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Environmental Rhetoric: Editing for Specificity

November 2, 2016

We are in the second writing project thinking about the rhetorical effects of Dillard’s writing as both particle and wave, particular element and dynamic movement at the same time. We can and should think about this in our writing as well. The last workshop on counterargument provides a way to think about that for revision, when you are looking to extend and refine the overall argument. When we edit, and focus in on our language and sentence style, the narrative elements of the essay (effective introduction and conclusion, transition sentences, sentence variation), we can also think about particles and waves.

1]Argument check: Conclusion, Introduction. Let’s start with a wave: before turning this project in, as one final check of the argument and its purpose, make sure that you have the strongest statement of your argument or thesis as possible. Recall that Dillard did this in Pilgrim, adding the introductory chapter. See seems to have been pressed into doing so by her editor, thinking of her audience. I think it makes sense in the book. In your case, there is a good chance that you have a stronger statement of your argument (and possibly better introduction) in your concluding paragraph. Check that out–and possibly move it around. In your conclusion, you can reiterate the focus and some keywords but also continue to move the reader forwards and outwards: rather than go back to your beginning, help the reader think about some implications of this argument, where the reader might go from here. Think of the ways Dillard does this with her conclusion.

2]Transitions. Work on the specificity of your topic sentences. Those sentences need to introduce the specific focus of the paragraph, as well as signal its relation to the larger argument; stylistically, it also helps to transition from the previous paragraph. Make use of keywords from your argument in these sentences.

3]Specificity of language. Think about your verbs, with Dillard as a strong model for us of the ways verbs in our sentences, as much if not more than the nouns, need to evoke the substance of what we are thinking and seeing and arguing for. Watch out for too much nominalization–or what one editor calls “zombie nouns.” Hear is some further discussion on that:

Helen Sword’s discussion of “Zombie Nouns”: a problem wherein sentences become weighed down with verbs that have been turned into nouns (yes the passive is deliberate), and the subject of the sentence runs into hiding. An extended excerpt from her argument follows:

Take an adjective (implacable) or a verb (calibrate) or even another noun (crony) and add a suffix like itytion or ism. You’ve created a new noun: implacabilitycalibrationcronyism. Sounds impressive, right?

Nouns formed from other parts of speech are called nominalizations. Academics love them; so do lawyers, bureaucrats and business writers. I call them “zombie nouns” because they cannibalize active verbs, suck the lifeblood from adjectives and substitute abstract entities for human beings:

The proliferation of nominalizations in a discursiveformation may be an indication of a tendency towardpomposity and abstraction.

The sentence above contains no fewer than seven nominalizations, each formed from a verb or an adjective. Yet it fails to tell us who is doing what. When we eliminate or reanimate most of the zombie nouns (tendency becomes tendabstraction becomes abstract) and add a human subject and some active verbs, the sentence springs back to life:

Writers who overload their sentences with nominalizations tend to sound pompous and abstract.

Only one zombie noun – the key word nominalizations – has been allowed to remain standing.

At their best, nominalizations help us express complex ideas:perceptionintelligenceepistemology. At their worst, they impede clear communication. I have seen academic colleagues become so enchanted by zombie nouns like heteronormativity andinterpellation that they forget how ordinary people speak. Their students, in turn, absorb the dangerous message that people who use big words are smarter – or at least appear to be – than those who don’t.

In fact, the more abstract your subject matter, the more your readers will appreciate stories, anecdotes, examples and other handholds to help them stay on track. In her book “Darwin’s Plots,” the literary historian Gillian Beer supplements abstract nouns like evidence,relationships and beliefs with vivid verbs (rebuffoverturn,exhilarate) and concrete nouns that appeal to sensory experience (earthsuneyes):

Most major scientific theories rebuff common sense. They call on evidence beyond the reach of our senses and overturn the observable world. They disturb assumed relationships and shift what has been substantial into metaphor. The earth now only seems immovable. Such major theories tax, affront, and exhilarate those who first encounter them, although in fifty years or so they will be taken for granted, part of the apparently common-sense set of beliefs which instructs us that the earth revolves around the sun whatever our eyes may suggest.

Her subject matter – scientific theories – could hardly be more cerebral, yet her language remains firmly anchored in the physical world.

Contrast Beer’s vigorous prose with the following passage from a social sciences book:

The partial participation of newcomers is by no means “disconnected” from the practice of interest. Furthermore, it is also a dynamic concept. In this sense, peripherality, when it is enabled, suggests an opening, a way of gaining access to sources for understanding through growing involvement. The ambiguity inherent in peripheral participation must then be connected to issues of legitimacy, of the social organization of and control over resources, if it is to gain its full analytical potential.

Why does reading this paragraph feel like trudging through deep mud? The secret lies at its grammatical core: Participation is. . . . It is. . . . Peripherality suggests. . . . Ambiguity must be connected. Every single sentence has a zombie noun or a pronoun as its subject, coupled with an uninspiring verb. Who are the people? Where is the action? What story is being told?

To get a feeling for how zombie nouns work, release a few of them into a sentence and watch them sap all of its life. George Orwell played this game in his essay “Politics and the English Language,” contrasting a well-known verse from Ecclesiastes with his own satirical translation:

I returned and saw under the sun, that the race is not to the swift, nor the battle to the strong, neither yet bread to the wise, nor yet riches to men of understanding, nor yet favour to men of skill; but time and chance happeneth to them all.

Here it is in modern English:

Objective considerations of contemporary phenomena compel the conclusion that success or failure in competitive activities exhibits no tendency to be commensurate with innate capacity, but that a considerable element of the unpredictable must invariably be taken into account.

The Bible passage speaks to our senses and emotions with concrete nouns (sunbread), descriptions of people (the swift, the wise, men of understanding, men of skill) and punchy abstract nouns (race, battle, riches, time, chance). Orwell’s “modern English” version, by contrast, is teeming with nominalizations (considerations, conclusion, activities, tendency, capacity, unpredictable) and other vague abstractions (phenomena, success, failure, element). The zombies have taken over, and the humans have fled the village.

Sword offers a machine for testing the “health” of our sentences, the Writer’s Diet Test.

Another language resource: Wordnik.


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