Here we take a look into the horse’s mouth, or sit in the editor’s or professor’s armchair, as it were. If it is not obvious to you yet it will be soon: not only English teachers care if your writing is stylish and correct—your professors care, employers care, and magazine and journal editors certainly care. This chapter offers proof. There is plenty of stylistic advice available out there in trade publications and the scientific journals themselves, indicating that editors and journal readers do indeed expect clear technical writing from those who submit work to them. In this chapter I have harnessed just a small sampling of the good advice that is out there awaiting you. Below is a quick summary of the chapter’s contents.
"Comments From the Geological Society of America Bulletin Editors [1]" reviews the pet peeves of journal editors in the geological sciences.
"Advice to Scientist Writers: Beware Old ‘Fallacies’ [2]" helps us to reconsider basic writing practices that we sometimes hold as truths when they are not.
"Precise Writing for a Precise Science [3]" is written by a professor of chemistry arguing for the relationship between clear communication and clear science.
"The Universal Recipe, Or How To Get Your Manuscript Accepted By Persnickety Editors [4]" is by a veteran journal editor sharing his insights about what makes a scientific article publishable.
"The Science of Scientific Writing [5]" is a methodical deconstruction of science writing to the point of generating seven practical maxims that science writers can apply to their work.
For some additional excellent advice on science writing, turn to these websites:
"Handouts & Demos" page from the Writing Center at the University of North Carolina [6]
"Writing Technical Articles" page from Columbia University [7]
"Comments From the Geological Society of America Bulletin Editors" and its sequel are tips from some irritated but nevertheless well-meaning and buoyant journal editors about what kinds of errors cross their desks in all-too-generous handfuls. The comments originally appeared in the Geological Society of America Bulletin, copyright © 1989 by the Geological Society of America, Inc. Anyone in the earth sciences will certainly benefit from reading these articles and keeping them on hand, and others will find them illuminating as well. These comments illustrate just how important it is that, as a scientist-writer, you choose your words with great care and with their literal meaning in mind. To emphasize their points, the editors, John Costa and Art Sylvester, even occasionally resort to sarcasm!
This article, downloaded from Style for Students Online [9], originally appeared in the Geological Society of America Bulletin, copyright © 1989 by the Geological Society of America, Inc. Used with the permission of the authors.
An increasing number of GSA members lament the general deterioration in the quality and clarity of writing by earth scientists. They complain especially about the misuse and overuse of words and phrases that lead to vague, awkward, or cumbersome sentences, and that require several readings before a meaning is derived. It may be only coincidental that the derived meaning is the one intended by the author.
Insofar as it is one of the duties or prerogatives of editors to educate potential or eventual authors, when necessary or appropriate, we offer this commentary as some of our "suggestions to authors." Our suggestions should not be regarded as "GSA style"; however, authors may find some red or purple ink in manuscripts that cross our desks if those authors misuse or overuse the words and phrases discussed below.
The Chicago Manual of Style is a standard for scientific journals and is probably the best reference for these matters. We have learned that a new edition of Suggestions to Authors of Reports of the U.S. Geological Survey, a long-time standard for authors, may be printed soon. Melba Murray has just published a second edition of her excellent book, Engineered Report Writing. We also recommend Robert L. Bates’ new little book, Writing in Earth Science, published by AGI ($3.95); it covers 95% of the "housekeeping" problems we encounter.
The positive reaction of many Bulletin readers to our September 1989 Comments about misuse and overuse of words emboldens us to write a sequel. First, we wish to share the readers’ views on some of our comments about style.
To our assertions that it is poor style to allow inanimate objects to be possessive, Robert Bates snorted: "Does that mean I should not say ‘the rocket’s red glare,’ or ‘the dawn’s early light?’ Nuts!" We respond, "touché!" He also said that his university has a department of classics, and although he realized that it probably should be properly termed Department of Classical History and Literature, he wasn’t going to tell that department to change its name. We agree with him on that point, but we still think it is poor style to make plural nouns out of certain geologic adjectives, such as "lithic" to "lithics," and "clastic" to "clastics." Similarly, making "basaltic" into "basaltics," and "geologic" into "geologics" should also be discouraged.
Dr. Bates shared some other pet peeves with us, including "little pomposities" such as "prior to" for "before" and "is dependent upon" for "depends on." He said, "Encountered in reading, these are like the bump-bump, bump-bump on an old highway. They don’t slow you down much, but they take a lot of pleasure out of the trip."
Several readers maintained that language actively evolves, and that we editors should flow with that tide, because rigorous editing may stultify creativity. We appreciate these sentiments, and we encourage innovation, but we maintain that poor syntax, excessive jargon, or prolific buzzwords may obfuscate an author’s message. It is the author’s scientific responsibility to write a story that readers will understand, rather than to make an exercise in creative prose. The editor’s responsibility is to help an author present his/her message as clearly and succinctly as possible for the majority of readers. As an example, we shall continue to ask authors to rewrite sentences such as "Like, hey, dude, ah, yuh know, whoaah!" Even though that phrase has currency and unequivocal meaning in some circles, it conveys little scientifically to us.
Art Sylvester
John Costa
Bates, Robert L., and Jackson, Julia A., eds., 1987, Glossary of Geology (3rd edition): Alexandria, Virginia, American Geological Institute, 788 p.
Clark, R.H., and McIntyre, D.B., 1951, A macroscopic method of fabric analysis: American Journal of Science, v. 249, p. 755-768.
Oertel, G., 1962, Extrapolation in geologic fabrics: Geological Society of America Bulletin, v. 73, p. 325-342.
"Advice to Scientist Writers: Beware Old ‘Fallacies’" underscores how, as writing practices change, we must change with them—and at times we even must challenge advice about writing that we have heard all our lives. The article appeared in the October 31, 1988, issue of The Scientist, and is reprinted with the permission of John Wiley & Sons, New York, copyright © 1988 by Henrietta J. Tichy. Tichy blasts away at the maxims that scientists have to struggle with whenever they write. Obsolete advice such as "essays are made up of five paragraphs" or "never end a sentence with a preposition" can ring in our ears and guide our writing habits for years, yet we always have far more options at our fingertips than any such rigid rules suggest. The irony is that the very rules that guided us to become better writers are often the same ones that we have to shrug off or challenge as our writing matures. Because of our education and our quirky selective memories, Tichy says, we often carry "writing fallacies" around with us that we must unlearn. The author urges us to make a start on some good "unlearning" by attacking our writing fallacies. And she’s funny too.
This article, downloaded from Style for Students Online [9], originally appeared in the October 31, 1988, issue of The Scientist, and is reprinted with the permission of John Wiley & Sons, New York, copyright © 1988 by Henrietta J. Tichy.
Bits of advice from fallacy land have a strong influence on writing. If cooking were controlled by such misconceptions, indigestion and poisoning would threaten at every meal. Unfortunately, scientists’ writing has been poisoned by erring precepts that are no more accurate than a word passed around the circle is for the last listener.
Few people can concentrate on applying a dozen or more of these rigid rules without feeling so constrained that they hate to write. When they are forced to write, everything—diction, sentences, paragraphs—becomes awkward and unnatural, and every revision is made slowly and painfully. The best thing that scientist writers can do for themselves is to escape from the anxiety and strain caused by unnecessarily strict rules.
A good example of one such deadly rigid rule, "always use the passive voice," is a prescription so frequently pressed on writers of informational prose that it has proved to be one of the most harmful of all the fallacies. It is frequently enunciated by a person in a position superior to a writer’s, such as a graduate school professor who insists that students write as the professors do —in the passive voice —in order to appear scholarly, to show objectivity, or to acquire a style like that of journal articles. Unfortunately, some writers have had poor advice impressed upon them so strongly that they cling to the misinformation tenaciously. (A consultant, late for an appointment with a foreign-born engineer who had learned English during his two years in the United States, apologized effusively. "It is nothing," the engineer replied courteously. "A cigarette was smoked and a book was read while waiting.")
Now, adroit use of the passive voice where it is suitable benefits style by permitting variations in meaning, stress, pace, and rhythm; but excessive use of the passive limits all components of expression. To write entirely in the passive would seem not just unwise but impossible; yet some misled scientists attempt it. The passive voice weakens style when it is used, consciously and unconsciously, to evade responsibility. One popular passive construction is "It is thought that . . . ." When used anywhere in science and technology, the construction indicates that a general opinion or truth follows. But when scientist writers use it, they are likely to mean "I think that . . . ," "we think that . . . ," or even "I hope that somebody reading this thinks that. . . ." Writers using these and other examples of "the evasive passive" run the risk of having their careful readers sound like hoot owls as they ask, "Who? Who? Who?"
The truth is, the active voice in most cases is much neater and briefer. "The safety committee recommended . . ." is better than "the recommendation was made by the safety committee . . . ."
Another taboo, the rule against ending a sentence with a preposition, is a point about emphasis incorrectly applied. Near the end of an English sentence a major stress falls, sometimes on the last word, sometimes on a word just before the last word, sometimes on the final phrase. For effective emphasis, the word stressed should be important: "She said that she would complete the work on Monday." The stress is on Monday. Careful writers avoid stressing an unimportant word, like a preposition. But in many a sentence that ends with a preposition, the stress falls on the word before it. If that word is important, there is no need to rephrase the ending. Thus, it is acceptable to write "He is a difficult person to agree with" or "Children should have bright objects to play with."
Still another fallacy advises writers to avoid beginning sentences with certain words, such as "however," "but," and "and." There is a better way to approach this matter, still keeping in mind that the first word or words in a sentence are usually stressed, and they should indeed be important words. Occasionally even the much maligned however may be important because a writer wishes to emphasize that an unexpected shift in thought follows. But and and, which are also listed as forbidden first words by some teachers, seldom are stressed when they introduce a sentence. But they are often useful as unobtrusive initial conjunctions.
