F O U R T H E D I T I O N “THEY SAY I SAY” The Move s Tha t Ma t t e r i n Academ i c Wr i t i n g H GERALD GRAFF CATHY BIRKENSTEIN both of the University of Illinois at Chicago B w . w . n o r t o n...

The Move s Tha t Ma t t e r
i n Academ i c Wr i t i n g
both of the University of Illinois at Chicago
w . w . n o r t o n & c o m p a n y
n e w y o r k | l o n d o n
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Demystifying Academic Conversation
Experienced writing instructors have long recognized
that writing well means entering into conversation with others.
Academic writing in particular calls upon writers not simply to
express their own ideas, but to do so as a response to what others
have said. The first-year writing program at our own university,
according to its mission statement, asks “students to partici-
pate in ongoing conversations about vitally important academic
and public issues.” A similar statement by another program
holds that “intellectual writing is almost always composed in
response to others’ texts.” These statements echo the ideas
of rhetorical theorists like Kenneth Burke, Mikhail Bakhtin,
and Wayne Booth as well as recent composition scholars like
David Bartholomae, John Bean, Patricia Bizzell, Irene Clark,
Greg Colomb, Lisa Ede, Peter Elbow, Joseph Harris, Andrea
Lunsford, Elaine Maimon, Gary Olson, Mike Rose, John Swales
and Christine Feak, Tilly Warnock, and others who argue that
writing well means engaging the voices of others and letting
them in turn engage us.
Yet despite this growing consensus that writing is a social,
conversational act, helping student writers actually partici-
pate in these conversations remains a formidable challenge.
This book aims to meet that challenge. Its goal is to demys-
tify academic writing by isolating its basic moves, explaining
them clearly, and representing them in the form of templates.
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In this way, we hope to help students become active partici-
pants in the important conversations of the academic world
and the wider public sphere.
• Shows that writing well means entering a conversation, sum-
marizing others (“they say”) to set up one’s own argument
(“I say”).
• Demystifies academic writing, showing students “the moves
that matter” in language they can readily apply.
• Provides user-friendly templates to help writers make those
moves in their own writing.
• Shows that reading is a way of entering a conversation—not just
of passively absorbing information but of understanding and
actively entering dialogues and debates.
how this book came to be
The original idea for this book grew out of our shared inter-
est in democratizing academic culture. First, it grew out of
arguments that Gerald Graff has been making throughout his
career that schools and colleges need to invite students into
the conversations and debates that surround them. More spe-
cifically, it is a practical, hands-on companion to his recent
book Clueless in Academe: How Schooling Obscures the Life of the
Mind, in which he looks at academic conversations from the
perspective of those who find them mysterious and proposes
ways in which such mystification can be overcome. Second,
Demystifying Academic Conversation
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this book grew out of writing templates that Cathy Birkenstein
developed in the 1990s for use in writing and literature courses
she was teaching. Many students, she found, could readily grasp
what it meant to support a thesis with evidence, to entertain
a counter argument, to identify a textual contradiction, and
ultimately to summarize and respond to challenging arguments,
but they often had trouble putting these concepts into practice
in their own writing. When Cathy sketched out templates on
the board, however, giving her students some of the language
and patterns that these sophisticated moves require, their
writing—and even their quality of thought—significantly
This book began, then, when we put our ideas together and
realized that these templates might have the potential to open
up and clarify academic conversation. We proceeded from the
premise that all writers rely on certain stock formulas that they
themselves didn’t invent—and that many of these formulas
are so commonly used that they can be represented in model
templates that students can use to structure and even generate
what they want to say.
As we developed a working draft of this book, we began using
it in first-year writing courses that we teach at UIC. In class-
room exercises and writing assignments, we found that students
who otherwise struggled to organize their thoughts, or even to
think of something to say, did much better when we provided
them with templates like the following.
j In discussions of , a controversial issue is whether
. While some argue that , others contend
that .
j This is not to say that .
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One virtue of such templates, we found, is that they focus
writers’ attention not just on what is being said, but on the
forms that structure what is being said. In other words, they
make students more conscious of the rhetorical patterns that
are key to academic success but often pass under the classroom
the centrality of “they say / i say”
The central rhetorical move that we focus on in this book is the
“they say / I say” template that gives our book its title. In our
view, this template represents the deep, underlying structure,
the internal DNA as it were, of all effective argument. Effective
persuasive writers do more than make well-supported claims
(“I say”); they also map those claims relative to the claims of
others (“they say”).
Here, for example, the “they say / I say” pattern structures
a passage from an essay by the media and technology critic
Steven Johnson.
For decades, we’ve worked under the assumption that mass cul-
ture follows a path declining steadily toward lowest-common-
denominator standards, presumably because the “masses” want
dumb, simple pleasures and big media companies try to give the
masses what they want. But . . . the exact opposite is happening:
the culture is getting more cognitively demanding, not less.
Steven Johnson, “Watching TV Makes You Smarter”
In generating his own argument from something “they say,”
Johnson suggests why he needs to say what he is saying: to
correct a popular misconception.
Demystifying Academic Conversation
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Even when writers do not explicitly identify the views they
are responding to, as Johnson does, an implicit “they say” can
often be discerned, as in the following passage by Zora Neale
I remember the day I became colored.
Zora Neale Hurston, “How It Feels to Be Colored Me”
In order to grasp Hurston’s point here, we need to be able to
reconstruct the implicit view she is responding to and question-
ing: that racial identity is an innate quality we are simply born
with. On the contrary, Hurston suggests, our race is imposed
on us by society—something we “become” by virtue of how
we are treated.
As these examples suggest, the “they say / I say” model can
improve not just student writing, but student reading compre-
hension as well. Since reading and writing are deeply recipro-
cal activities, students who learn to make the rhetorical moves
represented by the templates in this book figure to become more
adept at identifying these same moves in the texts they read. And
if we are right that effective arguments are always in dialogue
with other arguments, then it follows that in order to understand
the types of challenging texts assigned in college, students need
to identify the views to which those texts are responding.
Working with the “they say / I say” model can also help
with invention, finding something to say. In our experience,
students best discover what they want to say not by thinking
about a subject in an isolation booth, but by reading texts,
listening closely to what other writers say, and looking for an
opening through which they can enter the conversation. In
other words, listening closely to others and summarizing what
they have to say can help writers generate their own ideas.
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the usefulness of templates
Our templates also have a generative quality, prompting stu-
dents to make moves in their writing that they might not oth-
erwise make or even know they should make. The templates
in this book can be particularly helpful for students who are
unsure about what to say, or who have trouble finding enough
to say, often because they consider their own beliefs so
self-evident that they need not be argued for. Students like this
are often helped, we’ve found, when we give them a simple tem-
plate like the following one for entertaining a counterargument
(or planting a naysayer, as we call it in Chapter 6).
j Of course some might object that . Although I concede
that , I still maintain that .
What this particular template helps students do is make the
seemingly counterintuitive move of questioning their own
beliefs, of looking at them from the perspective of those who
disagree. In so doing, templates can bring out aspects of stu-
dents’ thoughts that, as they themselves sometimes remark,
they didn’t even realize were there.
Other templates in this book help students make a host of
sophisticated moves that they might not otherwise make: sum-
marizing what someone else says, framing a quotation in one’s
own words, indicating the view that the writer is responding to,
marking the shift from a source’s view to the writer’s own view,
offering evidence for that view, entertaining and answering
counterarguments, and explaining what is at stake in the first
place. In showing students how to make such moves, templates
do more than organize students’ ideas; they help bring those
ideas into existence.
Demystifying Academic Conversation
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“ok—but templates?”
We are aware, of course, that some instructors may have res-
ervations about templates. Some, for instance, may object that
such formulaic devices represent a return to prescriptive forms
of instruction that encourage passive learning or lead students
to put their writing on automatic pilot.
This is an understandable reaction, we think, to kinds of rote
instruction that have indeed encouraged passivity and drained
writing of its creativity and dynamic relation to the social world.
The trouble is that many students will never learn on their own
to make the key intellectual moves that our templates repre-
sent. While seasoned writers pick up these moves unconsciously
through their reading, many students do not. Consequently, we
believe, students need to see these moves represented in the
explicit ways that the templates provide.
The aim of the templates, then, is not to stifle critical
thinking but to be direct with students about the key rhetori-
cal moves that it comprises. Since we encourage students to
modify and adapt the templates to the particularities of the
arguments they are making, using such prefabricated formulas
as learning tools need not result in writing and thinking that
are themselves formulaic. Admittedly, no teaching tool can
guarantee that students will engage in hard, rigorous thought.
Our templates do, however, provide concrete prompts that can
stimulate and shape such thought: What do “they say” about my
topic? What would a naysayer say about my argument? What
is my evidence? Do I need to qualify my point? Who cares?
In fact, templates have a long and rich history. Public orators
from ancient Greece and Rome through the European Renais-
sance studied rhetorical topoi or “commonplaces,” model passages
and formulas that represented the different strategies available
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to public speakers. In many respects, our templates echo this
classical rhetorical tradition of imitating established models.
The journal Nature requires aspiring contributors to follow
a guideline that is like a template on the opening page of their
manuscript: “Two or three sentences explaining what the main
result [of their study] reveals in direct comparison with what was
thought to be the case previously, or how the main result adds to
previous knowledge.” In the field of education, a form designed
by the education theorist Howard Gardner asks postdoctoral
fellowship applicants to complete the following template: “Most
scholars in the field believe . As a result of my study,
.” That these two examples are geared toward post-
doctoral fellows and veteran researchers shows that it is not
only struggling undergraduates who can use help making these
key rhetorical moves, but experienced academics as well.
Templates have even been used in the teaching of personal
narrative. The literary and educational theorist Jane Tompkins
devised the following template to help student writers make the
often difficult move from telling a story to explaining what it
means: “X tells a story about to make the point that
. My own experience with yields a point
that is similar/different/both similar and different. What I take
away from my own experience with is . As
a result, I conclude .” We especially like this template
because it suggests that “they say / I say” argument need not be
mechanical, impersonal, or dry, and that telling a story and mak-
ing an argument are more compatible activities than many think.
why it’s okay to use “i”
But wait—doesn’t the “I” part of “they say / I say” flagrantly
encourage the use of the first-person pronoun? Aren’t we aware
Demystifying Academic Conversation
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that some teachers prohibit students from using “I” or “we,”
on the grounds that these pronouns encourage ill-considered,
subjective opinions rather than objective and reasoned argu-
ments? Yes, we are aware of this first-person prohibition, but
we think it has serious flaws. First, expressing ill-considered,
subjective opinions is not necessarily the worst sin beginning
writers can commit; it might be a starting point from which they
can move on to more reasoned, less self-indulgent perspectives.
Second, prohibiting students from using “I” is simply not an
effective way of curbing students’ subjectivity, since one can
offer poorly argued, ill-supported opinions just as easily without
it. Third and most important, prohibiting the first person tends
to hamper students’ ability not only to take strong positions but
to differentiate their own positions from those of others, as we
point out in Chapter 5. To be sure, writers can resort to vari-
ous circumlocutions—“it will here be argued,” “the evidence
suggests,” “the truth is”—and these may be useful for avoid-
ing a monotonous series of “I believe” sentences. But except
for avoiding such monotony, we see no good reason why “I”
should be set aside in persuasive writing. Rather than prohibit
“I,” then, we think a better tactic is to give students practice
at using it well and learning its use, both by supporting their
claims with evidence and by attending closely to alternative
perspectives—to what “they” are saying.
how this book is organized
Because of its centrality, we have allowed the “they say / I say”
format to dictate the structure of this book. So while Part 1
addresses the art of listening to others, Part 2 addresses how
to offer one’s own response. Part 1 opens with a chapter on
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“Starting with What Others Are Saying” that explains why it is
generally advisable to begin a text by citing others rather than
plunging directly into one’s own views. Subsequent chapters
take up the arts of summarizing and quoting what these others
have to say. Part 2 begins with a chapter on different ways of
responding, followed by chapters on marking the shift between
what “they say” and what “I say,” on introducing and answering
objections, and on answering the all-important questions: “so
what?” and “who cares?” Part 3 offers strategies for “Tying It All
Together,” beginning with a chapter on connection and coher-
ence; followed by a chapter on academic language, encouraging
students to draw on their everyday voice as a tool for writing;
and including chapters on the art of metacommentary and using
templates to revise a text. Part 4 offers guidance for entering
conversations in specific academic contexts, with chapters on
entering class discussions, writing online, reading, and writing
in literature courses, the sciences, and social sciences. Finally,
we provide five readings and an index of templates.
what this book doesn’t do
There are some things that this book does not try to do. We do
not, for instance, cover logical principles of argument such as
syllogisms, warrants, logical fallacies, or the differences between
inductive and deductive reasoning. Although such concepts
can be useful, we believe most of us learn the ins and outs of
argumentative writing not by studying logical principles in the
abstract, but by plunging into actual discussions and debates,
trying out different patterns of response, and in this way getting
a sense of what works to persuade different audiences and what
Demystifying Academic Conversation
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doesn’t. In our view, people learn more about arguing from
hearing someone say, “You miss my point. What I’m saying
is not , but ,” or “I agree with you that
, and would even add that ,” than they do
from studying the differences between inductive and deductive
reasoning. Such formulas give students an immediate sense of
what it feels like to enter a public conversation in a way that
studying abstract warrants and logical fallacies does not.
engaging with the ideas of others
One central goal of this book is to demystify academic writing
by returning it to its social and conversational roots. Although
writing may require some degree of quiet and solitude, the “they
say / I say” model shows students that they can best develop
their arguments not just by looking inward but by doing what
they often do in a good conversation with friends and family—
by listening carefully to what others are saying and engaging
with other views.
This approach to writing therefore has an ethical dimension,
since it asks writers not simply to keep proving and reasserting
what they already believe, but to stretch what they believe by
putting it up against beliefs that differ, sometimes radically,
from their own. In an increasingly diverse, global society, this
ability to engage with the ideas of others is especially crucial
to democratic citizenship.
Gerald Graff
Cathy Birkenstein
Entering the Conversation
Think about an activity that you do particularly well:
cooking, playing the piano, shooting a basketball, even some-
thing as basic as driving a car. If you reflect on this activity, you’ll
realize that once you mastered it you no longer had to give much
conscious thought to the various moves that go into doing it.
Performing this activity, in other words, depends on your having
learned a series of complicated moves—moves that may seem
mysterious or difficult to those who haven’t yet learned them.
The same applies to writing. Often without consciously real-
izing it, accomplished writers routinely rely on a stock of estab-
lished moves that are crucial for communicating sophisticated
ideas. What makes writers masters of their trade is not only
their ability to express interesting thoughts but their mastery
of an inventory of basic moves that they probably picked up
by reading a wide range of other accomplished writers. Less
experienced writers, by contrast, are often unfamiliar with these
basic moves and unsure how to make them in their own writing.
Hence this book, which is intended as a short, user-friendly
guide to the basic moves of academic writing.
One of our key premises is that these basic moves are so
common that they can be represented in templates that you
can use right away to structure and even generate your own
writing. Perhaps the most distinctive feature of this book is
its pre sentation of many such templates, designed to help you
successfully enter not only the world of academic thinking and
writing, but also the wider worlds of civic discourse and work.
Instead of focusing solely on abstract principles of writing,
then, this book offers model templates that help you put those
principles directly into practice. Working with these templates
will give you an immediate sense of how to engage in the kinds
of critical thinking you are required to do at the college level
and in the vocational and public spheres beyond.
Some of these templates represent simple but crucial moves
like those used to summarize some widely held belief.
j Many Americans assume that .
Others are more complicated.
j On the one hand, . On the other hand, .
j Author X contradicts herself. At the same time that she argues
, she also implies .
j I agree that .
j This is not to say that .
