and making mistakes. Oldtimers call it the fool tax.”

Writing is like construction. Like a carpenter—or musician or sculptor or other creator—you create something by gathering raw materials and giving them a shape. You make sure the pieces all fit together. You determine where one piece of the structure ends and another begins.

And when you get something wrong—or get it right, but in the wrong order—you pay a fool tax.

So what’s the right sequence? And how do you design and build a piece to do the work you need it to do?

Start with the mantra of The Writing Code: All writing is a journey. Before all else, know where you want to start and finish. Know your destination and how to you plan to get there. When you know the beginning and end, you can create the best path—a straight line or a path with side trips or twists and turns. As long as you know the journey—where you want to start and end—you will always be able to get back on the track.

Some authors want to take a direct trip from one point to another. Others want to raise tension along the way, with hidden and meandering paths. Others want to give the reader a series of recurring experiences. What shape you choose depends on how direct—or how much of a tease—you want to be with the reader.

As you write, offer the reader signposts along the way. When we drive in the Interstate, we look for signs that show us our progress: “Thank You for Visiting Massachusetts” … “Welcome to Connecticut” … “Hartford: 40 Miles” … “New York 68 Miles” … and so on. To make transitions, readers sometimes need those direct statements.

Most readers, though, they just need to see where they are. So just make sure that all your steps—all your paragraphs—follow a logical sequence. So you don’t have to pay the fool tax.

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Writing Well in the Age of the Internet, Technical Writing, and DIY Publishing

This originally appeared at the Technology Communications Center:

Charles Euchner, the author or editor of nine books, is the owner and operator of The Elements of Writing. Euchner’s latest book The Elements of Writing builds on his experience in colleges and universities — at institutions such as Columbia, Yale, Harvard, Holy Cross, and Northeastern — and offers a sure-fire system to improve writing for high school and college students, journalists and academics, and corporate and nonprofit professionals.

(1) What is the top culprit in your judgment that holds people back from writing at their best?

Because of an outdated approach to writing — both in school and at work — too many of us have lost our greatest asset as writers. I am referring to our love of storytelling and our natural ability to engage others with stories. We humans are a storytelling species. It’s what sets us apart from other species. Other species eat, drink, find shelter, reproduce, even use language and tools.

We humans alone tell stories. And we do it our whole lives. But formal educational processes don’t take advantage of this. Kids’ activities in school revolve around storytelling in the early grades. But by middle school, teachers adopt a more “serious” attitude. They demand more abstract thinking, with categories and evidence and five-paragraph essays. Even our social studies books lose sight of the basic fact that history is a series of engagements of people, with all the action and mystery of a great detective novel.

Kids get turned off to reading and writing and seek out stories elsewhere — in movies, TV, video games, music, and gossip and flirting. To write well, you need to engage in storytelling. Of course, it’s also important to develop explanations and arguments, to look for patterns and test theories. But when you tell stories, everything becomes easier.

(2) Do you think creative and technical prose writing require different skill sets?

Yes and no. The core skills of writing are the same in all fields. You need to say who or what acts, and how, and to what effect. That basic template applies for all writing. It applies in a Hemingway story or a great movie like “Casablanca” or an opera like “Don Giovanni.” It also applies to an analysis of sales and marketing strategies, a study of safety systems at a nuclear plant, or an argument about what causes economic cycles.

The biggest difference is that the characters in creative works tend to be people and the characters in scientific works tend to be categories, and stories are about one-and-only events while technical writing is about patterns of behavior involving many samples. But the basic core is the same. We need to understand what causes what. What caused Michael Corleone to embrace the family’s business in organized crime? What caused the increase in cases of autism over the last couple of decades? What causes a computer to be buggy? What causes the booms and busts of an economy.

Lots of times, people mistake the surface appearance of a thing for its essence. That happens with writing. We see scientists used technical vocabulary and we assume that the core skills differ for technical and creative writing. But really, the technical terminology is just that — terminology. Understanding the lightening-speed transmission of chemical signals in the brain is no different, really, than understanding how a character’s behavior in a story. It’s just that the terms we use are different.

(3) What is the “The Elements of Writing”? Is it a formula to write well or something else?

The Elements of Writing is a systematic way of thinking about how people write and read — really, how people communicate. And it begins with our brain, which is the software system for everything we do.

When we understand how the brain works — what the brain “wants” and what it doesn’t “want” — we can understand the challenges of writing. We understand how to manage the process of writing — how to gather information, sort it, organize it, and express it, line by line. We understand what words get a rise out of people and what lines bore people. We understand when people get bored and when they get engaged and when they get confused. We also understand our own frailties. For example, brain research shows that we can only do one thing at a time. But all too often, writers try to do five or ten things at a time. Naturally, they crash, like an overloaded computer.

So we show how to break down tasks, one by one, and do things in a good sequence. It’s all very natural. But you have to be shown first.

(4) Writing for an increasingly international audience means writing in a simpler style with simpler words. Wouldn’t that hamper artistic creativity? What’s your advice?

Absolutely not. Simple is good. I like to quote Einstein: “Make everything as simple as possible, but not simpler.” Even some of the most creative and emotional pieces of writing, when you break them down, are quite simple. I sometimes show a video of Martin Luther King‘s famous “Mountaintop” speech, which is as soaring and emotional and complex as most writing. Then we look at the text line by line and discover that King uses nothing but simple words and short sentences. The power comes from the ideas and images he conjures up, his audience’s engagement in the speech, how the simple words evoke larger ideas and experiences, and so on.

We also look at a passage from John McPhee‘s work The Curve of Binding Energy, about nuclear proliferation. McPhee is describing a highly technical process, with all manner of technical terms. But he does it by using simple ideas, not overwhelming the reader with an avalanche of insider’s jargon. When he uses technical terms, he doesn’t throw too much at you too soon. And he defines the terms in simple ways, with reference to things you can understand. To describe the density of uranium, he tells us that 132 pounds would be the size of a football.

(5) What do you offer in your in-class writing seminars that a student cannot get from another source?

The most important thing we do is start with storytelling. Even if you’re a hard-nosed business person or a technical writer for a pharmaceutical company, we need to understand storytelling before we do anything else. I started doing this for pragmatic reasons. I was working with a room of more than 100 corporate people and the computer projector would;t work and people were getting antsy. I had to get their attention right away or I would lose them for good. So I started talking about stories. Instantly, I had everyone with me. I thought, “Wow, talk about a party trick.”

Only later did I discover that the basic structure of a story is the same as the basic structure of even the most abstract idea. So storytelling packs a powerful 1-2 punch. First you get people’s attention and enthusiasm. Then you show them the structure of all communication. And so learning everything — even the most dry, abstract concepts of grammar and punctuation and analysis — becomes easier.

(6) What is the best book you’ve ever read on writing well?

Hard to say. No book offers a complete guide to writing in all fields. That’s what I try to do in The Elements of Writing (available on Amazon). I used to worship at the altar of Strunk and White and The Elements of Style, but it’s not a really guide to writing. It’s a checklist of potential problems. It’s also outdated, written for a time when writers were a breed apart.

These days, we’re all writers. When I was in college I wrote an awful paper and my professor had me read William Zinsser’s On Writing Well, and the first half of that is quite good. Roy Peter Clark’s Writing Tools is good, but doesn’t offer a complete strategy, and many of his tools are about the writer’s like rather than practical techniques. I once read a collection of passages from Hemingway. And I love reading the Paris Review interviews with the master writers of the last several generations, which are all now available online.

(7) What are the three authors that shaped you as a writer and why?

Truman Capote‘s In Cold Blood is a virtual clinic in storytelling, analysis, sentence and paragraph construction, if you break it apart and ask a lot of questions about what he does. Most people love that book because it shows Capote’s mastery as a researcher. He reconstructed this awful murder of a Kansas family by a couple of drifters and makes it read like a novel. How he got all that information, how he built the story, is a marvel. But to me In Cold Blood is a true work of art not just because of the content but also because of Capote’s near-perfect technical mastery. So as far as understanding the architecture of writing, it’s hard to top that.

I also really like the narrative nonfiction of John McPhee. Because he writes for The New Yorker, McPhee has the opportunity to take one thing at a time. You never get the sense that he’s in a rush. Too many writers try to pack too much information into small spaces. But McPhee just takes one thing at a time. And that’s the only way to write.

The world is really just a collection of different things — people, events, processes of nature, ideas — and you can’t understand any complex concept unless you get a handle on the smaller ideas that are part of the complex concept. He understands also that readers need vivid scenes, but they also need a break from action. So he is a master of what I call yo-yoing — moving back and forth from scene to summary.

Let’s keep this list contemporary. I also like Elizabeth Gilbert. She understands sentences and paragraphs and scenes and summaries as well as anyone. I love using her story “Lucky Jim” to teach the structure of storytelling. Her book The Last American Man is also very good. She won her fame and fortune with Eat Pray Love, which is good, but she honed her craft long before that came out. Some day I’d like to talk shop with her. She clearly relishes the careful construction of a story, sentence by sentence, paragraphs by paragraph, section by section.

(8) What’s the most important thing happening in the world of letters these days?

Technology has completely transformed the literary landscape. Never before in history have so many people written. Partly it’s because we have to write. Bureaucracy in government and corporations means that we’re always writing memos and reports and emails. But something bigger is happening. With social media, ebooks, and DIY publishing, anyone who wants can write, get published, and find and audience. And that’s very powerful.

At the end of the day, people want other people to notice them. Until now, only a small elite could hope to find an audience. Editors and publishers were strict gatekeepers. They decided who could get their ideas published. Now anyone can do it. It makes writing exciting again. I am amazed at how much people write on Facebook and in emails. I have friends who see a movie and then send out an email and then all their friends and family are debating that movie all kinds of related ideas. The same thing happens with posts on Facebook and comments on web sites from nytimes.com to scientificamerican.com.

Lots of people who would have never have considered writing a book are doing so now. I’m coaching a technical guy at Microsoft who wants to write a family story. A generation ago, he might have collected family papers and scrapbooks but not have considered writing a book. But he knows he can write a book and sell it as an ebook and then, who knows, it might make it big. But he knows he can share it, so it’s worth making the effort. Multiply that case by millions and you have a writing revolution that is changing everything. It’s very exciting — scary for old-timers, but exciting for most of us.

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How to Make Everything You Write ‘Sticky’

Remember the old Steve Martin routine about getting small? It’s a great bit spoofing the way druggies giggle and cackle about getting high.

I like to get small. It’s very dangerous for kids, because they get realllly small. I know I shouldn’t get small when I’m driving, but I was drivin’ around the other day and a cop pulls me over … says, ‘Hey, are you small?’ I say, ‘No, I’m tall.’ He says, ‘I’m gonna have to measure you.’ They give you a little test with a balloon. If you can get inside it, they know you’re small … and they can’t put you in a regular cell either, because you walk right out.

In the media world these days — in advertising, the Internet, marketing, promotion, publishing, you name it — people are carrying on about getting “sticky.” Stickiness is the quality that products have when readers or consumers feel the need to linger a while. Rather than surfing to a new site, readers “stick” to a site that offers something intriguing and engaging.

Chip Heath and Dan Heath, a brotherly duo of biz-school professor and entrepreneur, have written the ultimate manual for getting sticky. Made to Stick outlines six qualities needed to make anything — idea or image, web site or ad jingle, catch-phrase or product design — stick.

1. Simplicity

If you argue ten points, nobody will remember even one. People easily remember two things (which set up a yin-and-yang kind of contrast) or three (which set up a triangle in which each corner affects the other two). And if you give them a mnemonic device, they can remember a string of ideas.

But to get people to remember, you have to work hard at simplifying your message. The Dale Carnegie Training offers a simple formula for giving memorable talks. It’s called the Action/Benefit speech. Talk about an incident, describing a specific action and the benefit it produced. Done well, these talks impart memorable wisdom. And advertisers love the format. Think of all the slogans that take this form: “Get Met. It Pays.”

2. Unexpectedness

As Aristotle noted 2,500 years ago, the reversal produces a powerful impact on the audience. When you’re expecting one thing, and something dramatic and different happens, you remember. In Story, his masterful guide for screenwriting, Robert McKee talks about opening and closing “gaps” throughout the picture. Give a character something he has to reach for–and then, just as he’s about to reach it, pull it away. And when you make the hero’s job harder, do it by surprising him with some demon or challenge that he had no idea was waiting for him.

3. Concreteness

Don’t use adjectives and adverbs. Ever have a friend who recommended a book or movie that was “interesting”? That word means nothing. Think of some memorable moments of popular culture. We remember the horse head in the film mogul’s bed in “The Godfather.” We remember Jake Gittes slapping Mrs. Mulwray in “Chinatown.” We remember Carlton Fisk waving his home run fair in the 1975 World Series and Bill Buckner coming up empty in 1986. We remember JFK and Reagan at the Berlin Wall, the 1980 U.S. Olympic hockey team surrounded by American flags, the screaming girls at Beatles concerts.

We know what a freshly mown lawn smells like. We know how good a beer tastes on a blazing summer day. Political and business people often don’t even know what concreteness is. They use vague general slogans, thinking they’re speaking to the most immediate concerns of their constituents.

When I worked as a planner for the City of Boston, I thought terms like “transit-oriented development” and “Emerald Necklace” were specific and concrete to the ordinary folks. I was puzzled when people complained how abstract our conversations could be. These wlords did not seem technical to me, but they did to neighborhood volunteers and activists. Words go only so far. Our most successful discussions of planning used maps and images of the streets, houses, business districts, parks, etc. The more concrete, the more people responded to our planning efforts.To be concrete, think of the senses — sight, sound, touch, taste, and smell.

4. Credibility

People want to believe, but you have to tell them why they should believe. Everyone has a different tool. Academics love footnotes and statistical analysis. Sports fans also love stats, the more exotic the better. Lawyers like expert witnesses. Marketers pull a reversal and put the expertise in the hands of the consumer with guarantees and trials: “We know you’ll like it, but YOU decide.” Politicians often try to do the same thing, as when Ronald Reagan asked, “Are you better off now than you were four years ago.”

Demonstrations can also increase credibility. Beyond War, a peace activist group, uses the image of a bucket of bee-bees to demonstrate just how we have overarmed ourselves with nukes. Each bee-bee represents a nuclear warhead with the firepower of the bombs that demolished Hiroshima.Which raises another point about credibility. The more visual and specific, the stickier your claim. Celebrities often strengthen a campaign’s credibility. Now, celebs are often the least credible spokespeople for a complex issue. But celebrities who have established a strong emotional connection with audiences have also established trust, which is another word for credibility.

And so we listen to Richard Gere on Tibet, Meryl Streep on environmental health, Sting on global warming, and Mia Farrow on Darfur. Credibility can be manipulated as must as anything. Professionals use technical-sounding language to take the upper hand in debates. Lawyers, doctors, researchers, professors, even web-designers take refuge in gobbledygook language to bewilder their audience. When people cannot explain things in simple terms, you should be suspicious of their knowledge or motives.

5. Emotions

Make people feel something. People remember fear best of all. They also remember hope, when it’s connected to their fondest childhood hopes and dreams. Least of all, they remember the elements of a logical and systematic argument.

Think of how powerful emotions have been in American politics. Lyndon Johnson conjured the image of nuclear war in his mushroom cloud ads against Barry Goldwater. George Bush conjured a world of menacing rapists like Willie Horton carousing the streets if Michael Dukakis were elected president. Barack Obama warned about Republicans throwing granny off a cliff if anyone dared to reform Social Security. When people fear losing something, and a demon is connected to that fear, that’s what they remember before all else.

6. Story

More than anything else besides physical needs, humans need to tell and listen to stories. Stories provide meaning to everything from the most mundane to the most unknowable aspects of life. Stories give order to things that would otherwise feel chaotic and meaningless. Stories create a sense of wholeness. Stories also stretch the imagination, spurring people to think of achieving something beyond themselves.

Stories have, essentially, three plots: Challenge (David and Goliath conflicts, underdogs rising up, rags-to-riches tales, and triumph of will dramas), Connection (Good Samaritan, relationship that bridges a gap), and Creativity (Ingersoll Rand testing of materials, Shackleton’s dealing with rebellious crew members).

The Stickiness of Made to Stick

The Heath brothers, true to their message, make sure that their stickiness message is also sticky. Look over these six attributes of stickiness. They’re listed in an easy-to-remember mnemonic. The first letter of the six terms spells out the word “success”—almost, anyway.Let’s review (another critical tool to make an idea sticky):

S—Simple
U—Unexpected
C—Concrete
C—Credible
E—Emotional
S—Story

Got it?

Hubris

The tragedy of Joe Paterno is as old as the human experience. The great literary works — from Sophocles and Milton, Shakespeare to Tolstoy, Fitzgerald to Hemingway, O’Neill to Miller — warn us about the dangers of greatness.

We need heroism, for heroism is the opposite of cowardice. But heroism contains the seeds of its own corruption. And so when we see great men fall — and, in the world of sports, Joe Paterno was a great man — we need to reflect on the vices inherent in all of us that lead to that fall.

The Greek concept of hubris applies here. Hubris refers to excessive pride, the belief that some people are better than others, and the arrogance that comes, almost inevitably, with power and prestige.

The Greeks understood that people possess a powerful capacity to do great deeds. Those people could be rulers, generals, teachers, sailors, mothers and sisters, athletes, and even children. This capacity for greatness gives life energy. It makes advances in civilization possible. So when we see these people rising above the ordinary, we want to applaud. Somehow, it’s not enough for us to show appreciation for good deeds. Somehow, we must exalt and deify heroes.

That’s when the trouble begins.

Heroes are, after all, fallible. Given a taste of adulation, heroes get addicted to their own beliefs about their superiority. They might guffaw and aw-shucks the praise that comes their way. But they love it and want more. And so they begin to construct a mythology and build a team to spread the word of their heroism. When they make mistakes, they deny them or ignore them. They make excuses. They rough up the truth-teller. They turn their attention away from the work that brought them accolades and toward the business of amplifying those accolades.

You can often tell when this transformation occurs — the switch from heroism to its perversion — when the hero and his coterie make bold claims about their superiority. When the Paterno Empire boasted about “Success With Honor,” they slowly separated themselves from the unglamorous need to do the right thing. Life at Penn State became about the image. Followers wore their adulation like a coat of superiority. And so we all lost sight of how fallible even the great Paterno could be.

Even with real evidence of flaws, people look the other way. It’s too hard to explore investigate unpleasant reports or to speak unpleasant truths.

People in Happy Valley, the isolated kingdom of Joe Paterno, had heard rumblings of scandal and depravation in the Penn State football program for years. But who dares to speak up? When the university’s president and athletic director visited JoePa and dared to suggest that he retire after a dismal season in 2003, Paterno showed them the door. He had that kind of power. (For a superb treatment of the scandal, see this piece by L. Jon Wertheim and David Epstein in Sports Illustrated.)

And that is what is so ugly about Paterno’s role in the coverup of child molestation. When Paterno learned that sick things were happening, as WFAN’s Mike Francessa notes, he alone had the power to pick up the phone and demand justice. But he did no such thing. Instead, he focused on protecting the image of his Penn State football program.

So what does this have to do with writing or journalism? Everything.

All too often, writers get carried away by glory. Who doesn’t want to chronicle the exploits of a great person? Who doesn’t want to bask in the glow? Who doesn’t want to take in the electricity of great moments — a parade for Wilson, a fireside chat of Roosevelt, Kennedy’s Berlin speech, Reagan’s toughness after getting shot, Obama’s celebration at Grant Park? Or, in sports, Ali’s Thrilla in Manila, Brady’s “tuck” victory, the Yankees’ heroism after 9/11, the Red Sox’ triumph over the Curse? It’s a thrill. And so when the hero makes claims to be morally better and the throngs stand and cheer, it’s hard for reporters to stick to the facts. It’s hard not to get sucked into the glory and the glee.

And it’s easy to ignore the whispered rumors of wrongdoing that fill every community.

To understand the failures of the Penn State tragedy, consider the story of Martin Baron, the editor of The Boston Globe. Baron was brought in from the Miami Herald in 2001. When he arrived in town, he heard a rumbling of rumors about the Catholic Church and a generations-old practice of priests molesting children. Baron wondered why The Globe had not investigated. The response was like this: Well, er, um, everyone knows it already.

Because he was an outsider — and a good editor and journalist — Baron did not accept that answer. It’s a story, dammit. Cover it. And so The Globe unmasked the unholy deeds of a long series of priests. This reporting began a global uncovering of this awful scandal.

A couple of years before the Catholic priest scandal broke, I went to a press event at the gilded mansion of Cardinal Bernard Law, the man most responsible for allowing priests to prey on young boys. As a researcher at Northeastern University, I was the coauthor of a report on affordable housing sponsored by the Catholic archdiocese. I was amazed at the royal way Law was treated by academics and politicians and corporate and civic bigwigs and other dignitaries. It was strangely sickening and thrilling at the same time, the sights of this inside world of privilege and power.

After the Catholic pedophilia scandal broke, I thought back to that day at the Cardinal’s Xanadu. Suppose a victim of that abuse had gotten in and confronted the Cardinal? What would have happened? I think I know. I think he would have been quietly but forcably removed from the premises: This is not the time. We are holding an event. Please state your concerns in a letter.

So who’s going to demand that Law investigate and punish and report the predators in his church? No one, of course, except an out-of-town newspaper editor.

Joe Paterno, sadly, gained that same holy status in Happy Valley as the Cardinal did in Boston. And so when people knew about strange and dangerous goings-on, few had the nerve to demand that the football program and its great leader be held accountable. The few lame attempts — like the request from superiors that he resign in 2003 — fed the aura of the great leader’s invincibility.

Happy Valley had no Martin Baron.

Now that the scandal has broken, reports are surfacing of the suspicions and concerns about the “darker side” of Joe Paterno. And of suspicions about the departure of Paterno’s assistant coach who had abused and terrorized innocent boys. But suspicion gets stifled, not explored, in the kingdom of all-powerful leaders.

When JoePa finally got fired for his role in the greatest scandal in college sports history, hundreds of students gathered outside his home. They chanted: “We are … Penn State! We are … Penn State!

They were right.

In this scandal, as in all others, we are all Penn State. Everyone who bought into the mythology, everyone who contributed to a climate where reporting a child rapist is hard because it might upset “the program,” everyone who reported this big-time football program as if it were an episode of “Father Knows Best” and not a big, sprawling business involving hundreds of millions of dollars, is part of this scandal.

We are … Penn State. We are … Penn State.

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Fact and Opinion

The real pros do their jobs and then walk away. They don’t talk about how hard it is to do it. They don’t take shortcuts when it gets tough. They set standards and follow them.

Can you imagine Willie Mays talking about how hard it is to hit a 97-mile-an-hour pitch? Or Winston Churchill moaning about how hard it is to lead a nation when the Nazis are bombing it to hell? Or Einstein grumbling about how hard that whole relativity thing is because, after all, it’s not in any of the textbooks?

No. The pros do their job, period.

So it is with Ken Auletta, the veteran media reporter for The New Yorker. In his latest effort, Aulatta profiles Jill Abramson, the first woman to be named editor of The New York Times. He shows Abramson for what she is: A talented reporter and editor, a sponge for facts, relentlessly curious, demanding to the point of insulting, and determined to strengthen the core competencies of The Times while leading it into the scary new Age of the Internet.

Auletta reports, you decide. He interviews people from every stage of Abramson’s life and presents all sides of her character. He’s fair, sympathetic but open to others’ critiques of her depth, breadth, and temperament.

Toward the end of the piece, Auletta bring up the ages-old debate about the liberal bias of The Times. In particular he discusses the way that opinion pieces now mingle with straight news throughout the paper. Most of the opinion pieces get labeled “analysis,” which offers the reporter a free pass to say whatever he or she wants to say. But a number of opinion pieces slip into the news pages without such a label, such as Ginia Bellafante’s article about the Occupy Wall Street movement:

The group’s lack of cohesion and its apparent wish to pantomime progressivism rather than practice it knowledgably is unsettling in the face of the challenges so many of its generation face — finding work, repaying student loans, figuring out ways to finish college when money has run out. But what were the chances that its members were going to receive the attention they so richly deserve carrying signs like “Even if the World Were to End Tomorrow I’d Still Plant a Tree Today”?