And then we have the harmful fallacy telling us to "avoid all personal pronouns. Never use I or we." First-person pronouns have long been absent from technical writing. They disappeared in the United States about 1920, when the impersonal style began to dominate in science and technology. (In the writing that comes out of the United States government —particularly from the Pentagon—I and we or any other indication that a human being is writing are taboo.) However, an attempt to achieve objectivity by avoiding personal pronouns is a mistake, and the idea that using the third person instead of the first person achieves modesty is equally wrong. Discarding necessary words like I and we merely leads to awkward writing marked by excessive use of the passive and by reliance on weak indirect constructions. Writers deprived of I and we turn to unnatural and objectionable substitutes: the author, one, the present writer, this reporter, and so forth. Sometimes, avoiding the use of the first person in an effort to sound modest backfires. Consider the sentence "The national secretary of the society initiated the following improvements in the management of the central office." This sounds far more immodest than the simply stated "I initiated the following improvements . . ."
Today, prohibition of the first person is obsolete, although writers should avoid constantly using it. Most scientific and technical journals now permit authors to use I for a single writer and we for more than one writer, especially when the material is personal, as in interpretation of results and in predictions. Indeed, many editors urge this use whenever appropriate. The American National Standard for the Preparation of Scientific Papers for Written or Oral Presentation states, "When a verb concerns action by the author, the first person should be used, especially in matters of experimental design (‘To eliminate this possibility, I did the following experiment’)."
Half a century or so ago, when the personal pronouns and active voice were reduced to a minimum or eliminated, much writing on science and technology became lifeless and dull. This led to the fallacy that writing on professional subjects has to be dull and that there is no use trying to do anything about it. However, in my experience there is a marked correlation between the excellence of writers’ understanding of a subject and the clarity and grace of their written thoughts on it. Indeed, many major businesses and industries are pressing hard for readable prose from their scientists. To achieve it, good writers and editors have been freeing themselves from unnecessary rules and regulations. Instead of droning never use the active voice and never use personal pronouns, they have been concentrating on the functions of the active and passive voices, on the functions of personal and impersonal pronouns, and on the avoidance of usage and style not suited to the idiom of the English language. It will be interesting to watch the changes that occur.
"Precise Writing for a Precise Science" is a marvelous example of common and easily overlooked errors on the sentence level. As this selection points out well, rigorous writing and rigorous science go hand in hand. I chose to reprint this article because, put simply, it teaches us to pay careful attention to every sentence we write. Written by Roger K. Bunting, Professor of Inorganic Chemistry at Illinois State University, this article demonstrates how the reader’s perceived meaning of a sentence may not always match the writer’s intended meaning, and the lessons in the article reach far beyond the world of the chemist. As noted at the end of the article, "A scientific report ought to be presented with a level of rigor and precision of the language commensurate with those of the scientific findings." Readers of this article must agree with the author: Dr. Bunting, whose publications are typically about such subjects as polymer electronics research or the chemistry of photography, writes me by e-mail that "[the article] seems to have made a greater splash than any technical article I’ve published!" "Precise Writing for a Precise Science" first appeared in Journal of Chemical Education, Vol. 76, no. 10, October 1999, pp. 1407-1408, and is reprinted here with the permission of Journal of Chemical Education, copyright © 1999.
This article, downloaded from Style for Students Online [9], originally appeared in the Journal of Chemical Education, Vol. 76, no. 10, October 1999, pp. 1407-1408, and is reprinted here with the permission of Journal of Chemical Education, copyright © 1999.
Despite the pervasive necessity of effective communication skills in virtually any contemporary career endeavor, a good command of the tools of communication seems to have eluded a great many graduates of chemistry programs. Poor sentence construction and grammatical solecisms are all too common in both written and oral reports of scientific findings. The English language is the principal tool of modern scientific communication, and its effective use should be a goal of anyone preparing for a career in science.
Following is a collection of examples of familiar grammatical constructions, presented in scientific context, that could be better phrased in accordance with the commentary that follows each.
The product has a melting point similar to benzophenone.
A melting point in no way resembles a chemical compound, but it may resemble another compound’s melting point. The sentence should read ". . . a melting point similar to that of benzophenone."
Solubility was the principal criteria for choosing the nitrate salt.
Criterion and phenomenon are two words of Greek origin often misused as their plurals. Spectrum, too, (of Latin origin) is often casually replaced with its plural spectra by those who most often utilize spectroscopy.
Pentaborane and ammonia were reacted at low temperature.
Few besides chemists are brazen enough to use react as a transitive verb. The chemicals react, chemists don’t react them. This usage is quite common, however, but it makes one wonder about the user’s understanding of thermodynamics!
An historical approach to the teaching of chemistry presents a different perspective.
The sentence begins with a construction that currently enjoys a level of snob appeal, and it avoids successive aspirations when vocalized. It is unjustified, however (the h is not silent), and would be better phrased as "A historical."
There was very little data to support the conclusion.
In chemistry, data is still commonly used in the plural sense, and most chemists are careful to write data are instead of data is. The error is less obvious here, however, and this construction is often seen and heard. The sentence should read "There were very few data." (As a simple check, if a sentence doesn’t sound right when data is replaced by facts, it probably isn’t correct.)
A simple IR spectrum infers a highly symmetrical structure.
Infer means to draw a conclusion—the responsibility of the spectroscopist, not the spectrum. One could say that the spectrum implies, but this too is a personification. A better sentence would be "A highly symmetrical structure can be inferred from a simple IR spectrum."
To we who are chemists, scientific reasoning is second nature.
A subordinate clause must always be considered as completely independent from the rest of the sentence; the sentence must be grammatical without it. Inserting the clause who are chemists in no way alters the fact that the sentence must begin "To us." Similarly, the construction within the subordinate clause must be grammatical on its own. For example, "The information was given to whomever requested it." The entire clause is the object of the preposition to. The sentence should read "to whoever requested it."
Compounds which contain azido groups are often explosive.
The subordinate clause is "restrictive"; that is, the sense of the sentence is changed if it is omitted. Restrictive clauses should begin with that. The sentence should read "Compounds that contain azido groups." Nonrestrictive clauses, which are not essential to the meaning of the sentence, begin with which and are set off with commas. The following is an example using a nonrestrictive clause: "Azido compounds, which contain the N3 group, are often explosive."
If we lay in the sun we may increase the risk of skin cancer.
Lay is a transitive verb (it requires a direct object). Lie is intransitive. Some of the confusion arises from the fact that in this case the past tense of the intransitive verb is the same as the present tense of the transitive verb. The sentence should read "If we lie in the sun," or, in the past tense, "If we lay in the sun we may have increased the risk of skin cancer."
The professor felt badly about the poor exam scores.
A verb that relates state of being is followed by a predicate adjective, not an adverb. That is, the word modifies the professor, and does not describe the manner in which he performed some action. "The professor felt bad about the poor exam scores."
The project was completed by a colleague and myself.
A reflexive pronoun (myself) should be used only subsequent to a corresponding pronoun (I or me) in the same sentence. Correct form: "by a colleague and me." A modern aversion to the word me has even engendered the use of the nominative I as direct object, indirect object or object of a preposition, usually in compound form. Such constructions as "for my colleague and I" are heard, unfortunately, with increasing frequency.
We abandoned our work with nitrogen trichloride when we realized it was explosive.
No chemist would misunderstand the intended meaning, but the sentence literally says that the work was explosive. The intended antecedent of the pronoun it is the object of the preposition with. The sentence should read ". . . when we realized the compound was explosive." Ambiguity from a casual use of pronouns is all too common.
Applying VSEPR principles, the most likely structure was predicted to be planar.
Applying is a dangling participle. There is no noun that it could modify except structure, and the structure clearly did not apply the principles. The sentence should be rephrased as follows: "By application of VSEPR principles . . . ." Equally poor are sentences like "The solution was filtered, resulting in the recovery of the product." Which resulted should be used in place of resulting.
It is important that the procedure is followed precisely.
The subjunctive mood has diminishing importance in the modern English language, but its use persists in certain instances such as "that" clauses and "if" clauses (condition contrary to fact). This sentence would be best written as ". . . that the procedure be followed precisely." (The proper subjunctive form "If I were you" is common, but the equally proper "If this be true" is seldom used. There are few consistencies in the use of the subjunctive.)
The ester dissolved in benzene was saponified.
This is a very poor construction because dissolved could be either a verb or a participle, and the sense is not clear until the reader reaches the end of the sentence. A better construction would be "The ester was dissolved in benzene and saponified."
I told the professor that I did not remember him lecturing on the topic.
Students may be forgetful, but it’s unlikely that he or she forgot the professor! The sentence should read "did not remember his lecturing." Lecturing is a gerund here (a noun form), not a participle.
The crystals darkened, which indicated there had been decomposition.
The past perfect tense "had been" implies an event more remote than the past tense. Presumably the crystals darkened at the same time that the decomposition occurred, not subsequent to it. Both verb forms should be in the past tense, or both in the past perfect.
Submit your vitae and the names of three references.
Cats, superstition has it, are endowed with multiple lives, but not chemists. Here the plural vitae has been used for the singular vita (Latin), which means life. In the above context, vita refers to a summary of one’s professional life. This misuse is common in classified advertisements. Curriculum vitae, however, is a proper singular form ("course of life"), declined according to the rules of Latin.
And what is the name of a reference? Probably the writer meant the names of three referees. A citation lists a reference; a person consulted is a referee.
The coordination of metal ions in aqueous solution is generally octahedral.
A general rule is one that always applies. A better choice for the above sentence would be usually, or commonly, or typically octahedral.
Ammonia readily complexes with many transition metals.
It’s been said that any noun can be "verbed," and most verbs no doubt had their origins in nouns, but complex is not yet widely accepted as having attained verb status. In the above sentence complexes could be easily (and preferably) used as a noun: "Ammonia readily forms complexes."
A scientific report ought to be presented with a level of rigor and precision of the language commensurate with those of the scientific findings. However, a rigid adherence to all grammatical "rules" would render a writing devoid of style, and such adherence is by no means mandatory or even recommended. But an understanding of the rules, their origins, and their contemporary interpretations allows the informed writer or speaker to selectively use grammatical devices to his or her advantage, to most effectively convey the information so that it will be received in the manner intended.
Schoenfeld, R. The Chemist’s English, 3rd ed.; VCH: New York, 1989.
Morris, W.; Morris, M. Harper Dictionary of Cotemporary Usage, 2nd ed.; Harper & Row: New York, 1985.
Bryson, B. The Mother Tongue; William Morrow: New York, 1990.
The ACS Style Guide, 2nd ed.; Dodd, J. S., Ed.; American Chemical Society: Washington, DC, 1997.