It is true, of course, that critical thinking and writing go deeper
than any set of linguistic formulas, requiring that you question
assumptions, develop strong claims, offer supporting reasons
and evidence, consider opposing arguments, and so on. But
these deeper habits of thought cannot be put into practice
unless you have a language for expressing them in clear, orga-
nized ways.
Entering the Conversation
state your own ideas as a
response to others
The single most important template that we focus on in this
book is the “they say ; I say ” formula that
gives our book its title. If there is any one point that we hope
you will take away from this book, it is the importance not only
of expressing your ideas (“I say”) but of presenting those ideas
as a response to some other person or group (“they say”). For us,
the underlying structure of effective academic writing—and of
responsible public discourse—resides not just in stating our own
ideas but in listening closely to others around us, summarizing
their views in a way that they will recognize, and responding
with our own ideas in kind. Broadly speaking, academic writ-
ing is argumentative writing, and we believe that to argue well
you need to do more than assert your own position. You need
to enter a conversation, using what others say (or might say)
as a launching pad or sounding board for your own views. For
this reason, one of the main pieces of advice in this book is to
write the voices of others into your text.
In our view, then, the best academic writing has one under-
lying feature: it is deeply engaged in some way with other peo-
ple’s views. Too often, however, academic writing is taught as
a process of saying “true” or “smart” things in a vacuum, as if
it were possible to argue effectively without being in conver-
sation with someone else. If you have been taught to write a
traditional five-paragraph essay, for example, you have learned
how to develop a thesis and support it with evidence. This is
good advice as far as it goes, but it leaves out the important
fact that in the real world we don’t make arguments without
being provoked. Instead, we make arguments because some-
one has said or done something (or perhaps not said or done
something) and we need to respond: “I can’t see why you like
the Lakers so much”; “I agree: it was a great film”; “That argu-
ment is contradictory.” If it weren’t for other people and our
need to challenge, agree with, or otherwise respond to them,
there would be no reason to argue at all.
“why are you telling me this?”
To make an impact as a writer, then, you need to do more than
make statements that are logical, well supported, and consis-
tent. You must also find a way of entering into conversation
with the views of others, with something “they say.” The easiest
and most common way writers do this is by summarizing what
others say and then using it to set up what they want to say.
“But why,” as a student of ours once asked, “do I always
need to summarize the views of others to set up my own view?
Why can’t I just state my own view and be done with it?”
Why indeed? After all, “they,” whoever they may be, will have
already had their say, so why do you have to repeat it? Further-
more, if they had their say in print, can’t readers just go and
read what was said themselves?
The answer is that if you don’t identify the “they say” you’re
responding to, your own argument probably won’t have a point.
Readers will wonder what prompted you to say what you’re say-
ing and therefore motivated you to write. As the figure on the
following page suggests, without a “they say,” what you are saying
may be clear to your audience, but why you are saying it won’t be.
Even if we don’t know what film he’s referring to, it’s easy
to grasp what the speaker means here when he says that its
characters are very complex. But it’s hard to see why the speaker
feels the need to say what he is saying. “Why,” as one member
Entering the Conversation
of his imagined audience wonders, “is he telling us this?” So
the characters are complex—so what?
Now look at what happens to the same proposition when it
is presented as a response to something “they say”:
We hope you agree that the same claim—“the characters
in the film are very complex”—becomes much stronger when
presented as a response to a contrary view: that the film’s char-
acters “are sexist stereotypes.” Unlike the speaker in the first
cartoon, the speaker in the second has a clear goal or mission:
to correct what he sees as a mistaken characterization.
the as-opposed-to-what factor
To put our point another way, framing your “I say” as a response
to something “they say” gives your writing an element of con-
trast without which it won’t make sense. It may be helpful to
think of this crucial element as an “as-opposed-to-what factor”
and, as you write, to continually ask yourself, “Who says oth-
erwise?” and “Does anyone dispute it?” Behind the audience’s
“Yeah, so?” and “Why is he telling us this?” in the first cartoon
above lie precisely these types of “As opposed to what?” ques-
tions. The speaker in the second cartoon, we think, is more
satisfying because he answers these questions, helping us see
his point that the film presents complex characters rather than
simple sexist stereotypes.
how it’s done
Many accomplished writers make explicit “they say” moves to
set up and motivate their own arguments. One famous example
is Martin Luther King Jr.’s “Letter from Birmingham Jail,” which
consists almost entirely of King’s eloquent responses to a public
statement by eight clergymen deploring the civil rights protests
Entering the Conversation
he was leading. The letter—which was written in 1963, while
King was in prison for leading a demonstration against racial
injustice in Birmingham—is structured almost entirely around a
framework of summary and response, in which King summarizes
and then answers their criticisms. In one typical passage, King
writes as follows.
You deplore the demonstrations taking place in Birmingham. But
your statement, I am sorry to say, fails to express a similar concern
for the conditions that brought about the demonstrations.
Martin Luther King Jr., “Letter from Birmingham Jail”
King goes on to agree with his critics that “It is unfortunate that
demonstrations are taking place in Birmingham,” yet he hastens
to add that “it is even more unfortunate that the city’s white
power structure left the Negro community with no alternative.”
King’s letter is so thoroughly conversational, in fact, that it
could be rewritten in the form of a dialogue or play.
King’s critics:
King’s response:
Clearly, King would not have written his famous letter were
it not for his critics, whose views he treats not as objections
to his already-formed arguments but as the motivating source
of those arguments, their central reason for being. He quotes
not only what his critics have said (“Some have asked: ‘Why
didn’t you give the new city administration time to act?’ ”), but
also things they might have said (“One may well ask: ‘How can
you advocate breaking some laws and obeying others?’ ”)—all
to set the stage for what he himself wants to say.
A similar “they say / I say” exchange opens an essay about
American patriotism by the social critic Katha Pollitt, who uses
her own daughter’s comment to represent the patriotic national
fervor after the terrorist attacks of September 11, 2001.
My daughter, who goes to Stuyvesant High School only blocks
from the former World Trade Center, thinks we should fly the
American flag out our window. Definitely not, I say: the flag stands
for jingoism and vengeance and war. She tells me I’m wrong—the
flag means standing together and honoring the dead and saying no
to terrorism. In a way we’re both right. . . .
Katha Pollitt, “Put Out No Flags”
As Pollitt’s example shows, the “they” you respond to in
crafting an argument need not be a famous author or someone
known to your audience. It can be a family member like
Pollitt’s daughter, or a friend or classmate who has made a
provocative claim. It can even be something an individual or
a group might say—or a side of yourself, something you once
believed but no longer do, or something you partly believe but
also doubt. The important thing is that the “they” (or “you” or
“she”) represent some wider group with which readers might
identify—in Pollitt’s case, those who patriotically believe in
flying the flag. Pollitt’s example also shows that responding to
the views of others need not always involve unquali-
fied opposition. By agreeing and disagreeing with her
daughter, Pollitt enacts what we call the “yes and no”
response, reconciling apparently incompatible views.
While King and Pollitt both identify the views they are
responding to, some authors do not explicitly state their views
See Chapter
4 for more
on agreeing,
but with a
Entering the Conversation
but instead allow the reader to infer them. See, for instance, if
you can identify the implied or unnamed “they say” that the
following claim is responding to.
I like to think I have a certain advantage as a teacher of literature
because when I was growing up I disliked and feared books.
Gerald Graff, “Disliking Books at an Early Age”
In case you haven’t figured it out already, the phantom “they
say” here is the common belief that in order to be a good
teacher of literature, one must have grown up liking and enjoy-
ing books.
court controversy, but . . .
As you can see from these examples, many writers use the “they
say / I say” format to challenge standard ways of thinking and
thus to stir up controversy. This point may come as a shock to
you if you have always had the impression that in order to suc-
ceed academically you need to play it safe and avoid controversy
in your writing, making statements that nobody can possibly
disagree with. Though this view of writing may appear logical,
it is actually a recipe for flat, lifeless writing and for writing that
fails to answer what we call the “so what?” and “who cares?”
questions. “William Shakespeare wrote many famous plays and
sonnets” may be a perfectly true statement, but precisely because
nobody is likely to disagree with it, it goes without saying and
thus would seem pointless if said.
But just because controversy is important doesn’t mean you
have to become an attack dog who automatically disagrees with
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everything others say. We think this is an important point to
underscore because some who are not familiar with this book
have gotten the impression from the title that our goal is to
train writers simply to disparage whatever “they say.”
disagreeing without being disagreeable
There certainly are occasions when strong critique is needed.
It’s hard to live in a deeply polarized society like our current one
and not feel the need at times to criticize what others think.
But even the most justified critiques fall flat, we submit, unless
we really listen to and understand the views we are criticizing:
j While I understand the impulse to , my own view
is .
Even the most sympathetic audiences, after all, tend to feel
manipulated by arguments that scapegoat and caricature the
other side.
Furthermore, genuinely listening to views we disagree with
can have the salutary effect of helping us see that beliefs we’d
initially disdained may not be as thoroughly reprehensible as
we’d imagined. Thus the type of “they say / I say” argument
that we promote in this book can take the form of agreeing up
to a point or, as the Pollitt example above illustrates, of both
agreeing and disagreeing simultaneously, as in:
j While I agree with X that , I cannot accept her over-
all conclusion that .
j While X argues , and I argue , in a way
we’re both right.
Entering the Conversation
1 1
Agreement cannot be ruled out, however:
j I agree with that .
the template of templates
There are many ways, then, to enter a conversation and respond
to what “they say.” But our discussion of ways to do so would
be incomplete were we not to mention the most comprehensive
way that writers enter conversations, which incorporates all the
major moves discussed in this book:
j In recent discussions of , a controversial issue has
been whether . On the one hand, some argue
that . From this perspective, . On the other
hand, however, others argue that . In the words of
, one of this view’s main proponents, “ .”
According to this view, . In sum, then, the issue is
whether or .
My own view is that . Though I concede that
, I still maintain that . For example,
. Although some might object that , I would
reply that . The issue is important because .
This “template of templates,” as we like to call it, represents
the internal DNA of countless articles and even entire books.
Writers commonly use a version of it not only to stake out their
“they say” and “I say” at the start of their manuscript, but—just
as important—to form the overarching blueprint that structures
what they write over the entire length of their text.
1 2
Taking it line by line, this master template first helps
you open your text by identifying an issue in some ongoing
conversation or debate (“In recent discussions of ,
a controversial issue has been ”), and then to map
some of the voices in this controversy (by using the “on the
one hand / on the other hand” structure). The template
then helps you introduce a quotation (“In the words of ”),
to explain the quotation in your own words (“According to
this view”), and—in a new paragraph—to state your own
argument (“My own view is that”), to qualify your argu-
ment (“Though I concede that”), and then to support your
argument with evidence (“For example”). In addition, the
template helps you make one of the most crucial moves in
argumentative writing, what we call “planting a naysayer in
your text,” in which you summarize and then answer a likely
objection to your own central claim (“Although it might
be objected that , I reply ”). Finally,
this template helps you shift between general, over-arching
claims (“In sum, then”) and smaller-scale, supporting claims
(“For example”).
Again, none of us is born knowing these moves, especially
when it comes to academic writing. Hence the need for this
but isn’t this plagiarism?
“But isn’t this plagiarism?” at least one student each year will
usually ask. “Well, is it?” we respond, turning the question
around into one the entire class can profit from. “We are, after
all, asking you to use language in your writing that isn’t your
Entering the Conversation
1 3
own—language that you ‘borrow’ or, to put it less delicately,
steal from other writers.”
Often, a lively discussion ensues that raises important
questions about authorial ownership and helps everyone
better understand the frequently confusing line between pla-
giarism and the legitimate use of what others say and how
they say it. Students are quick to see that no one person
owns a conventional formula like “on the one hand . . .
on the other hand. . . .” Phrases like “a controversial issue”
are so commonly used and recycled that they are generic—
community property that can be freely used without fear of
committing plagiarism. It is plagiarism, however, if the words
used to fill in the blanks of such formulas are borrowed from
others without proper acknowledgment. In sum, then, while
it is not plagiarism to recycle conventionally used formulas, it
is a serious academic offense to take the substantive content
from others’ texts without citing the author and giving him
or her proper credit.
“ok—but templates?”
Nevertheless, if you are like some of our students, your ini-
tial response to templates may be skepticism. At first, many
of our students complain that using templates will take away
their originality and creativity and make them all sound the
same. “They’ll turn us into writing robots,” one of our students
insisted. “I’m in college now,” another student asserted; “this
is third-grade-level stuff.”
In our view, however, the templates in this book, far from
being “third-grade-level stuff,” represent the stock-in-trade of
1 4
sophisticated thinking and writing, and they often require a great
deal of practice and instruction to use successfully. As for the
belief that pre-established forms undermine creativity, we think
it rests on a very limited vision of what creativity is all about.
In our view, the templates in this book will actually help your
writing become more original and creative, not less. After all,
even the most creative forms of expression depend on established
patterns and structures. Most songwriters, for instance, rely on a
time-honored verse-chorus-verse pattern, and few people would
call Shakespeare uncreative because he didn’t invent the sonnet
or the dramatic forms that he used to such dazzling effect. Even
the most avant-garde, cutting-edge artists like improvisational
jazz musicians need to master the basic forms that their work
improvises on, departs from, and goes beyond, or else their work
will come across as uneducated child’s play. Ultimately, then,
creativity and originality lie not in the avoidance of established
forms but in the imaginative use of them.
Furthermore, these templates do not dictate the content of
what you say, which can be as original as you can make it, but
only suggest a way of formatting how you say it. In addition,
once you begin to feel comfortable with the templates in this
book, you will be able to improvise creatively on them to fit
new situations and purposes and find others in your reading.
In other words, the templates offered here are learning tools to
get you started, not structures set in stone. Once you get used
to using them, you can even dispense with them altogether,
for the rhetorical moves they model will be at your fingertips
in an unconscious, instinctive way.
But if you still need proof that writing templates need not
make you sound stiff and artificial, consider the following open-
ing to an essay on the fast-food industry that we’ve included at
the back of this book.
Entering the Conversation
1 5
If ever there were a newspaper headline custom-made for Jay Leno’s
monologue, this was it. Kids taking on McDonald’s this week, suing
the company for making them fat. Isn’t that like middle-aged men
suing Porsche for making them get speeding tickets? Whatever
happened to personal responsibility?
I tend to sympathize with these portly fast-food patrons, though.
Maybe that’s because I used to be one of them.
David Zinczenko, “Don’t Blame the Eater”
Although Zinczenko relies on a version of the “they say / I
say” formula, his writing is anything but dry, robotic, or uncre-
ative. While Zinczenko does not explicitly use the words
“they say” and “I say,” the template still gives the passage its
underlying structure: “They say that kids suing fast-food com-
panies for making them fat is a joke; but I say such lawsuits
are justified.”
putting in your oar
Though the immediate goal of this book is to help you become a
better writer, at a deeper level it invites you to become a certain
type of person: a critical, intellectual thinker who, instead of sit-
ting passively on the sidelines, can participate in the debates and
conversations of your world in an active and empowered way.
Ultimately, this book invites you to become a critical thinker
who can enter the types of conversations described eloquently
by the philosopher Kenneth Burke in the following widely cited
passage. Likening the world of intellectual exchange to a never-
ending conversation at a party, Burke writes:
You come late. When you arrive, others have long preceded you,
and they are engaged in a heated discussion, a discussion too heated
1 6
for them to pause and tell you exactly what it is about XXXXXXXXXXYou
listen for a while, until you decide that you have caught the tenor
of the argument; then you put in your oar. Someone answers; you
answer him; another comes to your defense; another aligns himself
against you XXXXXXXXXXThe hour grows late, you must depart. And you do
depart, with the discussion still vigorously in progress.
Kenneth Burke, The Philosophy of Literary Form
What we like about this passage is its suggestion that stating an
argument (putting in your oar) can only be done in conversa-
tion with others; that entering the dynamic world of ideas must
be done not as isolated individuals but as social beings deeply
connected to others.