Now, maybe Bellafante understands the strengths and weaknesses of the movement. But she not only cops a lot of attitude, but also presumes to play the role of strategist for the protesters. And she endorses the OWS gang when she talks about “the attention they so richly deserve.”

Abramson acknowledges that she needs to guard against her own urban bias. She’s a lifelong New Yorker who grew up in its privileged, liberal precincts. She understands that The Times can look down its noses at Flyover Country and the many groups who struggle to make sense of a world that seems to be flying apart.

But when the out-and-out bias of passages like the OWS piece come under debate, Abramson and the other Timespeople talk about how hard it is to keep news straight when so many other publications cop an edgy attitude. As Bill Keller, Abramson’s predecessor as editor, puts it:

Part of the great competition for audience in the twenty-first century is the competition to get beyond commodity news. To add meaning to it. To help readers organize the information into understanding. … The tenor of a front-page news story has changed in the last five or ten years from who, where, when, what, why to more emphasis on how and why.

Yes, readers can be demanding. All day long, we readers hear the headlines on NPR and cable TV and click for updates online. We know the basics — who, what, when, where, and why — by the time we get The Times plopped onto our porches or zapped into our iPad. Readers surely want more than a rehash of what they already know.

But ultimately, it’s a false argument to say that reporters should strut their opinionated stuff because we have so many sources of news.

Take that Occupy Wall Street story. Yes, we hear about it all day. Yes, we want something new when we get our Times. But that doesn’t mean we care what Ginia Bellafante thinks about the struggle. It means we want a deeper, more compelling arrangements of hard-news reporting. Just because Bellafante shouldn’t just repeat what we already know doesn’t mean she should opinionate rather than report.

I would like to see Bellafante and other reporters do twice as many interviews, track down twice as many documents, get twice as much background on the maneuvering of City Hall and unions and liberal funders and police and neighbors and Wall Street workers. No, don’t give us what we already know. Give us deeper, fresher reporting.

Opionators pose the false choice — repeat what you heard yesterday or add the sizzle of opinion — because they still follow the rules of pack journalism. If someone calls a press conference — especially a pol or a celebrity — the Knights of the Keyboard flock to see it. If candidates stage events in Iowa and New Hampshire and South Carolina, they flock to these extravaganzas. If a royal son gets married, they flock to it. If a pol gets caught tweeting naughty stuff, they stake out his house. And so on.

Not that these stories don’t deserve attention. But they don’t deserve hundreds of reporters saying the same thing, as happens all too often.

When you write the same basic stuff that as the rest of the pack, yes, opinionating might seem the best or even only way to stand out. But there is another way. Call it the Wee Willie Keeler Way.

Keeler, of course, was the old-time baseball star who coined the phrase “Hit ’em where they ain’t.” He was talking about hitting a ball beyond the reach of the fielders.

The journalistic equivalent would be to report where they — the rest of the pack — ain’t. Then you get fresh news and don’t have any excuse to fall back on “analysis” and speculation and opinion.

A good model for this principle? None other than Ken Auletta. All he did was report the hell out of his story, make sense of The Times‘s recent years of woe, with a well-organized feast of facts and balanced perspectives.

Without opining or showing off.

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Use the Character Dossier To Create a Memorable Character

To set your hero and other characters on their journeys, know who they are and what they’re trying to do.

Know their physical, mental, and spiritual qualities. Learn everything possible about their lives. Then give the reader the most relevant and, yes, the juiciest tales and details.

Don’t just discover the surface facts of your characters’ lives. Find the backstories. Don’t just get your characters’ names. Find out how they got their names and what they mean. Don’t just talk about their jobs. Find out what it means to them emotionally.

Find the odd moments in characters’ lives, their lost loves, and moments of shame and glory. When you size up their bodies, look beyond the obvious—size, build, hair and eye color. See how they walk and react physically to events.

Most important: Be complete. Just as a P.I. gets his best stuff while tracking down unlikely leads, you will discover telling details when you fill in the details for each of these four categories:

Personal and Family Background
Name
Age and birthday
Birthplace
Parents’ ethnic background, upbringing, hopes and fears, and careers
Place in the family’s birth order
Relations with siblings and other relatives

Physical Characteristics
Body
Build
Hair and eye color
Sound of voice
Conversational tics
Physical peculiarities
Mannerisms while walking, talking, working, and playing

Biography
Pastimes as a child … and as an adult
Sidekicks and mentors
Intellectual and emotional influences
Rivals and foes at different stages of life
Not-so-good influences—skeptics, and tempters
Political leanings—and major political influences
What others notice first
How the character changes over the course of life
Turning points in life

Psychology
All-consuming desires
Pathological maneuver
Most admirable qualities
Least admirable qualities
Sexual identity
Philosophy of life
Optimism or pessimism
Energy level
What the character does when alone
What the character thinks about when alone
Greatest fears at different stages of life

Gathering so much information might seem like overkill. But you need to know everything about your characters before you decide what’s important.

In my Elements of Writing seminars, students join together to create a dossier for both real and imagined characters. Here’s a character created by students at Hillhouse High School in New Haven:

Jodie is a sixteen-year-old orphan being raised by her grandparents. Slender and athletic, with brown hair and hazel eyes, Jodie still struggles with the trauma of her parents’ deaths in a plane crash. She lights candles in her room and holds seances to connect with her lost parents; in a bit of “magical thinking,” she thinks she can somehow bring them back. She can be mean at times, as her two older brothers will attest. She’s energetic but deeply pessimistic. She has a crush on a boy named Cody, but a cheerleader named Heather already has won his affections.

Now Jodie is on an airplane to Egypt, as part of a school field trip. She saved money for the trip because she thinks she can somehow connect with her parents’ spirit in this ancient land. She sits next to a middle-aged woman who reminds her of her mother. And they talk . . . and talk . . . and talk. In a way Jodie has never experienced, this woman is calming her down.
On this day, her sixteenth birthday and the eighth anniversary of her parents’ death, Jodie just might have a chance to overcome her fear of losing someone close.

Then the pilot’s voice crackles on the PA system. There’s some trouble with the fuel tank or one of the engines . . . or something. Whatever the pilot says, people respond with panic. Now, just as Jodie has found a soulmate for the first time since her parents’ death, the trip could end in tragedy.

What’s Jodie going to do?

This exercise does more that helping you to know a character well. It also helps to tell the story. In fact, it’s almost impossible to create a dossier without also beginning to tell the story.

Create a dossier for your own life. Fill in the blanks, as if you were writing a memoir. Be honest. Use as many details as possible. Include the material that you hope no one ever discovers. You might be surprised by the power of your memories and emotions—and by the insights that come with those memories and emotions.

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Halberstamitis

David Halberstam wrote sprawling books about politics, war, sports, firefighters, mass media, show business, and everything in between.

Halberstam looked for the universal in the particular and the particular. His prose sometimes reached. Sometimes he wanted to get dramatic while describing ordinary people and moments. And as he connected one observation to another — and another and another and another — his prose often turned purple.

But Halberstam was one great a reporter and he helped you to understand how big and little things related to each other.

His two best books, in my mind, were The Best and the Brightest (about the Kennedy and Johnson administrations’ bumbling into Vietnam) and The Breaks of the Game (a season with the Portland Trail Blazers).

Here’s what he said about Maurice Lucas, the power forward of the Blazers:

It was, [coach Jack] Ramsay knew, always going to be a test of wills with Luke. Of the blacks on the team, he was by far the most political and also the most willing to test authority, any authority. Some of the other blacks, Ron Brewer and T.R. Dunn, for example, had grown up in the South and had gone to southern schools; there was, some coaches thought, a lack of assertiveness to their play, something the coaches suspected could be traced back to their childhoods, to that region where, despite significant social change, authority still belonged to whites and blacks remained tentative about expressing their feelings openly, whether in politics or sports. But there was no problem like that with Maurice Lucas, of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, late of the Hill district of the ghetto. Sometimes the Portland front office, talking about a particular player in college or on another team, used the phrase, and to them it was a positive: obedient kid. Obedient kid. Maurice Lucas was most demonstrably not an obedient kid. He was very black, very articulate, very political, a strong and independent man sprung from circumstances that could also create great insecurity. There was about him a constant sense of challenge; everything was a struggle, and everything was a potential confrontation, a struggle for turf and position. It was in part what had made him at his best so exceptional an athlete. He liked the clash of will. He was at once an intensely proud black man, justifiably angry about the injustice around him, and a superb and subtle con artist, a man who had in effect invented himself and his persona — Luke the Intimidator. When he was making demands, when he talked about race being an issue at point, it was sometimes hard to tell which Maurice Lucas was talking — the Lucas who genuinely believed he was a victim of such obvious American racism, or the Lucas who knew that his cause was more dramatic if he deliberately cloaked it in himself. Indeed, it was not possible at certain times to tell if he himself knew. (He was capable of complaining that Portland would never pay a black superstar what it would pay a white superstar, which was possibly correct, and, in the next breath, of complaining about the fact that Mychal Thompson, a rookie, who was also, it happened, black, had made twice as much in his rookie year as Luke made, then in his third year in Portland.)

Vintage Halberstam. In one sprawling paragraph, he plays the role of sociologist and psychologist. He generalizes about blacks in the South and blacks in the North. He makes knowing comments about the attitudes of coaches and sports executives. He teases out puzzles about the subject: Does he mean it when he complains about racism … or is he self-righteous … or is he trying to use his outsized persona to dramatize the concerns of lesser beings.

You can see how this kind of writing can stretch the limits of storytelling. Specifics and generalities blend together. You don’t get much of an image of the subject, but you do get a sense of the man and his time. No bad.

But try doing this too often, or without the insight of Halberstam, and you’ve got a disaster on your hands. You got long-winded prose, dramatic words and generalizations that can’t be proved or disproved, an air of insight but none of the modesty that should accompany efforts to understand.

In the end, the problem with this stream-of-consciousness writing is that it tries to do too much at a time. Rather than focus on one aspect of the subject, carefully, before moving to the next, it pulls all kinds of observations and judgments together, about different topics.

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Presidents and Metaphors

President Barack Obama and the Republicans continue to wrestle over the nation’s debt and everything else under the sun — tax rates, Social Security, Medicare and Medicaid (and, by extension, Obamacare), education and R&D funding, the national parks and the space program, and in fact everything packed into the monstrosity known as the federal budget.

And as they do so, the two sides dig deep into their bag of metaphors. Desperate for the eyeblink’s worth of the attention of the American public, they are looking for the image that elevates their own standing and discredits the other side.

Of course, this is how life works. We think in metaphors. In fact, human cognition would be unthinkable without metaphors, those dandy little tropes that say X equals Y. Everything we do gets tied up in metaphors.

The more desperate we are for understanding — or rhetorical advantage — the more we reach for metaphors.

Which is what makes Barack Obama such an interesting president. We’ve never had one like him before: A black man (actually, mixed race, but O says he black), born in the nation’s most exotic state (actually, if you listen to the birthers, in Indonesia or Kenya or Transylvania or some other place that sounds freaky), a product of the nation’s most corrupt city and state (actually, a lot of us claim that mantle), a reformer (actually, he’s just an ordinary post-1960s liberal) and a spellbinding speaker (actually, he stammers without a teleprompter) …

You get the idea.

Which gave me this idea: The way most of us judge people and events is to compare them to people and events in the same category. So we ask how much Derek Jeter is like the Iron Horse or Joe D or the Mick. Or we wonder whether 9/11 belongs in the same class as Pearl Harbor or JFK’s assassination or the Challenger disaster.

So we endlessly compare presidents to other presidents. By my reckoning, politicos and pundits have compared Barack Obama, who we might understand as sui generis, to more than a dozen other presidents. Interesting, eh? The more singular a person is, the more we compare him to others.

In the first couple years of the Age of O, we have compared him to James Buchanan, Abraham Lincoln, Woodrow Wilson, Franklin Roosevelt, Theodore Roosevelt, John Kennedy, Lyndon Johnson, Jimmy Carter, Ronald Reagan, George H.W. Bush, Bill Clinton, and even George W. Bush.

Which led me to wonder: Are we leaving anyone out?

And so I reached out to some presidential scholars to see if we could compare Barack Obama to every other single president. Now, if O is like everyone, he’s really like no one. That make sense?

Anyway, ask yourself: Which president does Barack Obama most resemble? Finish this sentence: Obama is ______.

Ready? Let’s play.

George Washington: Aloof. That all you got for a parallel?

The Adamses: Stubborn and proud, to a fault. Late in life, J.Q. achieved nobility with his role in the Amistad case. So can O find redemption after the White House?

Thomas Jefferson: Oh, he talks a good game about grassroots politics, but he’ll expand government power without hesitating. If only someone would sell O a massive territory.

James Madison: Gets involved in messy and unnecessary wars. Yeah, W started war in Iraq and Afghanistan. But look who has kept us there  … and brought us to Libya.

James Monroe: Era of Good Feelings? Hah! Modesty in foreign affairs? Hardly. Ever hear of the Monroe Doctrine? Talk about overreaching. Hello, Libya … Hello, health care … Hello, GM …

Andrew Jackson: Man of the people? Try man of the mobs … and the machine. O drew masses to his speeches, from Berlin to Denver to Grant Park. Does that make him a populist?

Martin Van Buren: A machine pol, more concerned about payola and patronage than the people. And where did O come from? Daley’s Chicago! Case closed.

William Henry Harrison: Full of ideas about unifying the country and following the lead of Congress, he died of pneumonia before he had a chance to do much. O’s still with us of course, but how’s that we’re-not-red-or-blue-we’re-American thing going?

John Tyler: Despite long struggles with Congress, he still managed to compile an impressive legislative record (e.g., the Log Cabin bill, tariff, treaty with canada, annexation of Texas). Hey, you check O’s actual record lately? Like it or not, he’s done a lot.

James Knox Polk: One termer who wanted to avoid war but got drawn into a historic conflict with Mexico. Hmm … One-termer … controversial conflict …

Zachary Taylor: A media creation, soon undone by his own incompetence. From O the Omnipotent to ah, uh, er, um, ah …

Millard Fillmore: Buffeted by regional conflicts, he oversaw conflicts that only delayed the inevitable. Shades of today’s economic apocalypse?

Franklin Pierce: A conciliator, he also couldn’t bring warring factions from the North, South, and territories together. Who can O bring together these days? He’s even got MoveOn griping.

James Buchanan: Ineffectual because he could not make hard decisions about fundamental matters of national security. He’d rather coddle the law-breakers than confront them. And just what is our rationale in Libya?

Abraham Lincoln: Who better than a black intellectual to finish the work of the Great Emancipator? Doris Kearns Goodwin, whose book Team of Rivals celebrates Lincoln’s willingness to bring political adversaries into his Cabinet, hoped that Obama would do the same to heal a fractured nation. O got a total of one Republican in his cabinet (quick, can you name him?). So much for postpartisanship.

Andrew Johnson: Sanctimonious and stubborn, he got into trouble because he was unwilling to do the bidding of radical Republicans in Congress. Key question: Will O be willing to do the bidding of radical Republicans in Congress?

Ulysses Grant: Corrupt, but a damn good writer in the end. The Personal Memoirsof Ulysses S. Grant = Dreams From My Father?

Rutherford Hayes: Fatally compromised when he became president, he was unable to bring North and South together. Heck, Hayes reinforced the divisions of the blue and gray states. Now, how’s O doing on his whole we-are-one-nation pitch?

James Garfield: Not in office long enough to make a difference. I’m thinking, I’m thinking …

Chester Arthur: The ultimate technocrat, he instituted the civil service system after Garfield’s assassination. Is there a greater embodiment of civil service values than O?

Grover Cleveland: A DINO — Democrat in name only — who fell under the sway of financiers and left ordinary people to struggle for themselves. And just who followed George W. Bush’s policies of bailing out corporate criminals? And who re-upped W’s tax breaks?

Benjamin Harrison: Activist in world affairs and legalistic to a T, he also wanted to make Hawaii part of the union. Besides that Hawaii connection, think about Professor O’s wanton globalism.

William McKinley: A creature of the political strategist Mark Hanna and his ability to rake in massive bucks to overwhelm the opposition. So how will Axelrod, Plouffe & Co. move O’s story forward?

Theodore Roosevelt: He said “speak softly but carry a big stick,” but you could not shut the guy up. Even on his endless vacations, O won’t keep quiet either.

William Howard Taft: Better suited to the Supreme Court than the White House. The ultimate journey from failure to success at the top. Justice O?

Woodrow Wilson:  With limited political experience — two years as governor of New Jersey — Wilson spoke in lofty terms about remaking the world. Like Obama, Wilson believed in guiding human progress. Despite his aloof and elitist ways, Wilson compiled an impressive legislative record. But at the end, the love dissolved into contempt and dismissal. Sound familiar?

Warren Harding: Corrupt, detached from ordinary people, lucky to die before people discovered the extent of his corruption.  The GOP can’t make the corruption tag stick to O, but not for lack of effort. 

Calvin Coolidge: Thin and humorless. Yeah, that’s the ticket.

Herbert Hoover: A technocrat’s view of the world, unsuited to dealing with the flesh-and-blood realities of his people. O also seems to have a technocrat’s mindset, detached from the flesh-and-blood realities of his people.

Franklin Roosevelt: Soon after his election, people called Obama a new Franklin Roosevelt. After all, he was a charismatic man taking office in the midst of the Great Recession. People wanted him to rescue the nation the way we sometimes imagine that FDR did. Obama stoked the comparisons by carrying around Jon Alter’s book The Defining Moment, about FDR’s first 100 days. For good or ill, O did get a lot of what he wanted from the Democratic Congress.

Harry Truman: Everyone down in the polls wants to be Harry. Reviled in his own time but celebrated by revisionist historians, Truman is the ultimate Comeback Kid. To make a phrase: Give ’em hell, Barry!

Dwight Eisenhower: Where’s the president? Off playing golf. Hey, Bam! Fore!

John Kennedy: This comparison is inevitable with a Democrat. Kennedy was, of course, a dashing young senator who gave great speeches but accomplished little in his time on Capitol Hill. Americans voted for Kennedy to overcome the supposed malaise of the Eisenhower years, to “get this country moving again.” And then: fumbling the Cold War and civil rights (at first, anyway). Hello, Libya! Oh, yeah, and you say you’re “evolving” on gay rights?

Lyndon Johnson: If we’re talking about pushing aggressive agendas too hard, the comparison shifted to Lyndon Johnson. LBJ used a brief mandate to push the biggest domestic program since Franklin Roosevelt. But he was, alas, crippled by a war in a far-off land started by his predecessor. Sound familiar? Too rich.

Richard Nixon: A cunning chameleon, Nixon ran on peace and bring-us-together platform. In office, he kept us in Vietnam, expanded government, ditched the gold standard, and made all kinds of hollow claims about drug wars and energy independence. He invented the whole -gate thing too.  Is Obama this kind of power-hungry megalomaniac who will stop at nothing to impose his will on the nation? Depends? Do you listen to AM or FM radio?

Gerald R. Ford: The accidental president who gained his real power from the veto. That’s what happens when you don’t enjoy a real mandate. So when will O realize that he’s lost his mandate and needs to use the veto pen?

Jimmy Carter: Poor Jimmy has become the Gold Standard for inexperienced, sanctimonious, inflexible but vacillating, and smiling but mean-spirited. Oh, let’s add: hopeless in an economy crippled by oil prices and a world held hostage by fanatics in the Middle East. Now, what doesn’t apply to O?

Ronald Reagan: During the campaign, Obama discoursed about the need for a transformational figure, someone capable of changing people’s ideas about what’s possible. O channeled the Gipper’s magic worked for a while, but …

George H.W. Bush: Saddled with the greatest financial scandal in history (the S&L fiasco), the greatest economic downturn since the Great Depression, and limited by crises like the Exxon Valdez and Tiananmen Square, Bush could only manage a mess. So how much of the following applies to O: He caught hell for making tough decisions, like raising taxes and rejecting an all-out war with Iraq.

Bill Clinton: The great triangulator, he survived by pitting his Democratic allies against his Republican enemies. Is this O’s end game?

George W. Bush: Arrogant and aloof. Cocksure and diffident when critiqued. O? Is that you too?

Philosophers since Hegel have argued that history, some day, will come to an end. Has it happened with the emergence of a man who is … everyone else?

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Arianna’s Revolution

Change is scary.

You grow up wanting to “be” something—a ballplayer, business person, artist, public servant, union worker, builder, programmer, teacher, or writer. You get a fixed idea of what that means. You imagine the daily routines, the friendships, the rewards, the prestige. And if you get a taste of success, you decide, consciously and subconsciously, that the system rewarding you is the way things ought to be,

Then things change. New technologies change the way people do business. New markets emerge, undermining old markets and relationships. Jobs that used to reward people disappear. In their place, new jobs defy the old hopes and dreams. You lose your sense of self, your confidence, your faith in the system. You start to believe that the world does not honor you anymore. And maybe you’re right.

Joseph Schumpeter called this process “creative destruction.” As the market churns away, new technologies and processes render old ones obsolete. You get all kinds of exciting new industries and careers, products and services. But the old ones disappear, pitilessly. It’s hard. Just ask an old autoworker in Detroit, a steelworker in Pittsburgh, or a textile worker in North Carolina.

Or just ask a newspaper reporter or author.

We are in the midst of the greatest literary revolution since Gutenberg. A. J. Liebling once remarked that “freedom of the press belongs to those who own one.” Until the PC and Internet, the ability to speak to an audience was limited to the people in control of the presses and studios. If you wanted to write an article about, say, the city council’s zoning policy or the president’s wars, you needed to buy or rent the means of production (presses) or get the approval of one of their gatekeepers (publishers and editors). If you wanted to write a book, you needed to get the nod from the mandarins on Publisher’s Row.

To become a writer, you needed to be part of the guild. And that was not always easy.

It’s all different now. Anyone can put up a blog, for free. Anyone can post comments on an Internet site, for free. Anyone can post a book on Amazon, for free. Anyone can post a video on YouTube, for free. Anyone can start a movement and build a community, for free.

If you want to say something, you can do so. There’s no guarantee that anyone will read it, but you can put out your ideas and arguments, stories and plans, for all the world to see.

These days, everyone’s a writer. We are on the crest of a literary revolution. Roll over, Gutenberg.

The flip side of this openness is that the group troops of the old order – reporters, editors, researchers, authors – have lost their special place. Newspapers and magazines are dying or cutting back, laying off staff. Advertisers have found other media to sell their wares. Journalism and publishing have not figured out how to survive in this brave new world. It’s scary.

You talk with journalists and authors and editors these days, and there’s a brittleness. It’s doom-and-gloom time. They don’t know what the future holds, so they cling to their old ideas. They recognize that change is coming—hell, it’s arrived—but they want to play familiar roles in the new world.

A New Vision of Journalism

Revolutionary change requires visionaries. The best leaders not only embrace new technologies, but also hold on to the best values of the ancien regime. They understand that human needs and values are eternal, that new technologies offer new opportunities to pursue those values. They have empathy for the people who lose everything in the revolution. But they focus on opportunities rather than lamenting loss.

One of the leading figures in the Literary Revolution—Arianna Huffington, the founder of the online magazine The Huffington Post—is The Elements of Writing’s 2010 Person of the Year.

If Arianna Stassinopoulos Huffington did not exist, someone would have to invent her. She is the perfect symbol of the media in the age of the internet, globalism, and amateur-specialists.

Born in Greece in 1950, Arianna Stassinopoulos convinced her mother Elli to leave her father because of his philandering. Elli had no money, education, or connections, but she left anyway anyway to claim her own identity and independence. And that’s what she encouraged Arianna to do as well, when she urged her to apply to Cambridge University. Arianna got in and excelled at debating and writing.