The Oxford Companion to the English Language; McArthur, T., Ed.; Oxford: New York, 1992.
"The Universal Recipe, Or How To Get Your Manuscript Accepted By Persnickety Editors" is a detailed look at how the best writers put together and publish their scientific reports in journals. The beauty of this piece is its universality and comprehensiveness; by definition, the advice in this article crosses disciplinary lines. From the sharp mind of a seasoned editor, this article gives us an inside track on just what editors are looking for when they select scientific articles for publication. This article is the best I have seen at what it does, and is made more enjoyable by the editor’s wit, examples, and exactitude. From the entertaining title of the original article to the gracious closing acknowledgments, we see again that editors are people too (some, I suspect, even ride mountain bikes and keep pets). This article is reprinted with the kind permission of the author, Frederick A. Mumpton, copyright © 1990 by The Clay Minerals Society.
This article, downloaded from Style for Students Online [9], is reprinted with the permission of the author, copyright © 1990 by The Clay Minerals Society..
Despite the enormous diversity of the many branches of science and technology, the manner of reporting scientific and technical information seems to have resolved itself over the years into a rather standard format—a format that appears to be just about the same regardless of the particular area of science being discussed. This format has emerged by trial and error and today seems to be the most universally accepted means of conveying scientific ideas and information. Although minor variations may be found, the standard format or recipe for acceptable manuscripts consists of the following major parts:
- Title
- Authorship
- Abstract
- Introduction
- Experimental (or Methods & Materials)
- Results
- Discussion
- Conclusions (or Summary & Conclusions)
- Acknowledgments
- References Cited
At this point, a few readers of this article will undoubtedly say to themselves that this standard format or recipe is all well and good for most papers and for most authors, but "my" work is different and therefore "my" manuscript should be organized in a "different" or "special" way. In answer, this editor says "not so," or at least not so for 99.99% of the manuscripts he has ever dealt with. Rarely does a scientific investigation require a reporting style that differs substantially from this standard format. Granted, some manuscripts may benefit by a separate Theory section or Theoretical Background section (probably inserted after the Introduction), or a Regional Geology section (inserted either before or after the Experimental section), or even an extended Literature Review section (inserted after the Introduction), but the presence of such extra sections does not change the overall organization of the manuscript, nor do such sections detract (if they are properly written) from a straightforward, "eins, zwei, drei" manner of presentation. The standard format or universal recipe allows authors to tell the reader specifically what problem they attempted to solve (Introduction), how they went about solving it (Experimental section), what they found out (Results), and how they interpreted these results (Discussion). It also allows them to tell the reader something about the significance of their findings (Summary and Conclusions).
The key to writing an acceptable scientific paper is organization. Most editors, technical referees, and critical readers agree that disorganized writing may reflect a disorganized investigation, and a disorganized investigation is tantamount to a poor investigation, of little use to anyone. This editor strongly suggests that authors organize their reports into the standard format here. I also recommend that authors prepare extended hierarchical outlines of their reports before they put pen to paper (or finger to keyboard). I recognize that many authors do not need outlines before they write, but as a minimum I suggest that their final manuscripts be reduced to outline form as soon as they are completed. In this way any lack of organization becomes readily apparent.
The major sections of such an outline are, of course, the major sections of the universal recipe. These sections are discussed below in terms of the purpose, the kind of information that should or should not be reported, and the pitfalls that should be avoided in preparing each section. Although I would like to claim them as my own, few of the ideas expressed here originate with this editor. Almost all are well discussed in numerous books on technical or scientific writing, some of which are listed at the end of this article. I strongly urge all authors or potential authors to read or re-read one or more of these works and to refer to them constantly as they prepare their next manuscript.
The title of a scientific paper should tell the reader what the paper is all about. It should not be too short or too general (the title of Theophrastus’ treatise "On Stones" would be considered inadequate today), or too long (the title "Unit-Cell Dimensions of Potassium Feldspar in Early to Middle Pleistocene Rocks of Southeastern North Dakota as a Function of Alkali Element Composition of Circulating Ground Waters and of Organic Carbon Content of Overlying Lignitic Shales" might put the readers to sleep before they get into the body of the paper). Because everyone who picks up the journal will undoubtedly read the title of the paper, the title is the author’s first chance (and maybe the only chance) to tell the readers what the paper is all about and thereby convince them to read on.
In addition to being not-too-long and not-too-short, the title should tell the reader just what will be covered in the paper. It should not give the reader the impression that an entire field will be treated in the paper when in reality only a small part of that field is discussed. Thus, the title "Adsorption of Amino Acids on Kaolinite in Ethyl Alcohol" is more informative than "Amino Acid-Kaolinite Reactions." Moreover, words that do not contribute specifically to the subject of the paper have no place in the title. For example, the first four words of the title "Preliminary Results on the Effect of Magnesium in the Formation of Chlorite" add nothing, and the title is better written "Effect of Magnesium in Chlorite Formation." The title also should not be an alphabet soup of abbreviations or acronyms, many of which may not be understood by the non-expert reader.
Authorship of technical papers is a delicate subject and one that most editors are happy to avoid. For the most part, the individuals to be listed as authors and the order in which they are listed should be settled well before the manuscript is submitted for publication. From an editorial point of view, however, a few comments are in order. First, it is perplexing to see long lists of individuals named as the authors of a technical paper, even in this age of cooperative or group research. Lengthy lists of authors suggest unresolved problems of laboratory politics, rather than accurate accounts of the principal contributors to the work at hand. Conversely, some works appear to cry out for additional authors, especially those that draw heavily on student theses or that are based on unpublished information obtained from another party. Hence, the list of authors should include the principal contributors to the project; those who participated in the project in a peripheral manner or only briefly should not be forgotten, but recognized with appreciation in the Acknowledgments section. I will not attempt to state what is an acceptable number of authors, but merely state that credibility decreases as the number increases beyond five or six. Nor will I spell out specifically the meaning of "principal contributor" or "peripheral manner," but leave interpretation of these somewhat ambiguous terms to the authors (or potential authors) themselves.
One subject concerning authorship does merit serious consideration, and that is that all authors of a paper are responsible for the content of that paper. If a particular coauthor does not agree with what has been said in the paper, that coauthor should divorce himself or herself from that paper. In this regard, the principal author (generally the writer) should make sure that all authors of the paper have an opportunity to review, criticize, and contribute to the preparation of the manuscript before it is submitted for publication and before it is resubmitted after having been revised to address the referees’ comments. Fulfilling this obligation in itself should drastically limit the number of authors.
Not enough can be said about the importance of the Abstract. With the exception of the Title itself, more people will read the Abstract than any other part of the paper. In this era of mega publications, few researchers have time to read everything, even in their own fields of specialization. I am loathe to admit it, but the editor is probably the only person who reads every word of every article in each issue of a given journal. Most of us scan the titles in the table of contents and then turn to the abstracts of the papers that seem to be of interest. If the abstract turns out to be uninformative (i.e., if it really doesn’t summarize the highlights of the paper), or if it is merely a table of contents of what is to be found in the rest of the paper, most of us will grumble a little about authors who try to keep their findings secret and probably move on to another paper.
Only the true expert or avid lover of the subject will read the entire paper, and these people will read it regardless of how well or how poorly the abstract is written. It is therefore not for the expert in the subject that authors prepare informative abstracts—it is for everyone else who might read them. Because most of these non-experts will not read beyond the abstract, it is vital that authors convey everything they can about the paper—the rationale for undertaking the investigation, the important findings (including specific data, rather than arm-waving generalities), and the pertinent interpretations of those findings—in the abstract. In short, the abstract should be a fact-filled condensation of the entire paper. Many editors and reviewers take the attitude that if a subject is not of such significance as to be summarized in the abstract, perhaps it does not belong in the main body of the paper either.
Note that in the above discussion I haven’t said that abstracts are easy to prepare. They are not. For me at least, the abstract is the most difficult part of the manuscript, chiefly because I am forced to condense each part of the paper into a sentence or two and to construct those sentences with great care so that each contains the maximum amount of information. The author part of me says that surely my colleagues will want to read my wonderful paper in its entirety, and, therefore, I don’t have to tell them everything in the abstract, but the editor part of me knows differently; hence, if I want the maximum number of people to benefit from or be aware of the results of my investigation, I must make sure that the abstract says as much as possible.
To illustrate the difference between uninformative and informative abstracts, I recommend reading the abstracts in the program of some past scientific conference and then reading the abstracts of these same papers as they are published in the conference proceedings or in a primary journal, after a persnickety editor and a couple of referees have had a chance to work on them.
Magazine advertisements and television commercials must arouse interest in the first few words—otherwise the audience will turn the page or go to the kitchen for a cold beer. Likewise, the Introduction of a scientific paper must in a few short sentences convince the reader that it is worthwhile to read on. The Introduction must set the stage for the paper to follow and convey to the reader the rationale for undertaking the investigation. It should spell out the specific objectives of the investigation and describe the nature and scope of the problem, why that problem is important, how the author attempted to solve that problem, and of what significance are the results that the author expected to obtain. Some Introductions also mention very briefly the principal findings of the investigation, so as not to keep the reader in suspense until the Conclusions. If all these questions are addressed in the Introduction, the reader will know what to expect in the rest of the paper. Authors must recognize that their scientific results may be of enormous significance and that their interpretations may be truly awe-inspiring, but if readers cannot grasp why the investigation was conducted in the first place, they may never bother to read about these wonderful results or these revolutionary conclusions.
The Introduction is generally the place to review the literature, at least to the extent of demonstrating how the present investigation relates to past work. Every paper ever written on the subject, however, need not be mentioned; the author should cite only those papers that bear directly on the problem to be attacked in the present investigation. Authors should also be careful to indicate exactly why a particular work was cited and exactly how the cited work relates to the subject under discussion. It is frustrating, for example, to read in the Introduction of a paper on "Hydrolysis of Manganese During the Weathering of Ultramafic Rocks" that "Jones and Smith (1978) noted manganese hydroxides in weathered serpentinites." I sometimes want almost to shake the author to learn what it was that Jones and Smith found out about manganese hydroxides in such rocks or what Jones and Smith discussed that is germane to the problem being investigated in the present paper.