This ability to enter complex, many-sided conversations
has taken on a special urgency in today’s polarized, Red State /
Blue State America, where the future for all of us may depend
on our ability to put ourselves in the shoes of those who think
very differently from us. The central piece of advice in this
book—that we listen carefully to others, including those who
disagree with us, and then engage with them thoughtfully
and respectfully—can help us see beyond our own pet beliefs,
which may not be shared by everyone. The mere act of craft-
ing a sentence that begins “Of course, someone might object
that ” may not seem like a way to change the world;
but it does have the potential to jog us out of our comfort
zones, to get us thinking critically about our own beliefs, and
even to change minds, our own included.
1. Write a short essay in which you first summarize our rationale
for the templates in this book and then articulate your own
Entering the Conversation
1 7
position in response. If you want, you can use the template
below to organize your paragraphs, expanding and modifying
it as necessary to fit what you want to say.
In the Introduction to “They Say / I Say”: The Moves That Matter in
Academic Writing, Gerald Graff and Cathy Birkenstein provide tem-
plates designed to . Specifically, Graff and Birkenstein
argue that the types of writing templates they offer . As
the authors themselves put it, “ .” Although some people
believe , Graff and Birkenstein insist that .
In sum, then, their view is that .
I [agree/disagree/have mixed feelings]. In my view, the types
of templates that the authors recommend . For
instance, . In addition, . Some might object,
of course, on the grounds that . Yet I would argue
that . Overall, then, I believe —an important
point to make given .
2. Read the following paragraph from an essay by Emily Poe, a
student at Furman University. Disregarding for the moment
what Poe says, focus your attention on the phrases she uses
to structure what she says (italicized here). Then write a new
paragraph using Poe’s as a model but replacing her topic,
vegetarianism, with one of your own.
The term “vegetarian” tends to be synonymous with “tree-hugger”
in many people’s minds. They see vegetarianism as a cult that
brainwashes its followers into eliminating an essential part of their
daily diets for an abstract goal of “animal welfare.” However, few
vegetarians choose their lifestyle just to follow the crowd. On the
contrary, many of these supposedly brainwashed people are actu-
ally independent thinkers, concerned citizens, and compassionate
human beings. For the truth is that there are many very good reasons
1 8
for giving up meat. Perhaps the best reasons are to improve the
environment, to encourage humane treatment of livestock, or to
enhance one’s own health. In this essay, then, closely examining a
vegetarian diet as compared to a meat-eater’s diet will show that
vegetarianism is clearly the better option for sustaining the Earth
and all its inhabitants.
1 9
“they say”
Starting with What Others Are Saying
Not long ago we attended a talk at an academic conference
where the speaker’s central claim seemed to be that a certain
sociologist—call him Dr. X—had done very good work in a
number of areas of the discipline. The speaker proceeded to
illustrate his thesis by referring extensively and in great detail
to various books and articles by Dr. X and by quoting long pas-
sages from them. The speaker was obviously both learned and
impassioned, but as we listened to his talk we found ourselves
somewhat puzzled: the argument—that Dr. X’s work was very
important—was clear enough, but why did the speaker need to
make it in the first place? Did anyone dispute it? Were there
commentators in the field who had argued against X’s work or
challenged its value? Was the speaker’s interpretation of what
X had done somehow novel or revolutionary? Since the speaker
gave no hint of an answer to any of these questions, we could
only wonder why he was going on and on about X. It
was only after the speaker finished and took questions
from the audience that we got a clue: in response to
one questioner, he referred to several critics who had
The hypo­
audience in
the figure on
p. 5 reacts
o n e “ T H E Y S A Y ”
2 0
vigorously questioned Dr. X’s ideas and convinced many soci-
ologists that Dr. X’s work was unsound.
This story illustrates an important lesson: that to give writ-
ing the most important thing of all—namely, a point—a writer
needs to indicate clearly not only what his or her thesis is,
but also what larger conversation that thesis is responding to.
Because our speaker failed to mention what others had said about
Dr. X’s work, he left his audience unsure about why he felt the
need to say what he was saying. Perhaps the point was clear to
other sociologists in the audience who were more familiar with
the debates over Dr. X’s work than we were. But even they, we
bet, would have understood the speaker’s point better if he’d
sketched in some of the larger conversation his own claims were
a part of and reminded the audience about what “they say.”
This story also illustrates an important lesson about the order
in which things are said: to keep an audience engaged, a writer
needs to explain what he or she is responding to—either before
offering that response or, at least, very early in the discussion.
Delaying this explanation for more than one or two paragraphs
in a very short essay or blog entry, three or four pages in a
longer work, or more than ten or so pages in a book reverses
the natural order in which readers process material—and in
which writers think and develop ideas. After all, it seems very
unlikely that our conference speaker first developed his defense
of Dr. X and only later came across Dr. X’s critics. As someone
knowledgeable in his field, the speaker surely encountered the
criticisms first and only then was compelled to respond and, as
he saw it, set the record straight.
Therefore, when it comes to constructing an argument
(whether orally or in writing), we offer you the following
advice: remember that you are entering a conversation and
therefore need to start with “what others are saying,” as the
Starting with What Others Are Saying
2 1
title of this chapter recommends, and then introduce your own
ideas as a response. Specifically, we suggest that you summarize
what “they say” as soon as you can in your text, and remind
readers of it at strategic points as your text unfolds. Though
it’s true that not all texts follow this practice, we think it’s
important for all writers to master it before they depart from it.
This is not to say that you must start with a detailed list of
everyone who has written on your subject before you offer your
own ideas. Had our conference speaker gone to the opposite
extreme and spent most of his talk summarizing Dr. X’s critics
with no hint of what he himself had to say, the audience probably
would have had the same frustrated “why-is-he-going-on-like-
this?” reaction. What we suggest, then, is that as soon as possible
you state your own position and the one it’s responding to together,
and that you think of the two as a unit. It is generally best to
summarize the ideas you’re responding to briefly, at the start of
your text, and to delay detailed elaboration until later. The point
is to give your readers a quick preview of what is motivating your
argument, not to drown them in details right away.
Starting with a summary of others’ views may seem to con-
tradict the common advice that writers should lead with their
own thesis or claim. Although we agree that you shouldn’t keep
readers in suspense too long about your central argument, we also
believe that you need to present that argument as part of some
larger conversation, indicating something about the arguments
of others that you are supporting, opposing, amending, compli-
cating, or qualifying. One added benefit of summarizing others’
views as soon as you can: you let those others do some of the
work of framing and clarifying the issue you’re writing about.
Consider, for example, how George Orwell starts his famous
essay “Politics and the English Language” with what others are
o n e “ T H E Y S A Y ”
2 2
Most people who bother with the matter at all would admit that the
English language is in a bad way, but it is generally assumed that
we cannot by conscious action do anything about it. Our civiliza-
tion is decadent and our language—so the argument runs—must
inevitably share in the general collapse. . . .
[But] the process is reversible. Modern English . . . is full of
bad habits . . . which can be avoided if one is willing to take the
necessary trouble.
George Orwell, “Politics and the English Language”
Orwell is basically saying, “Most people assume that we cannot
do anything about the bad state of the English language. But
I say we can.”
Of course, there are many other powerful ways to begin.
Instead of opening with someone else’s views, you could start
with an illustrative quotation, a revealing fact or statistic, or—
as we do in this chapter—a relevant anecdote. If you choose
one of these formats, however, be sure that it in some way
illustrates the view you’re addressing or leads you to that view
directly, with a minimum of steps.
In opening this chapter, for example, we devote the first para-
graph to an anecdote about the conference speaker and then
move quickly at the start of the second paragraph to the miscon-
ception about writing exemplified by the speaker. In the follow-
ing opening, from an opinion piece in the New York Times Book
Review, Christina Nehring also moves quickly from an anecdote
illustrating something she dislikes to her own claim—that book
lovers think too highly of themselves.
“I’m a reader!” announced the yellow button. “How about you?” I
looked at its bearer, a strapping young guy stalking my town’s Festival
of Books. “I’ll bet you’re a reader,” he volunteered, as though we were
Starting with What Others Are Saying
2 3
two geniuses well met. “No,” I replied. “Absolutely not,” I wanted to
yell, and fling my Barnes & Noble bag at his feet. Instead, I mumbled
something apologetic and melted into the crowd.
There’s a new piety in the air: the self-congratulation of book
Christina Nehring, “Books Make You a Boring Person”
Nehring’s anecdote is really a kind of “they say”: book lovers
keep telling themselves how great they are.
templates for introducing
what “they say”
There are lots of conventional ways to introduce what others
are saying. Here are some standard templates that we would
have recommended to our conference speaker.
j A number of sociologists have recently suggested that X’s work
has several fundamental problems.
j It has become common today to dismiss .
j In their recent work, Y and Z have offered harsh critiques of
for .
templates for introducing
“standard views”
The following templates can help you make what we call the
“standard view” move, in which you introduce a view that has
become so widely accepted that by now it is essentially the
conventional way of thinking about a topic.
o n e “ T H E Y S A Y ”
2 4
j Americans have always believed that individual effort can
triumph over circumstances.
j Conventional wisdom has it that .
j Common sense seems to dictate that .
j The standard way of thinking about topic X has it that .
j It is often said that .
j My whole life I have heard it said that .
j You would think that .
j Many people assume that .
These templates are popular because they provide a quick
and efficient way to perform one of the most common moves
that writers make: challenging widely accepted beliefs, placing
them on the examining table, and analyzing their strengths
and weaknesses.
templates for making what “they say”
something you say
Another way to introduce the views you’re responding to is
to present them as your own. That is, the “they say” that you
respond to need not be a view held by others; it can be one that
you yourself once held or one that you are ambivalent about.
j I’ve always believed that museums are boring.
j When I was a child, I used to think that .
Starting with What Others Are Saying
2 5
j Although I should know better by now, I cannot help thinking
that .
j At the same time that I believe , I also believe
templates for introducing
something implied or assumed
Another sophisticated move a writer can make is to summarize
a point that is not directly stated in what “they say” but is
implied or assumed.
j Although none of them have ever said so directly, my teachers
have often given me the impression that education will open doors.
j One implication of X’s treatment of is that .
j Although X does not say so directly, she apparently assumes
that .
j While they rarely admit as much, often take for
granted that .
These are templates that can help you think analytically—to
look beyond what others say explicitly and to consider their
unstated assumptions, as well as the implications of their views.
templates for introducing
an ongoing debate
Sometimes you’ll want to open by summarizing a debate
that presents two or more views. This kind of opening
o n e “ T H E Y S A Y ”
2 6
demonstrates your awareness that there are conflicting ways
to look at your subject, the clear mark of someone who knows
the subject and therefore is likely to be a reliable, trustworthy
guide. Furthermore, opening with a summary of a debate can
help you explore the issue you are writing about before declar-
ing your own view. In this way, you can use the writing
process itself to help you discover where you stand instead of
having to commit to a position before you are ready to do so.
Here is a basic template for opening with a debate.
j In discussions of X, one controversial issue has been .
On the one hand, argues . On the other
hand, contends . Others even maintain
. My own view is .
The cognitive scientist Mark Aronoff uses this kind of template
in an essay on the workings of the human brain.
Theories of how the mind/brain works have been dominated
for centuries by two opposing views. One, rationalism, sees the
human mind as coming into this world more or less fully formed—
preprogrammed, in modern terms. The other, empiricism, sees the
mind of the newborn as largely unstructured, a blank slate.
Mark Aronoff, “Washington Sleeped Here”
A student writer, Michaela Cullington, uses a version of this
template near the beginning of an essay to frame a debate over
online writing abbreviations like “LOL” (“laughing out loud”)
and to indicate her own position in this debate.
Some people believe that using these abbreviations is hindering
the writing abilities of students, and others argue that texting is
Starting with What Others Are Saying
2 7
actually having a positive effect on writing. In fact, it seems likely
that texting has no significant effect on student writing.
Michaela Cullington, “Does Texting Affect Writing?”
Another way to open with a debate involves starting with a
proposition many people agree with in order to highlight the
point(s) on which they ultimately disagree.
j When it comes to the topic of , most of us will read-
ily agree that . Where this agreement usually ends,
however, is on the question of . Whereas some are
convinced that , others maintain that .
The political writer Thomas Frank uses a variation on this move.
That we are a nation divided is an almost universal lament of
this bitter election year. However, the exact property that divides
us—elemental though it is said to be—remains a matter of some
Thomas Frank, “American Psyche”
keep what “they say” in view
We can’t urge you too strongly to keep in mind what “they say”
as you move through the rest of your text. After summarizing
the ideas you are responding to at the outset, it’s very impor-
tant to continue to keep those ideas in view. Readers won’t be
able to follow your unfolding response, much less any compli-
cations you may offer, unless you keep reminding them what
claims you are responding to.
o n e “ T H E Y S A Y ”
2 8
In other words, even when presenting your own claims,
you should keep returning to the motivating “they say.”
The longer and more complicated your text, the greater the
chance that readers will forget what ideas originally motivated
it—no matter how clearly you lay them out at the beginning.
At strategic moments throughout your text, we recommend
that you include what we call “return sentences.” Here is an
j In conclusion, then, as I suggested earlier, defenders of
can’t have it both ways. Their assertion that
is contradicted by their claim that .
We ourselves use such return sentences at every opportunity in
this book to remind you of the view of writing that our book
questions—that good writing means making true or smart or
logical statements about a given subject with little or no refer-
ence to what others say about it.
By reminding readers of the ideas you’re responding to,
return sentences ensure that your text maintains a sense of
mission and urgency from start to finish. In short, they help
ensure that your argument is a genuine response to others’ views
rather than just a set of observations about a given subject. The
difference is huge. To be responsive to others and the conver-
sation you’re entering, you need to start with what others are
saying and continue keeping it in the reader’s view.
1. The following is a list of arguments that lack a “they say.”
Like the speaker in the cartoon on page 5 who declares
that the film presents complex characters, these one-sided
Starting with What Others Are Saying
2 9
arguments fail to explain what view they are responding
to—what view, in effect, they are trying to correct, add to,
qualify, complicate, and so forth. Your job in this exercise
is to provide each argument with such a counterview. Feel
free to use any of the templates in this chapter that you find
a. Our experiments suggest that there are dangerous levels
of chemical X in the Ohio groundwater.
b. Material forces drive history.
c. Proponents of Freudian psychology question standard
notions of “rationality.”
d. Male students often dominate class discussions.
e. The film is about the problems of romantic relationships.
f. I’m afraid that templates like the ones in this book will
stifle my creativity.
2. Below is a template that we derived from the opening of David
Zinczenko’s “Don’t Blame the Eater” (p XXXXXXXXXXUse the tem-
plate to structure a passage on a topic of your own choosing.
Your first step here should be to find an idea that you support
that others not only disagree with but actually find laughable
(or, as Zinczenko puts it, worthy of a Jay Leno monologue).
You might write about one of the topics listed in the previous
exercise (the environment, gender relations, the meaning of
a book or movie) or any other topic that interests you.
If ever there was an idea custom-made for a Jay Leno monologue,
this was it: . Isn’t that like ? Whatever hap-
pened to ?
I happen to sympathize with , though, perhaps
because .
3 0
“her point is”
The Art of Summarizing
If it is true, as we claim in this book, that to argue
persuasively you need to be in dialogue with others, then sum-
marizing others’ arguments is central to your arsenal of basic
moves. Because writers who make strong claims need to map
their claims relative to those of other people, it is important
to know how to summarize effectively what those other people
say. (We’re using the word “summarizing” here to refer to any
information from others that you present in your own words,
including that which you paraphrase.)