Arianna Huffington’s first book, The Female Woman, was a post-feminist manifesto. Since then she has written books about artists (Picasso and Maria Callas), mythology (The Gods of Greece), the modern spiritual malaise (After Reason and The Fourth Instinct), a satire on the Clinton-Gingrich years (Greetings from the Lincoln Bedroom), and the culture of corruption in Washington (Pigs at the Trough). Her latest, Fanatics and Fools, offers a new left vision for America.

At one point, everyone thought Arianna was angling to become America’s first lady. She married a Houston oil heir named Michael Huffington, who served in the State Department  in the Reagan years, in 1986. Michael spent an unprecedented sum of $5.4 million to win election to Congress as a Republican from California in 1992. Two years later he spent $28 million in an unsuccessful bid for the Senate. In 1998 he announced that he was bisexual. The couple divorced.

At this point Arianna was the glamour lady of conservatism. She was caught up in the Gingrich Revolution. Always a social butterfly, she alighted on Comedy Central with Al Franken and continued to articulate a new blend of independence and mutuality, feminism and traditionalism, glamour and combativeness. She extended her reach and vision beyond the right and the GOP. She gathered movie stars, academics, politicians, artists, authors, athletes in salons.

Rather than fearing change, she seemed to delight in it. Maybe it was her own personal odyssey of change that made its inevitability so obvious to her. But more than any other figure in the politico-media-art axis, she seemed to relish the coming of the new—while, in her own way, holding on to Old World values.

In 2005—five short years ago, around the same time YouTube launched—she founded The Huffington Post. It was a natural extension of her personality, an online version of her ongoing salons. HuffPo provided … what?

The Power of the Post

On one level, HuffPo is just another aggregator—that is, a site that grabs other people’s work from the web and puts it all in a dynamic package. The site consists of hundreds of new links every day, arranged into traditional “sections” but also according to hot topics. HuffPo is, in fact, exactly what Old Media titans harrumph about. The New York Times, Washington Post, Wall Street Journal, Reuters, Bloomberg, the TV networks and cable outlets, and countless other media invest millions in research and reporting. And HuffPo and other aggregators and bloggers grab it, format it for their own purposes.

Traditional media lack a viable business plan for the age of the Internet and mobile media — their fault — but the complaint has merit. The traditional media do all the heavy lifting and Arianna’s elves and their ilk go out and take it and give it their own sizzle.

But, as Richard Nixon used to say, let me say this about that:

First, the old media need to figure out their own plan. If they want to sell ideas, they need to figure out how to make it work. It looks like they are finally doing that, more than a decade after web surfing became a national obsession. Most of the major newspapers and many smaller papers are starting to charge for online content. The Wall Street Journal has for years. The New York Times and Washington Post have announced plans to charge. The emergence of ereaders like the iPad—combined with the new national habit of clicking, which Steve Jobs popularized on iTunes—make it possible for old media to start selling subscriptions and stories.

But the fact that it took so long is not the fault of bloggers and aggregators.

Second, even though you could say they have been somewhat parasitic, The Huffington Post and bloggers have also created new conduits to newspapers and other old media. You post something interesting on the web and Arianna’s elves post it. Those posts direct traffic to the original site.

But there’s more. HuffPo is generating mountains of its own content. Whenever a big story breaks, a new flock of experts and commentators emerges to talk about it. Hundreds of bloggers post on HuffPo. The list includes old-style pol pundits (Howard Fineman), academic wonks (Graham Allison), New Age gurus (Naomi Wolf, Judith Orlaff), health gurus and foodies (David Katz, Jeanne Ponessa Fratello), TV and movie executives (Aaron Sorkin), lapsed pols (Al Gore, Art Agnos), musicians (Neil Young, Madonna), humorists (Andy Borowitz), management gurus (Steve Covey), and more.

HuffPo has also been hiring a flock of new old media hands and developing video blog pages.

Everything seems to come HuffPo’s way, like marbles rolling down a slanted table. In fact, you could say that The Huffington Post is one of the prime centers of media reinvention.

Despite Arianna’s conservative past, HuffPo has a lib-prog-lefty slant. It does not represent right-wing thinking much. Oh, you’ll find Log Cabin Republicans and relatives of conservative politicians like Candace Gingrich. But you won’t find an all-out case for limited government or contracting out. Maybe that’s a flaw. Or maybe it’s a gap waiting to be filled. No reason why HuffPo couldn’t offer a home to Andrew Sullivan, Virginia Postrel, City Journal folks, flat taxers, foreign policy experts concerned about human rights and proliferation. In fact, I would expect HuffPo to become a much richer ideological stew over the years.

Arianna’s Way

If Arianna Huffington did not come along, someone else might have invented a similar aggregator site, right? Well, maybe. But would it be the same? Would it combine the smarts, the breadth of vision, the diversity of viewpoints, the verve?

You could say that someone might have invented a people-friendly computer, a people-friendly MP3 player, a people-friendly smartphone, and a people-friendly e-tablet had Steve Jobs and Apple not come along. But we don’t know. Sometimes, history bends to the vision of once-in-a-blue-moon entrepreneurs. I think you can say that about both Arianna Huffington and Steve Jobs.

The ultimate fuel for the Huffington Post comes from Arianna Huffington’s personality. She’s a case study of the Lois Weisman principle. Weissman, remember, is the woman who connects people in Chicago’s intersecting worlds of politics, policy, parks, media, the arts, and neighborhoods. Malcolm Gladwell made her famous with his 1999 New Yorker profile. Arianna plays the same role with writers, thinkers, performers, activists, builders, producers, futurists, and curiosity-seekers. She connects them — both in person and on her site.

The Internet is the ultimate free-for-all. Anyone who can say the words “dot” and “com” has a website. The quality is wildly uneven. There are no real standards.

But it’s one thing to post blogs, and quite another to give the blogosphere some coherence. Somehow, the centrifugal forces of the Internet needs something to relate them to each other.

HuffPo is, above all, a place of journalistic and civic experimentation. Arianna and her team play around with any story—or information, videos, pictures, whatever can be shared—to figure out what works. It’s still an open format, and it’s bound to face resistance from old-media producers. They make plenty of mistakes. But that’s the point.

Someone has to try new approaches to gathering and distributing the news. To be sure, HuffPo is far from the only kid on the block. But it’s the kid that seems to draw a crowd and delight in doing whatever possible to get them talking about the issues that people care about.

No one knows how the old media will emerge from this revolution. Will The Times get its sea legs again? Will old newspapers, magazines, and pubishers adapt to the electronic readers with an iTunes-style instant-click format? Will WikiLeaks transform investigative reporting into a game of document dumps, with blogs and reports by amateurs and pros? Will writers and artists create new combinations of words and images? Will any new media formula be able to recreate the voice of authority once held by The New York Times and Walter Cronkite?

No one knows. But it’s a fair bet that at the center of media reinvention will a woman who has spent a lifetime finding new roles and exploring new ideas.

Recipe Writing

Years ago, I made a stray comment to my students at Yale: “You know, the best model for explaining and process is the recipe.”

It makes sense. A recipe has to break the process down into simple steps. A recipe also has to get the sequence right. You can’t mix the eggs for an omelet until you break the crack the shell.

As the semester drew to a close, one student challenged me. “If recipes are such great models for writing,” she said, “let’s cook something together.”

So we reserved a kitchen in a dorm and someone found a recipe for an apple pie. I brought a recorder and made a foolish promise.

“If we talk about what we’re doing, and why, at every step of the process, we’ll end up with a first good draft,” I said. “You can actually talk out the first draft of almost anything you write, as long as you break it into steps.”

When we gathered, the instigator talked about her grandmother’s love of cooking and how she passed it on to her family. Other students piped in with stories about family cooking memories. Not a bad start.

Then we started mixing ingredients, preheating the oven, preparing the pie tin. We made a crust, then put the apples, raising, cinnamon, sugar, and other ingredients together.

Someone talked about the oven’s heat.

Someone took my recorder and interviewed other students about their attitudes about food and cooking. People talked about diets. Some people waxed poetic about the emotional response to entering a house while food bakes.

And the room filled with the aroma of homemade pie. These sophisticated college students, from all over the world, who had talked about all kinds of tough issues in their papers all semester softened.

If Michael Pollan had entered the room, he would have been proud. The students turned an ordinary event—cooking a pie—into an intelligent essay on the culture of food.

Then we talked about the end-of-semester blues, and how different moods affect attitude toward food. A few people confessed that they lost their discipline at the end of the semester and ate rank junk food that they would never consider at the beginning of the semester.

Finally, the pie came out of the oven. It was getting late. People had other places to be—classes, meetings, clubs, sports. We each took a slice. As we cleaned up, we continued talking into the recorder. Something about how the job is never done till the place is put back into order.

When I got home, I listened to the recording. Turned out I was right. A transcript of that event could have been a strong first draft. The piece would need some work. We’d have to figure out what point we were trying to make. We’d have to develop some ideas more fully and drop some meaningless asides.

But the recipe recipe works. Here’s why.

Too often, writers work to cram too many ideas, too soon, into their writing. They feel like they don’t have time to say everything they want to say.

The origin of this problem, I think, is school assignments. The introductory paragraph has to state the thesis, the supporting arguments for the thesis, and maybe even the significance of the topic.

Even when they know about a topic, readers have a limited capacity to take in new thoughts. In a series of psychology experiments in the 1950s, George Miller found that humans can only remember seven items at a time. The “scratchpad” that is our shortterm memory simply can’t hold any more. That’s why, legend has it, telephone numbers were seven digits long.

But experts on the brain say that our shortterm memory is actually a lot less. Some say we can only hold three ideas in our head at the same time. Others say that, actually, it’s . . . one. We can jump back and forth along , say, three ideas. But we can only focus on one at a time. And the parade of ideas makes sense only when they come in some logical sequence.

The genius of the recipe approach to writing is twofold. As a chef, you can only do one thing at a time: measure ingredients, sift flour, butter pan, chop apples, and so on. And you have to do them in the right order. You can’t scramble an egg until you break it, right?

Next time you have something complex to explain—how nuclear licensing works, how to code a website, how to close a sale, how to get to Aunt Tillie’s house in North Carolina—make it a recipe.

Great Story, Wrong Angle

Brockton High School, the biggest in Massachusetts and one of the biggest in the U.S., transforms performance in its schools. Not long ago, students failed standardized tests at the highest rate in the state; now, the school outperforms 90 percent of all schools. Teachers, who once told each other that students can fail if they want, now celebrate awards with banners.

So what’s responsible for the turn-around? According to The New York Times, it’s the school size. More than 4,000 students attend the urban school. Most are minorities and immigrants. The school’s vastness creates a world that never gets boring.

“You meet a new person every day,” The Times quotes a student named Johanne Alexandre, the child of a Haitian. “Somebody with a new story, a new culture. I have Pakistani friends, Brazilians, Haitians, Asians, Cape Verdeans. There are Africans, Guatemalans.”

The headline reinforces the message: “4,100 Students Prove ‘Small is Better’ Rule Wrong.”

Actually, the success in Brockton proves no such thing. The vast trove of research proving the power of small learning communities is still right. At most, the Brockton story offers an exception that proves the rule that small is better.

The Times offers no evidence that big is better. A couple of quotes about diversity do not account for an education success story. If big were better, Brockton would not have needed a turnaround.

So what accounts for Brockton’s success? Simple: Writing.

Students at BHS write in every class. They write in English, naturally, but also in social studies and health and even in math and gym.

When you write, you think. When you think, you learn.

The writing assignments also focus on concrete rather than abstract subjects. A science teacher asked students to describe how to make a sandwich. Great assignment! Students needed to break the process down, step by step. They needed to pay attention to details that they usually take for granted.

In a math class, students solve the problem 3 + 72 – 6 x 3 – 11 — and then explain, in prose, how they did it.

The Times got its Brockton story from “How High School Become Exemplary,” a new report by Ron Ferguson of Harvard University’s Achievement Gap Intitiative.

Ferguson’s report notes that teachers get regular reminders of the primacy of writing. Posters in every classroom list the four major learning skills –reading, writing, speaking, and reasoning — along with the key elements for mastering each skill.

Here’s how Ferguson describes the charts’ value:

The writing chart stipulates that students should be able to compare and contrast, and to know how to take notes, among other elements. According to Ms. Copp, teachers might say: “Oh, yeah, my students know how to take notes.” But the chart reminds them to consider: Do the students really know how to take notes? Can they demonstrate to the teacher that they know how to take notes? Effective notes? The speaking chart might ask students in an art class to be able to explain why they like a piece of art, she explained.

Which, of course, is the best way to teach anything. Remind everyone, relentlessly, of the important of all the skills.

You can teach anything by teaching writing — even reading. Eons ago, I wrote an article for Education Week about a program designed to teach kids to write as early as kindergarten. Kids come to school full of stories and a burning desire to tell those stories. When you let them, they develop a host of other skills.

The real triumph of Brockton is really a triumph of writing to learn.

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Righteous and Open For All To See: The Civil Rights Movement and FBI Informants

The hearts of veterans of the civil rights community broke this week when the Memphis Commercial Appeal reported that Ernest Withers, the photographer who created some of the lasting images of the movement, was a paid informant for the FBI.

Withers took some of the pictures that we remember most about that long-ago but still-present era when blacks struggled to break the back of a terrorist state and win their full rights as citizens. They marched and got beaten by mobs and cops. They signed up to vote and they lost their jobs and homes. They sang and they got thrown into jail. They spoke up and their churches and homes got shot at and burned.

Withers documented the trial in the Emmett Till case in 1955 and the planning for the Poor People’s March in 1968. He took pictures of Martin Luther King marching, riding a bus in Montgomery after the boycott, relaxing behind closed doors before his death. He took the iconic picture of sanitation workers marching in Memphis, bearing the signs “I Am A Man,” in the days before King’s assassination. He recorded demonstrations all over. He took pictures of those quintessential American institutions, jazz and baseball, which gave expression to black aspirations even while holding blacks down.

And now, after combing documents obtained through the Freedom of Information Act and matching reports of an informant named in FBI files as ME 338-R with a memo matching Withers to that tag, the Commercial Appeal reveals that Withers gave the FBI hounds information that J. Edgar Hoover and his henchmen could use to disrupt the civil rights and peace movements. The period of Withers’s activity is not clear; so far it looks like Withers worked for the FBI from 1968 to 1970.

The icons of the civil rights movement deserve to feel betrayed. They were battling a deadly enemy with little more than their bodies, minds, and souls. The FBI and its allies drew from the deep pockets of the federal government and private hatepreneurs. Withers’s information could have resulted in dire consequences for the friends he named. Some might have lost jobs and homes, got hit with audits and smear campaigns, the whole COINTELPRO bag of tricks.

So what Ernest Withers did was wrong, a terrible betrayal of the people who loved him and brought them into the most intimate places and moments.

But in researching my book Nobody Turn Me Around: A People’s History of the 1963 March on Washington, I heard stories that might lend a broader perspective on this betrayal.

I got lots of files from the FBI, many recycled from previous FOIA requests. It was obvious that the FBI was getting its agents into all kinds of church meetings and activist groups. And of course the FBI was tapping the phones of major figures not just in civl rights but all over politics and the arts. Someone had to be sitting in those meetings and taking notes. Some of them had to blend in with the crowd.

And the people in the movement knew it. The civil rights activists of the day sometimes laughed about who was in the meeting to snitch. Sometimes they knew, sometimes they didn’t. But as many told me, they didn’t care. What they were doing was righteous and open for all to see. The element of surprise sometimes played a role, but careful planning and discipline were more important. When surprises happened, the leaders were often the most surprised of all. The “dash for freedom” in the Birmingham campaign is just one example.

A man named Julius Hobson, who was active in Washington politics, sat in all the meetings to arrange for security at the March on Washington. The minutes of these meetings show that Hobson was excited about the toys of the security detail. He talked constantly about walkie-talkies and command hierarchies. He wanted to be in the middle of it all, even though Bayard Rustin, the brilliant march organizer, had recruited and trained black cops from New York to keep the peace using nonviolent means. And the Washington police and federal security officers were involved too. Years later, after Hobson died, FBI documents showed that he too was an informant.

Friends defended Hobson, saying he was undoubtedly feeding false information to Hoover & Co. Maybe yes, maybe no. We’ll never know.

We won’t ever know the full story of Ernest Withers either. Did he just need the money? Did he get framed? Did he want to rat on the Invaders, a Black Panther-style group on the rise in Memphis? Was he trying to deke the feds? Was he confused? Was he targeting enemies and promoting friends? Some of the above? All of the above?

The civil rights movement was the transcendent moment of our time. A vast community of people from all over — ministers and housewives and students, factory workers and sharecroppers and garbage men, teachers and artists and the unemployed — embraced a strategy of nonviolence and love to confront a vicious and corrupt system of racism. They won, not just for themselves but for all of us and all the world.

Part of what’s so amazing — and so profoundly moving — is that they were just ordinary people. They were not superhuman. They were courageous but also scared. They made mistakes, lots of them. They got sloppy and sometimes selfish and even ornery. But they rose above their flaws and transformed a nation, and that’s one of most beautiful things you can say. And no FBI file will ever change that.

Excerpt: Roy Wilkins’s Reluctant Tribute to W.E.B. Du Bois

The following is an excerpt from Nobody Turn Me Around: A People’s History of the 1963 March on Washington by Charles Euchner.

Western Union had delivered hundreds of telegrams of congratulations to the March on Washington tent. One came from W. E. B. Du Bois.

“One thing alone I charge you, as you live, believe in Life!” Du Bois said in a final message composed two months before, during his final illness. “Always human beings will live and progress to greater, broader and fuller life. The only possible death is to lose belief in this truth simply because the Great End comes slowly, because time is long.”

Then came the news that Du Bois had died the day before in Accra, Ghana, at the age of ninety-five. Maya Angelou led a group of Americans and Ghanaians to the U.S. embassy in Accra, carrying torches and placards reading “Down with American Apartheid“ and “America, a White Man’s Heaven and a Black Man’s Hell.”

In Washington, the news fluttered through the audience and onto the platform.

Over a seventy-year career, Du Bois took every conceivable approach to the race problem. He was a provocative propagandist and measured scholar. He was for integration and then for separation. He believed in the American dream and disdained it. He believed in the power of politics and the ambiguity of culture. He brawled and he stood aloof. He embraced indigenous liberation and global communism.

Du Bois wrote thirty-eight books on the experience of race—on slavery and reconstruction, rebellion and war, psychology and economics, America and Africa, war and democracy, ideology and crime. He wrote thousands of articles and reports. He debated Booker T. Washington and coined the expression “the talented tenth,” to describe the vanguard that could lead the black race out of bondage. As an American facing the cruelty and degradation of Jim Crow, Du Bois embraced the pan-African ideal of a global race.

Lifetimes ago, in 1909, Du Bois helped create the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People. He left the NAACP in 1948 when he was rebuked for holding a civil rights march in Washington. In 1961 he became a Communist Party member, renounced his American citizenship, and became a citizen of Ghana.

When Bayard Rustin got news of Du Bois’s death, he worked his way across the crowded stage to deliver the news to Roy Wilkins. As the head of the NAACP, surely Wilkins would want to say a few words about this historic figure.

“I’m not going to get involved with that Communist at this meeting,” Wilkins told Rustin. “I’m not going to announce that Communist’s death.”

So Rustin crossed back to confer with Phil Randolph. How to announce Du Bois’s death?

“Tell Roy that if he doesn’t announce it, I will.”

Rustin crossed the stage again. He told Wilkins that Randolph was ready to speak.

“I don’t want Phil Randolph doing it,” Wilkins said.

But someone had to announce the death of the century’s most enduring civil rights leader at the nation’s greatest demonstration.

“Well, you tell Phil I’ll do it,” Wilkins said.

That was the ornery Roy Wilkins—the same Wilkins who had attempted to block Rustin’s appointment as the organizer of the March on Washington…who insulted Martin Luther King at Medgar Evers’s funeral…who complained bitterly about the attention given the younger activists in the Deep South…who poked John Lewis…who dismissed the possibility of change resulting from demonstrations.

But a sweeter Roy Wilkins also showed up that day. For a man who did not believe in the power of mass demonstrations—who believed that real progress happened when elites lobbied presidents and congressmen and filed lawsuits against carefully selected targets—Roy Wilkins was positively buoyant on the day of the march.

His whole life, Roy Wilkins had been determined to live within the system. The grandson of former slaves, Wilkins was raised by an aunt in Duluth after his mother died of tuberculosis and his father abandoned him. After studying sociology at the University of Minnesota, he took a job in Kansas City with the black newspaper the Call. “Kansas City ate my heart out,” he said. “It was a Jim Crow town through and through. There were two school systems, bad housing, police brutality, bombings in Negro neighborhoods. Police were arresting white and Negro high school kids just for being together.”

Early political victories forge political character. Wilkins’s first victory came in 1930, when he joined the successful effort to defeat President Herbert Hoover’s nomination of John J. Parker to the Supreme Court. A coalition of labor and civil rights organizations targeted Parker for his yellow-dog contracts and his opposition to black suffrage. Later that year, blacks cast the decisive votes to defeat Senator Henry Allen of Kansas, who supported Parker. “I was ecstatic,” Wilkins said.

“Here at last was a fighting organization, not a tame band of status-quo Negroes.” Fighting, though, was confined to the formal arenas of politics. Like intellectuals of the period, including William Kornhauser and Jose Ortega y Gasset, Wilkins believed that Hitler had forever discredited mass politics.

Besides, he said, protest didn’t work. Even the protests in Birmingham and other cities, he said, “didn’t influence a single vote by a congressman or senator…not a single one.”

Wilkins moved to New York to write for the NAACP’s magazine the Crisis before getting promoted to assistant to Walter White, the NAACP’s executive secretary. Wilkins’s efforts followed the contours of the movement—first he took on lynching, then school segregation, then public accommodations and voting rights. Brown v. Board of Education illustrated the NAACP’s model of racial progress. The NAACP chipped away at the edifice of segregation—first gaining blacks admission to professional and graduate schools, where the idea of “separate but equal” was impossible to implement because of the complete absence of programs for blacks, and then moving on to universities. Only when the courts had embraced the idea of blacks and whites going to universities together did the Brown case move forward.

Tenacious, pragmatic, distrustful of radical approaches, Wilkins became the head of the NAACP in 1955. Wilkins helped create a black-owned bank to assist blacks in starting their own businesses and avoid reprisals for civil rights activism. He embraced the NAACP’s emphasis on judicial and legislative strategies. But by the summer of 1963, he embraced direct action. On June 1st, he was arrested for picketing a variety store in Jackson.

However mainstream in his approach, Wilkins maintained a hard line against segregation. “It’s just poison and no matter whether you have a teaspoonful or you have a barrelful of it, it ain’t no good,” he said. “Self-segregation is worse than another kind because your own eyes ought to be wide open. Segregation ought to be seen for what it is. It is not, necessarily, the division of people according to color. It can…and it does take that [form] in America; it is a device for control, for isolation and control…A segregated group can always be cut off, be deprived, be denied equality.”

Now, standing before this integrated throng—tan and relaxed, wearing a royal blue overseas hat with the letters NAACP stitched in gold—he began to talk with “my people.” He paused, smiled, looked out on the throng that extended down the Mall, out back under the trees by the snow fence, even up in the tree branches. He was in the mood to play.

“I want to thank you for coming here today,” he said, like a friendly uncle, “because you have saved me from being a liar. I told them that you would be here. They didn’t believe me…because you always make up your mind at the last minute. And you had me scared! But isn’t it a great day?”

Laughter rippled across the Mall. Then Wilkins called for silence down the middle of the Mall. “I want everybody out here in the open to keep quiet, and then I want to hear a yell and a thunder from all those people who are out there under the trees.”

Suddenly, like magic, the crowd quieted.

And then he commanded the people on the edges of the Mall, sitting under the trees, to shout out. The Mall filled with cheers. And Wilkins laughed.