Authors should also avoid citing the literature for information that is common knowledge. I once noted the statement in the Introduction to a paper submitted to Clays and Clay Minerals that "Clay minerals are abundant in sedimentary rocks and soils (Grim, 1953)." Such information was, of course, mentioned in the cited work, but was it really necessary for the author to cite Professor Grim’s book—or any published work for that matter—for such common knowledge? On the other hand, because one of the purposes of the Introduction is to show the reader how the present investigation meshes with or fills a gap in our current knowledge, authors should not overlook important works on the same subject by other researchers. Even if the author doesn’t agree with them, fairness requires that other points of view be recognized and considered. Furthermore, simply because an important work happens to be published in a language not understood by the author is no excuse not to include it in the review of the literature.
Well-written Introductions invariably end with what many have called a "succinct statement of the problem." Here, in one or two sentences the author should state precisely what the rest of the paper will be about and, perhaps, exactly what will be shown as a result of the investigation. For example, the closing statement in the Introduction to the paper on the hydrolysis of manganese mentioned above might be: "To investigate the hydrolysis reactions of manganese during the weathering of ultramafic rocks, samples of fresh serpentinite and peridotite were treated with weak acids at room temperature for periods ranging from weeks to years. Reactions were followed by analyzing solid products and residual solutions and plotting the results on appropriate Eh-pH diagrams." The "statement of the problem" at the end of the Introduction is therefore analogous to a speaker saying: "I’ve told you what subject I’m going to discuss, and I’ve told you why that subject is important. Now I’m going to give you specific details on the subject and then my interpretation of them. Pay attention—you don’t want to miss what’s coming next!"
The Experimental section of any scientific paper is probably the easiest to write and is often the first section to be tackled by the author. It is no less important, however, than any other section, inasmuch as a basic criterion of scientific publishing is that the reader be able to duplicate an author’s results using the same procedures. The Experimental section should therefore be a straightforward presentation of what materials were used in the investigation (reagents, rock, water, soil, or mineral samples), how these materials were treated (chemically, thermally, electrically), how starting materials and products were characterized (by X-ray powder diffraction, nuclear magnetic resonance, infrared spectroscopy, optical microscopy, transmission electron microscopy, or extended X-ray absorption fine-structure spectroscopy), and how the data were "massaged" and evaluated (statistically, mathematically).
The locality, source, and properties of all starting samples should be reported in as much detail as possible to allow the reader to compare the author’s results with other data reported previously on the "same" material. In so far as the locality is concerned, note, for example, that "Germany" hardly suffices as a precise locality of a nontronite from Clausthal-Zellerfeld, Federal Republic of Germany. Samples obtained from reference collections, e.g., from the Source Clay Repository of The Clay Minerals Society, should be so indicated and designated with their assigned reference numbers. Standard methods used should be referenced, but need not be described in detail; however, new methods or modifications of standard methods should be described in as much detail as necessary to allow them to be used by the readers. The brand name and model of the instruments used should be stated, not as an endorsement of that product, but so that the reader can evaluate the quality of the data being reported. The precision of all measurements should be stated, and the statistical methods and computer programs used to evaluate the data should be identified and referenced.
Except as they add to the characterization of the starting materials or samples, results generally should not be reported in the Experimental section.
Despite the fact that many authors find it convenient to combine the experimental results obtained by a particular technique or on a particular suite of samples and an interpretation of these results in the same section, most readers find it extremely difficult to follow a paper written in this manner. The reader generally wants to see the results of the investigation neatly presented in a separate section, unencumbered by discussion, interpretation, or comparison with the literature. The reader would then like to see the author’s interpretations of these results in a separate section. In this way, the author’s new data can be distinguished from information that is common knowledge or that has been reported by earlier workers. Although a few papers lend themselves to combining results and discussion in the same section, most do not, and, in general, interpretations and discussions should be presented in a section separate from Results.
The results themselves should be presented preferably in tables or as curves, graphs, or halftone illustrations. Details of experimental procedures should not be included in the Results section, but gathered together in the Experimental section, as noted above. Descriptions of the results should be as brief as possible and devoid of interpretation, although particular trends or ranges of the data should be pointed out. Some authors believe that because certain information was obtained in the course of their investigation, this information should be reported in their paper regardless of whether it is germane to the subject under discussion. Only those results relevant to the purpose of the paper, however, should be reported. Extraneous data, fascinating as the authors might find them, should be saved for another day and another paper.
Editors frequently encounter manuscripts that present exciting new experimental techniques, in which samples from several unrelated subject areas have been tested to demonstrate the universality of the method. Unfortunately the authors of many of these papers have tried to address major research problems on the basis of these new, but limited results in this same paper. The net result is that the major contribution, i.e., the new experimental technique, all but gets lost in the shuffle, and the authors do a woefully inadequate job with respect to the research problems. The moral of the tale is to limit a manuscript to a single subject and not try to solve all of the world’s problems in a single paper. Use these preliminary data to begin a whole new investigation.
The Discussion is probably the most important section of the paper and should be carefully organized into specific subsections, each dealing with a different subject. In each subsection, the author should critically evaluate the data, show how they agree or contrast with published works, and interpret them for the reader. It is not sufficient for the author to point towards a table or graph and expect the readers to interpret the data themselves; the author must do the interpreting and, in so doing, must solidly base these interpretations on specific data reported in the present paper or on a combination of published information and current results.
Technical reviewers and editors have a habit of downgrading manuscripts if interpretations are not (or do not appear to be) strongly supported by data reported in the paper. All too often, authors make sweeping statements or draw broad conclusions without telling the reader specifically on which data these statements or conclusions have been based. Others merely refer the reader to "the data in Table 1" or to "the results reported above," and some only say "therefore" or "thus" as a means of specifying the data on which conclusions are based. Such tactics leave the reader wondering whether or not the author truly has evidence to support these statements or if the statements are more wishful thinking than data-based interpretations.
Authors should keep in mind that readers are not obliged to believe what they are told, but they will be more inclined to do so if they are provided with specific results and evidence every step of the way. Therefore, authors should present their specific data or information on which a conclusion will be drawn first in a sentence or paragraph in the Discussion section, and then discuss or interpret these data. Nothing is quite so annoying as being presented with what appears to be a statement of fact and then having to read on to discover the data on which the statement was based.
Many papers phrase all statements and discussion in the present tense, leaving the readers to determine for themselves whether the statements refer to the author’s present findings or to facts already known. No hard and fast rules apply, but, in this editor’s opinion, the author’s results are best described in the past tense, reserving the present tense for information currently known or for information taken from the literature. Objects still possessing particular properties or characteristics, however, may properly be described in the present tense. For example, an author describing a rock sample might write that "The rock is red and has a granitoid texture," but that its density "was determined to be 3.00 g/cm3"; likewise, that the "bands characteristic of Al-O bonding were noted in the infrared spectrum," but that the "infrared spectrum in Figure 3 shows bands characteristic of Al-O bonding."
Authors often confuse "Summary" with "Conclusions." A Summary section by definition sums up the results and interpretations of the paper, and, in some degree, may duplicate part of the Abstract. In some papers, the results of the investigation and the discussion of them are summarized in a final subsection of the Discussion; in others, a separate section is warranted, usually combined with Conclusions.
A Conclusions section is the section in which authors should discuss the importance of their findings. The conclusions should not merely repeat various points of the discussion, but should tell the reader why these points are important, something about their broad meaning, how they contribute to our understanding of the field being examined, and where more work is needed. A combined Summary and Conclusions section may be the appropriate place to summarize the findings of the investigation and to point out their overall significance.
As an author prepares the Summary and Conclusions section of the manuscript, the Introduction should be reexamined, especially the part in which the objectives of the investigation were spelled out, to see whether or not these objectives have been met. If they have not been met, the author should tell the reader why not, or should consider rewriting the Introduction to contain a different set of objectives.
Although a necessary part of any scientific paper, the Acknowledgments section should be brief and to the point. It is only proper to recognize individuals and institutions that contributed financial support, samples, specific analyses, and technical assistance to the investigation, however, thanking everyone whom the author has ever been associated with over the last 20 years, like an Academy Award acceptance speech, is inappropriate. Unquestionably, the individuals who critiqued the manuscript before it was sent to a journal and the referees (identified and anonymous) who reviewed it for the journal should be acknowledged with appreciation. The journal editor need not be thanked, because everyone knows what a wonderful job this person does all the time.
Little can be said about the References Cited section, except that authors should submit their list of references cited in the exact style of the journal, down to the last jot and tittle of punctuation, spacing, etc. I am painfully aware that every journal has its own style, and wouldn’t it be nice if they all used the same style, but they don’t, and that’s a fact of life that authors must live with. Keep in mind that editors will insist that authors follow the prescribed style of the journal, so why not do it right the first time? Most journals spell out the style to be used in their Instructions to Authors. If such instructions are not available, authors are advised to examine a recent issue of the journal in question to see how it’s done.
In general, only works that have actually been published (or, perhaps, that have been formally accepted for publication by a journal) should be listed in the references. All others should be cited in the body of the text in the form of a personal (or written) communication, which includes the full name, institution, and current address of the individual from whom the information was obtained. Such information is necessary to allow the reader to communicate directly with that individual for clarification, verification, or further information. Authors should also check the final manuscript to make sure that each item in the list of references has actually been cited in the text and that each citation in the text is listed in the References Cited section.
These ideas for the ideal manuscript for publication in Clays and Clay Minerals or for any other technical journal are offered to help authors write reports of their investigations that will be read, understood, and appreciated by their colleagues. No matter how great the experiment or how revolutionary the results, nothing is added to that vast accumulation of information we call science, if the author’s work is not published or if it is published and still cannot be understood. Even worse, mankind reaps no benefit. My discussion has concentrated only on the main parts of a "Universal Recipe" for scientific manuscripts. In the final analysis, no two papers are exactly alike, and authors may wish to modify the universal recipe (but not too much) to fit each investigation.
The final word. Every manuscript submitted for publication should be critically reviewed by a third party who can be depended on to "tell it like it is." Authors should not submit manuscripts that represent anything less than their very best efforts, and critical reviews by colleagues for both technical content and manner of presentation are a vital part of the manuscript-preparation process. Remember, dear author, the sole purpose of a scientific paper is to convey information in a succinct and unambiguous manner, and the data and discussion must be presented in concise, understandable statements. Anything that gets in the way of fulfilling this purpose—flowery prose, personal "style," imprecise words, tortuous sentence structure, or jargon-filled paragraphs—must be ruthlessly deleted from the manuscript by the author. Don’t make the referees or the editor do this for you.