Many writers shy away from summarizing—perhaps because
they don’t want to take the trouble to go back to the text in
question and wrestle with what it says, or because they fear that
devoting too much time to other people’s ideas will take away
from their own. When assigned to write a response to an article,
such writers might offer their own views on the article’s topic
while hardly mentioning what the article itself argues or says. At
the opposite extreme are those who do nothing but summarize.
Lacking confidence, perhaps, in their own ideas, these writers so
overload their texts with summaries of others’ ideas that their
own voice gets lost. And since these summaries are not animated
The Art of Summarizing
3 1
by the writers’ own interests, they often read like mere lists of
things that X thinks or Y says—with no clear focus.
As a general rule, a good summary requires balancing what
the original author is saying with the writer’s own focus.
Generally speaking, a summary must at once be true to what
the original author says while also emphasizing those aspects
of what the author says that interest you, the writer. Strik-
ing this delicate balance can be tricky, since it means facing
two ways at once: both outward (toward the author being
summarized) and inward (toward yourself). Ultimately, it
means being respectful of others but simultaneously struc-
turing how you summarize them in light of your own text’s
central argument.
on the one hand,
put yourself in their shoes
To write a really good summary, you must be able to suspend your
own beliefs for a time and put yourself in the shoes of someone
else. This means playing what the writing theorist Peter Elbow
calls the “believing game,” in which you try to inhabit the world-
view of those whose conversation you are joining—and whom you
are perhaps even disagreeing with—and try to see their argument
from their perspective. This ability to temporarily suspend one’s
own convictions is a hallmark of good actors, who must convinc-
ingly “become” characters whom in real life they may detest. As
a writer, when you play the believing game well, readers should
not be able to tell whether you agree or disagree with the ideas
you are summarizing.
If, as a writer, you cannot or will not suspend your own
beliefs in this way, you are likely to produce summaries that are
t w o “ H E R P O I N T I S ”
3 2
so obviously biased that they undermine your credibility with
readers. Consider the following summary.
David Zinczenko’s article “Don’t Blame the Eater” is nothing more
than an angry rant in which he accuses the fast-food companies
of an evil conspiracy to make people fat. I disagree because these
companies have to make money. . . .
If you review what Zinczenko actually says (pp. 245–47), you
should immediately see that this summary amounts to an unfair
distortion. While Zinczenko does argue that the practices of
the fast-food industry have the effect of making people fat, his
tone is never “angry,” and he never goes so far as to suggest
that the fast-food industry conspires to make people fat with
deliberately evil intent.
Another telltale sign of this writer’s failure to give
Zinczenko a fair hearing is the hasty way he abandons the sum-
mary after only one sentence and rushes on to his own response.
So eager is this writer to disagree that he not only caricatures
what Zinczenko says but also gives the article a hasty, super-
ficial reading. Granted, there are many writing situations in
which, because of matters of proportion, a one- or two-sentence
summary is precisely what you want. Indeed, as writing profes-
sor Karen Lunsford (whose own research focuses on argument
theory) points out, it is standard in the natural and social sci-
ences to summarize the work of others quickly, in one pithy
sentence or phrase, as in the following example.
Several studies (Crackle, 2012; Pop, 2007; Snap, 2006) suggest that
these policies are harmless; moreover, other studies (Dick, 2011;
Harry, 2007; Tom, 2005) argue that they even have benefits.
The Art of Summarizing
3 3
But if your assignment is to respond in writing to a single author,
like Zinczenko, you will need to tell your readers enough about
his or her argument so they can assess its merits on their own,
independent of you.
When a writer fails to provide enough summary or to engage
in a rigorous or serious enough summary, he or she often falls
prey to what we call “the closest cliché syndrome,” in which
what gets summarized is not the view the author in question has
actually expressed but a familiar cliché that the writer mistakes
for the author’s view (sometimes because the writer believes it
and mistakenly assumes the author must too). So, for example,
Martin Luther King Jr.’s passionate defense of civil disobedi-
ence in “Letter from Birmingham Jail” might be summarized
not as the defense of political protest that it actually is but as
a plea for everyone to “just get along.” Similarly, Zinczenko’s
critique of the fast-food industry might be summarized as a call
for overweight people to take responsibility for their weight.
Whenever you enter into a conversation with others in your
writing, then, it is extremely important that you go back to
what those others have said, that you study it very closely, and
that you not confuse it with something you already believe. A
writer who fails to do this ends up essentially conversing with
imaginary others who are really only the products of his or her
own biases and preconceptions.
on the other hand,
know where you are going
Even as writing an effective summary requires you to temporar-
ily adopt the worldview of another person, it does not mean
t w o “ H E R P O I N T I S ”
3 4
ignoring your own view altogether. Paradoxically, at the same
time that summarizing another text requires you to represent
fairly what it says, it also requires that your own response exert
a quiet influence. A good summary, in other words, has a focus
or spin that allows the summary to fit with your own agenda
while still being true to the text you are summarizing.
Thus if you are writing in response to the essay by Zinczenko,
you should be able to see that an essay on the fast-food industry
in general will call for a very different summary than will an
essay on parenting, corporate regulation, or warning labels. If
you want your essay to encompass all three topics, you’ll need
to subordinate these three issues to one of Zinczenko’s general
claims and then make sure this general claim directly sets up
your own argument.
For example, suppose you want to argue that it is parents, not
fast-food companies, who are to blame for children’s obesity.
To set up this argument, you will probably want to compose a
summary that highlights what Zinczenko says about the fast-
food industry and parents. Consider this sample.
In his article “Don’t Blame the Eater,” David Zinczenko blames
the fast-food industry for fueling today’s so-called obesity epidemic,
not only by failing to provide adequate warning labels on its
high-calorie foods but also by filling the nutritional void in chil-
dren’s lives left by their overtaxed working parents. With many
parents working long hours and unable to supervise what their
children eat, Zinczenko claims, children today are easily victimized
by the low-cost, calorie-laden foods that the fast-food chains are all
too eager to supply. When he was a young boy, for instance, and his
single mother was away at work, he ate at Taco Bell, McDonald’s,
and other chains on a regular basis, and ended up overweight.
Zinczenko’s hope is that with the new spate of lawsuits against
The Art of Summarizing
3 5
the food industry, other children with working parents will have
healthier choices available to them, and that they will not, like
him, become obese.
In my view, however, it is the parents, and not the food chains,
who are responsible for their children’s obesity. While it is true
that many of today’s parents work long hours, there are still several
things that parents can do to guarantee that their children eat
healthy foods. . . .
The summary in the first paragraph succeeds because it points
in two directions at once—both toward Zinczenko’s own text
and toward the second paragraph, where the writer begins to
establish her own argument. The opening sentence gives a sense
of Zinczenko’s general argument (that the fast-food chains are
to blame for obesity), including his two main supporting claims
(about warning labels and parents), but it ends with an empha-
sis on the writer’s main concern: parental responsibility. In this
way, the summary does justice to Zinczenko’s arguments while
also setting up the ensuing critique.
This advice—to summarize authors in light of your own
agenda—may seem painfully obvious. But writers often summa-
rize a given author on one issue even though their text actually
focuses on another. To avoid this problem, you need to make
sure that your “they say” and “I say” are well matched. In fact,
aligning what they say with what you say is a good thing to
work on when revising what you’ve written.
Often writers who summarize without regard to their own
agenda fall prey to what might be called “list summaries,” sum-
maries that simply inventory the original author’s various points
but fail to focus those points around any larger overall claim. If
you’ve ever heard a talk in which the points were connected
only by words like “and then,” “also,” and “in addition,” you
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3 6
know how such lists can put listeners to sleep—as shown in
the figure above. A typical list summary sounds like this.
The author says many different things about his subject. First he
says XXXXXXXXXXThen he makes the point that XXXXXXXXXXIn addition he says. . . .
And then he writes XXXXXXXXXXAlso he shows that XXXXXXXXXXAnd then he says. . . .
It may be boring list summaries like this that give summaries
in general a bad name and even prompt some instructors to
discourage their students from summarizing at all.
Not all lists are bad, however. A list can be an excellent
way to organize material—but only if, instead of being a mis-
cellaneous grab bag, it is organized around a larger argument
that informs each item listed. Many well-written summaries,
for instance, list various points made by an author, sometimes
itemizing those points (“First, she argues . . . ,” “Second, she
The Art of Summarizing
3 7
argues . . . ,” “Third . . .”), and sometimes even itemizing those
points in bullet form.
Many well-written arguments are organized in a list format as
well. In “The New Liberal Arts,” Sanford J. Ungar lists what he
sees as seven common misperceptions that discourage college
students from majoring in the liberal arts, the first of which
Misperception No. 1: A liberal-arts degree is a luxury that most
families can no longer afford. . . .
Misperception No. 2: College graduates are finding it harder to get
good jobs with liberal-arts degrees. . . .
Misperception No. 3: The liberal arts are particularly irrelevant for
low-income and first-generation college students. They, more than
their more-affluent peers, must focus on something more practical
and marketable.
Sanford J. Ungar, “The New Liberal Arts”
What makes Ungar’s list so effective, and makes it stand out in
contrast to the type of disorganized lists our cartoon parodies, is
that it has a clear, overarching goal: to defend the liberal arts.
Had Ungar’s article lacked such a unifying agenda and instead
been a miscellaneous grab bag, it almost assuredly would have
lost its readers, who wouldn’t have known what to focus on or
what the final “message” or “takeaway” should be.
In conclusion, writing a good summary means not just
representing an author’s view accurately, but doing so in a
way that fits what you want to say, the larger point you want
to make. On the one hand, it means playing Peter Elbow’s
believing game and doing justice to the source; if the summary
ignores or misrepresents the source, its bias and unfairness will
show. On the other hand, even as it does justice to the source,
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3 8
a summary has to have a slant or spin that prepares the way
for your own claims. Once a summary enters your text, you
should think of it as joint property—reflecting not just the
source you are summarizing, but your own perspective or take
on it.
summarizing satirically
Thus far in this chapter we have argued that, as a general rule,
good summaries require a balance between what someone else
has said and your own interests as a writer. Now, however, we
want to address one exception to this rule: the satiric summary,
in which a writer deliberately gives his or her own spin to some-
one else’s argument in order to reveal a glaring shortcoming in
it. Despite our previous comments that well-crafted summaries
generally strike a balance between heeding what someone else
has said and your own independent interests, the satiric mode
can at times be a very effective form of critique because it lets
the summarized argument condemn itself without overt edito-
rializing by you, the writer.
One such satiric summary can be found in Sanford J. Ungar’s
essay “The New Liberal Arts,” which we just mentioned. In his
discussion of the “misperception,” as he sees it, that a liberal
arts education is “particularly irrelevant for low-income and
first-generation college students,” who “must focus on some-
thing more practical and marketable,” Ungar restates this view
as “another way of saying, really, that the rich folks will do
the important thinking, and the lower classes will simply carry
out their ideas.” Few who would dissuade disadvantaged stu-
dents from the liberal arts would actually state their position
The Art of Summarizing
3 9
in this insulting way. But in taking their position to its logical
conclusion, Ungar’s satire suggests that this is precisely what
their position amounts to.
use signal verbs that fit the action
In introducing summaries, try to avoid bland formulas like “she
says” or “they believe.” Though language like this is sometimes
serviceable enough, it often fails to reflect accurately what’s
been said. In some cases, “he says” may even drain the passion
out of the ideas you’re summarizing.
We suspect that the habit of ignoring the action when sum-
marizing stems from the mistaken belief we mentioned earlier
that writing is about playing it safe and not making waves, a
matter of piling up truths and bits of knowledge rather than
a dynamic process of doing things to and with other people.
People who wouldn’t hesitate to say “X totally misrepresented,”
“attacked,” or “loved” something when chatting with friends
will in their writing often opt for far tamer and even less accu-
rate phrases like “X said.”
But the authors you summarize at the college level seldom
simply “say” or “discuss” things; they “urge,” “emphasize,”
and “complain about” them. David Zinczenko, for example,
doesn’t just say that fast-food companies contribute to obe-
sity; he complains or protests that they do; he challenges,
chastises, and indicts those companies. The Declaration of
Independence doesn’t just talk about the treatment of the
colonies by the British; it protests against it. To do justice to
the authors you cite, we recommend that when summarizing—
or when introducing a quotation—you use vivid and precise
t w o “ H E R P O I N T I S ”
4 0
signal verbs as often as possible. Though “he says” or “she
believes” will sometimes be the most appropriate language
for the occasion, your text will often be more accurate and
lively if you tailor your verbs to suit the precise actions
you’re describing.
templates for introducing
summaries and quotations
j She advocates a radical revision of the juvenile justice system.
j They celebrate the fact that .
j , he admits.
verbs for introducing
summaries and quotations
verbs for making a claim
argue insist
assert observe
believe remind us
claim report
emphasize suggest
verbs for expressing agreement
acknowledge endorse
admire extol
agree praise
The Art of Summarizing
4 1
verbs for expressing agreement
celebrate the fact that reaffirm
corroborate support
do not deny verify
verbs for questioning or disagreeing
complain qualify
complicate question
contend refute
contradict reject
deny renounce
deplore the tendency to repudiate
verbs for making recommendations
advocate implore
call for plead
demand recommend
encourage urge
exhort warn
1. To get a feel for Peter Elbow’s “believing game,” write a sum-
mary of some belief that you strongly disagree with. Then
write a summary of the position that you actually hold on
this topic. Give both summaries to a classmate or two, and
see if they can tell which position you endorse. If you’ve
succeeded, they won’t be able to tell.
t w o “ H E R P O I N T I S ”
4 2
2. Write two different summaries of David Zinczenko’s “Don’t
Blame the Eater” (pp. 245–47). Write the first one for an
essay arguing that, contrary to what Zinczenko claims, there
are inexpensive and convenient alternatives to fast-food
restaurants. Write the second for an essay that questions
whether being overweight is a genuine medical problem
rather than a problem of cultural stereotypes. Compare your
two summaries: though they are about the same article, they
should look very different.
4 3
“as he himself puts it”
The Art of Quoting
A key premise of this book is that to launch an effective
argument you need to write the arguments of others into your
text. One of the best ways to do so is by not only summarizing
what “they say,” as suggested in Chapter 2, but by quoting their
exact words. Quoting someone else’s words gives a tremendous
amount of credibility to your summary and helps ensure that
it is fair and accurate. In a sense, then, quotations function as
a kind of proof of evidence, saying to readers: “Look, I’m not
just making this up. She makes this claim, and here it is in
her exact words.”
Yet many writers make a host of mistakes when it comes to
quoting, not the least of which is the failure to quote enough
in the first place, if at all. Some writers quote too little—
perhaps because they don’t want to bother going back to
the original text and looking up the author’s exact words, or
because they think they can reconstruct the author’s ideas from
memory. At the opposite extreme are writers who so overquote
that they end up with texts that are short on commentary of
their own—maybe because they lack confidence in their abil-
ity to comment on the quotations, or because they don’t fully
t h r e e “ A S H E H I M S E L F P U T S I T ”
4 4
understand what they’ve quoted and therefore have trouble
explaining what the quotations mean.
But the main problem with quoting arises when writers assume
that quotations speak for themselves. Because the meaning of a
quotation is obvious to them, many writers assume that this mean-
ing will also be obvious to their readers, when often it is not.
Writers who make this mistake think that their job is done when
they’ve chosen a quotation and inserted it into their text. They
draft an essay, slap in a few quotations, and whammo, they’re done.
Such writers fail to see that quoting means more than sim-
ply enclosing what “they say” in quotation marks. In a way,
quotations are orphans: words that have been taken from their
original contexts and that need to be integrated into their new
textual surroundings. This chapter offers two key ways to pro-
duce this sort of integration: (1) by choosing quotations wisely,
with an eye to how well they support a particular part of your
text, and (2) by surrounding every major quotation with a frame
explaining whose words they are, what the quotation means,
and how the quotation relates to your own text. The point we
want to emphasize is that quoting what “they say” must always
be connected with what you say.
quote relevant passages
Before you can select appropriate quotations, you need to have
a sense of what you want to do with them—that is, how they
will support your text at the particular point where you insert
them. Be careful not to select quotations just for the sake of
demonstrating that you’ve read the author’s work; you need to
make sure they support your own argument.