“There’s one of them in the tree!” [Note: You can watch this part of the speech here, preceded by the Eva Jessye Choir]

Wilkins suddenly reveled in mass politics. And humor leavened even his dead-serious points.

“We want freedom now!”

“We come here to petition our lawmakers to be as brave as our sit-ins, and our marchers, as daring as James Meredith, to be as unafraid as the nine children of Little Rock, and to be as forthright as the governor of North Carolina, and to be as dedicated as the archbishop of St. Louis.

“All over the land, especially in parts of the Deep South, we are beaten, jailed, pushed, and killed by law enforcement officers. The United States government can regulate the contents of a pill, but apparently has no power to prevent these abuses of citizens within its own borders.”

He endorsed President Kennedy’s civil rights legislation but insisted on strengthening it. “The president’s proposals,” he said, “represent so moderate an approach that if any part is weakened or eliminated, the remainder will be little more than sugar water. Indeed, the package needs strengthening. The president should join us in fighting for something more than pap.”

After a day of somber and contentious rhetoric, Wilkins chose to be light. He turned toward Congress: “We commend Republicans, north and south, who have been working for this bill. We even salute those Democrats from the South who want to vote for it and don’t dare. We say to these people, ’Give us a little time, and we’ll emancipate you—get to the place where they can come to a civil rights rally too!”

Then he spoke about W. E. B. Du Bois: “Regardless of the fact that in his later years Dr. Du Bois chose another path, it is incontrovertible that at the dawn of the twentieth century his was the voice that was calling to you to gather here today in this cause. If you want to read something that applies to 1963 go back and get a volume of The Souls of Black Folk by Du Bois, published in 1903.”

Half a world away, Shirley Graham Du Bois, his widow, wept in appreciation.

“Now, my friends, you got religion today. Don’t backslide tomorrow. Remember Luke’s account of the warning that was given to us all. ’No man,’ he wrote, ’having put his hand to the plow, and looking back, is fit for the kingdom of God.’”

Dennis Littky Writes the Story of School Reform

What if schools built storytelling and writing into every aspect of learning? What if students saw their schooling as a journey, as challenging and demanding as the adventures found in The Odyssey or Moby Dick or Mountains On Mountains? What if students explored their subjects like great mysteries, using all their gifts as investigators and analysts to understand the inner logic of their subjects and their selves?

What if going to school offered a narrative experience—in which the students/heroes took responsibility for their destinies?

Nobody grasps anything as quickly or well as a good story. Our lives are stories. Evolution hardwired us to love and understand stories. Even if we don’t know a particular story, we recognize the basic form of all stories. Robert Graves famously remarked that there is only one basic plot—the desire to return home, to a state of innocence, found in the story of the Garden of Eden. So we eagerly gobble up the details of any decent tale. Once you put something into narrative form, you can hang a lot of other stuff on it.

Even the simplest stories, like fairy tales, inspire us think expansively about matters of life and death, relationships, longing, failure, and all the other dimensions of life. “There is no psychology in a fairy tale,” notes Philip Pullman, the British author of fantasy novels. “The characters have no interior life. . . . One might almost say that the characters in a fairy tale are not actually conscious.” With the characters lacking depth, the readers project their own lives — and fears and fantasies — onto them.

Remember the scrawny Christmas tree that the round-headed kid brought home in “A Charlie Brown Christmas”?

Remember how the gang decorated it so well that it shimmered?

That’s how stories work. Even a scrawny story (like a fairy tale) can help us to explore a wide range of ideas.

You would think, then, that all schools would want to inspire their students to create their own narratives–something they care about passionately–and then hang more and more ideas onto that narrative.

The Founder

Meet Dennis Littky.

Littky is the founder of the Metropolitan Regional Career and Technical Center, a school started in 1996 in Providence, R.I., to provide education “one student at a time.” The Met is now part of a nationwide network of schools run by Big Picture Learning, which includes 69 schools in 17 states and the District of Columbia—and 59 schools in Israel, Australia, the Netherlands, and Canada—educating more than 10,000 students worldwide.

Those schools don’t advertise themselves as places of “narrative learning.” But at the heart of their enterprise, everyone understands that learning is a unique journey for each student. It’s a story, as compelling as the old Greek dramas and anything now playing at the Cineplex.

In Big Picture schools, students take no classes, have no teachers, and sit for no tests. Instead, they spend all four years of high school with an “advisory,” a group of 12 to 15 students that meets weekly with a teacher/advisor. Before they graduate, they get to know this group better than any other group anywhere.

Start by Finding Passion

Met students start their high school career by finding their “passion”–some subject that they want to explore for four years in their school activities and internships.

Many students struggle with this challenge — and the opportunity and responsibility it represents — for months. Sometimes they get angry and surly. Or they feel stupid and empty. They act out, look for easy answers. Many consider dropping out to return to the regimented programs of other public schools.

But at some point — usually in December or January of their freshman year, sometimes earlier and sometimes later — students figure out what they want to study. They begin to develop good work habits. They begin to commit to the full responsibilities of their school community.

The Weekly Routine

The Met does not offer a standard curriculum. Students are not required to master survey material for history, literature, math, science. They are not required to take classes. They have to figure out what activities will help them to learn about their passion. The read, interview, take part in existing groups, and start their own groups. Some take a class, here and there, online or at a local college. They also develop projects–organizing plays, trips, gallery shows, and even businesses. They learn by doing.

On Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, students go to school, where they read and write, conduct experiments, gather and organize information, and explore their passions. They also take part in schoolwide activities like assemblies and reading groups. Some take classes at nearby schools or organize their own study or work groups.

On Tuesdays and Thursdays, students work as interns with local professionals—business people and farmers, botanists and carpenters, artists and musicians, scientists and computer programmers, judges and doctors.

Even though the Met does not have classes, tests, or grades, it sets parameters for learning along five dimensions—empirical reasoning, symbolic or quantitative reasoning, communications, and social reasoning, and personal qualities. Students build these academic and life skills into all of their activities. Every quarter, students make presentations to the whole school. They must write a 75-page autobiography in their senior year.

The Standard American School

The Big Picture Learning represents a tiny part of the educational system. And most educators resist its approach. But the Big Picture offers a powerful model for overcoming the limits of traditional schools.

For more than a century, American schools have operated on a common idea: That education is a mass good to be delivered from the top down. Schools work like a company or government agency, delivering basic goods to customers in exchange for the dollars that their attendance brings the school. Using a set curriculum, with a standard set of subjects, teachers provide instruction to groups of students ranging from 15 to 30 or more. The students show mastery by performing well on tests, papers, and presentations.

Schools do vary the curriculum—offering different tracks for students, providing a mix of core and optional courses, and even allowing students to take part in some out-of-school programs—but the whole student body is expected to master the same kind of mix of materials.

I understand that lots of schools do a good job educating and guiding lots of their students. Inspired teachers, exciting books, high standards, great clubs and sports programs launch, and deep friendships launch countless productive and happy lives. If the system is broken, it’s not completely broken. Lots of parts still work well.

But all too often, vast swaths of students get lost in school. For this group—and even many of the more successful students—the Big Picture schools offer a powerful alternative.

Littky’s Model

Rather than thinking of the school as a delivery system, Littky sees the school as a place where students come to design their own education. Littky’s schools give students the same kind of individualized attention that a personal tutor would offer.

The results have been positive. Met schools have a graduation rate of 92 percent—for a demographic that usually graduates just more than half of its students—and most graduating seniors have been accepted into colleges. Met graduates have gone on to attend Brown, Penn, Holy Cross, Providence College, and other first-rate schools. Of the Met graduates in college, more than 70 percent are the first in their family to ever attend college.

Dennis Littky, of course, is not the only person involved in this success. Littky’s business partner is a thoughtful and creative man named Elliott Warshaw. He spends the better part of his time on the road, helping to set up and oversee schools and negotiating with school systems for the opportunity to set up a Big Picture school. He’s dreaming big—taking over a whole school system. Besides Littky and Warshaw, there are hundreds of smart and dedicated advisors who guide the students.

Ironically, the greatest challenge of school reform is scaling up. At charter schools and elite private schools, teachers work long, hard hours to track their students and oversee their demanding work loads. Students shuffle in and out of classes, making it hard for teachers to know students well. Many teachers have to get to know more than 100 students a year.

The whole process revolves around advisories of 12 to 15 students. Advisors know their students better than anyone in the world. They know their backgrounds, interests, and abilities; they know their neighborhoods, families, and everyday struggles. This intimate knowledge gives them the insights–and the caring–to help guide them to explore their passions.

If any model can be replicated, it’s this one. The advisors are extraordinary people, but so are countless other teachers. The difference is that they get manageable workloads and exciting, nonrepetitive work. However intensive the work, it does not involve as many “moving parts” as other reform models.

Some Big Picture schools struggle to meet the demands of standardized tests, the lingua franca of college admissions processes and school assessment. Reluctantly, Littky gives the OK for some Big Picture schools to bend the learning model to make sure students are prepared for the “real world” challenges of tests and admissions.

‘But what about…’

When learning about the Big Picture schools, most open-minded people are intrigued but concerned. Don’t we need a standard curriculum? Shouldn’t all students read Shakespeare, study American history, get a strong grounding in algebra and the basic sciences? I myself embrace the idea of a strong core curriculum. E.D. Hirsch’s idea of “cultural literacy” is essential to any possibility for a humane community. We need something to ground ourselves, right?

But Littky points out that most high school graduates — not just in the Facebook Generation, but in all previous generations — never really attained this ideal. And only a portion of students — a third? a quarter? a tenth? — ever develop the broad liberal-arts mastery evoked in policy debates. For the rest, school too often seems irrelevant. They get turned off to learning by the fill-’em-up mentality of most schools.

For the majority that doesn’t thrive under the back-to-basics, liberal-arts ideal, doesn’t it make sense to challenge students to find and pursue their passions? If done well, these students will explore a wide range of subjects just to understand their passion. A student interested in studying the Iraq War — and many other topics — will learn geography, history, economics, warfare, literature, the environment, statistics, music, art, and more. Guided well, most passions could lead to a broad education.

And, most important, students will develop a love of learning — and an ability to teach themselves how to learn over a lifetime.

School as Narrative

Since first learning about the Met and Big Picture Schools, I have tried to understand how it works. I have visited three or four times, spent hours talking with Littky, advisors, and students. I recently conducted a writing workshop at the Met.

I have always been impressed at how the students’ manners, energy, organization, and articulate speech. And the work ethic! They work hard, often long past the usual hours of 9 to 5. Of course, you could also find polite and energetic students at lots of schools. I just visited three terrific classes at Briarcliff High School, in Westchester County, New York, that fit that description.

So what sets Dennis Littky’s schools apart—I mean, besides giving kids both opportunity and responsibility?

I think it’s that the Met and other Big Picture schools make every students time at school part of a great narrative.

Evolutionary biologists tell us that, more than anything else, storytelling sets humans apart from other animals. Other animals need food and shelter to survive. All need to reproduce. Many use some form of language to communicate. But only humans tell stories. As the human species grew beyond small settlements, as we developed bigger brains and had to keep track of far-flung activities, we started telling stories.

Stories gave us a way to make sense of the world—to understand the dangers of nature, to set rules for families and tribes, to create new systems of hunting and cooking and building, to create stores of memory and knowledge. Over the ages, storytelling gave us ways to engage each other.

As I ruminated on these matters, I started to wonder why schools do not incorporate more narrative into their curricula. Wouldn’t biology be more interesting if told as a story? Physics and chemistry? Math? Health? Economics? Social studies?

Sure, students need to learn raw knowledge. Students need to learn anatomy and periodic tables, expository writing and grammar, geography and timelines, statistics and the scientific method. I understand that. But can’t school help students accumulate this knowledge as part of a larger quest that make them whole people—that make them part of a larger drama that excites and amazes them?

The Hero’s Journey

Then I realized that that’s just what Dennis Littky’s schools do. Students need to find something that sparks their interest and then become the hero in the greatest adventure of all. They must figure out how to give form to information.

Every year, every student at The Big Picture schools enacts powerful dramas. The hero of each drama is a student trying to find her purpose and capacities. The drama involves advisors and peers. It involves employers. It involves parents and siblings and old friends, not all benign influences.

The hero needs to figure it out. Like the heroes of other dramas, the journey not only reveals countless “practical” truths along the way, but also a larger meaning and purpose. And to make sure the experience becomes a permanent part of history, the student documents the drama with a memoir at the end of the whole process.

Be skeptical. You should be. But also be open to the idea that real education requires a journey of discovery. Any curious, reasonably intelligent person can master facts and skills. But all of us really need—and what we owe young people—a chance to play the lead role in our own dramas.

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Fish’s Lament

Why don’t students learn how to write?

If you ever spend any time with college professors, you hear endless complaints about poor writing. At the end of the week, you can tell the ones who have papers to grade. They grimace, anticipating countless lost hours trying to decipher errant sentences in jargon-filled nonarguments.

(If you think the problem is unique to the U.S., think again. The situation is not any better in Britain and other English-speaking countries.)

What’s the source of the problem? College teachers, naturally, say the problem lies with high school. If only high school English classes did a better job, profs say, we wouldn’t have to do all this remedial work. Studies show that only about one-quarter of high school seniors write well. High school teachers, in turn, blame families for not setting limits on TV, computer time, texting, and other diversions.

But this all begs the question.

According to Stanley Fish, one of the innovative legal and literary thinkers of our time, students cannot write because no one ever teaches them.

In a series of columns for The New York Times, Fish reports his alarm at reading the poor writing of his graduate students. When he realized that the grad students were teaching writing to the undergrads, he was even more alarmed. Let Fish pick up the story:

I decided to find out, and asked to see the lesson plans of the 104 sections. I read them and found that only four emphasized training in the craft of writing. Although the other 100 sections fulfilled the composition requirement, instruction in composition was not their focus. Instead, the students spent much of their time discussing novels, movies, TV shows and essays on a variety of hot-button issues — racism, sexism, immigration, globalization. These artifacts and topics are surely worthy of serious study, but they should have received it in courses that bore their name, if only as a matter of truth-in-advertising.As I learned more about the world of composition studies, I came to the conclusion that unless writing courses focus exclusively on writing they are a sham.

Fish proposes ditching all those po-mo classes in favor of classes that teach the basic. He proposes to start with writing strong sentences. In fact, even while serving as dean, he has taught basic composition classes using this method. Again, let Fish explain:

You have to start with a simple but deep understanding of the game, which for my purposes is the game of writing sentences. So it makes sense to begin with the question, What is a sentence anyway? My answer has two parts: (1) A sentence is an organization of items in the world. (2) A sentence is a structure of logical relationships.The second part tells you what kind of organization a sentence is, a logical one, and in order to pinpoint what the components of that logic are, I put a simple sentence on the table, something like “John hit the ball” or “Jane likes cake.” I spend an entire week on sentences like these (which are easily comprehended by students of any background), asking students to generate them, getting them to see the structure of relationships that makes them all the same on a formal level, getting them to see that the motor of meaning production is form, not content.

If that sounds like a grind, think again. Once students write strong sentences, they can do anything. In my writing classes at Yale, we spent hours working on sentences and paragraphs. I insist that my students give every sentence a strong “SVO core.” Every sentence needs to state, clearly, who’s doing what to whom. In fact, I ban the use of the verbs “to be” and “to have.” This artificial constraint turns off the auto-pilot and forces students to think through what they mean to say.

We also spent lots of time on paragraphs. As a basic goal, every paragraph should state and develop a single idea. Writing goes awry when paragraphs lurch in different directions. When you say whatever pops into your head, you lose sight on your point. So I have students mark their paragraphs with two- or three-word labels. If they have two or three labels, they need to recast the paragraph into two or three paragraphs — or, better yet, delete some of the material.

Stanley Fish has taken a lot of grief for his deconstructionist approaches to the law and literature. But even his conservative critics must agree that on the question of basic writing skills, he speaks the truth.

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The Power of a Positive No: Beats, Storytelling, and Analysis

One of the most important techniques of storytelling is the beat. A beat is a unit of action that advances the story, in some way. A beat could be anything from a nod (like Rick’s OK for the band to play La Marseillaise in Casablanca) to a major collision (like the ship hitting an iceberg in Titanic). Whatever its scale, the beat advances the story. If the beat doesn’t happen, the rest of the story does not unfold in quite the same way.

Beats create tension and intrigue by alternating from positive to negative values. Something good happens, then something bad happens. The hero is lost and then found. The team scores a touchdown and then its star quarterback gets injured. The young man saves a buddy in a battle and then gets shot just as he returns to the bunker. Good, bad; bad, good. The more you can drive beats forward, the more you will advance the story and engage your reader.

I was thinking of beats when I reviewed Bill Ury’s book The Power of a Positive No. Ury is half of the famous duo, with Roger Fisher, that changed the way we think of negotiation with their classic book Getting to Yes. That book describes a straight path from conflict to agreement. But as Ury says, sometimes the best path to Yes moves through doubt and conflict.

In a review for The Boston Globe, I described this process. As a writer, I want you to consider how you can give your writing this yes-no-yes-no rhythm. By shifting back and forth from positive to negative and back again, you will improve your ability to explain complex issues and processes. You will also engage your reader like a master storyteller.

By Charles Euchner

Boston has the reputation of a civic naysayer, with a culture so cranky that good ideas get rejected as a perverse ritual. The political graveyard is filled with ideas that seemed so good when announced, but then suffered nasty deaths. Remember the grand plans for reviving City Hall Plaza? The new Back Bay-style neighborhood on the South Boston waterfront? The Cape Cod wind farm? One 2004 report by the CitiStates Group called the region “fractious, exclusionary, and lacking the collaborative gene.”

But in a new book, Harvard Law professor William Ury shows that Boston needs to learn, of all things, to say “no.” In The Power of a Positive No, which Ury calls a “prequel” to his classic Getting to Yes, he says that rejecting ideas is not such a bad thing. The problem is that Bostonians, and many people, do not always say “no” in a constructive way.

He calls for a new kind of “no” that is not a shrill message of rejection. Instead, “no” should be built on the foundation of strong and positive values, and be the beginning of a conversation, not its end. This “positive no” holds the possibility of changing politics, opening new possibilities. But, he argues, it could also transform the lives of individuals, businesses, teams, and communities.

“No may be the most important word in our vocabulary, but it is the most difficult to say well,” Ury writes. “At the heart of the difficulty in saying No is the tension between exercising your power and tending to your relationship.”

Ury argues that people avoid uttering the two-letter word because they confuse it with total rejection. We have to deal with people even when we disagree, and we don’t want to say something that might hurt future interactions. We also live in a manic age, full of distractions and demands that make it easier to just say “yes.” As a result, we have become a nation of accommodators and avoiders.

Ury outlines a three-stage process of constructive dialogue. In the first stage, we reach inside to find our deepest values — what Ury calls the “Yes!” statement. Being clear on those values makes it easier to move to the next step: saying “no” to things that betray those values. Finally, both sides can suggest common ground, a stage Ury calls “Yes?”

The Yes!/No/Yes? process mirrors the structure of storytelling, from Athens to Hollywood. In Act 1, the hero develops and affirms his deepest values. In Act 2, he confronts a great foe that requires him to fight back. In Act 3, the great struggle opens new possibilities for all concerned.

Massachusetts has become the capital of negotiation studies. Ury’s Global Negotiation Project is based at Harvard. Two Red Line stops away, at MIT, Lawrence Susskind’s Consensus Building Institute has trained hundreds of people. And don’t forget the Albert Einstein Institution, the leading source of information about nonviolence as a form of political action, which Gene Sharp now runs in his East Boston rowhouse.

But smart negotiation has not played enough of a role in Massachusetts politics. According to Ury, the problem might not be that we have a hard time getting to “yes,” but that we don’t know how to get to “no” first. So we go along with undesirable ideas, like the Big Dig (along with its multibillion-dollar “mitigation” projects) and the convention center in South Boston. Or we avoid taking up good ideas, like the expansion of charter schools or the creation of business improvement districts, because of the shrillness of opponents. The result is an undercurrent of frustration, which occasionally explodes in anger.

Neighborhoods regularly say “no” to even benign projects — housing, parks, schools, new commercial development — that would alter their neighborhood in any way. The “no” of NIMBY (“not in my backyard”) can poison community life for years.

I know a nonprofit developer who struggled for years to build affordable housing on an open lot in the Roslindale section of Boston. Neighbors repeatedly rejected the idea in community meetings and zoning board hearings. The developer’s response was to call the neighbors racist and to vow to fight for the housing until he won.

Ury would instead get the developers and neighbors in a room for a long conversation about what the community needed and what it feared. Ury would try to learn everyone’s deepest desires and fears (their “Yes!”) and then tell them how they can say “no” in such a way as to open the discussion to new possibilities.

“A positive ‘no’ respects rather than rejects, even when you’re saying ‘no’ to someone you don’t like,” Ury told me. “The first time I taught this course at Harvard Law School, we were in the midst of the war, and the students said, ‘What about Saddam Hussein? Does he deserve respect?’ and I said ‘yes.”‘

The most important part of a good “no” might be having a Plan B: An alternate plan to use when the other side won’t accept your answer. More than any other part of a negotiation, having a Plan B can force a stubborn opponent to respond.

Suppose then-Governor Mitt Romney had listened to his budget advisers on the plan to rebuild the Greenbush commuter line to the South Shore. The administration had lots of good reasons to kill the $500 million project, adopted as part of the “mitigation” agreement to get the backing of the Conservation Law Foundation for the Big Dig in the waning days of the Dukakis administration.

But he didn’t have a Plan B. Different transit investments, perhaps? Greater attention to strengthening old urban centers? Modern highway management systems? Hard to say. The state, in fact, has not had a comprehensive transportation strategy for more than a generation.

Contrast that situation with the politics of “no” on highway construction back in the early 1970s.

At the time, residents of Boston, Brookline, and Cambridge were agreed on a powerful “Yes!” — the devotion to maintaining the character of their neighborhoods. So they shouted “no” to Governor Frank Sargent’s plans to build an extension of Interstate 95 and an inner-belt highway, which cut through densely populated areas. Sargent then hired an MIT political scientist named Alan Altshuler to develop a comprehensive transportation plan for the Boston area. The resulting blueprint became the “Yes?” that shaped transportation and planning for a generation, leading to improvements in transit (like the new Orange Line) and urban design (the Southwest Corridor park).

One could argue that Altshuler’s 18-month planning process did more to revive Boston than any other single event. But it all started with a resounding “no.”


This piece appeared in the April 22, 2007 “Ideas” section of The Boston Globe.

Languages, Law, and San Francisco

This article originally appeared in Education Week on January 25, 1984.

By Charles Euchner

A young graduate of the public-school system here, now a sophomore at the City College of San Francisco, has few memories of his first years of formal education. About all the student, who immigrated to this city from Hong Kong, recalls is that he felt isolated from other students because he could not speak English.

As the years passed, the student gradually learned English. He took Chinese lessons after school for several years, but quit in order to make his English classes a top priority. When he was not in school trying to understand what his English-speaking peers were saying, he watched television for hours on end, imitating the speech of the actors to eliminate his Chinese accent. “The shows on TV are more or less how the society speaks,” he now says.

School officials offered to enroll him in classes for non-English-speaking students, the student recalls, but he told his mother that he would rather learn English without any bilingual instruction. “I said no, because [classmates] said, ‘You’re an ESL [student]’ and laughed at you.”

The student, who plans to major in computer electronics at City College, now speaks in a clear voice with hardly a trace of an accent. His name is Kinney Kinmon Lau. He was the plaintiff named in Lau v. Nichols, the case decided by the U.S. Supreme Court 10 years ago this month that led to an explosive growth in bilingual-education programs here and across the country.

The class action against the San Francisco Unified School District originated in the U.S. District Court here in 1970. The suit charged that the district was denying non-English-speaking pupils their civil rights as Americans because it did not offer them a program for learning English.

Chinese and Hispanic community groups had unsucessfully pressed the district for years to develop a comprehensive bilingual-education program when in 1970 a public-interest lawyer recruited some non-English-speaking families to challenge the district. The first of 13 plaintiffs listed in the suit was Kinney Lau.