Raw, unreviewed manuscripts, best described as "rough drafts," place an excessive burden on the journal, its editor, and its technical referees. Many of the questions raised by the referees could probably have been answered beforehand by the authors if they had only asked a colleague to review their papers. Internal or external review prior to submission of the manuscript to a journal is an excellent means of catching poor organization, verbose explanations, convoluted reasoning, unwarranted interpretations, and unsupported conclusions. It also speeds up publication of that world-class paper we all strive to produce.
I am grateful to past and present associate editors of Clays and Clay Minerals and to dozens of other scientific and editorial colleagues for their comments over the years about the need for and means of achieving good writing in scientific papers. R.A. Sheppard and Diane Schnabel of the U.S. Geological Survey, Denver, Colorado, significantly improved my "unimprovable" first draft. The following texts on technical writing focused my own thoughts on this subject and provided a base for the present note, especially Robert A. Day’s How to Write and Publish a Scientific Paper.
Barnett, M.T. (1974) Elements of Technical Writing: Delmar Publishers, Albany, New York, 232 pp.
Bishop, E.E., Eckel, E.B., and Others (1978) Suggestions to Authors of the Reports of the United States Geological Survey: 6th ed.,U.S. Government Printing Office, Washington D.C., 273 pp.
Day, R.A. (1983) How to Write and Publish a Scientific Paper: 2nd ed., ICI Press, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, 181 pp.
Dodd, Janet S., ed. (1986) The ACS Style Guide: A Manual for Authors and Editors: American Chemical Society, Washington D.C., 264 pp.
Hayes, Robert (1965) Principles of Technical Writing: Addison-Wesley, Menlo Park, California, 324 pp.
Hoover, Hardy (1980) Essentials for the Scientific and Technical Writer: Dover Publications, New York, 216 pp.
Katz, M.J. (1985) Elements of a Scientific Paper: Yale University Press, New Haven, Connecticut, 130 pp.
Tichy, H.J. (1966) Effective Writing for Engineers, Managers, Scientists: Wiley, New York, 337 pp.
"The Science of Scientific Writing" is a thoroughly detailed and important article about scientific writing from the journal American Scientist. You will find practical advice on how (literally) to put sentences together and walk along with the authors as they methodically generate seven practical maxims for good science writing. In the article, the authors, George D. Gopen and Judith A. Swan, develop seven maxims that will aid you as you write and revise your work. After reading this piece, some graduate students have excitedly approached me to say, "This article has entirely changed the way I think about writing and reading." As colleagues of mine have read and used this article, they have commented on the authors’ thoroughness and high degree of credibility. Such credibility is no accident: Some of the material presented was developed in faculty writing workshops at the Duke University Medical School, where Professor Gopen, who holds a law degree from Harvard Law School, teaches writing. Professor Swan, with a background in biochemistry from the Massachusetts Institute of Technology, teaches writing at Princeton University. "The Science of Scientific Writing" is reprinted here with the permission of American Scientist, journal of Sigma Xi, copyright © 1990 by Sigma Xi, The Scientific Research Society.
This article, downloaded from Style for Students Online [9], originally appeared in American Scientist, journal of Sigma Xi, copyright © 1990 by Sigma Xi, The Scientific Research Society. Reprinted with the permission of American Scientist.
Science is often hard to read. Most people assume that its difficulties are born out of necessity, out of the extreme complexity of scientific concepts, data and analysis. We argue here that complexity of thought need not lead to impenetrability of expression; we demonstrate a number of rhetorical principles that can produce clarity in communication without oversimplifying scientific issues. The results are substantive, not merely cosmetic: Improving the quality of writing actually improves the quality of thought.
The fundamental purpose of scientific discourse is not the mere presentation of information and thought, but rather its actual communication. It does not matter how pleased an author might be to have converted all the right data into sentences and paragraphs; it matters only whether a large majority of the reading audience accurately perceives what the author had in mind. Therefore, in order to understand how best to improve writing, we would do well to understand better how readers go about reading. Such an understanding has recently become available through work done in the fields of rhetoric, linguistics and cognitive psychology. It has helped to produce a methodology based on the concept of reader expectations.
Readers do not simply read; they interpret. Any piece of prose, no matter how short, may "mean" in 10 (or more) different ways to 10 different readers. This methodology of reader expectations is founded on the recognition that readers make many of their most important interpretive decisions about the substance of prose based on clues they receive from its structure.
This interplay between substance and structure can be demonstrated by something as basic as a simple table. Let us say that in tracking the temperature of a liquid over a period of time, an investigator takes measurements every three minutes and records a list of temperatures. Those data could be presented by a number of written structures. Here are two possibilities:
t (time)=15’, T (temperature)=32o; t=0’, T=25o;
t=6’, T=29o; t=3’, T=27o; t=12’, T=32o; t=9’, T=31o
Temperature over time time (min) temperature (oC) 0 25 3 27 6 29 9 31 12 32 15 32
Precisely the same information appears in both formats, yet most readers find the second easier to interpret. It may be that the very familiarity of the tabular structure makes it easier to use. But, more significantly, the structure of the second table provides the reader with an easily perceived context (time) in which the significant piece of information appears on the left in a pattern that produces an expectation of regularity; the interesting results appear on the right in a less obvious pattern, the discovery of which is the point of the table.
If the two sides of this table are reversed, it becomes much harder to read.
Temperature over time, but with the sides reversed temperature (oC) time (min) 25 0 27 3 29 6 31 9 32 12 32 15
Since we read from left to right, we prefer the context on the left, where we can more effectively familiarize the reader. We prefer the new, important information on the right, since its job is to intrigue the reader.
Information is interpreted more easily and more uniformly if it is placed where most readers expect to find it. These needs and expectations of readers affect the interpretation not only of the tables and illustrations but also of prose itself. Readers have relatively fixed expectations about where in the structure of the prose they will encounter particular items of its substance. If writers can become consciously aware of these locations, they can better control the degrees of recognition and emphasis a reader will give to the various pieces of information being presented. Good writers are intuitively aware of these expectations; that is why their prose has what we call "shape."
This underlying concept of reader expectation is perhaps most immediately evident at the level of the largest units of discourse. (A unit of discourse is defined as anything with a beginning and an end: a clause, a sentence, a section, an article, etc.) A research article, for example, is generally divided into recognizable sections, sometimes labeled Introduction, Experimental Methods, Results and Discussion. When the sections are confused—when too much experimental detail is found in the Results section, or when discussion and results intermingle—readers are often equally confused. In smaller units of discourse the functional divisions are not so explicitly labeled, but readers have definite expectations all the same, and they search for certain information in particular places. If these structural expectations are continually violated, readers are forced to divert energy from understanding the content of a passage to unraveling its structure. As the complexity of the content increases moderately, the possibility of misinterpretation or noninterpretation increases dramatically.
We present here some results for applying this methodology to research reports in the scientific literature. We have taken several passages from research articles (either published or accepted for publication) and have suggested ways of rewriting them by applying principles derived from the study of reader expectations. We have not sought to transform passages into "plain English" for the use of the general public; we have neither decreased the jargon nor diluted the science. We have striven not for simplification but for clarification.
Here is our first example of scientific prose, in its original form:
The smallest of the URF’s (URFA6L), a 207-nucleotide (nt) reading frame overlapping out of phase the NH2-terminal portion of the adenosinetriphosphatase (ATPase) subunit 6 gene has been identified as the animal equivalent of the recently discovered yeast H+-ATPase subunit 8 gene. The functional significance of the other URF’s has been, on the contrary, elusive. Recently, however, immunoprecipitation experiments with antibodies to purified, rotenone-sensitive NADH-ubiquinone oxido-reductase [hereafter referred to as respiratory chain NADH dehydrogenase or Complex I] from bovine heart, as well as enzyme fractionation studies, have indicated that six human URF’s (that is, URF1, URF2, URF3, URF4, URF4L, and URF5, hereafter referred to as ND1, ND2, ND3, ND4, ND4L, and ND5) encode subunits of Complex I. This is a large complex that also contains many subunits synthesized in the cytoplasm. *
(* The full paragraph includes one more sentence: "Support for such functional identification of the URF products has come from the finding that the purified rotenone-sensitive NADH dehydrogenase from Neurospora crassa contains several subunits synthesized within the mitochondria, and from the observation that the stopper mutant of Neurospora crassa, whose mtDNA lacks two genes homologous to URF2 and URF3, has no functional Complex I." We have omitted this sentence both because the passage is long enough and because it raises no additional structural issues.)
Ask any ten people why this paragraph is hard to read, and nine are sure to mention the technical vocabulary; several will also suggest that it requires specialized background knowledge. These problems turn out to be only a small part of the difficulty. Here is the passage again, with the difficult words temporarily lifted:
The smallest of the URF’s (URFA6L), an [A] has been identified as a [B] subunit 8 gene. The functional significance of the other URF’s has been, on the contrary, elusive. Recently, however, [C] experiments, as well as [D] studies, have indicated that six human URF’s (1-6) encode subunits of Complex I. This is a large complex that also contains many subunits synthesized in the cytoplasm.
It may now be easier to survive the journey through the prose, but the passage is still difficult. Any number of questions present themselves: What has the first sentence of the passage to do with the last sentence? Does the third sentence contradict what we have been told in the second sentence? Is the functional significance of URF’s still "elusive"? Will this passage lead us to further discussion about URF’s, or about Complex I, or both?
Knowing a little about the subject matter does not clear up all the confusion. The intended audience of this passage would probably possess at least two items of essential technical information: first, "URF" stands for "Uninterrupted Reading Frame," which describes a segment of DNA organized in such a way that it could encode a protein; second, both ATPase and NADH oxido-reductase are enzyme complexes central to energy metabolism. Although this information may provide some sense of comfort, it does little to answer the interpretive questions that need answering. It seems the reader is hindered by more than just the scientific jargon.
To get at the problem, we need to articulate something about how readers go about reading. We proceed to the first of several reader expectations.