The Art of Quoting
4 5
However, finding relevant quotations is not always easy.
In fact, sometimes quotations that were initially relevant to
your argument, or to a key point in it, become less so as your
text changes during the process of writing and revising. Given
the evolving and messy nature of writing, you may sometimes
think that you’ve found the perfect quotation to support your
argument, only to discover later on, as your text develops, that
your focus has changed and the quotation no longer works. It
can be somewhat misleading, then, to speak of finding your
thesis and finding relevant quotations as two separate steps,
one coming after the other. When you’re deeply engaged in
the writing and revising process, there is usually a great deal
of back-and-forth between your argument and any quotations
you select.
frame every quotation
Finding relevant quotations is only part of your job; you also
need to present them in a way that makes their relevance and
meaning clear to your readers. Since quotations do not speak
for themselves, you need to build a frame around them in which
you do that speaking for them.
Quotations that are inserted into a text without such a
frame are sometimes called “dangling” quotations for the way
they’re left dangling without any explanation. One teacher
we’ve worked with, Steve Benton, calls these “hit-and-run”
quotations, likening them to car accidents in which the driver
speeds away and avoids taking responsibility for the dent in
your fender or the smashed taillights, as in the figure that
t h r e e “ A S H E H I M S E L F P U T S I T ”
4 6
What follows is a typical hit-and-run quotation by a stu-
dent responding to an essay by Deborah Tannen, a linguistics
professor and prominent author, who complains that academ-
ics value opposition over agreement.
Deborah Tannen writes about academia. Academics believe “that
intellectual inquiry is a metaphorical battle. Following from that is
a second assumption that the best way to demonstrate intellectual
prowess is to criticize, find fault, and attack.”
I agree with Tannen. Another point Tannen makes is that . . .
Since this student fails to introduce the quotation adequately
or explain why he finds it worth quoting, readers will have
a hard time reconstructing what Tannen argued. First, the
student simply gives us the quotation from Tannen without
telling us who Tannen is or even indicating that the quoted
words are hers. In addition, the student does not explain what
he takes Tannen to be saying or how her claims connect with
his own. Instead, he simply abandons the quotation in his
haste to zoom on to another point.
The Art of Quoting
4 7
To adequately frame a quotation, you need to insert it into
what we like to call a “quotation sandwich,” with the statement
introducing it serving as the top slice of bread and the explana-
tion following it serving as the bottom slice. The introductory
or lead-in claims should explain who is speaking and set up what
the quotation says; the follow-up statements should explain
why you consider the quotation to be important and what you
take it to say.
templates for introducing quotations
j X states, “Not all steroids should be banned from sports.”
j As the prominent philosopher X puts it, “ .”
j According to X, “ .”
j X himself writes, “ .”
j In her book, , X maintains that “ .”
j Writing in the journal Commentary, X complains that “ .”
j In X’s view, “ .”
j X agrees when she writes, “ .”
j X disagrees when he writes, “ .”
j X complicates matters further when she writes, “ .”
templates for explaining quotations
The one piece of advice about quoting that our students say
they find most helpful is to get in the habit of following every
t h r e e “ A S H E H I M S E L F P U T S I T ”
4 8
major quotation by explaining what it means, using a template
like one of the ones below.
j Basically, X is warning that the proposed solution will only make
the problem worse.
j In other words, X believes .
j In making this comment, X urges us to .
j X is corroborating the age-old adage that .
j X’s point is that .
j The essence of X’s argument is that .
When offering such explanations, it is important to use lan-
guage that accurately reflects the spirit of the quoted passage. It
is often serviceable enough in introducing a quotation to write
“X states” or “X asserts,” but in most cases you can add preci-
sion to your writing by introducing the quotation in more vivid
terms. Since, in the example above, Tannen is clearly
alarmed by the culture of “attack” that she describes,
it would be more accurate to use language that reflects
that alarm: “Tannen is alarmed that,” “Tannen is dis-
turbed by,” “Tannen deplores,” or (in our own formulation
here) “Tannen complains.”
Consider, for example, how the earlier passage on Tannen
might be revised using some of these moves.
Deborah Tannen, a prominent linguistics professor, complains that
academia is too combative. Rather than really listening to others,
Tannen insists, academics habitually try to prove one another wrong.
As Tannen herself puts it, “We are all driven by our ideological
See pp. 40–41
for a list of
action verbs for
what other say.
The Art of Quoting
4 9
assumption that intellectual inquiry is a metaphorical battle,” that
“the best way to demonstrate intellectual prowess is to criticize, find
fault, and attack.” In short, Tannen objects that academic commu-
nication tends to be a competition for supremacy in which loftier
values like truth and consensus get lost.
Tannen’s observations ring true to me because I have often felt
that the academic pieces I read for class are negative and focus on
proving another theorist wrong rather than stating a truth . . .
This revision works, we think, because it frames or nests Tannen’s
words, integrating them and offering guidance about how they
should be read. Instead of launching directly into the quoted
words, as the previous draft had done, this revised version iden-
tifies Tannen (“a prominent linguistics professor”) and clearly
indicates that the quoted words are hers (“as Tannen herself puts
it”). And instead of being presented without explanation as it
was before, the quotation is now presented as an illustration of
Tannen’s point that, as the student helpfully puts it, “academics
habitually try to prove one another wrong” and compete “for
supremacy.” In this way, the student explains the quotation while
restating it in his own words, thereby making it clear that the
quotation is being used purposefully instead of having been stuck
in simply to pad the essay or the works-cited list.
blend the author’s words
with your own
This new framing material also works well because it accurately
represents Tannen’s words while giving those words the stu-
dent’s own spin. Instead of simply repeating Tannen word for
word, the follow-up sentences echo just enough of her language
t h r e e “ A S H E H I M S E L F P U T S I T ”
5 0
while still moving the discussion in the student’s own direc-
tion. Tannen’s “battle,” “criticize,” “find fault,” and “attack,”
for instance, get translated by the student into claims about
how “combative” Tannen thinks academics are and how she
thinks they “habitually try to prove one another wrong.” In
this way, the framing creates a kind of hybrid mix of Tannen’s
words and those of the writer.
can you overanalyze a quotation?
But is it possible to overexplain a quotation? And how do you
know when you’ve explained a quotation thoroughly enough?
After all, not all quotations require the same amount of explan-
atory framing, and there are no hard-and-fast rules for knowing
how much explanation any quotation needs. As a general rule,
the most explanatory framing is needed for quotations that may
be hard for readers to process: quotations that are long and
complex, that are filled with details or jargon, or that contain
hidden complexities.
And yet, though the particular situation usually dictates
when and how much to explain a quotation, we will still offer
one piece of advice: when in doubt, go for it. It is better to
risk being overly explicit about what you take a quotation to
mean than to leave the quotation dangling and your readers in
doubt. Indeed, we encourage you to provide such explanatory
framing even when writing to an audience that you know to be
familiar with the author being quoted and able to interpret your
quotations on their own. Even in such cases, readers need to see
how you interpret the quotation, since words—especially those
of controversial figures—can be interpreted in various ways
and used to support different, sometimes opposing, agendas.
The Art of Quoting
5 1
Your readers need to see what you make of the material you’ve
quoted, if only to be sure that your reading of the material and
theirs are on the same page.
how not to introduce quotations
We want to conclude this chapter by surveying some ways
not to introduce quotations. Although some writers do so,
you should not introduce quotations by saying something like
“Orwell asserts an idea that” or “A quote by Shakespeare says.”
Introductory phrases like these are both redundant and mislead-
ing. In the first example, you could write either “Orwell asserts
that” or “Orwell’s assertion is that,” rather than redundantly
combining the two. The second example misleads readers, since
it is the writer who is doing the quoting, not Shakespeare (as
“a quote by Shakespeare” implies).
The templates in this book will help you avoid such mis-
takes. Once you have mastered templates like “as X puts it”
or “in X’s own words,” you probably won’t even have to think
about them—and will be free to focus on the challenging ideas
that templates help you frame.
1. Find a published piece of writing that quotes something that
“they say.” How has the writer integrated the quotation into
his or her own text? How has he or she introduced the quota-
tion, and what, if anything, has the writer said to explain it
and tie it to his or her own text? Based on what you’ve read
in this chapter, are there any changes you would suggest?
t h r e e “ A S H E H I M S E L F P U T S I T ”
5 2
2. Look at something you have written for one of your classes.
Have you quoted any sources? If so, how have you integrated
the quotation into your own text? How have you intro-
duced it? explained what it means? indicated how it relates
to your text? If you haven’t done all these things, revise your
text to do so, perhaps using the Templates for Introducing
Quotations (p. 47) and Explaining Quotations (pp. 47–48).
If you’ve not written anything with quotations, try revising
some academic text you’ve written to do so.
5 3
“yes / no / okay, but”
Three Ways to Respond
The first three chapters of this book discuss the “they
say” stage of writing, in which you devote your attention to the
views of some other person or group. In this chapter we move
to the “I say” stage, in which you offer your own argument as
a response to what “they” have said.
Moving to the “I say” stage can be daunting in academia,
where it often may seem that you need to be an expert in a field
to have an argument at all. Many students have told us that they
have trouble entering some of the high-powered conversations
that take place in college or graduate school because they do not
know enough about the topic at hand or because, they say, they
simply are not “smart enough.” Yet often these same students,
when given a chance to study in depth the contribution that
some scholar has made in a given field, will turn around and
say things like “I can see where she is coming from, how she
makes her case by building on what other scholars have said.
Perhaps had I studied the situation longer I could have come up
with a similar argument.” What these students come to realize
is that good arguments are based not on knowledge that only
a special class of experts has access to, but on everyday habits
f o u r “ Y E S / N O / O K A Y , B U T ”
5 4
of mind that can be isolated, identified, and used by almost
anyone. Though there’s certainly no substitute for expertise
and for knowing as much as possible about one’s topic, the
arguments that finally win the day are built, as the title of this
chapter suggests, on some very basic rhetorical patterns that
most of us use on a daily basis.
There are a great many ways to respond to others’ ideas,
but this chapter concentrates on the three most common and
recognizable ways: agreeing, disagreeing, or some combination
of both. Although each way of responding is open to endless
variation, we focus on these three because readers come to any
text needing to learn fairly quickly where the writer stands, and
they do this by placing the writer on a mental map consisting
of a few familiar options: the writer agrees with those he or
she is responding to, disagrees with them, or presents some
combination of both agreeing and disagreeing.
When writers take too long to declare their position relative
to views they’ve summarized or quoted, readers get frustrated,
wondering, “Is this guy agreeing or disagreeing? Is he for what
this other person has said, against it, or what?” For this reason,
this chapter’s advice applies to reading as well as to writing.
Especially with difficult texts, you need not only to find the
position the writer is responding to—the “they say”—but also
to determine whether the writer is agreeing with it, challenging
it, or some mixture of the two.
only three ways to respond?
Perhaps you’ll worry that fitting your own response into one of
these three categories will force you to oversimplify your argu-
ment or lessen its complexity, subtlety, or originality. This is
Three Ways to Respond
5 5
certainly a serious concern for academics who are rightly skepti-
cal of writing that is simplistic and reductive. We would argue,
however, that the more complex and subtle your argument is,
and the more it departs from the conventional ways people
think, the more your readers will need to be able to place it
on their mental map in order to process the complex details
you present. That is, the complexity, subtlety, and originality
of your response are more likely to stand out and be noticed
if readers have a baseline sense of where you stand relative to
any ideas you’ve cited. As you move through this chapter, we
hope you’ll agree that the forms of agreeing, disagreeing, and
both agreeing and disagreeing that we discuss, far from being
simplistic or one-dimensional, are able to accommodate a high
degree of creative, complex thought.
It is always a good tactic to begin your response not by
launching directly into a mass of details but by stating
clearly whether you agree, disagree, or both, using a direct,
no-nonsense formula such as: “I agree,” “I disagree,” or “I am
of two minds. I agree that , but I cannot agree
that .” Once you have offered one of these straight-
forward statements (or one of the many variations dis-
cussed below), readers will have a strong grasp of your
position and then be able to appreciate the complica-
tions you go on to offer as your response unfolds.
Still, you may object that these three basic ways of respond-
ing don’t cover all the options—that they ignore interpretive or
analytical responses, for example. In other words, you might think
that when you interpret a literary work you don’t necessarily agree
or disagree with anything but simply explain the work’s meaning,
style, or structure. Many essays about literature and the arts, it
might be said, take this form—they interpret a work’s meaning,
thus rendering matters of agreeing or disagreeing irrelevant.
See p. 21 for
on previewing
where you
f o u r “ Y E S / N O / O K A Y , B U T ”
5 6
We would argue, however, that the most interesting inter-
pretations in fact tend to be those that agree, disagree, or
both—that instead of being offered solo, the best interpreta-
tions take strong stands relative to other interpretations. In fact,
there would be no reason to offer an interpretation of a work
of literature or art unless you were responding to the interpre-
tations or possible interpretations of others. Even when you
point out features or qualities of an artistic work that others
have not noticed, you are implicitly disagreeing with what
those interpreters have said by pointing out that they missed
or overlooked something that, in your view, is important. In
any effective interpretation, then, you need not only to state
what you yourself take the work of art to mean but to do so
relative to the interpretations of other readers—be they pro-
fessional scholars, teachers, classmates, or even hypothetical
readers (as in, “Although some readers might think that this
poem is about , it is in fact about ”).
disagree—and explain why
Disagreeing may seem like one of the simpler moves a writer
can make, and it is often the first thing people associate with
critical thinking. Disagreeing can also be the easiest way to
generate an essay: find something you can disagree with in what
has been said or might be said about your topic, summarize
it, and argue with it. But disagreement in fact poses hidden
challenges. You need to do more than simply assert that you
disagree with a particular view; you also have to offer persuasive
reasons why you disagree. After all, disagreeing means more
than adding “not” to what someone else has said, more than
just saying, “Although they say women’s rights are improving,
Three Ways to Respond
5 7
I say women’s rights are not improving.” Such a response merely
contradicts the view it responds to and fails to add anything
interesting or new. To turn it into an argument, you need to
give reasons to support what you say: because another’s argu-
ment fails to take relevant factors into account; because it is
based on faulty or incomplete evidence; because it rests on
questionable assumptions; or because it uses flawed logic, is
contradictory, or overlooks what you take to be the real issue.
To move the conversation forward (and, indeed, to justify your
very act of writing), you need to demonstrate that you have
something to contribute.
You can even disagree by making what we call the “duh”
move, in which you disagree not with the position itself but
with the assumption that it is a new or stunning revelation.
Here is an example of such a move, used to open an essay on
the state of American schools.
According to a recent report by some researchers at Stanford Uni-
versity, high school students with college aspirations “often lack
crucial information on applying to college and on succeeding aca-
demically once they get there.”
Well, duh XXXXXXXXXXIt shouldn’t take a Stanford research team to tell
us that when it comes to “succeeding academically,” many students
don’t have a clue.
Gerald Graff, “Trickle-Down Obfuscation”
Like all of the other moves discussed in this book, the “duh”
move can be tailored to meet the needs of almost any writing
situation. If you find the expression “duh” too brash to use with
your intended audience, you can always dispense with the term
itself and write something like “It is true that ; but
we already knew that.”
f o u r “ Y E S / N O / O K A Y , B U T ”
5 8
templates for disagreeing, with reasons
j X is mistaken because she overlooks recent fossil discoveries in
the South.
j X’s claim that rests upon the questionable assumption
that .
j I disagree with X’s view that because, as recent
research has shown, .
j X contradicts herself/can’t have it both ways. On the one
hand, she argues . On the other hand, she also
says .
j By focusing on , X overlooks the deeper problem
of .