The district court ruled in 1971 against the Laus, stating that the city must provide students with equal access to educational programs but not the opportunity to derive equal benefits from the programs. The U.S. Court of Appeals for the Ninth Circuit upheld the decision in 1973.

The Supreme Court in January 1974 unanimously reversed the rulings of the lower courts, holding that the district violated the Civil Rights Act of 1964 by not offering the students any special programs to overcome their academic handicaps. It rejected the students’ constitutional claim that they were denied their 14th Amendment rights to equal protection under the law, however. The Court ordered the district to develop a program to address the problems of the 1,800 Chinese-speaking students represented in the suit.

Those who spent years lobbying for bilingual education both before and after the decision say the programs the city developed are often inadequate and even narrow-minded. But they also say the Court’s decision has done more to change the district than any other development in recent years.

The school that Kinney Lau attended at the time of the Supreme Court decision, Jean Parker Elementary School, has undergone demographic and program changes that officials say is fairly typical of the district’s experience with special-language initiatives.

The demographic makeup of the school, which sits a block from Chinatown’s business district, has changed dramatically. As much as 98 percent of the school’s students at the time of the suit were of Chinese descent. The school is now about 45 percent Chinese and 15 percent Hispanic; the rest of the students are white, black, Filipino, Cambodian, Indian, Burmese, and Arabic.

The school now offers a variety of language programs that officials say mirror the district’s mix of bilingual-bicultural and “English-as-a-second-language” programs. The programs involve six or seven times as many pupils as they did at the time of the decision.

Students in the bilingual classes learn demanding subjects such as mathematics and social studies in their native language while also attending English classes. ESL students receive instruction in English and are pulled out of the classroom for separate English instruction. School officials stress that there is a considerable mix of bilingual and esl approaches in all classes.

In addition to those two basic approaches, the school also teaches Chinese and Spanish to students whose first language is English, and writing to students who can speak but not write their native languages. All students in the language programs learn about the countries associated with the foreign languages, teachers say.

Virginia Wales, the principal of the school, says she favors giving all students access to bilingual programs. But ESL predominates, she says, because the district has had problems finding and paying qualified bilingual teachers. Right now, the school has 21 special language teachers and aides for the school’s approximately 300 “other-language” students.

In the district of 62,000 students, about 550 teachers offer special language instruction to some 17,000 non- or limited-English-speaking students, officials say. The students are divided into two roughly equal groups–those in bilingual programs and those in “personalized” programs. About 600 students choose not to take part in any special program.

District officials say they have no cost figures for the program because it has been incorporated into the regular school budget. But the cost for bilingual teacher salaries is about $15 million annually, and the district spends another $1 million for special programs, the officials estimated.

The approaches that schools use in bilingual programs vary, the officials say; some resemble ESL programs in many ways and others offer students instruction in two languages throughout. The individual programs are tailor-made for each student, with almost all resembling ESL.

“All bilingual programs contain an ESL component, so it’s not an either-or kind of thing,” said Roger Tom, the program manager for bilingual education in the district. “What’s in the programs–bilingual or ESL–is a matter of degree.”

Edward H. Steinman was working in the Chinatown office of the San Francisco Neighborhood Legal Assistance Foundation in the late 1960’s when he started to investigate the problems of limited- and non-English-speaking students in the area.

Now a professor of law at the University of Santa Clara, Mr. Steinman says he needed an interpreter to understand most of his Chinese clients. He started to attend meetings of community groups, where he said he learned about the problems of Chinese-speaking students in English-language classes.

After formally asking the board of education to develop a bilingual program–“their response was, yes, there’s a problem but there’s not anything we can do about it,” he said–Mr. Steinman started to look for people willing to get involved in a court battle.

“President Reagan’s right when he says that [public-interest lawyers] manufacture cases,” Mr. Steinman said. “But they don’t manufacture problems. Something needed to be done.”

Mr. Steinman was representing Kam Wai Lau in a landlord-tenant dispute when he asked her to get involved with her son in the class-action suit. Ms. Lau agreed, she said recently with her son acting as interpreter, because teachers at the school “told her she had to do something for herself” when she complained that she “saw other children crying and unhappy.”

Because Ms. Lau and her son spoke no English and had access to no special-language programs, Mr. Steinman decided to place Kinney Lau’s name first in a list of 13 plaintiffs involved in the suit.

The Laus and the other Chinese families sued the San Francisco Unified School District in 1970, charging that the district’s language policy violated both the students’ constitutional rights to equal protection and the Civil Rights Act of 1964.

Under growing pressure from Chinese and Hispanic groups in the late 1960’s–a time of youth-gang warfare in Chinatown and unrest in the city’s other minority neighborhoods–the system started to develop special language programs.

By the time the Court handed down its unanimous decision in 1974, the $1.5-million program involved less than half of the 10,000 “other language” students in the district. Most of the students were enrolled in ESL classes, which generally provided students less than one hour of instruction daily. Many educators criticized ESL for ignoring the students’ need to advance in all subjects while learning English. Most of the programs were experimental projects started with federal money under the 1967 Bilingual Education Act aimed at disadvantaged children.

Even district officials said the city’s bilingual program was inadequate, the courses were poorly designed, the teachers were not well trained and had few classroom resources, and the screening and evaluation of students was poor.

“We were doing some things, but there were a lot of things that just weren’t in place,” said Raymond del Portillo, then the director of bilingual education. “There was a great lack of teachers that were bilingual and biliterate. They’d say, ‘Hey, del Portillo, don’t you speak Spanish?’ And then I was a bilingual educator.”

Despite the claims of Thomas O’Connor, the district’s lawyer, that San Francisco “pioneered bilingual instruction” before Lau, the critics said the district’s program was purely political. Mr. Steinman said the district tried to “moot the case” by starting new programs for Kinney Lau and other people named in the case.

The controversy over how to deal with non- and limited-English-speaking pupils was just one of many problems facing the district in the late 1960’s and early 1970’s.

In early 1975, when a task force created to develop a bilingual-education program was preparing its final report, the district had seen three superintendents quit in six years. Enrollment was declining in the city, which was already noted for its low proportion of students to overall population. The district’s budget was out of balance by 10 percent. The district consistently had some of the lowest achievement-test scores in the state despite showing the highest per-pupil expenditures of any large city. Officials faced an unprecedented array of lawsuits from disaffected parents, students, teachers, and administrators.

On top of all these problems was desegregation. The federal district court in July 1971 ruled in Johnson v. San Francisco Unified School District that the district must develop a comprehensive desegregation plan–the first such court order in a northern city. The order followed more 10 years of political controversy that bitterly divided the city’s whites, blacks, Chinese, and Hispanics.

Wilson Riles, then state superintendent of public instruction, told a Congressional committee investigating the impact of Lau that San Francisco was an “embarassment” to the state.

The debate over how the district should comply with the Court’s decision started the day the decision was handed down.

Wellington Clew, the superintendent of the city’s bilingual program, said the district should offer a variety of programs rather than endorsing one approach. “We should provide an option for the parents and children,” he said. “Some prefer ESL only, and others think bilingual is the [correct] program.”

Victor Low, the director of a pilot project in Chinese bilingual education at Commodore Stockton Elementary School, endorsed the bilingual approach as a way of allowing students to maintain cultural pride while learning English. He suggested that tensions in Chinatown were caused by the emergence of two major groups–the ABC’s, or American-born Chinese, and the FOB’s, or those who were “fresh off the boat”–half of whom spoke Chinese and half of whom spoke English.

Mr. Low and others also said the student with “other-language” students could be psychologically damaged without attention to their culture, and that use of their native language would be a valuable tool for learning English.

Some of the people most involved with the suit favored a “maintenance” program, in which students would receive instruction in their native language and English throughout their public education–regardless of how quickly they learned English.

L. Ling-Chi Wang, a leading community organizer, and Mr. Steinman argued that programs to teach children English should be taught alongside programs to teach children their native languages and the histories of their native countries.

“This country does not know any other languages and cultures. It was unprepared to establish relations with China,” said Mr. Wang, who attended a recent dinner here for China’s Prime Minister Zhao Ziyang. “Each year, we spend millions of dollars to teach foreign languages to diplomats, and then we spend so much of our time trying to wipe out other languages.”

Ligaya Avenida, the district’s current bilingual coordinator, added: “Our district should capitalize on the multiplicity … of ethnic groups. The delivery of subject areas can be done in a second language. We have to expand our concept of bilingual education into second languages. English will always be there–it’s the status language of this country.”

The Supreme Court remanded the case to the federal court in which it was originally filed. Mr. Steinman said he and other bilingual advocates were determined to limit the role of U.S. District Judge Lloyd Burke in developing a remedy. “He was anti-bilingual,” said Mr. Steinman. “He said the Supreme Court was wrong and bilingual education is a sham–a year after the Supreme Court acted.”

The leaders of the bilingual movement lobbied the board of education to create an independent committee to devise the plan. When the board created the Citizens’ Bilingual Task Force, those leaders lobbied the board to appoint members who were committed to devising a comprehensive bilingual plan. And when the task force completed a comprehensive report, the leaders lobbied the board to approve the plan.

Mr. Wang, now chairman of the department of ethnic studies at the University of California at Berkeley, said bilingual proponents originally had only one ally on the seven-member board. Mr. Wang said he helped neighborhoods organize to press the board for a comprehensive bilingual effort.

“The task force took one year to form,” said Mr. Wang. “The district wanted to do it on their own, but we used to have 600 or 700 or 800 people [at meetings] demanding to create the task force. The board finally realized that it had to create the task force. We in fact took away the formulation of the plan from the school district.”

To increase the credibility of the task force–which needed interpreters to function–its members also persuaded the board to hire a private consulting firm. The task force and the Center for Applied Linguistics, a Washington-based firm, worked on the plan for nine months before submitting it to the board in February 1975. The board approved the plan on March 25, 1975.

The task force’s “master plan” was more than 600 pages long. The four-volume study included 124 specific proposals that, if enacted, would have reshaped the district’s approach to teaching almost all subjects. The district signed the Lau consent decree, a plan based on the report, in October 1976.

The master plan includes specific provisions for improving the early evaluation and placement of students, a counseling program, the training of teachers and other staff members, the development of curriculum and class materials, student evaluation, and community participation.

Officials say the district’s greatest innovations are “intake” centers, which were started in 1972. Children of all major language backgrounds are evaluated at the centers, and some 600 students spend a full year in intensive English instruction. Elementary-school children with no English background attend Chinese, Spanish, and Filipino centers.

Almost all high-school students with no English background attend the Newcomer High School, started in 1981. The school’s 500 students are given instruction in their own language in mathematics and social studies and three intensive English classes.

According to A. Richard Cerbatos, the chairman of the task force and now a member of the board of education, the master plan’s ultimate goal was a comprehensive language-maintenance program, in which all students would be taught subjects in two languages throughout their elementary- and secondary-school education.

That vision has not yet materialized. According to Ms. Avenida of the district, Clarendon Elementary School’s Japanese program involving 150 students is the only maintenance program in the city.

The frustrations that such bilingual advocates express is matched by the frustration of people who say students are kept in bilingual programs too long. According to Beatrice Cardenas-Duncan, the bilingual-education expert for the city’s Human Rights Commission, and Mr. del Portillo, anecdotal evidence suggests that school administrators and teachers keep pupils in special-language programs long after they have mastered English.

Ms. Avenida says students stay in bilingual programs for an average of about five years, and that 200 students are “reclassified” as English speakers annually. Students are reclassified on the basis of their grades, teacher recommendations, oral-proficiency tests, and the California Test of Basic Skills. A student’s scores on the latter test must rank in the 36th percentile of all students statewide.

“Sometimes [school officials] perpetuate the idea that certain students cannot move on in order to get more funding,” said Ms. Cardenas-Duncan. “This is information we get from parents.”

Ms. Cardenas-Duncan called for an independent commission to study the effectiveness of the city’s bilingual program “so that when issues like Proposition O come up we will have documentation.” She was referring to the nonbinding citizens’ referendum that discourages multilingual ballots, which passed overwhelmingly last fall.

At about the same time that Mr. Wang and his allies convinced the citizens’ task force and then the board of education to embrace bilingual education, Mr. Wang served on the groups advising the state and federal government about the impact of Lau.

Mr. Wang was a member of a task force created to help the Office for Civil Rights of the former Department of Health, Education and Welfare devise guidelines for enforcing the Supreme Court’s decison. The resulting guidelines–the so-called “Lau remedies”–have been a central part of the planning of districts across the U.S.

Mr. Wang and his allies also lobbied state legislators, and, partly as a result, they say, the state bilingual laws are similar to those of the district. Under state laws passed in 1976 and 1980, all students who are in a grade with 10 or more children who speak the same foreign language must be enrolled in a bilingual program. The school must develop “individualized learning plans” for the other pupils who require bilingual instruction.

“The master plan became viable with the state laws,” said Mr. del Portillo, the district’s former bilingual coordinator. “Through a process of osmosis, the district’s plan became the state law, also.”

Bilingual advocates in San Francisco say the city’s language program does not meet all of the task force’s ambitious goals, but they say the program has become institutionalized and will be able to survive political threats.

Some expressed concern about the overwhelming success last fall of Proposition O. “We can’t just sit back,” said Ms. Cardenas-Duncan. “Bilingual education and bilingual ballots are related.”

But most bilingual advocates say that and other developments–such as the Reagan Administration’s funding cuts and withdrawal of regulations mandating bilingual education–have not significantly affected the city’s program. The district’s growing minority population is likely to give bilingualism a broader base, they add.

“We haven’t been at all affected by what has happened in Washington, D.C. The city is almost immune to what happens there,” said Mr. Steinman. “San Francisco has gone beyond the stage where they’d go back. The number of Lau children has been growing–it’s almost tripled. Institutionally, it’s always going to be there.”

Adds Mr. Cerbatos: “As more and more people in this community experience the program–and the district is 83 percent minority–they’re going to think more and more in terms of what’s good for the minorities, including bilingual and bicultural programs.”

One person who says he is uneasy about “maintenance” bilingual-education and bicultural policies is Kinney Lau. “If they teach you [basic subjects] in Chinese, you’ll never learn any English,” he says. “You can’t have a [native language-speaking] teacher all the way.”

“If there’s enough money to supply the schools, I guess it can be good. If the teacher would teach the class in English and be able to answer questions in [students’ native languages], I would say that’s good.”

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Carnegie-Mellon, I.B.M. Designing Futuristic ‘Wired’ University

Education Week, April 13, 1983

Pittsburgh–In collaboration with one of the computer industry’s most influential corporations, Carnegie-Mellon University is attempting to create in two years the “wired city” that so far has been only the dream of futurists.

Students who enroll at the university in the fall of 1985 will not only own their own personal computers, but they will also be part of a computer network and will have access to a large stock of programs and an “electronic mail” system.

That network will also spread throughout the city and perhaps move across the country, with instructional programs offered to graduates of the university and probably others, officials said.

Carnegie-Mellon’s president, Richard Cyert, last fall announced a joint initiative with the International Business Machines Corporation (IBM) to create on campus what officials said will be the most extensive everyday computer network in the world. Most undergraduates will be required to buy their own computers for about $3,000.

IBM will spend up to $50 million over the next three to five years to develop a new line of microcomputers and a system that can link thousands of them together in one network. The new machine will be 20 to 100 times as powerful as most personal computers now on the market, spokesmen said.

Under the terms of the Carnegie-Mellon agreement with IBM, both sides will assign employees to work full-time to develop the technology. Both sides also pledged not to divulge any trade secrets they discover in the course of the project.

IBM would develop the new line of computers even without such a cooperative venture, university officials said. But they said it is worthwhile for the university to help with that development in order to be at the forefront of the technology.

The IBM initiative will expand Carnegie-Mellon’s already extensive on-campus use of computers in subjects ranging from English literature to physics to political science–by so improving access to computer hardware and software that they become everyday tools.

But the networking idea is the most revolutionary aspect of the pro-ject, university officials said.

The officials have already moved beyond creating a network of students and alumni. They have held discussions with Warner Communications and the Bell Telephone Company to expand the network throughout the city of Pittsburgh–either with Warner’s already extensive cable-television system or with a Bell light-wave system now under construction.

Douglas E. Van Houweling, the vice provost for computing and planning, said he expects campus routines to survive. But by expanding the computer network to graduates and local businesses, he added, education probably will become more decentralized and accessible.

Said Karolyn Eisenstein, the assistant dean of the science college: ”The effect of computers on organizations is the real frontier.”

John Crecine, the dean of the College of Humanities and Social Sciences, said the network might shift the focus of education from the classroom to course goals and instruction displayed on a computer.

“Whether we like to admit it, most learning does not take place in the classroom,” Mr. Crecine said. “We all know that the assignments … and peer interaction are the key things that determine what students do.” Both of those, he suggested, will be directed increasingly by computer programs.

Since the announcement of the initiative, Mr. Van Houweling said, many companies that turned down previous Carnegie-Mellon overtures have expressed an interest in hook-ing up to the network.

“The technology will be in a huge number of homes and schools at the end of this decade,” he said. “Organizations like Westinghouse or [Pittsburgh’s] Mellon Bank might adopt this. It will be an interesting question about at what point you’ll start to get a wired city.”

Such businesses might be interested in hooking up with the network to buy educational programs, access to data bases, and management programs, officials said.

‘Lifetime’ Education Foreseen

At the very least, Mr. Van Houweling said, the network will create “lifetime learning opportunities” for graduates and will allow students and faculty members to use time more efficiently. Graduates will be offered a chance to continue their studies for the rest of their lives with instructional computer programs that will be transmitted in an as-yet-undetermined way.

“It is assumed that the computers will be their [the students’] machines and that they will have a lifetime access to learning,” said John Stucky, director of computing for the humanities and social sciences.

“You need to teach more these days,” he said. “A lot of us behave as if education is an inoculation process that lasts four years. We don’t have good delivery [of formal education] after they leave the campus.”

That, Mr. Van Houweling said, will change when Carnegie-Mellon implements its computer initiative. As more sophisticated programs for computer-based instruction are de-veloped, the university will transmit them to graduates and possibly others.

The continuing-education program is in its earliest planning stages, Mr. Van Houweling said, so there is no way to estimate what fees Carnegie-Mellon will charge for access to the programs.

Officials said they had heard criticism of instructional programs, or “software,” now available, but noted that computer technology is changing so rapidly that the quality of software is bound to improve markedly in the next few years.

Microcomputers will not only have greater power in themselves, Mr. Crecine said, but the developing methods for transmitting computer programs will allow more information to be transmitted than is possible through current techniques of transmitting them by telephone.

“The network of personal computers will open new vistas for computer-assisted instruction,” said Mr. Van Houweling. “The key is being able to devote substantial computing power to each student … so the system can capture the expertise of the teacher and not just be an automated page-turner.”

Added Mr. Stucky: “The notion of having a tutor any time a student wants to throw a switch is very exciting.”

Computer Use Is Extensive

The university is already well known for its use of computers. Jean-Jacques Servan-Schreiber, the French futurist and politician, came to the campus this semester with Steven Jobs, the chairman of the board of Apple Computers, to learn about the institution’s computer strategies.

Mr. Servan-Schreiber later arranged a lunch date for Mr. Cyert with French President Francois Mitterand, who is also greatly interested in the uses of high technology.

What has attracted such attention is Carnegie-Mellon’s enthusiastic development of one of the most technologically advanced computer networks in the country. Already, officials said, 75 percent of the Carnegie-Mellon’s 5,500 students use the university’s 1,000 computer terminals regularly. About 60 percent of the faculty members have terminals in their offices and homes.

A task force on the future of computing at Carnegie-Mellon, established by Mr. Cyert, last year reported that the university spends more than $6 million annually to support its computer activities.

Members of the university regularly use an extensive “electronic mail” system to send notes, assignments, tests, and bulletins of campus events. It is a system that allows faster responses and encourages greater cooperation on research and other projects, said Mr. Stucky.

Students are required to take at least one semester of computer science using the computer language fortran, and computers are widely used in liberal-arts courses. Starting this fall, computer use will be required for graphic-arts majors.

Until an entire generation grows up with computers, Mr. Stucky said, teachers should be introduced to them gradually so that the knowledge of the technology and the subject area are well balanced.

Even Carnegie-Mellon faculty members and students express misgivings about the rapidity of change on their campus and say they are worried about how the new initiative with ibm will affect the academic atmosphere.

Faculty members say they are concerned that students’ fascination with their own machines might distract them from the necessary dedication to study.

“Some of that seduction is going on right now,” said Ms. Eisenstein. “We shouldn’t be pushing students to deliver the same output in slicker form.”

For example, Ms. Eisenstein said, computers would be useful for calculating the movement of molecules in biology studies.

But students need “semester on semester of study” to understand the field well enough for the computer to be useful, she said.

Teachers and students also say they worry that computers will discourage social intercourse. But university officials downplay that possibility.

Working Together Encouraged

If anything, said Joseph Ballay, the associate dean of the College of Fine Arts, computers encourage people to work more closely together. “This is more interdepartmental than anything else I’ve been involved with,” he said.

In addition, some students have expressed concern about assuming a heavier financial burden at a college that will charge $7,500 for tuition next year. Administrators say they might improve the university’s financial-aid package to take into account the additional expense of students’ computer purchase.

Last year’s task-force report acknowledged that many students might not need computers and that “greater availability of computers should not create expectations that everyone will use them.”

The student newspaper, The Tartan, has also criticized what it says is inadequate student involvement in the project.

In an annual April Fools’ Day issue, the newspaper identified the university as “a subsidiary of IBM” and reported that Mr. Cyert had signed an agreement with the Defense Department that would put a nuclear-attack warning system “in every dorm room.”

Richer Problem Environment

Whatever the shortcomings of the project, Mr. Crecine said: “The computer makes it possible … to operate in a far richer problem environment–and more efficiently. You can operate on a higher philosophical plane.”

Mr. Van Houweling said the university will not change admissions standards because of the computer. He said he would tell high-school teachers “just do what they’re doing. We’re not looking for any previous computer knowledge.”

In fact, he added, background in computers might even be a liability. Mr. Van Houweling said that if the applicant pool appeared to attract students with unusual backgrounds in computing, “probably we would look for those who have less experience.”

The idea, Mr. Crecine said, is not to produce “computer nerds with narrow interests and no social or interaction skills,” but to pull together the parts of the university with the computer network.

Just How Clever is ‘Solid-State Socrates’?

By Charlie Euchner
Education Week
July 27, 1983

Concern about mathematics and science education stems at least partly from the perception that today’s students need to be more “technologically literate” than the students of any previous generation. And the challenge posed by computers can, in turn, be met by using computers in the school.

On that much, most educators agree. But just how educational technology can be used–and, in fact, whether it ever will–is a constant source of dispute.

Technology is likely to be used increasingly in all subjects, but experts believe that it holds special promise for math and science. The computer’s potential for “mass delivery” of instruction might help address the shortage of teachers, some educators say. Furthermore, computer use could make math problems less abstract, reduce tedious operations, and teach logic. And computer simulations could demonstrate complex physical phenomena that are impossible to show in standard science laboratories.

Some experts say “mass delivery” of instruction is where the computer’s greatest potential lies. Computers can illustrate the abstract concepts of mathematics and science better than traditional methods, they say, and will be able to help alleviate the shortage of teachers in those areas.

Others hold that to use the computer as a “solid-state Socrates,” or a means of delivering instruction, would be a waste. They say the computer is best used as a tool for doing tedious computation, working with complex mathematics problems, and aiding with some laboratory work.

Educators appear to agree that the computer is useful to introduce students to the basics of information technology, such as programming–which, according to a recent survey, is now one of the most common uses of the machines.

That study, conducted by the Center for Social Organization of Schools at the Johns Hopkins University, found that the computer so far has simply been “grafted” onto the traditional mathematics curriculum. The nationwide survey of 2,209 schools found that most teachers put greater emphasis on programming and less on computer-assisted instruction as they gain experience with the technology.

