Writing in organisations

Talking is natural. Writing is not. (Verlyn Klinkenborg)
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As soon as I started preparing a seminar on writing for a group of undergraduates studying music and sound, I noticed that I almost knew too much about my subject: in recent years I have become intrigued not just by writing itself but by the whole context around it. For example: the interplay between writing and conversation; the influence of communication technologies on human society; and the uses of narrative writing in education and at work. As some of my readers know, I work as a writing coach and I even focused my thesis on how people use writing in organisations...

The students are in their first year at university and have an essay deadline looming, and we will only have two hours together, so I wanted to come up with a seminar that is pitched at the right level and includes plenty of useful learning activities. On this occasion, therefore, I wanted to set aside my specialised interests and focus on some of the “essentials” of essay writing.

The next thing I noticed was that my preparation process was a long and winding one:  I thought about the seminar on walks, in the shower and while sitting on trains; I had conversations about it; I drew mindmaps; I looked at relevant documents; I made a provisional plan; I let the ideas simmer overnight; I went back over the plan; and then I had the idea of writing a blog post about it. The whole exercise left me wondering whether I am one of those people who, in the words of French essayist Michel de Montaigne, feel compelled to go in for “tedious and elaborate meditation” when preparing a talk or sermon!

Eventually, thank goodness, I was ready to jettison less relevant stuff and settle on what I think are the most essential skills needed to write good essays:

(1) Organising one’s thinking – I want to help the students work out how to structure their argument, given that their 2000-word essay is supposed to feature one case study (e.g. a musical work) and they have been told to: (i) describe the work; (ii) analyse the medium; (iii) contextualise the work; and (iv) interpret it.

(2) Writing good sentences – for less experienced writers, this includes stripping out every unnecessary word, using active verbs, breaking down long, unwieldy sentences into shorter ones, and revising drafts meticulously.

(3) Liberating one’s creative thinking – with the help of activities such as conversation (e.g. talking to a fellow student) and “freewriting” (taking pen and paper and spending a few minutes handwriting whatever comes to mind on a particular subject without stopping or erasing anything).

The first two skills (structure and sentence-writing) may seem obvious ones to learn, but I think the third one is often underrated.

After I had settled on these three, I started to wonder what my overarching idea might be, if indeed there is one. Perhaps it is simply that essay writing takes time and effort – you can’t just dash it off at the last minute. Indeed, a good essay usually requires revisiting the draft again and again (some call this “iterative” writing). "All writing is revision, claims Verlyn Klinkenborg in his exquisite book, Several Short Sentences About Writing:

A writer may write painstakingly,
Assembling the work slowly, like a mosaic,
Fitting and refitting sentences and paragraphs over the years.
And yet to the reader the writing may seem to flow.
(Verlyn Klinkenborg)

(I’ll leave you guessing how many times I revised this blog post before plucking up courage to press “Publish”.)

If this all sounds like too much hard work, it is – many people find writing arduous and painful. I suspect this is partly because human beings are first and foremost talking animals – as a species, we started to speak many, many thousands of years before we invented writing. Without writing, our oral ancestors were limited to talking to each other and telling stories from memory. They certainly couldn’t “look things up” in books or on the internet and they had no way of developing complex, abstract arguments.

I have noticed that being good at writing is a great advantage in life. Yes, it’s a bit of a slog, but it can also be satisfying and mind-expanding... maybe precisely because it involves such a rich mix of analytical and creative thinking.

Postscript
It was great fun working with the students last week. One noticed that having a conversation with somebody about their essay subject made them feel enthusiastic about it. And as for the freewriting, they didn't seem to want to stop, even though one student said he didn't like his own handwriting. 

An acknowledgement
Although I had tried out freewriting (AKA automatic writing) myself some time ago, it was Gilly Smith who helped me see its true value by introducing me to "dreamwriting".

Related reading
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Michel de Montaigne: Essays, Book 1 Ch X, Of Quick or Slow Speech (1580).

George Orwell: Politics and the English Language (1946). 

Verlyn Klinkenborg: Several Short Sentences About Writing (2012).

The recent Syria debate in the House of Commons gave me an appetite – for the first time – for watching the Parliament channel on TV. The experience reminded me what an important part debate plays in democracy (as Bishop Richard Harries said on BBC Radio 4 next morning). But I also noticed - as did many others - just how easy it was to be swayed by a rousing speech.

As I watched the MPs, I paid as much attention to how they spoke as I did to their opinions. I only had time for a few of the speeches but I was especially moved by one – even though the speaker, Tom Tugendhat, was in favour of military action whereas I felt highly sceptical about it. When I listened to his speech again on the web next day, I noted that, after first making his view very clear, he went on to recall his own fear and nervousness as he prepared to go out to Iraq in 2003 as a member of the armed forces. He also expressed his sorrow in learning of the destruction of monasteries and murder of friends in Syria. It became obvious that he had spent many years in the Middle East.