Look again at the first sentence of the passage cited above. It is relatively long, 42 words; but that turns out not to be the main cause of its burdensome complexity. Long sentences need not be difficult to read; they are only difficult to write. We have seen sentences of over 100 words that flow easily and persuasively toward their clearly demarcated destination. Those well-wrought serpents all had something in common: Their structure presented information to readers in the order the readers needed and expected it.
The first sentence of our example passage does just the opposite: it burdens and obstructs the reader, because of an all-too-common structural defect. Note that the grammatical subject ("the smallest") is separated from its verb ("has been identified") by 23 words, more than half the sentence. Readers expect a grammatical subject to be followed immediately by the verb. Anything of length that intervenes between subject and verb is read as an interruption, and therefore as something of lesser importance.
The reader’s expectation stems from a pressing need for syntactic resolution, fulfilled only by the arrival of the verb. Without the verb, we do not know what the subject is doing, or what the sentence is all about. As a result, the reader focuses attention on the arrival of the verb and resists recognizing anything in the interrupting material as being of primary importance. The longer the interruption lasts, the more likely it becomes that the "interruptive" material actually contains important information; but its structural location will continue to brand it as merely interruptive. Unfortunately, the reader will not discover its true value until too late—until the sentence has ended without having produced anything of much value outside of the subject-verb interruption.
In the first sentence of the paragraph, the relative importance of the intervening material is difficult to evaluate. The material might conceivably be quite significant, in which case the writer should have positioned it to reveal that importance. Here is one way to incorporate it into the sentence structure:
The smallest of the URF’s is URFA6L, a 207-nucleotide (nt) reading frame overlapping out of phase the NH2-terminal portion of the adenosinetriphosphatase (ATPase) subunit 6 gene; it has been identified as the animal equivalent of the recently discovered yeast H+-ATPase subunit 8 gene.
On the other hand, the intervening material might be a mere aside that diverts attention from more important ideas; in that case the writer should have deleted it, allowing the prose to drive more directly toward its significant point:
The smallest of the URF’s (URFA6L) has been identified as the animal equivalent of the recently discovered yeast H+-ATPase subunit 8 gene.
Only the author could tell us which of these revisions more accurately reflects his intentions.
These revisions lead us to a second set of reader expectations. Each unit of discourse, no matter what the size, is expected to serve a single function, to make a single point. In the case of a sentence, the point is expected to appear in a specific place reserved for emphasis.
It is a linguistic commonplace that readers naturally emphasize the material that arrives at the end of a sentence. We refer to that location as a "stress position." If a writer is consciously aware of this tendency, she can arrange for the emphatic information to appear at the moment the reader is naturally exerting the greatest reading emphasis. As a result, the chances greatly increase that reader and writer will perceive the same material as being worthy of primary emphasis. The very structure of the sentence thus helps persuade the reader of the relative values of the sentence’s contents.
The inclination to direct more energy to that which arrives last in a sentence seems to correspond to the way we work at tasks through time. We tend to take something like a "mental breath" as we begin to read each new sentence, thereby summoning the tension with which we pay attention to the unfolding of the syntax. As we recognize that the sentence is drawing toward its conclusion, we begin to exhale that mental breath. The exhalation produces a sense of emphasis. Moreover, we delight in being rewarded at the end of a labor with something that makes the ongoing effort worthwhile. Beginning with the exciting material and ending with a lack of luster often leaves us disappointed and destroys our sense of momentum. We do not start with a strawberry shortcake and work our way up to the broccoli.
When the writer puts the emphatic material of a sentence in any place other than the stress position, one of two things can happen; both are bad. First, the reader might find the stress position occupied by material that clearly is not worthy of emphasis. In this case, the reader must discern, without any additional structural clue, what else in the sentence may be the most likely candidate for emphasis. There are no secondary structural indications to fall back upon. In sentences that are long, dense or sophisticated, chances soar that the reader will not interpret the prose precisely as the reader intended. The second possibility is even worse: The reader may find the stress position occupied by something that does not appear capable of receiving emphasis, even though the writer did not intend to give it any stress. In that case, the reader is likely to emphasize this imposter material, and the writer will have lost an important opportunity to influence the reader’s interpretive process.
The stress position can change in size from sentence to sentence. Sometimes it consists of a single word; sometimes it extends to several lines. The definitive factor is this: The stress position coincides with the moment of syntactic closure. A reader has reached the beginning of the stress position when she knows there is nothing left in the clause or sentence but the material presently being read. Thus a whole list, numbered and indented, can occupy the stress position of a sentence if it has been clearly announced as being all that remains of that sentence. Each member of that list, in turn, may have its own internal stress position, since each member may produce its own syntactic closure.
Within a sentence, secondary stress positions can be formed by the appearance of a properly used colon or semicolon; by grammatical convention, the material preceding these punctuation marks must be able to stand by itself as a complete sentence. Thus, sentences can be extended effortlessly to dozens of words, as long as there is a medial syntactic closure for every piece of new, stress-worthy information along the way. One of our revisions of the initial sentence can serve as an example:
The smallest of the URF’s is URFA6L, a 207-nucleotide (nt) reading frame overlapping out of phase the NH2-terminal portion of the adenosinetriphosphatase (ATPase) subunit 6 gene; it has been identified as the animal equivalent of the recently discovered yeast H+-ATPase subunit 8 gene.
By using a semicolon, we created a second stress position to accommodate a second piece of information that seemed to require emphasis.
We now have three rhetorical principles based on reader expectations: First, grammatical subjects should be followed as soon as possible by their verbs; second, every unit of discourse, no matter the size, should serve a single function or make a single point; and, third, information intended to be emphasized should appear at points of syntactic closure. Using these principles, we can begin to unravel the problems of our example prose.
Note the subject-verb separation in the 62-word third sentence of the original passage:
Recently, however, immunoprecipitation experiments with antibodies to purified, rotenone-sensitive NADH-ubiquinone oxido-reductase [hereafter referred to as respiratory chain NADH dehydrogenase or Complex I] from bovine heart, as well as enzyme fractionation studies, have indicated that six human URF’s (that is, URF1, URF2, URF3, URF4, URF4L, and URF5, hereafter referred to as ND1, ND2, ND3, ND4, ND4L, and ND5) encode subunits of Complex I. This is a large complex that also contains many subunits synthesized in the cytoplasm.
After encountering the subject ("experiments"), the reader must wade through 27 words (including three hyphenated compound words, a parenthetical interruption and an "as well as" phrase) before alighting on the highly uninformative and disappointingly anticlimactic verb ("have indicated"). Without a moment to recover, the reader is handed a "that" clause in which the new subject ("six human URF’s) is separated from its verb ("encode") by yet another 20 words.
If we applied the three principles we have developed to the rest of the sentences of the example, we could generate a great many revised versions of each. These revisions might differ significantly from one another in the way their structures indicate to the reader the various weights and balances to be given to the information. Had the author placed all stress-worthy material in stress positions, we as a reading community would have been far more likely to interpret these sentences uniformly.
We couch this discussion in terms of "likelihood" because we believe that meaning is not inherent in discourse by itself; "meaning" requires the combined participation of text and reader. All sentences are infinitely interpretable, given an infinite number of interpreters. As communities of readers, however, we tend to work out tacit agreements as to what kinds of meaning are most likely to be extracted from certain articulations. We cannot succeed in making even a single sentence mean one and only one thing; we can only increase the odds that a large majority of readers will tend to interpret our discourse according to our intentions. Such success will follow from authors becoming more consciously aware of the various reader expectations presented here.
Here is one set of revisionary decisions we made for the example:
The smallest of the URF’s, URFA6L, has been identified as the animal equivalent of the recently discovered yeast H+-ATPase subunit 8 gene; but the functional significance of other URF’s has been more elusive. Recently, however, several human URF’s have been shown to encode subunits of rotenone-sensitive NADH-ubiquinone oxido-reductase. This is a large complex that also contains many subunits synthesized in the cytoplasm; it will be referred to hereafter as respiratory chain NADH dehydrogenase or Complex I. Six subunits of Complex I were shown by enzyme fractionation studies and immunoprecipitation experiments to be encoded by six human URF’s (URF1, URF2, URF3, URF4, URF4L, and URF5); these URF’s will be referred to subsequently as ND1, ND2, ND3, ND4, ND4L, and ND5.
Sheer length was neither the problem nor the solution. The revised version is not noticeably shorter than the original; nevertheless, it is significantly easier to interpret. We have indeed deleted certain words, but not on the basis of wordiness or excess length. (See especially the last sentence of our revision).
When is a sentence too long? The creators of readability formulas would have us believe there exists some fixed number of words (the favorite is 29) past which a sentence is too hard to read. We disagree. We have seen 10-word sentences that are virtually impenetrable and, as mentioned above, 100-word sentences that flow effortlessly to their points of resolution. In place of the word-limit concept, we offer the following definition: A sentence is too long when it has more viable candidates for stress positions than there are stress positions available. Without the stress position’s locational clue that its material is intended to be emphasized, readers are left too much to their own devices in deciding just what else in a sentence might be considered important.
In revising the example passage, we made certain decisions about what to omit and what to emphasize. We put subjects and verbs together to lessen the reader’s syntactic burdens; we put the material we believed worthy of emphasis in stress positions; and we discarded material for which we could not discern significant connections. In doing so, we have produced a clearer passage—but not one that necessarily reflects the author’s intentions; it reflects only our interpretation of the author’s intentions. The more problematic the structure, the less likely it becomes that a grand majority of readers will perceive the discourse in exactly the way the author intended.
It is probable that many of our readers—and perhaps even the authors—will disagree with some of our choices. If so, that disagreement underscores our point: The original failed to communicate its ideas and their connections clearly. If we happened to have interpreted the passage as you did, then we can make a different point: No one should have to work as hard as we did to unearth the content of a single passage of this length.
To summarize the principles connected with the stress position, we have the proverbial wisdom, "Save the best for last." To summarize the principles connected with the other end of the sentence, which we will call the topic position, we have its proverbial contradiction, "First things first." In the stress position the reader needs and expects closure and fulfillment; in the topic position the reader needs and expects perspective and context. With so much of reading comprehension affected by what shows up in the topic position, it behooves a writer to control what appears at the beginning of sentences with great care.
