Common and Uncommon Ground

In the last posting I suggested that good writing is both shocking and staid. This is, of course, a bit impossible. On the one hand, it’s important to give the reader what she expects. On the other, she expects to be intrigued, entertained, and informed, all of which require you to do something new. Getting the balance right is an important part of good writing, and difficult to do well. It deserves at least a little more discussion.

Walking the Line

Hey, buddy, all of us down here at the bank are sorry about the whole foreclosure thing. Wish we could’ve figured out another way. But, that’s the way the housing bubble bounces. If you could make sure things are cleared out of there by Tuesday, that would be awesome. Don’t want to have to show up with the sheriff at 6am. Em-barr-ass-ing. Anywho, just drop the keys by when you get the chance, and let us know if you need help with the move.

No one wants to get a letter indicating that the bank is moving forward with foreclosure and eviction. But if they do, they aren’t expecting the above letter. Expectations are important. A lot of our grammar and style “rules” don’t come with obvious penalties, at least not outside the school setting. But particularly for an occasion like this, a formal letter is appropriate. The above may be entirely heartfelt, but just hits the wrong note.

A lot of the rhetoric of visual design is analogous to the rhetoric of written work. When you look at some of the standard criteria for evaluating design–unity, balance, rhythm–you will find that the best work follows these rules in some ways and breaks them in others. If you are designing something for a long-standing conservative company, it is appropriate to adhere to both timeless and current design standards. It should be relatively symmetrical, and make use of traditionally complementary colors, for example. This is what customers expect. On the other hand, they like some level of surprise, even from the most staid and conservative shop, business, or author.

On the other side of that equation, if you are trying to portray yourself as a hip, cutting edge company, you’re likely to demonstrate that in the way you flout traditional design rules. On the other hand, lacking any sort of attachment to convention is a problem.

There is no reason that we should still design in columns for the screen. This was an artifact of stereotype that survives today because people read newspapers and have learned to expect to see columns on a page. And now, with two and three-column layouts the norm on the web, diverting too far from the norm is dangerous.

All of this is equally true of writing. There are rules that are pretty much obeyed because not doing so is too great a departure from the expected. Yes, there is the exception of unusual titles or branding (Flickr, Inglorious Basterds), but unless you are James Joyce or Anthony Burgess, you can’t just decide on your own to make up spelling and grammar. Then there are smaller nuances. More formal writing, for example, eschews the first person and contractions. It prefers “must” to “have to” and “many” to “a lot of.” (Note that the simplicity of the former in each of these cases: one word instead of two or three, militates for its use in informal settings as well.) It doesn’t mean you are somehow forbidden from using informal diction in a formal setting, just as wearing a bikini to work doesn’t mean you’ll get tossed in jail (unless you work at a courthouse). But both have significant consequences.

Extending Common Ground

Much of what we have discussed so far in these lectures has come from the idea that–well, that we’ve actually discussed this stuff. Aristotle was arguing that there was even a place for public speech, in a context where discussion and debate was seen to be the best path to the truth. So many of the ideas surrounding persuasive writing and speaking draw the listener into a kind of fake conversation. Or really, we might say a debate, since it is assumed that you are trying to change their mind. Again, you’re doing that using at least three modes of persuasion: You’re demonstrating that you are a good person, worthy of being trusted, and that you have their best interests at heart. You’re showing them that your position is the only one supported by logic and by the evidence at hand. And you are carrying them along in the moment, and getting them excited about doing things your way.

Even though you are the only one speaking, the impression is that you are still sparring with your listener. You anticipate her questions and answer them, or anticipate her objections and counter them.

But there is also a need for figuring out what you can and cannot change in your interlocutor’s mind, discovering what common ground you share and trying to extend that. One form of this is often called rogerian argumentation (after psychologist Carl Rogers), and begins without a thesis, and instead demonstrating that the author understands the position of her interlocutor. No doubt, if not personally, on television or the movies you have been exposed to rogerian analysis as it is practiced in the therapists office. It’s marked by echoing the patient’s own feelings: “I hear you saying you hate cats without claws; can you tell me more abut that feeling?”

While I do not like the rogerian argument, I recognize the need to find common ground. Really good authors of fiction and non-fiction are able to find common ground with disparate groups at the same time. I suspect that if the film “Bruno” was to be successful (that appears unlikely at present) it would have been because it appears to appeal to both homophobes and the more enlightened who will read it as ironic. This was true of Archie Bunker, as well, a character designed to lampoon racial (and other) ignorance that nonetheless was popular among the bigoted because they failed to read the ridicule.

Finding the Edges

In any case, the idea is to be able to control where you find common ground and where you decide to push your reader off a ledge. Whether, and where, you do this is entirely up to you, but it should be a conscious decision.

Some of the most effective (and affective!) reporting and storytelling I’ve encountered is on “This American Life.” The structure of the pieces are largely formulaic. Ira Glass’s presentation is crushingly unemotional, a style emulated by other contributors. Each story lulls you into a false sense of security, in part because if you are a regular listener the structure is so clear. The departure–the surprise–is built into the way the story is constructed. Of course, the correspondents know exactly where those traps are, and know just when to spring them. It’s a little bit like the captain on the Jungle Cruise. She knows just when the hippos will attack, but also knows how to lead us right up to that point without expecting it, in order to heighten the surprise.

This is not permission to write in a way that is opaque or convoluted. It is a suggestion that you look for opportunities to draw the audience in, to get them on your side, and then make that small step beyond this that convinces them that they always really agreed with you after all.