So how does a speech like this work? This question prompted me to go back to Aristotle for some insights on rhetoric. A good orator, he maintained, employs three modes of persuasion: logos (argument or words), pathos (feeling) and ethos (which roughly means the speaker’s character or credibility). Tugendhat, by speaking from his own experience, certainly came across to me as genuine, and I think he did a good job of combining all three modes of persuasion.

In contrast, some of the other speeches irritated me by overdoing the pathos. A number of MPs focused on stirring strong feelings against Daesh but failed to explain why military action was necessary specifically. (The motion before the House did at least acknowledge that “military action against ISIL was only one component of a broader strategy to bring peace and stability to Syria”.) I therefore had sympathy with Caroline Lucas of the Green Party when she said: “Some of us are more committed than others to looking at the full range of measures in front of us, and looking at the evidence that suggests that bombing to date has not been successful.”

Next morning, on Radio 4, shadow chancellor John McDonnell (much quoted since) made what seemed to me a valid point about the risks of rhetoric (with ambiguous praise for the shadow foreign secretary's performance!):

“I thought Hilary [Benn]’s oratory was great. It reminded me of Tony Blair’s speech taking us into the Iraq War. I’m always anxious that sometimes the greatest oratory can lead us to the greatest mistakes, as well.”

McDonnell’s words prompted me to listen to Benn’s speech in full on the web. Benn's final plea that “We must now confront this evil. It is now time for us to do our bit in Syria” was hard to disagree with. But I just still wonder if military action will help. Only time will tell.
 
In the days following the vote, I happened to be reading Richard Sennett’s book “Together” and this got me thinking about the difference between debate and dialogue. The purpose of debate is typically to reach a collective opinion or decision within a limited time-frame. Dialogue, on the other hand, is a more open-ended exchange in which people may “become more aware of their own views and expand their understanding of one another”. Sennett suggests that modern society is much better at debate than dialogue. But, as he writes, it’s not “either-or”. We need both. That's a topic for another post, though...

Related reading and links:

Richard Sennett: Together. Penguin Books.

Aristotle (1991): The art of rhetoric. Penguin Books.

Wikipedia on modes of persuasion

Tom Tugendhat’s speech in full

Excerpt from Caroline Lucas’s speech

John McDonnell’s words on the Today Programme

Hilary Benn’s speech in full

Bishop Harries’ “Thought for the Day” on the Syria debate

I recently went to a university symposium – a kind of mini-conference – on the subject of ‘Heritage in the 21st century’, which was interesting. It also prompted me to reflect again on how we combine writing and talking, and I couldn't help concluding we could do a better job of it.

I found the topics interesting – e.g.the role of sound in ruins, or places in Britain associated with authors and literature. And most speakers brought their subject to life by showing plenty of photos. But during some of the talks, I found myself drifting away after just a few minutes. I think my lapses of concentration had a lot to do with the general format of the event: people reading from scripts with the audience seated in rows of chairs all facing the screen.

What sometimes puzzles me is that, all around us today, we see high standards of public speaking and writing – in radio, TV, books, newspapers, web talks, and so on. Yet those who organise and speak at conferences generally seem to be lagging behind. I’m not saying that the speakers I saw did a bad job, given the context and culture that they work within. Indeed, one of the keynote speakers was brilliant: it was obvious from the moment cultural historian Robert Hewison stood up that he would be a pleasure to listen to. Even though he clearly had a script in front of him, he projected his voice, his talk flowed and was both provocative and informative. And he spoke without a single PowerPoint slide. 

But my experiences of academic conferences does leave me wondering what is going on here. I feel that people convening and participating in such events are really missing a trick. Below a few immediate thoughts and suggestions:

1. To read or not to read? I think it is completely understandable that people give talks with a piece of paper in their hand. Often we fear that, without a script, we might forget what we wanted to say or that our thinking will come across as unstructured. But there are ways of reading out loud that keep the attention of the audience – by reading slowly, making frequent eye contact with those listening, and finding opportunities to extemporise and expand beyond the script, to name a few. (I watched Mike Leigh do all these things last night at the BAFTA ceremony, and despite losing his place in the script once or twice, he remained engaging and interesting.)

2. The (lost?) art of oratory. Rhetoric, or the art of public speaking, was central to education for centuries in both the Ancient and Mediaeval worlds. Isn’t it time to return to studying the art of oratory? Aristotle distinguished three aspects of rhetoric: logos, pathos and ethos and that still seems a good starting point. I was once schooled in the McKinsey way of organising presentations, which is based on Barbara Minto’s Pyramid Principle. This method is useful but it privileges just one aspect of rhetoric – logic.