You can also disagree by making what we call the “twist
it” move, in which you agree with the evidence that someone
else has presented but show through a twist of logic that this
evidence actually supports your own, contrary position. For
X argues for stricter gun control legislation, saying that the crime
rate is on the rise and that we need to restrict the circulation of
guns. I agree that the crime rate is on the rise, but that’s precisely
why I oppose stricter gun control legislation. We need to own guns
to protect ourselves against criminals.
In this example of the “twist it” move, the writer agrees with
X’s claim that the crime rate is on the rise but then argues that
this increasing crime rate is in fact a valid reason for opposing
gun control legislation.
Three Ways to Respond
5 9
At times you might be reluctant to express disagreement,
for any number of reasons—not wanting to be unpleasant,
to hurt someone’s feelings, or to make yourself vulnerable to
being disagreed with in return. One of these reasons may in fact
explain why the conference speaker we described at the start of
Chapter 1 avoided mentioning the disagreement he had with
other scholars until he was provoked to do so in the discussion
that followed his talk.
As much as we understand such fears of conflict and have
experienced them ourselves, we nevertheless believe it is better
to state our disagreements in frank yet considerate ways than to
deny them. After all, suppressing disagreements doesn’t make
them go away; it only pushes them underground, where they
can fester in private unchecked. Nevertheless, disagreements
do not need to take the form of personal put-downs. Further-
more, there is usually no reason to take issue with every aspect
of someone else’s views. You can single out for criticism only
those aspects of what someone else has said that are troubling,
and then agree with the rest—although such an approach, as
we will see later in this chapter, leads to the somewhat more
complicated terrain of both agreeing and disagreeing at the
same time.
agree—but with a difference
Like disagreeing, agreeing is less simple than it may appear. Just
as you need to avoid simply contradicting views you disagree
with, you also need to do more than simply echo views you agree
with. Even as you’re agreeing, it’s important to bring something
new and fresh to the table, adding something that makes you
a valuable participant in the conversation.
f o u r “ Y E S / N O / O K A Y , B U T ”
6 0
There are many moves that enable you to contribute some-
thing of your own to a conversation even as you agree with
what someone else has said. You may point out some unno-
ticed evidence or line of reasoning that supports X’s claims that
X herself hadn’t mentioned. You may cite some corroborating
personal experience, or a situation not mentioned by X that
her views help readers understand. If X’s views are particularly
challenging or esoteric, what you bring to the table could be an
accessible translation—an explanation for readers not already in
the know. In other words, your text can usefully contribute to
the conversation simply by pointing out unnoticed implications
or explaining something that needs to be better understood.
Whatever mode of agreement you choose, the important
thing is to open up some difference or contrast between your
position and the one you’re agreeing with rather than simply
parroting what it says.
templates for agreeing
j I agree that diversity in the student body is educationally valuable
because my experience at Central University confirms it.
j X is surely right about because, as she may not be
aware, recent studies have shown that .
j X’s theory of is extremely useful because it sheds
light on the difficult problem of .
j Those unfamiliar with this school of thought may be interested
to know that it basically boils down to .
Some writers avoid the practice of agreeing almost as much as
others avoid disagreeing. In a culture like America’s that prizes
Three Ways to Respond
6 1
originality, independence, and competitive individualism, writ-
ers sometimes don’t like to admit that anyone else has made the
same point, seemingly beating them to the punch. In our view,
however, as long as you can support a view taken by someone
else without merely restating what he or she has said, there is
no reason to worry about being “unoriginal.” Indeed, there is
good reason to rejoice when you agree with others since those
others can lend credibility to your argument. While you don’t
want to present yourself as a mere copycat of someone else’s
views, you also need to avoid sounding like a lone voice in
the wilderness.
But do be aware that whenever you agree with one person’s
view, you are likely disagreeing with someone else’s. It is hard
to align yourself with one position without at least implicitly
positioning yourself against others. The psychologist Carol
Gilligan does just that in an essay in which she agrees with
scientists who argue that the human brain is “hard-wired”
for cooperation, but in so doing aligns herself against any-
one who believes that the brain is wired for selfishness and
These findings join a growing convergence of evidence across the
human sciences leading to a revolutionary shift in consciousness.
. . . If cooperation, typically associated with altruism and self-
sacrifice, sets off the same signals of delight as pleasures commonly
associated with hedonism and self-indulgence; if the opposition
between selfish and selfless, self vs. relationship biologically makes
no sense, then a new paradigm is necessary to reframe the very
terms of the conversation.
Carol Gilligan, “Sisterhood Is Pleasurable:
A Quiet Revolution in Psychology”
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6 2
In agreeing with some scientists that “the opposition between
selfish and selfless . . . makes no sense,” Gilligan implicitly dis-
agrees with anyone who thinks the opposition does make sense.
Basically, what Gilligan says could be boiled down to a template.
j I agree that , a point that needs emphasizing since
so many people still believe .
j If group X is right that , as I think they are, then we
need to reassess the popular assumption that .
What such templates allow you to do, then, is to agree with
one view while challenging another—a move that leads into
the domain of agreeing and disagreeing simultaneously.
agree and disagree simultaneously
This last option is often our favorite way of responding. One
thing we particularly like about agreeing and disagreeing simulta-
neously is that it helps us get beyond the kind of “is too” / “is not”
exchanges that often characterize the disputes of young children
and the more polarized shouting matches of talk radio and TV.
Sanford J. Ungar makes precisely this move in his essay
“The New Liberal Arts” when, in critiquing seven common
“misperceptions” of liberal arts education, he concedes that
several contain a grain of truth. For example, after summariz-
ing “Misperception No. 2,” that “college graduates are finding
it harder to get good jobs with liberal-arts degrees,” that few
employers want to hire those with an “irrelevant major like
philosophy or French,” Ungar writes: “Yes, recent graduates
have had difficulty in the job market. . . .” But then, after
Three Ways to Respond
6 3
making this concession, Ungar insists that this difficulty affects
graduates in all fields, not just those from the liberal arts. In
this way, we think, Ungar paradoxically strengthens his case.
By admitting that the opposing argument has a point, Ungar
bolsters his credibility, presenting himself as a writer willing to
acknowledge facts as they present themselves rather than one
determined only to cheerlead for his own side.
templates for agreeing
and disagreeing simultaneously
“Yes and no.” “Yes, but . . .” “Although I agree up to a point, I
still insist . . .” These are just some of the ways you can make
your argument complicated and nuanced while maintaining a
clear, reader-friendly framework. The parallel structure—“yes
and no”; “on the one hand I agree, on the other I disagree”—
enables readers to place your argument on that map of positions
we spoke of earlier in this chapter while still keeping your argu-
ment sufficiently complex.
Charles Murray’s essay “Are Too Many People Going to
College?” contains a good example of the “yes and no” move
when, at the outset of his essay, Murray responds to what he
sees as the prevailing wisdom about the liberal arts and college:
We should not restrict the availability of a liberal education to a
rarefied intellectual elite. More people should be going to college,
not fewer.
Yes and no. More people should be getting the basics of a liberal
education. But for most students, the places to provide those basics
are elementary and middle school.
Charles Murray, “Are Too Many People Going to College?”
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6 4
In other words, Murray is saying yes to more liberal arts, but
not to more college.
Another aspect we like about this “yes and no,” “agree and
disagree” option is that it can be tipped subtly toward agreement
or disagreement, depending on where you lay your stress. If you
want to stress the disagreement end of the spectrum, you would
use a template like the one below.
j Although I agree with X up to a point, I cannot accept his over-
riding assumption that religion is no longer a major force today.
Conversely, if you want to stress your agreement more than your
disagreement, you would use a template like this one.
j Although I disagree with much that X says, I fully endorse his
final conclusion that .
The first template above might be called a “yes, but . . .” move, the
second a “no, but . . .” move. Other versions include the following.
j Though I concede that , I still insist that .
j X is right that , but she seems on more dubious ground
when she claims that .
j While X is probably wrong when she claims that , she
is right that .
j Whereas X provides ample evidence that , Y and
Z’s research on and convinces me that
Another classic way to agree and disagree at the same time
is to make what we call an “I’m of two minds” or a “mixed
feelings” move.
Three Ways to Respond
6 5
j I’m of two minds about X’s claim that . On the one
hand, I agree that . On the other hand, I’m not sure
if .
j My feelings on the issue are mixed. I do support X’s position
that , but I find Y’s argument about and
Z’s research on to be equally persuasive.
This move can be especially useful if you are responding to new
or particularly challenging work and are as yet unsure where
you stand. It also lends itself well to the kind of speculative
investigation in which you weigh a position’s pros and cons
rather than come out decisively either for or against. But again,
as we suggest earlier, whether you are agreeing, disagreeing, or
both agreeing and disagreeing, you need to be as clear as pos-
sible, and making a frank statement that you are ambivalent
is one way to be clear.
is being undecided okay?
Nevertheless, writers often have as many concerns about
expressing ambivalence as they do about expressing disagree-
ment or agreement. Some worry that by expressing ambivalence
they will come across as evasive, wishy-washy, or unsure of
themselves. Others worry that their ambivalence will end up
confusing readers who require decisive, clear-cut conclusions.
The truth is that in some cases these worries are legitimate.
At times ambivalence can frustrate readers, leaving them
with the feeling that you failed in your obligation to offer
the guidance they expect from writers. At other times, how-
ever, acknowledging that a clear-cut resolution of an issue is
f o u r “ Y E S / N O / O K A Y , B U T ”
6 6
impossible can demonstrate your sophistication as a writer. In
an academic culture that values complex thought, forthrightly
declaring that you have mixed feelings can be impressive, espe-
cially after having ruled out the one-dimensional positions on
your issue taken by others in the conversation. Ultimately,
then, how ambivalent you end up being comes down to a judg-
ment call based on different readers’ responses to your drafts,
on your knowledge of your audience, and on the challenges of
your particular argument and situation.
1. Read one of the essays in the back of this book or on
theysayiblog.com, identifying those places where the author
agrees with others, disagrees, or both.
2. Write an essay responding in some way to the essay that
you worked with in the preceding exercise. You’ll want to
summarize and/or quote some of the author’s ideas and make
clear whether you’re agreeing, disagreeing, or both agreeing
and disagreeing with what he or she says. Remember that
there are templates in this book that can help you get started;
see Chapters 1–3 for templates that will help you represent
other people’s ideas and Chapter 4 for templates that will
get you started with your response.
6 7
“and yet”
Distinguishing What You Say
from What They Say
If good academic writing involves putting yourself into
dialogue with others, it is extremely important that readers be
able to tell at every point when you are expressing your own
view and when you are stating someone else’s. This chapter
takes up the problem of moving from what they say to what
you say without confusing readers about who is saying what.
determine who is saying what
in the texts you read
Before examining how to signal who is saying what in your
own writing, let’s look at how to recognize such signals when
they appear in the texts you read—an especially important skill
when it comes to the challenging works assigned in school.
Frequently, when students have trouble understanding diffi­
cult texts, it is not just because the texts contain unfamiliar
ideas or words, but because the texts rely on subtle clues to let
f i v e “ A N D Y E T ”
6 8
readers know when a particular view should be attributed to
the writer or to someone else. Especially with texts that pres­
ent a true dialogue of perspectives, readers need to be alert to
the often subtle markers that indicate whose voice the writer
is speaking in.
Consider how the social critic and educator Gregory Mant­
sios uses these “voice markers,” as they might be called, to
distinguish the different perspectives in his essay on America’s
class inequalities.
“We are all middle­class,” or so it would seem. Our national con­
sciousness, as shaped in large part by the media and our political
leadership, provides us with a picture of ourselves as a nation of
prosperity and opportunity with an ever expanding middle­class
life­style. As a result, our class differences are muted and our col­
lective character is homogenized.
Yet class divisions are real and arguably the most significant
factor in determining both our very being in the world and the
nature of the society we live in.
Gregory Mantsios, “Rewards and Opportunities:
The Politics and Economics of Class in the U.S.”
Although Mantsios makes it look easy, he is actually making
several sophisticated rhetorical moves here that help him dis­
tinguish the common view he opposes from his own position.
In the opening sentence, for instance, the phrase “or so it
would seem” shows that Mantsios does not necessarily agree
with the view he is describing, since writers normally don’t pres­
ent views they themselves hold as ones that only “seem” to be
true. Mantsios also places this opening view in quotation marks
to signal that it is not his own. He then further distances
himself from the belief being summarized in the opening
Distinguishing What You Say from What They Say
6 9
paragraph by attributing it to “our national consciousness, as
shaped in large part by the media and our political leadership,”
and then further attributing to this “consciousness” a negative,
undesirable “result”: one in which “our class differences” get
“muted” and “our collective character” gets “homogenized,”
stripped of its diversity and distinctness. Hence, even before
Mantsios has declared his own position in the second para­
graph, readers can get a pretty solid sense of where he probably
Furthermore, the second paragraph opens with the word
“yet,” indicating that Mantsios is now shifting to his own view
(as opposed to the common view he has thus far been describ­
ing). Even the parallelism he sets up between the first and
second paragraphs—between the first paragraph’s claim that
class differences do not exist and the second paragraph’s claim
that they do—helps throw into sharp relief the differences
between the two voices. Finally, Mantsios’s use of a direct,
authoritative, declarative tone in the second paragraph also
suggests a switch in voice. Although he does not use the words
“I say” or “I argue,” he clearly identifies the view he holds by
presenting it not as one that merely seems to be true or that
others tell us is true, but as a view that is true or, as Mantsios
puts it, “real.”
Paying attention to these voice markers is an important
aspect of reading comprehension. Readers who fail to notice
these markers often take an author’s summaries of what some­
one else believes to be an expression of what the author himself
or herself believes. Thus when we teach Mantsios’s essay, some
students invariably come away thinking that the statement “we
are all middle­class” is Mantsios’s own position rather than the
perspective he is opposing, failing to see that in writing these
words Mantsios acts as a kind of ventriloquist, mimicking what
f i v e “ A N D Y E T ”
7 0
others say rather than directly expressing what he himself is
To see how important such voice markers are, consider what
the Mantsios passage looks like if we remove them.
We are all middle­class XXXXXXXXXXWe are a nation of prosperity and
opportunity with an ever expanding middle­class life­style. . . .
Class divisions are real and arguably the most significant factor
in determining both our very being in the world and the nature of
the society we live in.
In contrast to the careful delineation between voices in Mant­
sios’s original text, this unmarked version leaves it hard to tell
where his voice begins and the voices of others end. With the
markers removed, readers cannot tell that “We are all middle­
class” represents a view the author opposes, and that “Class
divisions are real” represents what the author himself believes.
Indeed, without the markers, especially the “yet,” readers might
well miss the fact that the second paragraph’s claim that “Class
divisions are real” contradicts the first paragraph’s claim that
“We are all middle­class.”
templates for signaling who is saying what
in your own writing
To avoid confusion in your own writing, make sure that at every
point your readers can clearly tell who is saying what. To do so,
you can use as voice­identifying devices many of the templates
presented in previous chapters.
Distinguishing What You Say from What They Say
7 1
j Although X makes the best possible case for universal,
government-funded health care, I am not persuaded.
j My view, however, contrary to what X has argued, is that
j Adding to X’s argument, I would point out that .
j According to both X and Y, .
j Politicians, X argues, should .
j Most athletes will tell you that .
but i’ve been told not to use “i”
Notice that the first three templates above use the first­person
“I” or “we,” as do many of the templates in this book, thereby
contradicting the common advice about avoiding the first
person in academic writing. Although you may have been
told that the “I” word encourages subjective, self­indulgent
opinions rather than well­grounded arguments, we believe
that texts using “I” can be just as well supported—or just as
self­indulgent—as those that don’t. For us, well­supported argu­
ments are grounded in persuasive reasons and evidence, not in
the use or nonuse of any particular pronouns.