Such a practice has both positive and negative effects, says Arthur G. Powell, executive director of an independent national study of high schools. On one hand, such courses can attract students who normally would not take part in any program with a mathematical component. Computer science could teach many of the reasoning skills that are considered central to other math subjects, he says.

But such courses also serve as a way for schools to “get around” state mandates for stiffer graduation requirements. “It’s one way the school can respond without making the teaching of math more strenuous … and you don’t have to deal with problems of sequence,” Mr. Powell says.

THE COMPUTER AS TUTOR

Educators say the professional arguments about computers will intensify in the next several years as the number of computers in the schools and the range of educational software increase.

Few experts expect computer-assisted instruction to make the teacher obsolete, but many believe that the computer can at least free the teacher from many tedious tasks and do a better job teaching students basic skills–especially in areas such as mathematics and science.

According to a report by Technical Education Research Centers (terc), commissioned by the National Science Foundation, there are now 1,000 science and 650 mathematics software packages on the market, and 100 new mathematics and science packages appear every month. Those programs represent almost half of all of the educational software available. More than 90 percent of all the math software programs are for drill and practice.

There is almost no software for elementary-school science classes and for many high-school topics, terc found. Many software topics overlap, the survey found, and teachers reported that they are not aware of what software is available.

Robert Kansky, professor of mathematics education at the University of Wyoming, says many schools in his state “can’t afford to hire math and science teachers.” The only way students will be able to take advanced courses in these ares, he says, is through computer hookups.

Mr. Kansky, who in 1981 and 1982 served as a consultant for a computer-assisted-instruction experiment in South Africa, says a three-tiered computer systems–with mainframe computers on the top, minicomputers in the middle, and microcomputers on the bottom–eventually will make delivery of sophisticated programs cost-effective. In such an arrangement, desktop computers would be able to use more sophisticated programs now available only on the larger machines.

In addition to increasing access to math and science education, Mr. Kansky and others say, computer-based education can also actually improve student performance.

A recent analysis of data from 52 independent studies found that students who receive computer-based instruction in all subjects perform better academically than those who do not. The study, conducted by three researchers at the University of Michigan, found that students using computers earn better scores on tests in less time than other students.

Despite such findings, many experts contend that using the computer as a means of instruction will not be worthwhile for many years. Other methods of expanding schools’ teaching capacity, such as cross-peer tutoring, are more effective, these people say. For now, they conclude, the computer should be used only as a tool–to perform time-consuming computations, gather laboratory data, and analyze data–and for the practical skill-training that programming offers.

For tutorial software to keep the interest of the student, says Robert B. Davis, associate director of the research laboratory on computer-based education at the University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign, it needs to be much more sophisticated–and for the software to be more sophisticated, the hardware needs to be more sophisticated. Mr. Davis said that almost all of the hardware available to schools is not powerful enough to handle worthwhile software. Because “the great pressure in education is to get something cheaply,” many schools buy the least sophisticated machines.

“Sitting in front of a computer for seven hours” will not keep students engaged, adds one science educator. “They need to talk to people, work on real-world activities.”

THE COMPUTER AS SIMULATOR

The value of simulation programs for the sciences is almost as much a matter of controversy as the tutorial programs. Simulations show simplified models of physical phenomena, such as biological functions.

At the recent National Educational Computing Conference in Baltimore, a panel of computer scientists and educators extolled the virtues of simulation programs that allow students to learn about science “intuitively.” But the participants also agreed with Tom Snyder, the president of a software firm, who said, “Right now, there is just a handful of good programs. It will take time and money to develop good programs.”

The participants never questioned whether simulation programs were worth developing. They agreed that some programs already available showed that simulations give students a better “intuitive” and “hands-on” understanding of mathematics and science than they had been able to offer.

Alfred Bork, professor of physics at the University of California at Irvine, says that his colleagues sometimes do not have a complete understanding of some physical concepts because they have not worked with variables in a dynamic setting such as a computer simulation.

“As soon as they saw a plot that didn’t appear in the books they had problems,” Mr. Bork says, referring to problems dealing with electrical phenomena.

Robert F. Tinker, director of the technology center at terc, says he has seen students develop a “working vocabulary” in complicated subjects such as nuclear power and the ecology with computer simulations. “There’s a lot of good science in it,” he says, referring to a simulation entitled “Three Mile Island,” in which students are required to operate a nuclear-power plant both safely and profitably.

But some science educators say they doubt that either computer-based tutorials or computer simulations will improve enough to make them worthwhile. One educator explains that simulations he has seen are not only inadequate, but harmful in some cases. The computer models, he says, oversimplify scientific phenomena to the point of teaching invalid concepts.

He cites two simulations–one which demonstrates the ideal gas law, and a second which demonstrates the law of universal gravitation–that “teach something that’s wrong.” Gases hold dozens of properties that cannot be expressed accurately in a simple model, the educator says.

The “intelligent videodisk” machine, a device that connects a videocassette player with a microcomputer, holds more promise, some educators believe. Using a computer program, the teacher can move to any single frame of a video tape in seconds.

The most useful tapes, these educators say, would demonstrate laboratory experiments with many variations. The teacher would be able to show students in seconds how hundreds of changes would affect an experiment’s outcome.

Educators also agree that the computer could be an important laboratory instrument–as long as it is used merely to manipulate data and not to replace most experiments.

An official with a leading manufacturer of laboratory equipment says that computer-based laboratory programs are so expensive that only about 300 have been sold nationwide. But, he adds, less expensive equipment that measures and analyzes data digitally is selling well.

The company has sold “thousands”of MPUTE “photogate” instruments, which measure the acceleration of objects at several points on an “air track,” and similar instruments that measure the movement of objects too small for the human eye, the official says.

Because mathematics and science require that students build on their knowledge, educators say, the computer can be valuable as a “manager” of educational programs. By entering data on student performance, teachers can track students’ progress in specific curricular goals–and give special attention to their weaker skills.

The computer can receive such information in several ways. Some testing programs evaluate the data and indicate which areas should receive special attention. Other programs require special “inputting” of information.

“These [computer programs] can analyze patterns of errors. Worksheets can’t do that,” says Mr. Powell.

THE COMPUTER AS SUBSTITUTE

The computer eventually could lead to fundamental changes in the mathematics and science curricula, the experts note. The computer not only requires greater familiarity with some complex mathematical concepts, they say, but it can also reduce the need for much of the arithmetic that is usually taught throughout elementary school.

Mr. Powell says students will need to have more advanced mathematics and science backgrounds than their parents. “In Japan, virtually every kid has some kind of calculus,” he says.

Jonathan Choate, chairman of the mathematics department at the Groton School, has developed a two-year mathematics curriculum for the computer that teaches high-school students systems dynamics–a subject that he says normally is not taught until college.

Mr. Tinker of TERC and others say educators should at least partly “prune” several areas from the math and science curricula because of the computer.

Among the topics that Mr. Tinker says he would give less emphasis are: rote algorithms; fractions; axiomatic geometry; several operations typical in algebra classes, such as root extraction, simultaneous equations, and trigonometric functions; many calculus proofs; and much of the specialized science vocabulary, which he says means little to most students.

“Much of what we now teach in elementary school can now be done with a $5 calculator,” says Mr. Kansky. “You could release students for at least half of their time … and move on to more problem solving.”

Is This The Race to … the Most Educated?

Decades ago, as a reporter for Education Week, I was assigned to explore why Europeans outperform American students on math and science. I interviewed experts from all over. The findings say something about the the teaching of writing as well. American schools tend to isolate learning by grade and subject; European schools blend learning in various subjects, spiraling from simple to complex subjects. 

By Charlie Euchner
Education Week
July 27, 1983

Late last month, the Nissan Motor Corporation’s new plant in Smyrna, Tenn., produced its first 160 light trucks. The $300-million plant, which employs 2,200 American workers, is one of two in the United States owned by Japanese firms.

Officials at Nissan and other Japanese companies for years resisted pressure from the Japanese Ministry of International Trade and Industry to build a plant in the U.S., according to industry analysts. The ministry wanted the U.S. plants to counter a growing protectionist movement here.

That Japan felt a need to placate the American public is indicative that the U.S. might be losing the economic and strategic edge that it has held since World War II, experts say. And one major reason for the danger, they say, is that American mathematics and science education poorly prepares students for a technological society.

Isaak Wirszup, professor of mathematics at the University of Chicago, goes so far as to claim that “the education crisis is a threat to our national security.” The National Commission on Excellence in Education apparently concurred in that view, declaring in its report: “If an unfriendly foreign power had attempted to impose on America the mediocre educational performance that exists today, we might have viewed it as an act of war.”

Since 1966, when the Soviet Union enacted reforms to provide a strong, comprehensive program of math and science education, it has moved “far ahead” of any other nation in such training, Mr. Wirszup contends. “The Russians wouldn’t waste all that money unless it was for military power and political power,” he says.

According to a National Science Foundation report, the Soviet Union, Japan, and West Germany have been able to parlay improvements in mathematics and science instruction into significant military and economic gains.

Those countries’ education systems have developed a workforce, the report states, “which, at all levels, has a relatively high degree of science and mathematics skill, and this has been a factor in the very rapid expansion of technical industries.”

Herbert J. Walberg, research professor at the University of Illinois at Chicago, agrees. “The Japanese are very fastidious about the product,” says Mr. Walberg. “Henry Ford says genius is attention to details. That’s the result of hard work in schools, six days a week.”

Between 1963 and 1977 Japanese industrial productivity grew 197 percent; the U.S. growth rate for the same period was 39 percent. Education was by no means the only or most significant factor involved in that difference, economists point out, but it was an important one.

The Nobel Prize-winning economist Theodore W. Schultz notes that studies of education and entrepreneurial activity clearly show “the pervasiveness of the favorable effects of schooling on the ability to deal with … economic modernization.”

Typical of society’s increasing need for knowledge of math and science is the military. About three-fourths of all Army and Navy jobs now require some technical expertise, according to Leopold E. Klopfer and Audrey B. Champagne of the University of Pittsburgh’s Learning Research and Development Center.

U.S. STUDENTS RANK LOW

The limited data available comparing mathematics and science achievement among students of different countries show U.S. students faring poorly, except among the top 5 to 10 percent of the students. At this level, U.S. students perform as well as or better than those of any country.

The International Association for the Evaluation of Educational Achievement (IEA), an organization funded by the governments of several countries, is the only group that has tested students in several nations on the same subject matter.

A 1970-71 IEA survey of science achievement in 19 countries found that students in the U.S. and other countries learned similar things with similar success in the early grades, but that disparities in achievement grew in the later grades. The tests included 10-, 14-, and 18-year-olds. The American 18-year-olds finished last in the rankings.

Educators point out that the U.S. scores are affected by a policy of compulsory school attendance for all. The sample group of American students who took the test, for example, represented the 75 percent of American youths who attend high school at age 18; the sample represented only the 9 percent of West German youths of the same age who attend the Gymnasium, the upper-level high school.

But even by comparision with students in countries that also have mass-attendance policies, U.S. students performed poorly. Japanese 18-year-olds were not included in the test, but at the 14-year-old level, which had an enrollment rate of 99 percent, Japanese students scored better than those of any other country. Five other countries with similarly high rates of enrollment performed better than U.S. students at that level. (The survey did not include the Soviet Union or East Germany.)

An earlier IEA survey of mathematical achievement found the same pattern.

“Elite” American students perform as well as those of other countries, but Mr. Wirszup and other experts argue that those U.S. advantages are overshadowed by the fact that the great majority of the population is “illiterate” in basic mathematical and scientific concepts.

“It’s absolutely a mistake,” Mr. Wirszup says, to believe that only a strong “elite” is required for a strong economy. “The industrial countries until recently looked to the elite. But the educational mobilization in the Soviet Union for high-technology … means that that isn’t enough anymore.”

Twenty-four countries are now taking part in a new IEA survey for mathematics, and 30 countries are participating in an IEA science survey. Analyses of the testing probably will not be completed for three or four years, according to the organization.

Experts do not expect the U.S. to look much better on the new surveys. They point to an April report by the National Assessment of Educational Progress and to recent trends in educational policy in the U.S. and other countries.

The naep report found slight gains in “routine” mathematics skills such as computation, but a decline in problem-solving skills. For example, 48 percent of a representative sample of 17-year-old students incorrectly answered this problem: “A hockey team won five of the 20 games it played. What percent of the games did it win?” A higher percentage of students failed to solve complex word problems.

OTHER SYSTEMS REDUCE CHOICE

But even the most ardent critics of U.S. education acknowledge that the foreign systems have their own disadvantages.

Japanese schools may have more rigorous precollegiate programs, but American higher education is considered vastly superior. While the Soviet Union requires its students to take more advanced classes than the U.S., intense specialization reduces opportunity for career mobility. And West German families must decide their children’s course of formal education when the students are in the fourth grade.

None of the foreign education systems, the experts add, offer students as much choice as the American system. That freedom often is criticized for allowing students to avoid courses in the sciences. But Willard Jacobson, professor of mathematics and science education at Columbia University’s Teachers College, asserts that it is also the most decisive factor in the nation’s economic creativity.

“We should not try to imitate other countries,” says Mr. Jacobson, who is also a member of the IEA committee studying science education. “We ought to build on our own strength–the freedom to try different things. We can release a great deal more energy” in academic pursuits than other countries.

KEY FACTORS

But some experts have identified areas in which other nations excel that they believe deserve serious consideration here. Chief among these are teacher training, time on task, national academic standards, and the use of a “spiral” curriculum.

• Teacher training. In nations with higher levels of student achievement in mathematics and science, special care is taken to nurture able students for teaching roles, researchers point out.

Margrete Siebert Klein, a program officer at the National Science Foundation, notes that prospective teachers in both East and West Germany are among the most academically inclined students in those countries. Only university students, who have been extensively screened before being admitted, are eligible to become teachers.

“In West Germany, only the students who go to the Gymnasium [the upper-level high school] and pass [a special examination] go on to college, and you have to go to college to be a teacher,” Ms. Klein says. She added that only university-educated students in East Germany, or the top 12 percent of students, are eligible to be teachers in East Germany.

Japanese and Soviet teachers also must survive a rigorous screening process to attend college, and therefore are considered to be among the best students in the country. The Soviet Union produces in one year the total number of physics teachers that are now teaching in the U.S., Mr. Wirszup says, and their training is superior. Soviet secondary teachers must receive training in their fields that is comparable to the level of a U.S. master’s program, he says.

• Time on Task. Most other nations require their students to take courses in mathematics and science throughout their years in high school. U.S. standards vary from state to state, but probably less than 10 percent of the course time in American high schools is devoted to math and science, according to Ms. Klein.

A national guideline in Japan requires 25 percent of classroom time in grades 7 through 9 to be devoted to math and science. In the 9th through the 12th grades, nearly all Japanese students take four math and three science courses; only 34 percent of all American high-school students complete three math courses, according to Paul deHart Hurd, a highly regarded expert in science education who is now retired from the Graduate School of Education at Stanford University.

Japanese students attend school five days a week from 8:30 A.M. to 3:15 P.M. and on Saturdays until noon. Schools are in session for 240 to 250 days a year compared with an average of 180 days in the U.S.

The Soviet schedule is similar to the Japanese, and the emphasis on math and science is greater. Students study mathematics during all 10 years of their formal schooling, including calculus courses in both the 9th and 10th grades. In recent years, about 5 million Russian high-school graduates have studied calculus, compared with about 100,000 Americans, Mr. Wirszup says. All Soviet students also study mechanical drawing and astronomy, subjects that receive little attention in most American schools.

Rustin Roy, a science fellow at the Brookings Institution and a key figure in the development of “science appreciation” courses, asserts that the U.S. is so far behind the Soviet Union and Japan in math and science education that it has no hope of catching up any time soon. “Appreciation” courses offer the only cost-effective means of introducing students to the importance of science and technology in society, he says.

• “Spiral” curriculum. Most countries with advanced systems use a “spiral” curriculum, in which algebra, geometry, trigonometry, biology, chemistry, and physics are taught in a sequence over several years. In the U.S., such subjects are usually taught as one-year courses.

The strongest asset of the spiral approach, Ms. Klein and others say, is that it blends the course material of subjects so that students can understand how they are related. For example, principles in mathematics and physics that reinforce each other are taught at the same time.

The spiral curriculum also allows schools to introduce the subject in “concrete” ways before engaging students in abstract principles.

The experts disagree on whether U.S. schools do an adequate job of familiarizing students with the concrete before teaching them abstract principles.

Mr. Jacobson of Columbia University and the IEA science committee says that early analyses of the international study indicate that U.S. schools do a “very, very good” job familiarizing elementary-school students with plants and animals, magnetism and electronics, and other basic topics.

“We have kids working with materials, doing ‘hands-on’ work,” Mr. Jacobson says. “I think the U.S. does a very good job.”

Still, American elementary schools often lack the basic equipment necessary to run a sophisticated program, he notes. And American elementary-school teachers do not specialize in subject areas as they do in other countries.

Others say that the American school system should give students basic work in subjects such as chemistry and physics before high school.

Those subjects now are taught in one-year courses.

In Japanese schools, field trips and experiments closely tied to textbook material are stressed for the primary-school students. In their first six years, students spend one-third of their time working on “hands-on” activities. Middle-school students spend one-seventh of their time on such work, and high-school students spend one-ninth of their time on such work.

Japanese schools also use “semiconcrete” representation of numbers to teach children mathematics, as opposed to the counting-up or counting-down strategy. Students work with numbers in fives, with each number having a pattern that a student can visualize. Japanese officials say the American stress on counting leads children to see numbers as abstractions.

J.A. Easley Jr., professor of teacher education at the University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign, says Japanese students are able to write simple equations in the 1st grade and to understand word problems and everyday uses of math at an early age. According to a National Science Foundation report, 75 percent of American students are taught arithmetic for nine years or more. The result, the experts agree, is that students do not learn the “higher order” skills until they reach junior high school.

Some educators believe the spiral approach would not work in the U.S. because of the many levels of responsibility for education. A spiral curriculum would need to be coordinated at a national level so that a student would not repeat some course material and miss other material when he or she moves to a new school.

• National standards. According to Benjamin Bloom, professor of education at the University of Chicago, the biggest difference between the American education system and others is its decentralization. All other developed countries have a national curriculum.

Leadership in the United States is “absent,” F. James Rutherford, the education director of the American Association for the Advancement of Science, charges in a book to be published this fall. The curriculum, he writes, is a “model of inefficiency,” with “no planned sequence.”

Efforts to upgrade the curriculum, says Mr. Bloom, have consistently fallen short because of the lack of central control. With no national curriculum, Mr. Bloom and others say, mobile American families often see their children take some courses twice and others not at all, and the level of course content varies.

Many educators point out that the absence of a formal national curriculum has resulted in less rigorous textbooks. “Things tend to be reduced to the lowest common denominator” because publishers are competing for several different school markets, says Mr. Walberg.

Just How Clever Is ‘Solid-State Socrates’?

Education Week, July 27, 1983

Concern about mathematics and science education stems at least partly from the perception that today’s students need to be more “technologically literate” than the students of any previous generation. And the challenge posed by computers can, in turn, be met by using computers in the school.

On that much, most educators agree. But just how educational technology can be used–and, in fact, whether it ever will–is a constant source of dispute.

Technology is likely to be used increasingly in all subjects, but experts believe that it holds special promise for math and science. The computer’s potential for “mass delivery” of instruction might help address the shortage of teachers, some educators say. Furthermore, computer use could make math problems less abstract, reduce tedious operations, and teach logic. And computer simulations could demonstrate complex physical phenomena that are impossible to show in standard science laboratories.

Some experts say “mass delivery” of instruction is where the computer’s greatest potential lies. Computers can illustrate the abstract concepts of mathematics and science better than traditional methods, they say, and will be able to help alleviate the shortage of teachers in those areas.

Others hold that to use the computer as a “solid-state Socrates,” or a means of delivering instruction, would be a waste. They say the computer is best used as a tool for doing tedious computation, working with complex mathematics problems, and aiding with some laboratory work.

Educators appear to agree that the computer is useful to introduce students to the basics of information technology, such as programming–which, according to a recent survey, is now one of the most common uses of the machines.

That study, conducted by the Center for Social Organization of Schools at the Johns Hopkins University, found that the computer so far has simply been “grafted” onto the traditional mathematics curriculum. The nationwide survey of 2,209 schools found that most teachers put greater emphasis on programming and less on computer-assisted instruction as they gain experience with the technology.

Such a practice has both positive and negative effects, says Arthur G. Powell, executive director of an independent national study of high schools. On one hand, such courses can attract students who normally would not take part in any program with a mathematical component. Computer science could teach many of the reasoning skills that are considered central to other math subjects, he says.

But such courses also serve as a way for schools to “get around” state mandates for stiffer graduation requirements. “It’s one way the school can respond without making the teaching of math more strenuous … and you don’t have to deal with problems of sequence,” Mr. Powell says.

THE COMPUTER AS TUTOR

Educators say the professional arguments about computers will intensify in the next several years as the number of computers in the schools and the range of educational software increase.

Few experts expect computer-assisted instruction to make the teacher obsolete, but many believe that the computer can at least free the teacher from many tedious tasks and do a better job teaching students basic skills–especially in areas such as mathematics and science.

According to a report by Technical Education Research Centers (terc), commissioned by the National Science Foundation, there are now 1,000 science and 650 mathematics software packages on the market, and 100 new mathematics and science packages appear every month. Those programs represent almost half of all of the educational software available. More than 90 percent of all the math software programs are for drill and practice.

There is almost no software for elementary-school science classes and for many high-school topics, terc found. Many software topics overlap, the survey found, and teachers reported that they are not aware of what software is available.

Robert Kansky, professor of mathematics education at the University of Wyoming, says many schools in his state “can’t afford to hire math and science teachers.” The only way students will be able to take advanced courses in these ares, he says, is through computer hookups.

Mr. Kansky, who in 1981 and 1982 served as a consultant for a computer-assisted-instruction experiment in South Africa, says a three-tiered computer systems–with mainframe computers on the top, minicomputers in the middle, and microcomputers on the bottom–eventually will make delivery of sophisticated programs cost-effective. In such an arrangement, desktop computers would be able to use more sophisticated programs now available only on the larger machines.

In addition to increasing access to math and science education, Mr. Kansky and others say, computer-based education can also actually improve student performance.

A recent analysis of data from 52 independent studies found that students who receive computer-based instruction in all subjects perform better academically than those who do not. The study, conducted by three researchers at the University of Michigan, found that students using computers earn better scores on tests in less time than other students.

Despite such findings, many experts contend that using the computer as a means of instruction will not be worthwhile for many years. Other methods of expanding schools’ teaching capacity, such as cross-peer tutoring, are more effective, these people say. For now, they conclude, the computer should be used only as a tool–to perform time-consuming computations, gather laboratory data, and analyze data–and for the practical skill-training that programming offers.

For tutorial software to keep the interest of the student, says Robert B. Davis, associate director of the research laboratory on computer-based education at the University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign, it needs to be much more sophisticated–and for the software to be more sophisticated, the hardware needs to be more sophisticated. Mr. Davis said that almost all of the hardware available to schools is not powerful enough to handle worthwhile software. Because “the great pressure in education is to get something cheaply,” many schools buy the least sophisticated machines.

“Sitting in front of a computer for seven hours” will not keep students engaged, adds one science educator. “They need to talk to people, work on real-world activities.”

THE COMPUTER AS SIMULATOR

The value of simulation programs for the sciences is almost as much a matter of controversy as the tutorial programs. Simulations show simplified models of physical phenomena, such as biological functions.

At the recent National Educational Computing Conference in Baltimore, a panel of computer scientists and educators extolled the virtues of simulation programs that allow students to learn about science “intuitively.” But the participants also agreed with Tom Snyder, the president of a software firm, who said, “Right now, there is just a handful of good programs. It will take time and money to develop good programs.”

The participants never questioned whether simulation programs were worth developing. They agreed that some programs already available showed that simulations give students a better “intuitive” and “hands-on” understanding of mathematics and science than they had been able to offer.