The information that begins a sentence establishes for the reader a perspective for viewing the sentence as a unit: Readers expect a unit of discourse to be a story about whoever shows up first. "Bees disperse pollen" and "Pollen is dispersed by bees" are two different but equally respectable sentences about the same facts. The first tells us something about bees; the second tells us something about pollen. The passivity of the second sentence does not by itself impair its quality; in fact, "Pollen is dispersed by bees" is the superior sentence if it appears in a paragraph that intends to tell us a continuing story about pollen. Pollen’s story at that moment is a passive one.
Readers also expect the material occupying the topic position to provide them with linkage (looking backward) and context (looking forward). The information in the topic position prepares the reader for upcoming material by connecting it backward to the previous discussion. Although linkage and context can derive from several sources, they stem primarily from material that the reader has already encountered within this particular piece of discourse. We refer to this familiar, previously introduced material as "old information." Conversely, material making its first appearance in a discourse is "new information." When new information is important enough to receive emphasis, it functions best in the stress position.
When old information consistently arrives in the topic position, it helps readers to construct the logical flow of the argument: It focuses attention on one particular strand of the discussion, both harkening backward and leaning forward. In contrast, if the topic position is constantly occupied by material that fails to establish linkage and context, readers will have difficulty perceiving both the connection to the previous sentence and the projected role of the new sentence in the development of the paragraph as a whole.
Here is a second example of scientific prose that we shall attempt to improve in subsequent discussion:
Large earthquakes along a given fault segment do not occur at random intervals because it takes time to accumulate the strain energy for the rupture. The rates at which tectonic plates move and accumulate strain at their boundaries are approximately uniform. Therefore, in first approximation, one may expect that large ruptures of the same fault segment will occur at approximately constant time intervals. If subsequent mainshocks have different amounts of slip across the fault, then the recurrence time may vary, and the basic idea of periodic mainshocks must be modified. For great plate boundary ruptures the length and slip often vary by a factor of 2. Along the southern segment of the San Andreas fault the recurrence interval is 145 years with variations of several decades. The smaller the standard deviation of the average recurrence interval, the more specific could be the long term prediction of a future mainshock.
This is the kind of passage that in subtle ways can make readers feel badly about themselves. The individual sentences give the impression of being intelligently fashioned: They are not especially long or convoluted; their vocabulary is appropriately professional but not beyond the ken of educated general readers; and they are free of grammatical and dictional errors. On first reading, however, many of us arrive at the paragraph’s end without a clear sense of where we have been or where we are going. When that happens, we tend to berate ourselves for not having paid close enough attention. In reality, the fault lies not with us, but with the author.
We can distill the problem by looking closely at the information in each sentence’s topic position:
Large earthquakes
The rates
Therefore . . . one
subsequent mainshocks
great plate boundary ruptures
the southern segment of the San Andreas fault
the smaller the standard deviation . . .
Much of this information is making its first appearance in this paragraph—in precisely the spot where the reader looks for old, familiar information. As a result, the focus of the story contains shifts. Given just the material in the topic positions, no two readers would be likely to construct exactly the same story for the paragraph as a whole.
If we try to piece together the relationship of each sentence to its neighbors, we notice that certain bits of old information keep reappearing. We hear a good deal about the recurrence time between earthquakes: The first sentence introduces the concept of nonrandom intervals between earthquakes; the second sentence tells us that recurrence rates due to the movement of tectonic plates are more or less uniform; the third sentence adds that the recurrence rate of major earthquakes should also be somewhat predictable; the fourth sentence adds that recurrence rates vary with some conditions; the fifth sentence adds information about one particular variation; the sixth sentence adds a recurrence-rate example from California; and the last sentence tells us something about how recurrence rates can be described statistically. This refrain of "recurrence intervals" constitutes the major string of old information in the paragraph. Unfortunately, it rarely appears at the beginning of sentences, where it would help us maintain our focus on its continuing story.
In reading, as in most experiences, we appreciate the opportunity to become familiar with a new environment before having to function in it. Writing that continually begins sentences with new information and ends with old information forbids both the sense of comfort and orientation at the start and the sense of fulfilling arrival at the end. It misleads the reader as to whose story is being told; it burdens the reader with new information that must be carried further into the sentence before it can be connected to the discussion; and it creates ambiguity as to which material the writer intended the reader to emphasize. All of these distractions require that readers expend a disproportionate amount of energy to unravel the structure of the prose, leaving less energy available for perceiving content.
We can begin to revise the example by ensuring the following for each sentence:
- The backward-linking old information appears in the topic position.
- The person, thing or concept whose story it is appears in the topic position.
- The new, emphasis-worthy information appears in the stress position.
Once again, if our decisions concerning the relative values of specific information differ from yours, we can all blame the author, who failed to make his intentions apparent. Here first is a list of what we perceived to be the new, emphatic material in each sentence.
time to accumulate strain energy along a fault
approximately uniform
large ruptures of the same fault
different amounts of slip
vary by a factor of 2
variations of several decades
predictions of future mainshock
Now, based on these assumptions about what deserves stress, here is our proposed revision:
Large earthquakes along a given fault segment do not occur at random intervals because it takes time to accumulate the strain energy for the rupture. The rates at which tectonic plates move and accumulate strain at their boundaries are roughly uniform. Therefore, nearly constant time intervals (at first approximation) would be expected between large ruptures of the same fault segment. [However?], the recurrence time may vary; the basic idea of periodic mainshocks may need to be modified if subsequent mainshocks have different amounts of slip across the fault. [Indeed?], the length and slip of great plate boundary ruptures often vary by a factor of 2. [For example?], the recurrence interval along the southern segment of the San Andreas fault is 145 years with variations of several decades. The smaller the standard deviation of the average recurrence interval, the more specific could be the long term prediction of a future mainshock.
Many problems that had existed in the original have now surfaced for the first time. Is the reason earthquakes do not occur at random intervals stated in the first sentence or the second? Are the suggested choices of "however," "indeed," and "for example" the right ones to express the connections at those points? (All these connections were left unarticulated in the original paragraph.) If "for example" is an inaccurate transitional phrase, then exactly how does the San Andreas fault example connect to ruptures that "vary by a factor of 2? Is the author arguing that recurrence rates must vary because fault movements often vary? Or is the author preparing us for a discussion of how in spite of such variance we might still be able to predict earthquakes? This last question remains unanswered because the final sentence leaves behind earthquakes that recur regularly. Given that this is the first paragraph of the article, which type of earthquake will the article most likely proceed to discuss? In sum, we are now more aware of how much the paragraph had not communicated to us on first reading. We can see that most of our difficulty was owing not to any deficiency in our reading skills but rather to the author’s lack of comprehension of our structural needs as readers.
In our experience, the misplacement of old and new information turns out to be the No. 1 problem in American professional writing today. The source of the problem is not hard to discover: Most writers produce prose linearly (from left to right) and through time. As they begin to formulate a sentence, often their primary anxiety is to capture the important new thought before it escapes. Quite naturally they rush to record that new information on paper, after which they can produce at their leisure the contextualizing material that links back to the previous discourse. Writers who do this consistently are attending more to their own need for unburdening themselves of their information than to the reader’s need for receiving the material. The methodology of reader expectations articulates the reader’s needs explicitly, thereby making writers consciously aware of structural problems and ways to solve them.
A note of clarification: Many people hearing this structural advice tend to oversimplify it to the following rule: "Put the old information in the topic position and the new information in the stress position." No such rule is possible. Since by definition all information is either old or new, the space between the topic position and the stress position must also be filled with old and new information. Therefore the principle (not rule) should be stated as follows: "Put in the topic position the old information that links backward; put in the stress position the new information you want the reader to emphasize."
When old information does not appear at all in a sentence, whether in the topic position or elsewhere, readers are left to construct the logical linkage by themselves. Often this happens when the connections are so clear in the writer’s mind that they seem unnecessary to state; at those moments, writers underestimate the difficulties and ambiguities inherent in the reading process. Our third example attempts to demonstrate how paying attention to the placement of old and new information can reveal where a writer has neglected to articulate essential connections.
The enthalpy of hydrogen bond formation between the nucleoside bases 2’deoxyguanosine (dG) and 2’deoxycytidine (dC) has been determined by direct measurement. dG and dC were derivatized at the 5’ and 3’ hydroxyls with triisopropylsilyl groups to obtain solubility of the nucleosides in non-aqueous solvents and to prevent the ribose hydroxyls from forming hydrogen bonds. From isoperibolic titration measurements, the enthalpy of dC:dG base pair formation is -6.65+0.32 kcal/mol.
Although part of the difficulty of reading this passage may stem from its abundance of specialized technical terms, a great deal more of the difficulty can be attributed to its structural problems. These problems and now familiar: We are not sure at all times whose story is being told; in the first sentence the subject and verb are widely separated; the second sentence has only one stress position but two or three pieces of information that are probably worthy of emphasis—"solubility . . . solvents," "prevent . . . from forming hydrogen bonds" and perhaps "triisopropylsilyl groups." These perceptions suggest the following revision tactics:
Here is a partial revision based on these decisions:
We have directly measured the enthalpy of hydrogen bond formation between the nucleoside bases 2’deoxyguanosine (dG) and 2’deoxycytidine (dC). dG and dC were derivatized at the 5’ and 3’ hydroxyls with triisopropylsilyl groups; these groups serve both to solubilize the nucleosides in non-aqueous solvents and to prevent the ribose hydroxyls from forming hydrogen bonds. From isoperibolic titration measurements, the enthalpy of dC:dG base pair formation is -6.65+0.32 kcal/mol.
The outlines of the experiment are now becoming visible, but there is still a major logical gap. After reading the second sentence, we expect to hear more about the two effects that were important enough to merit placement in its stress position. Our expectations are frustrated, however, when those effects are not mentioned in the next sentence: "From isoperibolic titration measurements, the enthalpy of dC:dG base pair formation is -6.65+0.32 kcal/mol." The authors have neglected to explain the relationship between the derivatization they performed (in the second sentence) and the measurements they made (in the third sentence). Ironically, that is the point they most wished to make here.