Furthermore, if you consistently avoid the first person in
your writing, you will probably have trouble making the key
move addressed in this chapter: differentiating your views from
those of others, or even offering your own views in the first
place. But don’t just take our word for it. See for yourself how
freely the first person is used by the writers quoted in this book,
and by the writers assigned in your courses.
f i v e “ A N D Y E T ”
7 2
Nevertheless, certain occasions may warrant avoiding the
first person and writing, for example, that “she is correct” instead
of “I think that she is correct.” Since it can be monotonous to read
an unvarying series of “I” statements (“I believe . . . I think . . .
I argue”), it is a good idea to mix first­person assertions with ones
like the following.
j X is right that certain common patterns can be found in the
communities .
j The evidence shows that .
j X’s assertion that does not fit the facts.
j Anyone familiar with should agree that .
One might even follow Mantsios’s lead, as in the following
j But are real, and are arguably the most significant
factor in .
On the whole, however, academic writing today, even in the
sciences and social sciences, makes use of the first person fairly
another trick for identifying
who is speaking
To alert readers about whose perspective you are describing at
any given moment, you don’t always have to use overt voice
markers like “X argues” followed by a summary of the argu­
ment. Instead, you can alert readers about whose voice you’re
Distinguishing What You Say from What They Say
7 3
speaking in by embedding a reference to X’s argument in your
own sentences. Hence, instead of writing:
Liberals believe that cultural differences need to be respected. I
have a problem with this view, however.
you might write:
I have a problem with what liberals call cultural differences.
There is a major problem with the liberal doctrine of so-called
cultural differences.
You can also embed references to something you yourself have
previously said. So instead of writing two cumbersome sen­
tences like:
Earlier in this chapter we coined the term “voice markers.” We
would argue that such markers are extremely important for reading
you might write:
We would argue that “voice markers,” as we identified them earlier,
are extremely important for reading comprehension.
Embedded references like these allow you to economize your
train of thought and refer to other perspectives without any
major interruption.
f i v e “ A N D Y E T ”
7 4
templates for embedding voice markers
j X overlooks what I consider an important point about cultural
j My own view is that what X insists is a is in fact
a .
j I wholeheartedly endorse what X calls .
j These conclusions, which X discusses in , add weight
to the argument that .
When writers fail to use voice­marking devices like the ones
discussed in this chapter, their summaries of others’ views tend to
become confused with their own ideas—and vice versa. When
readers cannot tell if you are summarizing your own views or
endorsing a certain phrase or label, they have to stop and think:
“Wait. I thought the author disagreed with this claim. Has she
actually been asserting this view all along?” or “Hmmm, I thought
she would have objected to this kind of phrase. Is she actually
endorsing it?” Getting in the habit of using voice markers will
keep you from confusing your readers and help alert you to similar
markers in the challenging texts you read.
1. To see how one writer signals when she is asserting her
own views and when she is summarizing those of someone
else, read the following passage by the social historian Julie
Charlip. As you do so, identify those spots where Charlip
refers to the views of others and the signal phrases she uses
to distinguish her views from theirs.
Distinguishing What You Say from What They Say
7 5
Marx and Engels wrote: “Society as a whole is more and more split­
ting up into two great hostile camps, into two great classes directly
facing each other—the bourgeoisie and the proletariat” (10). If
only that were true, things might be more simple. But in late
twentieth­century America, it seems that society is splitting more
and more into a plethora of class factions—the working class,
the working poor, lower­middle class, upper­middle class, lower
uppers, and upper uppers. I find myself not knowing what class
I’m from.
In my days as a newspaper reporter, I once asked a sociology pro­
fessor what he thought about the reported shrinking of the middle
class. Oh, it’s not the middle class that’s disappearing, he said, but
the working class. His definition: if you earn thirty thousand dollars
a year working in an assembly plant, come home from work, open a
beer and watch the game, you are working class; if you earn twenty
thousand dollars a year as a school teacher, come home from work
to a glass of white wine and PBS, you are middle class.
How do we define class? Is it an issue of values, lifestyle, taste?
Is it the kind of work you do, your relationship to the means of
production? Is it a matter of how much money you earn? Are we
allowed to choose? In this land of supposed classlessness, where
we don’t have the tradition of English society to keep us in our
places, how do we know where we really belong? The average
American will tell you he or she is “middle class.” I’m sure that’s
what my father would tell you. But I always felt that we were in
some no man’s land, suspended between classes, sharing similari­
ties with some and recognizing sharp, exclusionary differences
from others. What class do I come from? What class am I in
now? As an historian, I seek the answers to these questions in
the specificity of my past.
Julie Charlip, “A Real Class Act: Searching
for Identity in the ‘Classless’ Society”
f i v e “ A N D Y E T ”
7 6
2. Study a piece of your own writing to see how many perspec­
tives you account for and how well you distinguish your
own voice from those you are summarizing. Consider the
following questions:
a. How many perspectives do you engage?
b. What other perspectives might you include?
c. How do you distinguish your views from the other views
you summarize?
d. Do you use clear voice­signaling phrases?
e. What options are available to you for clarifying who is
saying what?
f. Which of these options are best suited for this particular
If you find that you do not include multiple views or clearly
distinguish between others’ views and your own, revise your
text to do so.
7 7
“skeptics may object”
Planting a Naysayer in Your Text
The writer Jane Tompkins describes a pattern that repeats
itself whenever she writes a book or an article. For the first
couple of weeks when she sits down to write, things go relatively
well. But then in the middle of the night, several weeks into the
writing process, she’ll wake up in a cold sweat, suddenly real-
izing that she has overlooked some major criticism that readers
will surely make against her ideas. Her first thought, invariably,
is that she will have to give up on the project, or that she will
have to throw out what she’s written thus far and start over.
Then she realizes that “this moment of doubt and panic is where
my text really begins.” She then revises what she’s written in a
way that incorporates the criticisms she’s anticipated, and her
text becomes stronger and more interesting as a result.
This little story contains an important lesson for all writers,
experienced and inexperienced alike. It suggests that even though
most of us are upset at the idea of someone criticizing our work,
such criticisms can actually work to our advantage. Although it’s
naturally tempting to ignore criticism of our ideas, doing so may
in fact be a big mistake, since our writing improves when we not
only listen to these objections but give them an explicit hearing
s i x “ S K E P T I C S M A Y O B J E C T ”
7 8
in our writing. Indeed, no single device more quickly improves a
piece of writing than planting a naysayer in the text—saying, for
example, that “although some readers may object” to something
in your argument, you “would reply that .”
anticipate objections
But wait, you say. Isn’t the advice to incorporate critical views
a recipe for destroying your credibility and undermining your
argument? Here you are, trying to say something that will hold
up, and we want you to tell readers all the negative things
someone might say against you?
Exactly. We are urging you to tell readers what others
might say against you, but our point is that doing so will actu-
ally enhance your credibility, not undermine it. As we argue
throughout this book, writing well does not mean piling up
uncontroversial truths in a vacuum; it means engaging others
in a dialogue or debate—not only by opening your text with
a summary of what others have said, as we suggest in Chapter 1,
but also by imagining what others might say against your argu-
ment as it unfolds. Once you see writing as an act of entering
a conversation, you should also see how opposing arguments
can work for you rather than against you.
Paradoxically, the more you give voice to your critics’ objec-
tions, the more you tend to disarm those critics, especially if you
go on to answer their objections in convincing ways. When you
entertain a counterargument, you make a kind of preemptive
strike, identifying problems with your argument before oth-
ers can point them out for you. Furthermore, by entertaining
counterarguments, you show respect for your readers, treating
them not as gullible dupes who will believe anything you say
Planting a Naysayer in Your Text
7 9
but as independent, critical thinkers who are aware that your
view is not the only one in town. In addition, by imagining
what others might say against your claims, you come across as
a generous, broad-minded person who is confident enough to
open himself or herself to debate—like the writer in the figure
on the following page.
Conversely, if you don’t entertain counterarguments, you may
very likely come across as closed-minded, as if you think your
beliefs are beyond dispute. You might also leave important ques-
tions hanging and concerns about your arguments unaddressed.
Finally, if you fail to plant a naysayer in your text, you may
find that you have very little to say. Our own students often say
that entertaining counterarguments makes it easier to generate
enough text to meet their assignment’s page-length requirements.
Planting a naysayer in your text is a relatively simple move,
as you can see by looking at the following passage from a book
by the writer Kim Chernin. Having spent some thirty pages
complaining about the pressure on American women to be
thin, Chernin inserts a whole chapter entitled “The Skeptic,”
opening it as follows.
At this point I would like to raise certain objections that have been
inspired by the skeptic in me. She feels that I have been ignoring
some of the most common assumptions we all make about our bod-
ies and these she wishes to see addressed. For example: “You know
perfectly well,” she says to me, “that you feel better when you lose
weight. You buy new clothes. You look at yourself more eagerly in
the mirror. When someone invites you to a party you don’t stop
and ask yourself whether you want to go. You feel sexier. Admit
it. You like yourself better.”
Kim Chernin, The Obsession:
Reflections on the Tyranny of Slenderness
s i x “ S K E P T I C S M A Y O B J E C T ”
8 0
Planting a Naysayer in Your Text
8 1
The remainder of Chernin’s chapter consists of her answers
to this inner skeptic. In the face of the skeptic’s challenge to
her book’s central premise (that the pressure to diet seriously
harms women’s lives), Chernin responds neither by repressing
the skeptic’s critical voice nor by giving in to it and relinquish-
ing her own position. Instead, she embraces that voice and
writes it into her text. Note too that instead of dispatching
this naysaying voice quickly, as many of us would be tempted
to do, Chernin stays with it and devotes a full paragraph to
it. By borrowing some of Chernin’s language, we can come up
with templates for entertaining virtually any objection.
templates for entertaining objections
j At this point I would like to raise some objections that have been
inspired by the skeptic in me. She feels that I have been ignoring
the complexities of the situation.
j Yet some readers may challenge my view by insisting that
j Of course, many will probably disagree on the grounds that
Note that the objections in the above templates are
attributed not to any specific person or group, but to “skep-
tics,” “readers,” or “many.” This kind of nameless, faceless
naysayer is perfectly appropriate in many cases. But the ideas
that motivate arguments and objections often can—and, where
possible, should—be ascribed to a specific ideology or school
of thought (for example, liberals, Christian fundamentalists,
neopragmatists) rather than to anonymous anybodies. In other
s i x “ S K E P T I C S M A Y O B J E C T ”
8 2
words, naysayers can be labeled, and you can add precision and
impact to your writing by identifying what those labels are.
templates for naming your naysayers
j Here many feminists would probably object that gender does
influence language.
j But social Darwinists would certainly take issue with the argu-
ment that .
j Biologists, of course, may want to question whether .
j Nevertheless, both followers and critics of Malcolm X will prob-
ably suggest otherwise and argue that .
To be sure, some people dislike such labels and may even
resent having labels applied to themselves. Some feel that
labels put individuals in boxes, stereotyping them and glossing
over what makes each of us unique. And it’s true that labels
can be used inappropriately, in ways that ignore individuality
and promote stereotypes. But since the life of ideas, includ-
ing many of our most private thoughts, is conducted through
groups and types rather than solitary individuals, intellectual
exchange requires labels to give definition and serve as a
convenient shorthand. If you categorically reject all labels,
you give up an important resource and even mislead readers
by presenting yourself and others as having no connection to
anyone else. You also miss an opportunity to generalize the
importance and relevance of your work to some larger con-
versation. When you attribute a position you are summarizing
to liberalism, say, or historical materialism, your argument is
no longer just about your own solitary views but about the
Planting a Naysayer in Your Text
8 3
intersection of broad ideas and habits of mind that many
readers may already have a stake in.
The way to minimize the problem of stereotyping, then, is
not to categorically reject labels but to refine and qualify their
use, as the following templates demonstrate.
j Although not all Christians think alike, some of them will prob-
ably dispute my claim that .
j Non-native English speakers are so diverse in their views that it’s
hard to generalize about them, but some are likely to object on
the grounds that .
Another way to avoid needless stereotyping is to qualify labels
carefully, substituting “pro bono lawyers” for “lawyers” in gen-
eral, for example, or “quantitative sociologists” for all “social
scientists,” and so on.
templates for introducing objections
Objections can also be introduced in more informal ways. For
instance, you can frame objections in the form of questions.
j But is my proposal realistic? What are the chances of its actually
being adopted?
j Yet is it necessarily true that ? Is it always the case,
as I have been suggesting, that ?
j However, does the evidence I’ve cited prove conclusively
that ?
s i x “ S K E P T I C S M A Y O B J E C T ”
8 4
You can also let your naysayer speak directly.
j “Impossible,” some will say. “You must be reading the research
Moves like this allow you to cut directly to the skeptical voice
itself, as the singer-songwriter Joe Jackson does in the follow-
ing excerpt from a New York Times article complaining about
the restrictions on public smoking in New York City bars and
I like a couple of cigarettes or a cigar with a drink, and like many
other people, I only smoke in bars or nightclubs. Now I can’t go to
any of my old haunts. Bartenders who were friends have turned into
cops, forcing me outside to shiver in the cold and curse under my
breath XXXXXXXXXXIt’s no fun. Smokers are being demonized and victim-
ized all out of proportion.
“Get over it,” say the anti-smokers. “You’re the minority.” I
thought a great city was a place where all kinds of minorities could
thrive. . . . “Smoking kills,” they say. As an occasional smoker
with otherwise healthy habits, I’ll take my chances. Health con-
sciousness is important, but so are pleasure and freedom of choice.
Joe Jackson, “Want to Smoke? Go to Hamburg”
Jackson could have begun his second paragraph, in which
he shifts from his own voice to that of his imagined nay-
sayer, more formally, as follows: “Of course anti-smokers will
object that since we smokers are in the minority, we should
simply stop complaining and quietly make the sacrifices we are
being called on to make for the larger social good.” Or “Anti-
smokers might insist, however, that the smoking minority
Planting a Naysayer in Your Text
8 5
should submit to the nonsmoking majority.” We think,
though, that Jackson gets the job done in a far more lively
way with the more colloquial form he chooses. Borrowing
a standard move of playwrights and novelists, Jackson cuts
directly to the objectors’ view and then to his own retort,
then back to the objectors’ view and then to his own retort
again, thereby creating a kind of dialogue or miniature play
within his own text. This move works well for Jackson,
but only because he uses quotation marks and other
voice markers to make clear at every point whose voice
he is in.
represent objections fairly
Once you’ve decided to introduce a differing or opposing view
into your writing, your work has only just begun, since you
still need to represent and explain that view with fairness and
generosity. Although it is tempting to give opposing views short
shrift, to hurry past them, or even to mock them, doing so is usu-
ally counterproductive. When writers make the best case they
can for their critics (playing Peter Elbow’s “believing game”),
they actually bolster their credibility with readers rather
than undermine it. They make readers think, “This is a
writer I can trust.”
We recommend, then, that whenever you entertain objec-
tions in your writing, you stay with them for several sentences
or even paragraphs and take them as seriously as possible. We
also recommend that you read your summary of opposing views
with an outsider’s eye: put yourself in the shoes of someone who
disagrees with you and ask if such a reader would recognize
himself in your summary. Would that reader think you have
See Chapter 5
for more
advice on
using voice
See pp. 31–32
for more on
the believing
s i x “ S K E P T I C S M A Y O B J E C T ”
8 6
taken his views seriously, as beliefs that reasonable people might
hold? Or would he detect a mocking tone or an oversimplifica-
tion of his views?
