Clarity in Writing:
Good for Fiction, Good for Arguments

Let's say I state an opinion (Point 1). You present an argument addressing it and disagreeing (Point 1a). I respond by abandoning point 1 and, not addressing your Point 1a, instead I introduce a new Point 2. Have I in effect conceded point 1a (admitted I'm wrong)?

Example:

She: The violin is no harder to learn than the guitar. (Point 1)

He: The violin is fretless and requires more sight-reading skill, so it is harder. (Point 1a)

She: You don't even know anybody who's learned the violin. (Point 2)

Rather than argue for point 1 or against point 1a, she changed the argued point to whether or not he has the expertise to prove the violin is harder. Did she in effect give a little on point 1a, implicitly saying that the violin may in fact be harder but arguing that he can't prove it? Yes, but if she won't acknowledge this verbally, is there any point in continuing the debate? Though she might be as willing to continue arguing as a pit bulldog is to continue biting, she's actually abandoned her original point with her second statement. And what would it take to make her say, "Okay, maybe you're right?" She'd have to resist being defensive—a hard but not impossible task under safe circumstances.

I dread arguments. I've often preferred to concede any point, or perform a switcheroo like the above, rather than think through the emotions that can arise during an argument. Since September 11, as my Internet news-commentary reading expanded, I've read hundreds of arguments on weblogs and in weblog comments, and I've started to see the difference between constructive arguments and ones that lose direction and raise the blood pressure pointlessly. Though I very rarely get into a weblog comments argument, I do think writing is the best way to practice arguing. In writing, I can take my time to analyze what was said (written), avoid interruptions, and respond to the best of my ability. I can watch for any red herrings, distortions, or new points being switched for the original one. And in writing I can stay calm; critique my own argument for those same weaknesses; and find the courage to concede if I'm wrong rather than resorting to the switcheroo, revisionism, or insults.

A switcheroo with revisionism could go like this:

He: George W. Bush is a liar. (Point 1)

She: Bush has been trying to lead through ever-changing scenarios, so he's changed some of his views and beliefs, not lied. (Point 1a)

He: I agree he's been in a complex role and under pressure. I never said he lied on purpose. (Point 2, revisionism: dishonest statement about original meaning of Point 1)

or

He: I agree he's been in a complex role and under pressure. I never said he lied on purpose, and if you can't see that, it's your problem. (Point 2: revisionism plus hostility)

This hair-splitting "that's-not-what-I-meant" argument can go on forever. Has he in effect conceded Point 1? Yes, but it seems clear he's not going to concede verbally with a "maybe you're right." I think it's a mistake to continue the argument and a mistake to argue with that person in the future. Because disagreements arise naturally in life, it seems to me to be very important for adults to learn not to resort to these arguing tactics, which are a form of cheating even if unintentional.

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The "that's not what I meant and if you can't see that, it's not my problem" switcheroo tactic, in writing, leads me to think about the communication skills involved in arguing. One thing I learned in college was to take primary responsibility for readers' understanding of what I was trying to say. If they misunderstood me, saying it was not my problem was an unacceptable cop-out.

In a suspense novel, this could mean that if I (the writer) describe a murder investigation, you shouldn't need to ask whether the first guy they arrested was the same guy who had earlier tried to warn the victim. I should have made it perfectly clear. In nonfiction writing or in an argument via email, if you present an argument, a reader should be able to respond to its face value: your job as writer is to say exactly what you mean. If a reader finds a point confusing or seem to misunderstand it, look for the source of confusion first in the writing. That means switcheroo arguments like the ones I described, if in writing, show either (1) an attempt to appear to win the argument while actually abandoning the disputed point, or (2) a lack of the writing skills needed to argue effectively.

In the writing classes I took so many of (Columbia College's Story Workshop program—anybody else been through it?), some of the better exercises gave us tools for using feedback to improve our writing. One is the principle that if a reader asks a question, it means you probably weren't as clear as you thought you were. We would read our work aloud and then each listener would ask a question. No statements; only questions. This protected thin-skinned budding writers from the direct criticism of inexperienced critics, and it let each question stand as an indicator of an area where the writing needed to be clearer. Usually, several students would ask a question about the same part of a given piece of writing, so we couldn't tell ourselves the reader just wasn't smart enough to understand.

The writer was not allowed to answer the questions asked by the listeners. The idea, which took a while for some of us to grasp, was that these questions are telling you something—not asking for an answer as normal questions do. It made me tense to be asked a question and to stifle the natural urge to answer it. I learned to anticipate that feeling and to avoid it by paying more attention to clarity and accuracy in first drafts. If somebody misunderstands me, asks a question, or says something's unclear, it's probably because of a mistake on my part.

An argument, whether written or verbal, provides so many opportunities to learn facts, communication skills, and emotion management. Unfortunately it's so intimidating to some people that we avoid it at all costs. Equally unfortunate is the fact that intentionally or otherwise, people (including the argument-phobics) often slip into dishonest or intimidating tactics. Whether these tactics are adopted on purpose or not, it's worthwhile to trade them in for honesty; respect; the best rigor you can manage; the courage to see and concede when you've lost a point; and the humility to make your opponent comfortable with conceding when you've won a point. Winning or losing an argument, although it's a result of a kind of competition, could become secondary to the value of what is learned.

©2003 by Fran Mason