3. Storytellers’ methods. Another way of thinking about structure, commonly used by storytellers, involves identifying the ‘bones’ of your story and then improvising. Or you can imagine you are taking your listeners on a journey, in which case all the preparation needed is to identify a few significant landmarks or stages in the journey before setting off.

4. Putting asides in the centre. Going back to the symposium that got me thinking about all this, I should declare an interest: one of the speakers was my husband. What I noticed particularly about his talk was that the most engaging moments were those where he looked up from his script and improvised, usually by making asides that gave us a glimpse of the depth of his knowledge about his subject and of his sense of humour. When he and I were reflecting on the event, I wondered out loud if there might be a way of putting asides and improvised remarks at the centre of the talk. In my experience, any form of structure can work, even a very non-linear one, provided the speaker believes in what he or she is saying and speaks with energy and confidence (one could call it ‘presence’).

5. What if we all had to earn our living from our writing and public speaking? I was struck by the thought that Robert Hewison, the most engaging speaker, has earned a living from his writing and broadcasting. The need to earn money may be a healthy constraint. Those who need to do so cannot afford to write dull texts. They have to pick subjects that interest sufficient numbers of people, be willing to say something provocative, express themselves clearly, tell a good story and be good at both writing and speaking. 

6. Innovative forms of gathering people together. There are many newish ideas and practices out there – ‘open space’ events, the ‘fishbowl’ method, large group meetings with everybody sitting in one big circle, to name just three. One newer and refreshing form that I have come across more recently is the ‘pecha kucha’, where speakers are limited to a maximum of 20 slides (images) and can talk for 20 seconds per slide (making a total of 6.7 minutes). 

One of the most radical forms I know sounds the most deceptively simple: the convening and conducting of a grown-up group conversation.

Which form works best depends on what we are trying to achieve. In my experience, the grown-up or free-flowing conversation without any formal agenda is rare but well suited to sharing and exploring lived experience or discussing ideas. I personally find this form of gathering both fruitful and fascinating, because it also allows those taking part to notice what is happening in the room and reflect on it in real time. 

Related reading

Aristotle: The Art of Rhetoric, Penguin Books, 1991. Translation by Hugh Lawson-Tancred.

Barbara Minto: The Pyramid Principle: logic in writing and thinking, BCA, 19991.

Walter J Ong: The Presence of the Word, Yale University Press, 1967.

Patricia Shaw: Changing conversations in organizations, Routledge, 2002.

Pecha Kucha: www.pechakucha.org/ 

I recently gave a lecture on writing to undergraduate law students. The title was “Structure in writing”, and I attempted to introduce them to both logical structure and story. At the end I asked them to write down what my lecture had left them wondering about structure in writing. We collected up their notes and I studied them at home. Their wonderings were interesting – e.g. Why is story more intriguing [than logical structure, presumably]? How can I integrate story and facts? How can I use stories to draw my reader in? 

As always, it was the one critical comment that stuck most in my mind:  “Why were you beating about the bush? This could have been covered in 30 minutes.” On my way home I pondered what this student had meant. Perhaps he or she felt impatient listening to my anecdotes. I had made a special effort to bring my lecture to life with tales from my own experience. For example, I told them how, when applying for the job of editor with the management consultants McKinsey back in 1987, I wrote a covering letter using what I understood to be the “McKinsey way of thinking” (logical structure), taking the specifications mentioned in the job ad as my starting point. I got the job, so maybe my logically-structured letter made a difference.

As I reflected on the student’s comment, I reflected that you can’t please everybody. Some want the general principles (or the ‘so whats?’ in McKinsey-speak) without any narrative detours, while others like some stories and examples to ease them into the principles. Including stories in a lecture is a bit like digging in compost to enrich and lighten heavy clay soil.

The question for me is always: how best to interweave narrative and propositional forms (argument, opinion or generalisations) in a lecture or piece of writing? As Jerome Bruner noted: 

“A good story and a well-formed argument are different natural kinds. Both can be used as means for convincing another. Yet what they convince of is fundamentally different: arguments convince one of their truth, stories of their lifelikeness.” (Jerome Bruner: Actual minds, possible worlds)

So if you combine the two, you may have a powerful mix. The art lies partly in selecting the best and most relevant stories and examples to engage your reader, and then telling them well. That requires considerable thought, empathy and storytelling skills.

Related reading

Jerome Bruner. Actual minds, possible worlds, 1986

Stephen Denning. The springboard – how storytelling ignites action in knowledge-era organizations, 2001.

Richard Kearney. On stories, 2001.

Barbara Minto. The Pyramid Principle, 1987.