Alfred Bork, professor of physics at the University of California at Irvine, says that his colleagues sometimes do not have a complete understanding of some physical concepts because they have not worked with variables in a dynamic setting such as a computer simulation.

“As soon as they saw a plot that didn’t appear in the books they had problems,” Mr. Bork says, referring to problems dealing with electrical phenomena.

Robert F. Tinker, director of the technology center at terc, says he has seen students develop a “working vocabulary” in complicated subjects such as nuclear power and the ecology with computer simulations. “There’s a lot of good science in it,” he says, referring to a simulation entitled “Three Mile Island,” in which students are required to operate a nuclear-power plant both safely and profitably.

But some science educators say they doubt that either computer-based tutorials or computer simulations will improve enough to make them worthwhile. One educator explains that simulations he has seen are not only inadequate, but harmful in some cases. The computer models, he says, oversimplify scientific phenomena to the point of teaching invalid concepts.

He cites two simulations–one which demonstrates the ideal gas law, and a second which demonstrates the law of universal gravitation–that “teach something that’s wrong.” Gases hold dozens of properties that cannot be expressed accurately in a simple model, the educator says.

The “intelligent videodisk” machine, a device that connects a videocassette player with a microcomputer, holds more promise, some educators believe. Using a computer program, the teacher can move to any single frame of a video tape in seconds.

The most useful tapes, these educators say, would demonstrate laboratory experiments with many variations. The teacher would be able to show students in seconds how hundreds of changes would affect an experiment’s outcome.

Educators also agree that the computer could be an important laboratory instrument–as long as it is used merely to manipulate data and not to replace most experiments.

An official with a leading manufacturer of laboratory equipment says that computer-based laboratory programs are so expensive that only about 300 have been sold nationwide. But, he adds, less expensive equipment that measures and analyzes data digitally is selling well.

The company has sold “thousands”of MPUTE “photogate” instruments, which measure the acceleration of objects at several points on an “air track,” and similar instruments that measure the movement of objects too small for the human eye, the official says.

Because mathematics and science require that students build on their knowledge, educators say, the computer can be valuable as a “manager” of educational programs. By entering data on student performance, teachers can track students’ progress in specific curricular goals–and give special attention to their weaker skills.

The computer can receive such information in several ways. Some testing programs evaluate the data and indicate which areas should receive special attention. Other programs require special “inputting” of information.

“These [computer programs] can analyze patterns of errors. Worksheets can’t do that,” says Mr. Powell.

THE COMPUTER AS SUBSTITUTE

The computer eventually could lead to fundamental changes in the mathematics and science curricula, the experts note. The computer not only requires greater familiarity with some complex mathematical concepts, they say, but it can also reduce the need for much of the arithmetic that is usually taught throughout elementary school.

Mr. Powell says students will need to have more advanced mathematics and science backgrounds than their parents. “In Japan, virtually every kid has some kind of calculus,” he says.

Jonathan Choate, chairman of the mathematics department at the Groton School, has developed a two-year mathematics curriculum for the computer that teaches high-school students systems dynamics–a subject that he says normally is not taught until college.

Mr. Tinker of terc and others say educators should at least partly “prune” several areas from the math and science curricula because of the computer.

Among the topics that Mr. Tinker says he would give less emphasis are: rote algorithms; fractions; axiomatic geometry; several operations typical in algebra classes, such as root extraction, simultaneous equations, and trigonometric functions; many calculus proofs; and much of the specialized science vocabulary, which he says means little to most students.

“Much of what we now teach in elementary school can now be done with a $5 calculator,” says Mr. Kansky. “You could release students for at least half of their time … and move on to more problem solving.”

Seymour Papert’s ‘Microworld’: An Educational Utopia

Education Week, May 18, 1983

New York–At a meeting of the New York Academy of Sciences here this spring, Seymour Papert managed to take issue with just about every teaching method that schools use in education–particularly the way most of them are now using computers.

Mr. Papert, professor of education and mathematics at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology (MIT), is considered one of the most revolutionary thinkers in educational technology.

He first became widely known when he and colleagues at MIT developed LOGO–a computer language specifically designed for elementary schools. Mr. Papert and his followers say that LOGO eventually could be the centerpiece of a movement to restructure education.

More recently, Mr. Papert has attracted attention because of his association with the Paris-based World Center for Microprocessors and Human Resources, an organization with the goal of using the computer to enable developing countries to “leapfrog” whole stages of development.

In his remarks at the New York meeting, Mr. Papert offered his scientific colleagues the kind of visionary perspective on computers and education for which he is noted. He began with a general critique of schools, saying the traditional K-12 system is arbitrary and should give way to a program of studies directed almost entirely by students–with few of the formal lecture situations that now typify schools.

Mr. Papert disputed the contention of many educators that extensive use of computers in schools is expensive and threatens to widen the gap between students in wealthy and poor districts.

By making a modest financial commitment over several years, he said, districts could provide every student with a terminal. But Mr. Papert does not want his remarks about computers and student-directed education to be considered an endorsement of computer-assisted instruction. Structured computer lessons, he said, are “a bad thing.”

Educational Development

In his address and in an interview, Mr. Papert outlined a philosophy not only of how education in industrialized countries should work, but also of the role it can play in the development of third-world nations in Africa, Asia, and Latin America and with people who have not succeeded in traditional schools.

At the World Center, founded by the French journalist and futurist Jeans Servan-Schreiber to test Mr. Papert’s ideas, researchers hope that the microcomputer will give developing countries the means to move into the modern era without the traditional stages of development.

The idea, described by one critic as putting “a computer in every hut,” is that the microcomputer will soon be as inexpensive as a portable television set and will respond to spoken commands–and therefore will offer third-world countries access to the information they need to increase literacy and become economically self-sufficient.

But with the center embroiled in political controversy, Mr. Papert quit as chief scientist last November and returned to his projects in the United States. If he can’t pursue his ideas for an “educational utopia” in Paris, he said, he will pursue them in the U.S.

LOGO Is Key

At the center of Mr. Papert’s educational utopia is LOGO, the language that grew out of his five years of study with the Swiss child psychologist Jean Piaget.

Using LOGO, which was developed during the 1970’s, students use a keyboard to manipulate a triangular cursor (the electronic directional signal found on most computer-terminal screens) called a “turtle.”

Through trial and error with the turtle–“discovery,” Mr. Papert calls it–children can understand concepts such as large numbers, angles, and curves that traditionally are taught to older students.

A child as young as three or four can design objects on the computer, line by line. For example, to program a box, the student might instruct the computer’s cursor to go forward a set number of spaces four times and make a 90-degree right turn three times.

The student, by pulling together many such simple sets of instructions, or “subprocedures,” eventually can write programs that become as complicated as variations of “Pac-Man” and other video games, according to the MIT scientist.

In the process of programming, Mr. Papert said, students create their own “microworlds.” The microworld involves a physical object–in this case, the turtle–that a student can use to play with and to become familiar with larger numbers and the ideas that go with them.

Microworlds, Mr. Papert said, enable children to learn much faster. ”Why is it that children have to do 98,000 repetitions of this?” Mr. Papert said, pointing to an addition problem. “One reason is that they don’t know what they’re looking at. They need an object to think about other things with.”

Mr. Papert contends that the ease with which students grasp LOGO and their own microworlds eventually could lead to a kind of educational utopia.

In that perfect world, all children would have access to a computer and LOGO programs throughout their years in school. They would use the computer to learn “powerful ideas,” not only in mathematics but also in physics, English, art, and music. The computer would make them significantly more curious and capable of understanding other fields, such as history and science.

Also in this perfect world, the traditional teacher-student relationship would change. Instead of attending several classes daily, children would be given sets of academic goals that they would be required to achieve. There might be one lecture per week in each area of study, and during the rest of the week the students would direct their own studies.

Such a vision is controversial–“subversive” is the word Mr. Papert uses–and he said he has no illusions about achieving it in the near future. But he added that he is confident that some programs under way in the U.S.–in New York City’s “Computers in the Schools” program and at the Lamplighter School in Dallas–will start to convince educators that such changes are desirable.

“This computers-in-the-schools project in New York [does not have] the shock of sudden change,” he said. “We started off by training some teachers … and then increasing [computer use] to two or three in the classroom, and now there are a few classrooms where there are 15 or 16 computers.

“It takes a little bit of time, but you begin to see in these contexts quite dramatic results,” he added. “It’s seeing those results, documenting them, making them as visible as possible” that eases the worst fears of teachers.

For the time being, Mr. Papert said, educators should “start clearing their heads about notions that computers are expensive. Every child should have a computer like an Apple II.”

Mr. Papert noted that New York City schools spend more than $30,000 on a student over the course of his 13 years of public schooling. If the computer were priced at its manufacturing cost, he said, it would cost no more than $1,000 to equip a student throughout his formal schooling.

“For a negligible cost, you can have this change that can transform education,” he said. “Get rid of any ideas that this is mythology.”

Plan for Development

It is the relatively low cost of computers and the lack of established educational systems in developing countries that attracted Mr. Papert to Jean-Jacques Servan-Schreiber’s ideas for the third world.

The idea for the Centre Mondial Informatique et Ressources Humaines grew out of Mr. Servan-Schreiber’s involvement with the Paris Group, a collection of international economists, politicians, and scientists formed in 1979 to study problems of world development. The Paris Group concluded that the microcomputer could be decisive to third-world development.

Mr. Servan-Schreiber convinced French President Francois Mitterand in the fall of 1981 to support the idea of an international center to use computers in third-world development, and the center opened its doors last March. But it has been embroiled in controversy ever since.

Mr. Papert and others blame Mr. Servan-Schreiber and their own political inexperience for the problems. The problems began, the participants said, when Mr. Servan-Schreiber took strong control of the organization and irritated officials from Kuwait, India, Saudi Arabia, and the Philippines who had expressed an interest in the project.

The problems continued when researchers, who Mr. Papert said were promised that they would be able to use whatever equipment they felt was necessary, were criticized for using non-French products.

“This was an example of how fundamental research gets diverted into something more trivial,” Mr. Papert said.

“There had been a very formal though verbal agreement that the center would never be restricted to use technology because it’s French, or for that matter to choose people who were French. But very quickly we were very severely criticized for accepting a gift from Digital Equipment Corporation.”

The pressure to buy French never abated, Mr. Papert and others said. Finally, the center passed from the control of the Ministry of Research to the Ministry of Communications–without the consultation of Nicholas Negroponte, the executive director, or Mr. Papert. It was considered a coup for the French electronics industry, and the ultimate defeat for the center’s foreign researchers.

World Center Projects

But before that development–which led both Mr. Negroponte and Mr. Papert to announce their resignations–the center had started work on research and pilot-development projects in Marseille, France, and Dakar, Senegal.

In both places, officials from the center sought out members of the community who expressed an interest in using computers and gave them training in everything from programming to repairing a broken computer. The job of those “vectors” was to introduce computers to every segment of society possible.

If residents of the community expressed a desire to use computers to plan agriculture or medical programs, Mr. Papert said, the researchers in Paris set out to either find the appropriate software or to create new software.

The project now “is going at a snail’s pace,” Mr. Papert said. If it were on schedule, he said, the World Center’s projects would be moving from the cities to smaller towns–“ultimately aiming at the most un-urban, traditional village, with a low level of literacy.”

A training program for unemployed youths in Paris using LOGO, Mr. Papert said, showed the promise of computers for the most desperately troubled people.

“My experience working with this group is really quite moving,” Mr. Papert said. “Generally, their attitude to computers is very negative–they blame the computer for bureaucracy, for putting people out of work. They are very militant about it. They are very angry.

“The other element, the paradoxical element, is that they absolutely can’t keep their hands off. In the end, bit by bit, some of the people were expert enough to be able to go out and work with [unemployed people] on their own. [Such programs] can magnify literacy.”

The ability to achieve some success with these youths is not that surprising, Mr. Papert suggested, when one considers the way children of all ages and backgrounds enjoy playing “Pac-Man.”

“There’s no question that there’s a certain real holding power,” he said. “This tells us that we can harness these powers. We have to think in terms of what will make children fall in love with learning.”

Schools Drop the Ball on Improving Fitness

Education Week, April 6, 1983

The past two decades have seen a fitness revolution of sorts in the United States. But, with scattered exceptions, that revolution has not found its way into the schools, physical-education experts say.

While adult Americans have flocked to Nautilus machines and aerobics dance classes–the National Athletic and Health Institute estimates that $7 billion is spent each year on health clubs, bicycles, and running shoes–physical-education classes in schools across the country have changed little.

As a consequence, the experts said, most children are out of shape and tend to become even less active as they get older. Physical-education programs that stress running and proper movement instead of games that exclude many students, said one specialist, “are more the exception than the rule.”

“Far too many classes are just roll calls and kids standing around scratching their heads,” said David B. Marsh, the director of health and physical education in the Ridgewood, N.J., public schools.

C. Carson Conrad, the executive director of the President’s Council on Physical Fitness for the last 12 years, added: “I’ve never seen physical education in as low morale as it is today.”

Mr. Conrad said he has written letters to 12 members of the House of Representatives, including Speaker Thomas P. O’Neill Jr., asking for a comprehensive study of physical education and its later effect on the health and fitness of adults and on national defense.

The Committee of Physical Fitness of the Defense Department last month issued a statement expressing concern over the physical condition of high-school graduates who volunteer for military service.

Surveys Show Lag

Surveys taken in the 1979-80 and 1980-81 school years by the Amateur Athletic Union (AAU) and Nabisco Brands Inc. found that only 43 percent of participating students could perform exercises such as running, jumping, situps, and pullups up to the minimum standards for their age and size.

In fact, the survey results suggest, students become less fit as they progress through school. The average 17-year-old male, for example, takes 12.8 seconds to run 100 yards, while the average 14-year-old takes 12.6 seconds. And the average 17-year-old girl can do 38 modified pushups; the average 12-year-old girl can do 43.

More fundamentally important, according to Thomas B. Gilliam, a health-care consultant in Cleveland, is the small amount of time in which children engage in physical activity.

Ideally, Mr. Gilliam said, children will exercise enough each day to raise their heart rates to more than 160 beats per minute for 30 minutes, and to 141-to-160 beats per minute for 43 minutes–a total of one hour and 13 minutes of active play daily.

But according to a survey of Michigan children that Mr. Gilliam conducted during 1974, the average child spent only 18 minutes per summer day in intensive physical activities, even though most children had the whole day free.

Girls–“due to cultural differences,” Mr. Gilliam said–are much less active than boys. According to the study, they spent seven minutes engaged in the physically intense activities.

And the situation has not changed since the survey was taken, Mr. Gilliam said.

“We spend so much time worrying about how fast they can run and how many pushups they can do,” Mr. Gilliam said. “But the real test is what they do in their spare time. That shows what kind of physical education they have.”

Wynn Updike, professor of physical education at Indiana University, said that adults usually continue the habits they developed while in the physical-education classes.

“You have to know what it feels like to be in good physical shape,” he said. “People who have that experience know that they don’t have to be tired all the time. But you need to get that awareness at an early age.”

The ‘Typical’ Program

There is no nationwide study of state physical-education requirements and the way that those classes are run, but officials at the American Alliance for Health, Physical Education, Recreation and Dance (AAHPERD) and the President’s Council are preparing such a survey.

Educators said, however, that there is enough anecdotal evidence to suggest what a “typical” physical-education class offers.

In a majority of cases, they said, the class stresses playing games rather than working on calisthenics, running, and weight-training to get into shape. During those games, the less talented students often spend most of the period sitting on the bench or playing positions that require little physical activity.

And some games–such as softball, archery, golf, and dodge-ball–require little physical exertion for any student.

“It becomes very discouraging,” said Mr. Gilliam. “Teachers fail to use the intensive component in the classes. In a typical class, the kids are put into lines with five or six children in a line. And there are eight or nine minutes of physical activity in a 25-minute period.”

The typical pe program, he and others said, starts with “cat and rat” games in the early grades and moves into competitive sports as early as the 3rd grade. From the 5th or 6th grade on, there are few activities besides the major team sports–football, soccer, basketball, and softball for boys; field hockey, basketball, and volleyball for girls.

“It should be a developmental curriculum,” said Mr. Gilliam. “We don’t teach kids what they’re not ready for in other subjects–we don’t teach geometry in the 3rd grade. All we need to do for pe is what we do for other subjects.”

Teachers’ Colleges Blamed

The educators interviewed blamed the teachers’ colleges for the way classes are structured. Most prospective physical-education instructors are gifted athletes and see fitness as an outgrowth of participation in team sports, they said, and the college curricula reinforce that approach.

“What the colleges prepare are teachers good in one sport, but incapable of teaching a class,” said Roswell Merrick, the executive director of the National Association for Sports and Physical Education, a division of AAHPERD. “Coaches are great at after-school sports but lousy at teaching gym class.”

Adds John Berryman, associate professor of kinesiology at the University of Washington: “Look at the Universities of Delaware, Maryland, West Virginia, Marshall University–you look at the curriculum and they have to take baseball, swimming, tennis, volleyball. The first move has to be better-trained teachers … putting emphasis on fitness and exercise.”

An example of an “ideal” preparatory program, in Mr. Merrick’s opinion, can be found in the University of Michigan’s School of Education.

All students are required to take several classes in kinesiological and physiological bases of human movement, psychological and sociological bases of human movement, the history and principles of physical education, kinesiology, testing physical education, and motor movement.

In addition, students are required to take courses in human growth, several noneducation courses, and courses focused on developing skills in many sports.

AAHPERD’s consultant for elementary education, Margie R. Hanson, complained that few education schools pay much attention to elementary-school physical education. Before the early 1970’s most elementary schools did not have full-time physical education teachers, she said.

Most physical-education programs at teachers’ colleges still only offer “one or two courses for elementary preparation,” Ms. Hanson said. Classroom teachers with no physical-education training are assigned gym duty.

Budget Cuts

Physical-education and sports programs are often the first to be cut when budget problems arise, educators said.

Fifty-one percent of the nation’s schools do not have adequate funding for their sports and physical education programs, according to a survey conducted last spring by the American Sports Education Institute and the President’s Council on Physical Fitness and Sports.

The states that are in the poorest shape, according to the responses of more than 4,000 school officials nationwide, are West Virginia (89 percent reported funding problems), Alabama and North Carolina (88 percent), Delaware (83 percent), and South Carolina (81 percent).

Despite a consensus that elementary programs are the most important part of physical education, they are in the worst financial shape, Mr. Gilliam and others said.

“If a millage [increase] is defeated they cut the elementary program” instead of a high-school program, he noted. It would be better to cut from the top down, he said, because students taught good fitness habits early tend to keep up their physical activity regardless of the formal program.

Many elementary schools do not have facilities for a full-fledged physical-education program in the first place. “They use what they call a ‘cafetorium,’ a combination gym and cafeteria,” Mr. Gilliam said.

The pressures of budget cuts for both public and private schools, said R. Inslee Clark, the headmaster of the Horace Mann School in New York City, leave them little latitude to improve the content of their physical-education classes.

“Where you get a real divergence from quality is where they’re cutting back or where they’re under pressure to produce a winning team,” he said. “They’re doing what they can just to stay alive.”

Reform Proposals

Opinions on approaches to a restructuring of physical education–and on the question of whether the subject should be changed in the first place–vary widely.

The Paideia Proposal, a wide-ranging manifesto for changing the overall structure of elementary and secondary education, suggests mandatory physical education and participation in intramural sports. It does not specify how those activities should be carried out, however.

AAHPERD promotes “movement” instruction, in which students are taught specific skills that they can later use in sports–especially the so-called lifetime sports, such as tennis and other racket sports, swimming, and soccer.

In a movement program (see accompanying story), students are taught ”space awareness” by using their bodies for a variety of activities. Children use balls, rings, beanbags, tires, and balance beams–in fact, about any safe object available–for the purpose of developing specific skills.

A key part of the program, said Mr. Merrick, is allowing children to invent their own games and avoid the competitiveness that sometimes develops into the habit of uncooperativeness.

Gradually, the students learn to apply the specific movement skills to game applications. By junior high school or high school, the students are playing in games.

But Mr. Gilliam and Mr. Berryman, among others, said the movement program is sometimes “too soft.” While movement exercises give a student many of the skills that will be needed to function on a basketball court or soccer field, they said, they do not do enough to give the student endurance, strength, or agility.

Mr. Berryman said the movement advocates put too much emphasis on making class pleasurable. “I didn’t like Latin, but I was forced to do Latin grammar,” said Mr. Berryman. “Teachers who know better must take control. We’re not in a popularity contest. Why should physical education be fun?”

If carried out correctly, a tough exercise program will be embraced by students, Mr. Berryman said. “Kids could like it,” he said. “There’s nothing more important to some of these kids than looking good and feeling good.”

Mr. Marsh said running is the most popular physical-education elective course among high-school students. In his classes, students start out running one-half mile and gradually increases the distance to four miles in the three-week course.

“Kids I never thought I would ever see running are saying, ‘Hey, this is terrific,”‘ Mr. Marsh said.

Moreover, Mr. Marsh and others said, once students become part of such active programs, they spend more of their own time in similar activities.

In a 1979 experimental “intervention” program, Mr. Gilliam said, Michigan students were taught about the physical habits that lead to a risk of heart trouble and were put in the “intensity-oriented” program that Mr. Gilliam recommends.

‘Intensive Activities’

The result: “The children were more active the following summer. … The number of minutes spent in intensive activities almost doubled to 33 minutes. And they were eating more nutritionally.”

But besides offering strenuous fitness programs, the Ridgewood schools offer several less demanding activities such as golf and softball, Mr. Marsh said. The idea, he said, is to keep the interest of the students with fewer athletic inclinations.

“Education has to be more than just fitness,” Mr. Marsh said. “You have to give the students positive attitudes, show them it’s not a matter of punishment to run. If you turn off the ‘Fat Freddies,’ they’ll just go home and eat cake. Golf is a legitimate activity if paired with an active activity. We have kids that we have to force to run.”

State Government Role

For any reform to take root, Mr. Berryman said, the state must be more specific in its requirements for teacher certification and the content of physical-education classes. State regulations in both areas are too vague for improvement on the sports-oriented programs, educators said.

But, if anything, state governments appear to be backing off physical-education requirements. “It’s a sad story,” said Mr. Conrad, that California and Illinois are both considering loosening high-school graduation requirements. Pennsylvania’s nominee for secretary of education, Robert Wilburne, asked that state’s Board of Education to postpone consideration of ending high-school physical-education requirements.

“Changes are very isolated–there are always one or two people that take it upon themselves to do it,” said Mr. Berryman. “There’s never any leadership from the top down.”

Physical-Education Evolution

Physical education has not always been so heavily dominated by sport. Guy M. Lewis, a sports historian, said that until about 1906 physical education consisted of formal training directed by physicians.

That changed, said Mr. Lewis, an associate professor of physical education at the University of Massachusetts, with the growth of intercollegiate sports and the belief that team sport builds character and helps to solve social problems. Among the most vocal advocates of this view were President Theodore Roosevelt and the muckraking journalist Jacob Riis.

By 1929, the public schools in 46 states were required to provide physical education. Those programs were usually run by athletic directors with impressive backgrounds in team sports but no background in physical education. Eventually, physical education and sport became synonymous in the schools.

Until recently, girls’ programs avoided the physical education\sport nexus. But educators said that the movement for equal rights for the sexes has gradually changed the girls’ programs.

Most physical-education programs, said Mr. Merrick, are now at least partly coeducational. Gone, he said, is the “myth” that boys and girls cannot work together without “hanky-panky.”

Hurt Some Programs

But Lucille M. Burkett, the director of health and physical education for Cleveland public schools, said Title IX, which bars federally financed schools and colleges from discriminating on the basis of sex has sometimes hurt girls’ programs.

“There used to be an idea in women’s sport that all girls had a right to play,” said Ms. Burkett. “Everybody in this field had a service ideal. And we had, at that time, a fine secondary physical-education program for girls, much more inclusive than the programs for boys.”