At this juncture, particularly astute readers who are chemists might draw upon their specialized knowledge, silently supplying the missing connection. Other readers are left in the dark. Here is one version of what we think the authors meant to say, with two additional sentences supplied from a knowledge on nucleic acid chemistry:
We have directly measured the enthalpy of hydrogen bond formation between the nucleoside bases 2’deoxyguanosine (dG) and 2’deoxycytidine (dC). dG and dC were derivatized at the 5’ and 3’ hydroxyls with triisopropylsilyl groups; these groups serve both to solubilize the nucleosides in non-aqueous solvents and to prevent the ribose hydroxyls from forming hydrogen bonds. Consequently, when the derivatized nucleosides are dissolved in non-aqueous solvents, hydrogen bonds form almost exclusively between the bases. Since the interbase hydrogen bonds are the only bonds to form upon mixing, their enthalpy of formation can be determined directly by measuring the enthalpy of mixing. From our isoperibolic titration measurements, the enthalpy of dC:dG base pair formation is -6.65+0.32 kcal/mol.
Each sentence now proceeds logically from its predecessor. We never have to wander too far into a sentence without being told where we are and what former strands of discourse are being continued. And the "measurements" of the last sentence has now become old information, reaching back to the "measured directly" of the preceding sentence. (It also fulfills the promise of the "we have directly measured" with which the paragraph began.) By following our knowledge of reader expectations, we have been able to spot discontinuities, to suggest strategies for bridging gaps, and to rearrange the structure of the prose, thereby increasing the accessibility of the scientific content.
Our final example adds another major reader expectation to the list.
Transcription of the 5S RNA genes in the egg extract is TFIIIA-dependent. This is surprising, because the concentration of TFIIIA is the same as in the oocyte nuclear extract. The other transcription factors and RNA polymerase III are presumed to be in excess over available TFIIIA, because tRNA genes are transcribed in the egg extract. The addition of egg extract to the oocyte nuclear extract has two effects on transcription efficiency. First, there is a general inhibition of transcription that can be alleviated in part by supplementation with high concentrations of RNA polymerase III. Second, egg extract destabilizes transcription complexes formed with oocyte but not somatic 5S RNA genes.
The barriers to comprehension in this passage are so many that it may appear difficult to know where to start revising. Fortunately, it does not matter where we start, since attending to any one structural problem eventually leads us to all the others.
We can spot one source of difficulty by looking at the topic positions of the sentences: We cannot tell whose story the passage is. The story’s focus (that is, the occupant of the topic position) changes in every sentence. If we search for repeated old information in hope of settling on a good candidate for several of the topic positions, we find all too much of it: egg extract, TFIIIA, oocyte extract, RNA polymerase III, 5S RNA, and transcription. All of these reappear at various points, but none announces itself clearly as out primary focus. It appears that the passage is trying to tell several stories simultaneously, allowing none to dominate.
We are unable to decide among these stories because the author has not told us what to do with all this information. We know who the players are, but we are ignorant of the actions they are presumed to perform. This violates yet another important reader expectation: Readers expect the action of a sentence to be articulated by the verb.
Here is a list of the verbs in the example paragraph:
is
is . . . is
are presumed to be
are transcribed
has
is . . . can be alleviated
destabilizes
The list gives too few clues as to what actions actually take place in the passage. If the actions are not to be found in the verbs, then we as readers have no secondary structural clues for where to locate them. Each of us has to make a personal interpretive guess; the writer no longer controls the reader’s interpretive act.
Worse still, in this passage the important actions never appear. Based on our best understanding of this material, the verbs that connect these players are "limit" and inhibit." If we express those actions as verbs and place the most frequently occurring information—"egg extract" and "TFIIIA"—in the topic position whenever possible,* we can generate the following revision.
In the egg extract, the availability of TFIIIA limits transcription of the 5S RNA genes. This is surprising because the same concentration of TFIIIA does not limit transcription in the oocyte nuclear extract. In the egg extract, transcription is not limited by RNA polymerase or other factors because transcription of tRNA genes indicates that these factors are in excess over available TFIIIA. When added to the nuclear extract, the egg extract affected the efficiency of transcription in two ways. First, it inhibited transcription generally; this inhibition could be alleviated in part by supplementing the mixture with high concentrations of RNA polymerase III. Second, the egg extract destabilized transcription complexes formed by oocyte but not by somatic 5S genes.
As a story about "egg extract," this passage still leaves something to be desired. But at least now we can recognize that the author has not explained the connection between "limit" and "inhibit." This unarticulated connection seems to us to contain both of her hypotheses: First, that the limitation on transcription is caused by an inhibitor of TFIIIA present in the egg extract; and, second, that the action of that inhibitor can be detected by adding the egg extract to the oocyte extract and examining the effects on transcription. As critical scientific readers, we would like to concentrate our energy on whether the experiments prove the hypotheses. We cannot begin to do so if we are left in doubt as to what those hypotheses might be—and if we are using most of our energy to discern the structure of the prose rather than its substance.
We began this article by arguing that complex thoughts expressed in impenetrable prose can be rendered accessible and clear without minimizing any of their complexity. Our examples of scientific writing have ranged from the merely cloudy to the virtually opaque; yet all of them could be made significantly more comprehensible by observing the following structural principles:
- Follow a grammatical subject as soon as possible with its verb.
- Place in the stress position the "new information" you want the reader to emphasize.
- Place the person or thing whose "story" a sentence is telling at the beginning of the sentence, in the topic position.
- Place appropriate "old information" (material already stated in the discourse) in the topic position for linkage backward and contextualization forward.
- Articulate the action of every clause or sentence in its verb.
- In general, provide context for your reader before asking that reader to consider anything new.
- In general, try to ensure that the relative emphases of the substance coincide with the relative expectations for emphasis raised by the structure.
None of these reader-expectation principles should be considered "rules." Slavish adherence to them will succeed no better than has slavish adherence to avoiding split infinitives or to using the active voice instead of the passive. There can be no fixed algorithm for good writing, for two reasons. First, too many reader expectations are functioning at any given moment for structural decisions to remain clear and easily activated. Second, any reader expectation can be violated to good effect. Our best stylists turn out to be our most skillful violators; but in order to carry this off, they must fulfill expectations most of the time, causing the violations to be perceived as exceptional moments, worthy of note.
writer’s personal style is the sum of all the structural choices that person tends to make when facing the challenges of creating discourse. Writers who fail to put new information in the stress position of many sentences in one document are likely to repeat that unhelpful structural pattern in all other documents. But for the very reason that writers tend to be consistent in making such choices, they can learn to improve their writing style; they can permanently reverse those habitual structural decisions that mislead or burden readers.
We have argued that the substance of thought and the expression of thought are so inextricably intertwined that changes in either will affect the quality of the other. Note that only the first of our examples (the paragraph about URF’s) could be revised on the basis of the methodology to reveal a nearly finished passage. In all the other examples, revision revealed existing conceptual gaps and other problems that had been submerged in the originals by dysfunctional structures. Filling the gaps required the addition of extra material. In revising each of these examples, we arrived at a point where we could proceed no further without either supplying connections between ideas or eliminating some existing material altogether. (Writers who use reader-expectation principles on their own prose will not have to conjecture or infer; they know what the prose is intended to convey.) Having begun by analyzing the structure of the prose, we were led eventually to reinvestigate the substance of the science.
The substance of science comprises more than the discovery and recording of data; it extends crucially to include the act of interpretation. It may seem obvious that a scientific document is incomplete without the interpretation of the writer; it may not be so obvious that the document cannot "exist" without the interpretation of each reader. In other words, writers cannot "merely" record data, even if they try. In any recording or articulation, no matter how haphazard or confused, each word resides in one or more distinct structural locations. The resulting structure, even more than the meanings of individual words, significantly influences the reader during the act of interpretation. The question then becomes whether the structure created by the writer (intentionally or not) helps or hinders the reader in the process of interpreting the scientific writing.
The writing principles we have suggested here make conscious for the writer some of the interpretive clues readers derive from structures. Armed with this awareness, the writer can achieve far greater control (although never complete control) of the reader’s interpretive process. As a concomitant function, the principles simultaneously offer the writer a fresh re-entry to the thought process that produced the science. In real and important ways, the structure of the prose becomes the structure of the scientific argument. Improving either one will improve the other.
Williams, Joseph M. 1988. Style: Ten Lessons in Clarity and Grace. Scott, Foresman, & Co.
Colomb, Gregory G., and Joseph M. Williams. 1985. Perceiving structure in professional prose: a multiply determined experience. In Writing in Non-Academic Settings, eds. Lee Odell and Dixie Goswami. Guilford Press, pp. 87-128.
Gopen, George D. 1987. Let the buyer in ordinary course of business beware: suggestions for revising the language of the Uniform Commercial Code. University of Chicago Law Review 54:1178-1214.
Gopen, George D. 1990. The Common Sense of Writing: Teaching Writing from the Reader’s Perspective. To be published.
Links
[1] https://www.e-education.psu.edu/styleforstudents/c10_p2.html
[2] https://www.e-education.psu.edu/styleforstudents/c10_p3.html
[3] https://www.e-education.psu.edu/styleforstudents/c10_p4.html
[4] https://www.e-education.psu.edu/styleforstudents/c10_p5.html
[5] https://www.e-education.psu.edu/styleforstudents/c10_p6.html
[6] http://writingcenter.unc.edu/handouts/
[7] http://www.cs.columbia.edu/~hgs/etc/writing-style.html
[8] https://www.e-education.psu.edu/styleforstudents/sites/www.e-education.psu.edu.styleforstudents/files/file/chapter 10/Comments from GSAB.pdf
[9] https://www.e-education.psu.edu/styleforstudents/c10_p1.html
[10] https://www.e-education.psu.edu/styleforstudents/sites/www.e-education.psu.edu.styleforstudents/files/file/chapter 10/Advice to Scientists.pdf
[11] https://www.e-education.psu.edu/styleforstudents/sites/www.e-education.psu.edu.styleforstudents/files/file/chapter 10/Precise Writing.pdf
[12] https://www.e-education.psu.edu/styleforstudents/sites/www.e-education.psu.edu.styleforstudents/files/file/chapter 10/Universal Recipe.pdf
[13] https://www.e-education.psu.edu/styleforstudents/sites/www.e-education.psu.edu.styleforstudents/files/file/chapter 10/Science of Writing.pdf