“With Title IX, we have to have teams like the boys do. And we now don’t have the many intramural programs for girls that we had up to 1972-73. The girls’ teams are far better than they used to be, but very few girls get to play. And the stars get all the attention.”

Kenneth Komoski Helps Wary ‘Consumers’ By Evaluating Computer Products for Schools

By Charlie Euchner

New York–P. Kenneth Komoski was giving a visitor a tour of his offices at the Teachers College of Columbia University when he paused before a row of cubicles that contained desktop computer terminals.

Here, he said, is where researchers evaluate the computer hardware and software that is marketed for educational uses. “Do you know what used to be here?” he asked, smiling. “Language labs.”

Mr. Komoski, the executive director of a nonprofit organization called the Educational Products Information Exchange (EPIE), took great delight in the irony. His self-appointed job is seeing that educational applications of computers do not meet the same fate that earlier attempts to bring innovations into the classroom have.

To accomplish that, one of Mr. Komoski’s highest priorities these days is convincing educators that EPIE is the place to turn to for sophisticated evaluations of all educational computer products–from hardware to software to printers to user manuals. EPIE’s evaluations are now printed on large, shiny file cards, but, appropriately, they will soon be accessible electronically

Early Signs

Mr. Komoski says he hopes eventually to be able to convince one-fourth of the nation’s nearly 16,000 school districts to subscribe to the service.

And he has dreams of creating a databank that would integrate evaluations of all kinds of educational products–a project that would cost about $2 million per year, or about $25 for each public school, he estimates.

EPIE has taken a major step toward its goal by joining forces with Consumers Union, the national organization that evaluates consumer goods, to study computer products.

The EPIE-Consumers Union project has received a two-year, $300,000 grant from the Ford Foundation, $200,000 of which will be spent this year.

EPIE’s $700,000 budget for this year also includes a $100,000 grant from the Carnegie Foundation and about $400,000 in revenues from product evaluations and newsletter subscriptions.

Mr. Komoski says he has initiated negotiations with several state governments to sell the product evaluations in mass quantities–a process that has been helped by the availability of block-grant money.

With a full- and part-time staff of about 25 and more than 300 free-lance product evaluators nationwide, Mr. Komoski says he has the base necessary not only to keep a steady stream of evaluations, but also to increase his contacts with schools.

Elementary schools and smaller districts have been among the most receptive to EPIE’s computer-evaluation services thus far, Mr. Komoski says.

Rather than eschewing evaluation altogether because their staffs are too small to warrant the investment, he said, they have come to view EPIE as their research department.

If EPIE gets the district subscribers it wants and creates the databank it dreams of, its influence over the sales of all educational products–which are already esti-mated at more than $1 billion annually–could be considerable.

Teachers Uneasy

Some educators are uneasy about using computers in schools, Mr. Komoski acknowledges. Teachers fear that computers are just another of what they have come to see as a long line of “fads.” The earlier “fads” included just about everything besides textbooks and chalkboards–overhead projectors, teaching machines, filmstrips, movies, television, and, of course, language laboratories.

Mr. Komoski and others founded EPIE in 1967 after spending years developing such now-spurned teaching aids. The idea, he says, was to ensure that educational products are evaluated, and when they are found wanting, to give the schools the information they need to demand better ones.

Mr. Komoski still has faith in the early innovations. To explain a point about the way teachers structure class time, he pulls out a plastic sheet with a grease-pencil chart, the kind used on overhead projectors. “These things are great,” he says, waving the transparent sheet, “if you know how to use them.”

The innovations of the 1960’s, Mr. Komoski says, failed because schools acquired materials without knowing what to do with them and, consequently, there was no imperative for the manufacturers of educational products to make them fit the needs of teachers in the classroom.

There was a great influx of federal money for education in that era, Mr. Komoski explains, but much of it was spent without a clear sense of purpose. The clearest guidance came from the manufacturers, he notes, suggesting that that only added to the problem.

“That money was play money,” Mr Komoski says. “The sales representatives in many cases became the partners in writing purchase orders and helping [the schools] through the federal labyrinth. It was very difficult to get across the idea that the money should be spent wisely.”

The ideas behind the innovations, Mr. Komoski still says, were good. But, he adds, the products were hustled onto the market so quickly that most schools were not adequately prepared to judge which products actually were worthwhile.

Many of the teaching tools that had been lauded in theory by Mr. Komoski and others–as a way to help teachers better develop a curriculum, a way to give students more exact and personalized instruction–were soon collecting dust on school shelves and ridicule from critics.

Educators’ Computer Needs

Although there are signs that computers might receive more of the scrutiny needed to assure effective classroom use, computer products to date have been ill-suited, for the most part, to the needs of educators, Mr. Komoski contends.

Evaluations by EPIE staff members of most educational computer products produced in the last few years have concluded that:

No large-scale software package is available for high schools, and most programs available are for drill and practice.

The major emphasis of most computer programs is on recall of previously learned facts. There is little emphasis on “higher-order skills,” such as analysis and synthesis of material.

The programs that are available perpetuate a myth that computers largely are designed for mathematics applications. Ninety-five percent of the large, computer-managed packages are for arithmetic.

Graphics are rarely an integral part of the instruction. Mr. Komoski says that the visual representation of ideas is often easier for students to understand. But graphics usually are no more than supplements to the written text, and the graphics that are used are often are distracting.

Users usually cannot control more than the speed of the program and getting out of the program. There is little choice in the sequence of activities the student goes through.

The “diagnostic help” provided by most computer software is minimal. When a student makes an error, he generally is not told what went wrong. Programs often involve simply a series of cues and guesses through which a student can eventually get the right answer but learn little from the experience.

Past Problems–and Hope

Publishers, Mr. Komoski asserts, have never been held accountable for the materials they produce. The most telling example, Mr. Komoski says, is the story of how “Dick and Jane” readers were brought into schools–a clear case, he adds, of “industry-created demand.”

Such texts using a limited number of repeated words, called “controlled vocabularies” by reading experts, were first used to teach English to adults in India, according to Mr. Komoski. Without conducting any research on their effectiveness, Scott, Foresman & Co. published a controlled-vocabulary reader for elementary schools that sold briskly. Other publishers followed suit.

Control over teaching devices must shift back into the hands of educators, argues EPIE’s founder; he points to three developments that may encourage such a change.

First, the advent of the microcomputer marks a shift in the way the whole society conducts its business. Businesses and parents are demanding that schools get involved with computers and that school programs respond to the changing educational needs of students.

“Did you ever remember community leaders saying, ‘We must have filmstrips, we must have overhead projectors’?” Mr. Komoski says.

Second, in era of budget-cutting, schools are more likely to subject purchases–including computers–to careful scrutiny.

Third, most teachers are willing to admit–and redress–their ignorance of computers. More than half of the respondents in a recent survey by the National Education Association expressed an interest in learning about instructional applications of computers, operating computers, and programming, and more than 80 percent said they would like to take a computer-related course. (See Education Week, Jan. 12, 1983.)

This last development is perhaps most important, Mr. Komoski says. Earlier EPIE studies and anecdotal evidence had suggested that many teachers would not or could not deviate from their lesson plans. One survey, for example, found that 90 percent of classroom time is devoted to a textbook-based curriculum.

“The teachers were saying [of the earlier innovations], ‘Oh, I don’t know. … Is that any better than what we’re doing now?”‘ Mr. Komoski says. “They became so dependent on the textbook” to plan classroom activities that they failed to understand the new products.

If computers are to be used wisely in the schools, Mr. Komoski says, teachers must not only learn enough programming to alter software, but also stop treating all pupils in the same way.

A drill-and-practice program, which is appropriate for students who have trouble organizing thoughts in a structured way, would be worthless to a student who is capable of learning “higher-order skills,” Mr. Komoski asserts.

“Teachers have to learn to fit the students with [the proper program],” he says.

“I think teachers would rather do that than stand all day in front of a chalkboard.”

Are teachers today able to develop more flexible attitudes about the structure of their lesson plans?

“I wouldn’t have said so ten years ago, and I probably wouldn’t have said so five years ago,” Mr. Komoski answers. “But now you have this situation where things are changing so rapidly that teachers are saying, ‘That’s the way things are. I have to deal with it.”‘

Early Involvement

Mr. Komoski–educated at Arcadia University in Nova Scotia and the Union Theological Seminary–got involved in educational technology in the late 1950’s through B.F. Skinner, the behaviorist who developed the teaching machines that were at the heart of educational innovation in the 1960’s.

Then a teacher at the Collegiate School in New York City, Mr. Komoski and other faculty members learned to program the machines, which presented the student with questions and offered immediate responses to their answers.

“I became fascinated by the idea that the machines taught a lot about instruction,” he says. “You have to know each step of the way what’s going on, how to lead the learning. Every teacher should have to go through the steps to see what it is that works.”

Eventually, Mr. Komoski says, he became disenchanted with the “incredible commercialization and oversell” of the products–and with Mr. Skinner’s theory that learning occurs through a series of physiological responses to stimuli.

The problem with Mr. Skinner’s approach, Mr. Komoski says, is the idea that learning progresses in small increments.

“Learning often takes place in larger chunks,” Mr. Komoski says. “The way some of these people turned out these programs, kids could get through them and not learn anything. The machine didn’t take into account the contingencies of the environment.

“What I’m saying is that you have to open the thing up and allow the programmer of the tutorial or the simulation to be somehow shaped by the learners’ responses.”

Out of the such failures of such educational machinery, Mr. Komoski adds, grew “my intense conviction that until we got consumers out there demanding that [producers] make better things, we weren’t going to get any good out of technological change.”

Enter EPIE.

 

Teaching Reading by Teaching Writing

What if writing was the most natural skill that we possess? Would that change how we teach children to read and write … or develop as writers throughout their lives?

Researchers on evolutionary biology tell us that storytelling is the essence of the human experience. Other species eat, drink, play, sleep, and mate. Some species use language and tools. But as far as we know, humans are the only storytelling species.

Young children delight in hearing and telling stories. Given the chance, they will talk endlessly about their experiences, both real and make-believe. So what if we tapped that energy and that intellectual firepower? What if we taught kids how to put those stories down on paper, even before they learned how to read?

These are some of the issues  I explored as a staff writer for Education Week. This piece comes from the December 22, 1982 issue.

By Charles Euchner  

Once each hour at Congress Heights Elementary School in Washington, D.C., kindergartners and 1st graders gather and neatly put away their supplies in the “Writing to Read Center.” Without instructions, with few words among themselves, the students line up at the door to return to their regular classrooms.

They file out in two lines–one for boys, the other for girls–and soon the room is filled again with a new group of equally well-mannered students who go to their five workstations and get to work without any directions from the teacher or aides.

It is a scene that would not have surprised Frank N. Freeman or Benjamin DeKalbe Wood, who 50 years ago wrote the book that would inspire a retired teacher named John Henry Martin to start the writing experiment that involved these Washington public-school students.

Freeman and Wood, who studied the effects of typewriters on the classroom performance of about 15,000 elementary-school students from 1929 to 1931, found that the children were fascinated with the machines and had much better work habits when they used them.

The Depression-era researchers quoted a 1st-grade teacher: “I notice an awakening sense of responsibility; the children remember to put away typewriters and leave offices in order; they are pleasant and polite in choosing helpers …”

Not incidentally, the researchers also found improvements in academic performance. They were less certain of the typewriter’s value in lower grade levels, mostly because of the inadequate testing methods for younger students.

On a recent tour of schools experimenting with his “Writing to Read” program, John Henry Martin did not express any doubt that his contemporary version of the program works.

Tests have shown, he said, that a combination of computer, typewriter, workbooks, and pictures makes it possible for children to write almost as soon as they enter school.

“I proclaim it,” he told a group of Washington principals. “It works.”

The “it,” the Florida-based consultant says, is a classroom situation that combines “truly interactive” machines with a child’s natural desire to know and express himself in words. After seven years of developing and testing his idea, Martin concluded it worked because children of varying backgrounds scored well above national norms in reading and writing tests.

“It’s amazing,” Martin said, “that with the research of the last 50 years, and especially the last decade or so, we have failed to use the typewriter and other things … that are truly interactive.”

Martin’s project, financed by the International Business Machines Corporation (IBM), now involves 10,000 students from a variety of economic and educational backgrounds. Besides the 15 schools in Washington, the experiment includes districts in Florida, Minnesota, North Carolina, and Texas, and universities in California, Florida, Massachusetts, and Vermont.

The Educational Testing Service (ETS) in Princeton, N.J., has contracted with IBM to evaluate the program.

The program is based on the premise that students already have many ideas to express by the time they enter school. A kindergartner has a working vocabulary of 4,000 to 5,000 words, said Martin, and just needs to engage more in “multi-sensory-receptive” activities to express ideas.

Children are wrongly taught to read before they learn to write, Martin says, but it has not always been that way. Prior to the early 20th century, students expressed their ideas in writing from “day one,” Martin said.

“In the past, children used a slate and chalk to, using the old expression, ‘make their letters,”‘ Martin said. “Sometime between 1910 and 1920, writing and reading were made into separate processes.”

‘Positive Reinforcement’

With the stress on reading before writing, Martin said, students do not receive the “positive reinforcement” that the behaviorist B.F. Skinner identified as an essential part of learning.

Children in the “writing to read” program work each day for one hour. They work with partners of their own choosing at workstations for computer work, typing, workbook exercises, creative writing, and listening to tape-recordings. They also work on miscellaneous projects, such as labeling and matching pictures with appropriate written material.

The students use all letters of the alphabet except Q and X, and a set of letter “blends” such as oi, ei, th, sh, sc, and gh.

Teachers and computer programs, which give and receive sound, teach the students how to pronounce the letters and blends and how to use them in words.

At the computer station, the student strikes the terminal’s keyboard when instructed by the program, then watches as the letters and blends fall into place to spell a word. At each step, the student hears then repeats the sound.

After completing 10 “cycles” of instruction, the student will have learned the 42 phonemes he needs to write about almost any subject. As soon as the student has mastered these basics, he can begin to write strings of related sentences and complete essays, paying attention to the grammar and spelling that before would only have hindered the writing flow.

The typing skills, which Martin said most students should be able to develop in the 1st or 2nd grade, will not only give the students a head start on working with computers but will also enable them to write much faster and more creatively throughout their lives, Martin said. Martin said his approach differs from the Depression-era experiment and from other current uses of computers in the classroom because his approach is “truly interactive.”

“The typewriter, by itself, is not interactive, and the cathode ray tube is not interactive,” he said. “What makes this interactive is that it gets students to make physical, bodily responses.”

Martin said that he adopted the program’s components only after eliciting such responses with a broad cross-section of students–from the gifted to the average to the slow learners, from those in small groups to those in large groups.

The approach to writing was tested for two years with a group of 60 students at the University School of Nova University in Fort Lauderdale, Fla. The striking results there, Martin said, convinced IBM officials that a test with a larger sample was needed.

Joseph Randazzo, the University School’s headmaster, said 1st graders who learned under Martin’s program scored 2.7 on a reading grade-equivalency test, while others scored 1.8. Half of the entire group scored in the 94th percentile nationally on the test, Randazzo said.

Career Start

Martin started his career 45 years ago in a one-room schoolhouse in Alabama. After serving with the Navy in Europe in World War II, he worked as a teacher, principal, curriculum consultant, and superintendent in seven districts on Long Island and in New Jersey.

On the side, he has done extensive consulting, serving on panels for two presidents.

Martin said he first became interested in the use of typewriters and other “multi-sensory” instruments when a friend recommended that he read the Freeman-Wood book, which carries the bulky title, An Experimental Study of the Educational Influences of the Typewriter in the Elementary School Classroom.

Martin has toyed with the idea for years since. Seven years ago–bored with a retirement forced on him by a heart attack–he decided to study it in a clinical setting. He took his proposals to Abraham S. Fischler, the president of Nova University, and soon started soliciting money for his work from the private sector.

The 1932 book, Martin says, now occupies the prized position on the coffee table in his Fort Myers, Fla., home.

Seeing What is There

The obvious challenge of seeing is to apprehend what is present—what is there, within the compass of one’s sight.

Ideally, we see something clearly, and in enough detail to make sense of it, and to give it meaning and to put it in the context. Seeing clearly requires looking with intent and purpose—with an open mind, a will to search, and even with a beginners mind.

To look clearly, and in detail, we need to pay attention to not just what is in front of us, but what we bring to the process, including our biases and limitations, as well as our physical limitations. Rather than just accepting whatever our eyes and our distorted processing deliver to us; we also need to pause and think and reflect.

Usually, we see objects with little clarity and detail. Lacking the appropriate level of detail, we give it less meaning.

We allow our emotions and biases and other limitation’s color and distort what we are seeing. It’s like listening to a phone conversation with a bad connection. We hear or see bits and pieces and can strain to make some sense of it. But that doesn’t mean we here at Hall or that we understand it. We are improvising. We are operating on incomplete information. we might be able to convince ourselves that we are looking at the “real thing.” But deep down, we know that we are looking at the equivalent of a broken plate and thinking that it is a whole and complete plate.

We are more likely to believe what we see when we want to see it – when we have an emotional or other stake in actually seeing some thing. This is true with all of our senses, as well as all of our intellectual, emotional, and social engagements with the world.

Even when we consciously try to say something, clearly, we struggle to do so accurately. We could be surprised by the onset of an event or a scene and therefore I have a hard time focusing in on what’s happening. We spend so much time trying to frame the scene that we do not, take in the details that might be telling. If the scene is fast, moving, what we notice might be gone before we have a chance to check it. We also operate in a world of noise. It is often times hard to separate the signal from the noise —any subject that we want to focus on and the surrounding clutter. Also, when we are assessing a scene or a situation, we are often at war with ourselves or others. We are fighting over, not only what we see, but what we should see, and what we should do about it. And so even the most obvious elements of a scene can be missed.

Looking Forward

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Integrating Art and Life

In civilizations going back to antiquity—in Aristotle’s ideal state in The Politics, for example—people who perform physical labor are excluded from full citizenship. Farmers, mechanics, and shopkeepers are considered lesser beings. Incapable of the broad thinking necessary for making decisions for others.

In a way, this makes sense. The carpenter’s ability to connect two joints or sand the edges of an object has little to do with making decisions for fellow citizens. The farmer’s understanding of planting cycles, seeds and ground conditions, and harvesting techniques offers few skills for inspiring other people.

The Power of Focus

These crafts require immersion with objects that are tangible and specific. The same goes for arts like dance, sculpture, and music. The artist needs to focus entirely on something specific and unique. There can be only one Gene Kelly version of “Singing in the Rain,” only one Michaelangelo masterpiece David, and only one Rachmaninoff Concerto No. 2. The arts (and some crafts) are sui generis—constituting a unique class in itself.

As such, the artist and craftsman must work to concentrate totally on the objects and movements of her craft. Gloria Liu says:

As a dancer in training, you learn to dissociate your self from your body, to relinquish your agency to the structure and aesthetic of the form – whether that’s classical ballet, modern dance or something else.

At times, we need to separate our actions from the surrounding environment. We need to focus totally on our craft, ignoring the larger swirl of activities around us. We need to go “all in” on our project. Especially in activities involving movement, our actions involve all aspects of the neural system.

People in business, the law, medicine, tech, and other professions understand this basic truth. By concentrating intensely on an isolated task, they bring their whole selves to bear on the challenge.

Beyond Focus

But wait. As we focus on the object of our work, we also connect to other ideas. We cannot help but relate one process to another process. The work of a artist, sculptor, or composer offers insights that can inform other activities.

As we narrow our attention, we broaden it as well. Arts and crafts—especially the physical ones—help us to move beyond our limited patterns of thinking. We may train ourselves—with conscious, repetitive movement—to make our actions automatic. But that process, in turn, opens our mind to think and at more consciously.

Athletes understand that developing a broad range of skills and actions enables them to use their whole selves. A trainer named Edythe Heus uses bouncy balls and wobble boards and to put her clients off balance when they exercise. When they are unbalanced, they cannot focus on just one muscle group, like pectorals. They need to activate hundreds of tiny muscles in their back and other parts of the body.

When people move their bodies—running, jumping, twisting, reaching, accelerating, slowing, braking—they gain an intuitive sense of how objects relate to place. When a baseball outfielder sprints after a fly ball and leaps to catch it, he is making countless calculations. He is coordinating dozens of separate actions, in an exquisite sequence of moves. The same goes for a ballet dancer, an assembly-line worker, and a cook.

Toggling

The magic—for people to know themselves and to improve themselves—happens when they toggle back and forth between action and reflection. A danger might perform a routine enough times to make her steps automatic. Then she can step back and analyze what she did, moment by moment, and then consider how to improve or add to her routine.

Leaders do this too. One of the most powerful self-help programs in America, Dale Carnegie Training, teaches people how to overcome whatever is “holding them back” by teaching how to deliver a one-minute speech. Carnegie students, who are not allowed to use notes, must speak directly to the whole class about a different topic every week. The speech has three parts:

  • “So there I was…” Start by bringing the audience into the middle of a scene or situation.
  • “And then, … And then, … And then, … Finally, …” State three to five things that happened and how the sequence concluded.
  • “And so I learned…” Conclude by stating the lesson to be learned from this moment.

For a century, this exercise has helped even the shyest, angriest, uncertain, and agitated people how to focus their minds, collect their thoughts, and connect with other people.

Body and Mind

The exercise works because it is a whole-body exercise. Like a trapeze artist without a net, the speaker must master her command of mind and body in real time. Most students start to get good at the one-minute exercise within three or four weeks of the program. They can use this skill in just about every aspect of their lives. Thinking and connecting with other people become part of their body memory.

All kinds of strategies help budding leaders master their use of bodies and minds. Simple meditation and breathing exercises help to regulate blood flow and attention. Consider this simple 10-minute breathing exercise from “The Iceman,” a Dutch extreme athlete named Wim Hof:

As his nickname suggests, Hof also exposes himself to freezing temperatures for sustained periods. This exposure teaches him to concentrate his mind and to manage his breathing and attention. Again, a physical challenge—especially one that takes us out of our comfort zones—can transform the way we think and behave.

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Seeing What’s There

The obvious challenge of seeing is to apprehend what is present—what is there, within the compass of one’s sight.

Ideally, we see something clearly, and in enough detail to make sense of it, and to give it meaning and to put it in the context. Seeing clearly requires looking with intent and purpose—with an open mind, a will to search, and even with a beginners mind.

To look clearly, and in detail, we need to pay attention to not just what is in front of us, but what we bring to the process, including our biases and limitations, as well as our physical limitations. Rather than just accepting whatever our eyes and our distorted processing deliver to us; we also need to pause and think and reflect.

Usually, we see objects with little clarity and detail. Lacking the appropriate level of detail, we give it less meaning.

We allow our emotions and biases and other limitation’s color and distort what we are seeing. It’s like listening to a phone conversation with a bad connection. We hear or see bits and pieces and can strain to make some sense of it. But that doesn’t mean we here at Hall or that we understand it. We are improvising. We are operating on incomplete information. we might be able to convince ourselves that we are looking at the “real thing.” But deep down, we know that we are looking at the equivalent of a broken plate and thinking that it is a whole and complete plate.

We are more likely to believe what we see when we want to see it – when we have an emotional or other stake in actually seeing some thing. This is true with all of our senses, as well as all of our intellectual, emotional, and social engagements with the world.

Even when we consciously try to say something, clearly, we struggle to do so accurately. We could be surprised by the onset of an event or a scene and therefore I have a hard time focusing in on what’s happening. We spend so much time trying to frame the scene that we do not, take in the details that might be telling. If the scene is fast, moving, what we notice might be gone before we have a chance to check it. We also operate in a world of noise. It is often times hard to separate the signal from the noise —any subject that we want to focus on and the surrounding clutter. Also, when we are assessing a scene or a situation, we are often at war with ourselves or others. We are fighting over, not only what we see, but what we should see, and what we should do about it. And so even the most obvious elements of a scene can be missed.

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