There will always be certain objections, to be sure, that you
believe do not deserve to be represented, just as there will be
objections that seem so unworthy of respect that they inspire
ridicule. Remember, however, that if you do choose to mock a
view that you oppose, you are likely to alienate those readers
who don’t already agree with you—likely the very readers you
want to reach. Also be aware that in mocking another’s view
you may contribute to a hostile argument culture in which
someone may ridicule you in return.
answer objections
Do be aware that when you represent objections successfully,
you still need to be able to answer those objections persuasively.
After all, when you write objections into a text, you take the
risk that readers will find those objections more convincing
than the argument you yourself are advancing. In the edito-
rial quoted above, for example, Joe Jackson takes the risk that
readers will identify more with the anti-smoking view he sum-
marizes than with the pro-smoking position he endorses.
This is precisely what Benjamin Franklin describes hap-
pening to himself in The Autobiography of Benjamin Franklin
(1793), when he recalls being converted to Deism (a religion
that exalts reason over spirituality) by reading anti-Deist books.
When he encountered the views of Deists being negatively
summarized by authors who opposed them, Franklin explains,
he ended up finding the Deist position more persuasive.
To avoid having this kind of unintentional reverse effect on
Planting a Naysayer in Your Text
8 7
readers, you need to do your best to make sure that any counter-
arguments you address are not more convincing than your own
claims. It is good to address objections in your writing, but only
if you are able to overcome them.
One surefire way to fail to overcome an objection is to dis-
miss it out of hand—saying, for example, “That’s just wrong.”
The difference between such a response (which offers no sup-
porting reasons whatsoever) and the types of nuanced responses
we’re promoting in this book is the difference between bullying
your readers and genuinely persuading them.
Often the best way to overcome an objection is not to try
to refute it completely but to agree with part of it while chal-
lenging only the part you dispute. In other words, in answer-
ing counterarguments, it is often best to say “yes, but” or “yes
and no,” treating the counterview as an opportunity to
revise and refine your own position. Rather than build
your argument into an impenetrable fortress, it is often
best to make concessions while still standing your ground, as
Kim Chernin does in the following response to the counter-
argument quoted above. While in the voice of the “skeptic,”
Chernin writes: “Admit it. You like yourself better when you’ve
lost weight.” In response, Chernin replies as follows.
Can I deny these things? No woman who has managed to lose
weight would wish to argue with this. Most people feel better about
themselves when they become slender. And yet, upon reflection,
it seems to me that there is something precarious about this well-
being. After all, 98 percent of people who lose weight gain it back.
Indeed, 90 percent of those who have dieted “successfully” gain
back more than they ever lost. Then, of course, we can no longer
bear to look at ourselves in the mirror.
See pp. 59–62
for more on
agreeing, with
a difference.
s i x “ S K E P T I C S M A Y O B J E C T ”
8 8
In this way, Chernin shows how you can use a counterview to
improve and refine your overall argument by making a conces-
sion. Even as she concedes that losing weight feels good in the
short run, she argues that in the long run the weight always
returns, making the dieter far more miserable.
templates for making concessions
while still standing your ground
j Although I grant that the book is poorly organized, I still maintain
that it raises an important issue.
j Proponents of X are right to argue that . But they
exaggerate when they claim that .
j While it is true that , it does not necessarily follow
that .
j On the one hand, I agree with X that . But on the
other hand, I still insist that .
Templates like these show that answering naysayers’ objec-
tions does not have to be an all-or-nothing affair in which you
either definitively refute your critics or they definitively refute
you. Often the most productive engagements among differing
views end with a combined vision that incorporates elements
of each one.
But what if you’ve tried out all the possible answers you can
think of to an objection you’ve anticipated and you still have
a nagging feeling that the objection is more convincing than
your argument itself? In that case, the best remedy is to go
back and make some fundamental revisions to your argument,
Planting a Naysayer in Your Text
8 9
even reversing your position completely if need be. Although
finding out late in the game that you aren’t fully convinced by
your own argument can be painful, it can actually make your
final text more intellectually honest, challenging, and serious.
After all, the goal of writing is not to keep proving that what-
ever you initially said is right, but to stretch the limits of your
thinking. So if planting a strong naysayer in your text forces
you to change your mind, that’s not a bad thing. Some would
argue that that is what the academic world is all about.
1. Read the following passage by the cultural critic Eric
Schlosser. As you’ll see, he hasn’t planted any naysayers
in this text. Do it for him. Insert a brief paragraph stating
an objection to his argument and then responding to the
objection as he might.
The United States must declare an end to the war on drugs. This
war has filled the nation’s prisons with poor drug addicts and small-
time drug dealers. It has created a multibillion-dollar black market,
enriched organized crime groups and promoted the corruption of
government officials throughout the world. And it has not stemmed
the widespread use of illegal drugs. By any rational measure, this
war has been a total failure.
We must develop public policies on substance abuse that are
guided not by moral righteousness or political expediency but by
common sense. The United States should immediately decriminal-
ize the cultivation and possession of small amounts of marijuana for
personal use. Marijuana should no longer be classified as a Sched-
ule I narcotic, and those who seek to use marijuana as medicine
s i x “ S K E P T I C S M A Y O B J E C T ”
9 0
should no longer face criminal sanctions. We must shift our entire
approach to drug abuse from the criminal justice system to the
public health system. Congress should appoint an independent
commission to study the harm-reduction policies that have been
adopted in Switzerland, Spain, Portugal, and the Netherlands. The
commission should recommend policies for the United States based
on one important criterion: what works.
In a nation where pharmaceutical companies advertise powerful
antidepressants on billboards and where alcohol companies run amus-
ing beer ads during the Super Bowl, the idea of a “drug-free society”
is absurd. Like the rest of American society, our drug policy would
greatly benefit from less punishment and more compassion.
Eric Schlosser, “A People’s Democratic Platform”
2. Look over something you’ve written that makes an argu-
ment. Check to see if you’ve anticipated and responded to
any objections. If not, revise your text to do so. If so, have
you anticipated all the likely objections? Who if anyone
have you attributed the objections to? Have you represented
the objections fairly? Have you answered them well enough,
or do you think you now need to qualify your own argu-
ment? Could you use any of the language suggested in this
chapter? Does the introduction of a naysayer strengthen your
argument? Why, or why not?
9 1
“so what? who cares?”
Saying Why It Matters
Baseball is the national pastime. Bernini was the best
sculptor of the baroque period. All writing is conversational.
So what? Who cares? Why does any of this matter?
How many times have you had reason to ask these ques-
tions? Regardless of how interesting a topic may be to you as a
writer, readers always need to know what is at stake in a text
and why they should care. All too often, however, these ques-
tions are left unanswered—mainly because writers and speakers
assume that audiences will know the answers already or will
figure them out on their own. As a result, students come away
from lectures feeling like outsiders to what they’ve just heard,
just as many of us feel left hanging after talks we’ve attended.
The problem is not necessarily that the speakers lack a clear,
well-focused thesis or that the thesis is inadequately supported
with evidence. Instead, the problem is that the speakers don’t
address the crucial question of why their arguments matter.
That this question is so often left unaddressed is unfortunate
since the speakers generally could offer interesting, engaging
answers. When pressed, for instance, most academics will tell
you that their lectures and articles matter because they address
s e v e n “ S O W H A T ? W H O C A R E S ? ”
9 2
some belief that needs to be corrected or updated—and because
their arguments have important, real-world consequences. Yet
many academics fail to identify these reasons and consequences
explicitly in what they say and write. Rather than assume that
audiences will know why their claims matter, all writers need
to answer the “so what?” and “who cares?” questions up front.
Not everyone can claim to have a cure for cancer or a solution
to end poverty. But writers who fail to show that others should
care or already do care about their claims will ultimately lose
their audiences’ interest.
This chapter focuses on various moves that you can make to
answer the “who cares?” and “so what?” questions in your own
writing. In one sense, the two questions get at the same thing: the
relevance or importance of what you are saying. Yet they get at this
significance in different ways. Whereas “who cares?” literally asks
you to identify a person or group who cares about your claims, “so
what?” asks about the real-world applications and consequences of
those claims—what difference it would make if they were accepted.
We’ll look first at ways of making clear who cares.
“who cares?”
To see how one writer answers the “who cares?” question,
consider the following passage from the science writer Denise
Grady. Writing in the New York Times, she explains some of
the latest research into fat cells.
Scientists used to think body fat and the cells it was made of
were pretty much inert, just an oily storage compartment. But
within the past decade research has shown that fat cells act like
chemical factories and that body fat is potent stuff: a highly active
Saying Why It Matters
9 3
tissue that secretes hormones and other substances with profound
and sometimes harmful effects. . . .
In recent years, biologists have begun calling fat an “endocrine
organ,” comparing it to glands like the thyroid and pituitary, which
also release hormones straight into the bloodstream.
Denise Grady, “The Secret Life of a Potent Cell”
Notice how Grady’s writing reflects the central advice we
give in this book, offering a clear claim and also framing that
claim as a response to what someone else has said. In so doing,
Grady immediately identifies at least one group with a stake
in the new research that sees fat as “active,” “potent stuff ”:
namely, the scientific community, which formerly believed
that body fat is inert. By referring to these scientists, Grady
implicitly acknowledges that her text is part of a larger con-
versation and shows who besides herself has an interest in
what she says.
Consider, however, how the passage would read had Grady
left out what “scientists used to think” and simply explained
the new findings in isolation.
Within the past few decades research has shown that fat cells act
like chemical factories and that body fat is potent stuff: a highly
active tissue that secretes hormones and other substances. In recent
years, biologists have begun calling fat an “endocrine organ,” com-
paring it to glands like the thyroid and pituitary, which also release
hormones straight into the bloodstream.
Though this statement is clear and easy to follow, it lacks any
indication that anyone needs to hear it. Okay, one nods while
reading this passage, fat is an active, potent thing. Sounds plau-
sible enough; no reason to think it’s not true. But does anyone
really care? Who, if anyone, is interested?
s e v e n “ S O W H A T ? W H O C A R E S ? ”
9 4
templates for indicating who cares
To address “who cares?” questions in your own writing, we
suggest using templates like the following, which echo Grady
in refuting earlier thinking.
j Parents used to think spanking was necessary. But recently
[or within the past few decades] experts suggest that it can be
j This interpretation challenges the work of those critics who have
long assumed that .
j These findings challenge the work of earlier researchers, who
tended to assume that .
j Recent studies like these shed new light on , which
previous studies had not addressed.
Grady might have been more explicit by writing the “who cares?”
question directly into her text, as in the following template.
j But who really cares? Who besides me and a handful of recent
researchers has a stake in these claims? At the very least, the
researchers who formerly believed should care.
To gain greater authority as a writer, it can help to name spe-
cific people or groups who have a stake in your claims and to
go into some detail about their views.
j Researchers have long assumed that . For instance,
one eminent scholar of cell biology, , assumed
in , her seminal work on cell structures and functions,
that fat cells . As herself put it, “ ”
XXXXXXXXXXAnother leading scientist, , argued that fat
Saying Why It Matters
9 5
cells “ ” XXXXXXXXXXUltimately, when it came to the nature
of fat, the basic assumption was that .
But a new body of research shows that fat cells are far more
complex and that .
In other cases, you might refer to certain people or groups who
should care about your claims.
j If sports enthusiasts stopped to think about it, many of them
might simply assume that the most successful athletes
. However, new research shows .
j These findings challenge neoliberals’ common assumption
that .
j At first glance, teenagers might say . But on closer
inspection .
As these templates suggest, answering the “who cares?” question
involves establishing the type of contrast between what others
say and what you say that is central to this book. Ultimately,
such templates help you create a dramatic tension or clash of
views in your writing that readers will feel invested in and want
to see resolved.
“so what?”
Although answering the “who cares?” question is crucial, in
many cases it is not enough, especially if you are writing for
general readers who don’t necessarily have a strong investment
in the particular clash of views you are setting up. In the case of
Grady’s argument about fat cells, such readers may still wonder
why it matters that some researchers think fat cells are active,
s e v e n “ S O W H A T ? W H O C A R E S ? ”
9 6
while others think they’re inert. Or, to move to a different field
of study, American literature, so what if some scholars disagree
about Huck Finn’s relationship with the runaway slave Jim
in Mark Twain’s Adventures of Huckleberry Finn? Why should
anyone besides a few specialists in the field care about such
disputes? What, if anything, hinges on them?
The best way to answer such questions about the larger con-
sequences of your claims is to appeal to something that your
audience already figures to care about. Whereas the “who cares?”
question asks you to identify an interested person or group, the
“so what?” question asks you to link your argument to some larger
matter that readers already deem important. Thus in analyzing
Huckleberry Finn, a writer could argue that seemingly narrow
disputes about the hero’s relationship with Jim actually shed light
on whether Twain’s canonical, widely read novel is a critique of
racism in America or is itself marred by it.
Let’s see how Grady invokes such broad, general concerns
in her article on fat cells. Her first move is to link researchers’
interest in fat cells to a general concern with obesity and health.
Researchers trying to decipher the biology of fat cells hope to find
new ways to help people get rid of excess fat or, at least, prevent
obesity from destroying their health. In an increasingly obese world,
their efforts have taken on added importance.
Further showing why readers should care, Grady’s next move
is to demonstrate the even broader relevance and urgency of
her subject matter.
Internationally, more than a billion people are overweight. Obesity
and two illnesses linked to it, heart disease and high blood pressure,
are on the World Health Organization’s list of the top 10 global health
risks. In the United States, 65 percent of adults weigh too much,
Saying Why It Matters
9 7
compared with about 56 percent a decade ago, and government
researchers blame obesity for at least 300,000 deaths a year.
What Grady implicitly says here is “Look, dear reader, you may
think that these questions about the nature of fat cells I’ve been
pursuing have little to do with everyday life. In fact, however,
these questions are extremely important—particularly in our
‘increasingly obese world’ in which we need to prevent obesity
from destroying our health.”
Notice that Grady’s phrase “in an increasingly world”
can be adapted as a strategic move to address the “so what?”
question in other fields as well. For example, a sociologist ana-
lyzing back-to-nature movements of the past thirty years might
make the following statement.
In a world increasingly dominated by cell phones and sophisticated
computer technologies, these attempts to return to nature appear
This type of move can be readily applied to other disciplines
because no matter how much disciplines may differ from one
another, the need to justify the importance of one’s concerns
is common to them all.
templates for establishing
why your claims matter
j Huckleberry Finn matters/is important because it is one of the
most widely taught novels in the American school system.
j Although X may seem trivial, it is in fact crucial in terms of today’s
concern over .
s e v e n “ S O W H A T ? W H O C A R E S ? ”
9 8
j Ultimately, what is at stake here is .
j These findings have important implications for the broader
domain of .
j If we are right about , then major consequences fol-
low for .
j These conclusions/This discovery will have significant applica-
tions in as well as in .
Finally, you can also treat the “so what?” question as a related
aspect of the “who cares?” question.
j Although X may seem of concern to only a small group
of , it should in fact concern anyone who cares
about .
All these templates help you hook your readers. By suggesting
the real-world applications of your claims, the templates not only
demonstrate that others care about your claims but also tell your
readers why they should care. Again, it bears repeating that simply
stating and proving your thesis isn’t enough. You also need to
frame it in a way that helps readers care about it.
what about readers who already
know why it matters?
At this point, you might wonder if you need to answer the
“who cares?” and “so what?” questions in everything you write.
Is it really necessary to address these questions if you’re propos-
ing something so obviously consequential as, say, a treatment
for autism or a program to eliminate illiteracy? Isn’t it obvious
Saying Why It Matters
9 9
that everyone cares about such problems? Does it really need
to be spelled out? And what about when you’re writing for
audiences who you know are already interested in your claims
and who understand perfectly well why they’re important? In
other words, do you always need to address the “so what?” and
“who cares?” questions?
As a rule, yes—although it’s true that you can’t keep
answering them forever and at a certain point must say enough
is enough. Although a determined skeptic can infinitely ask why
something matters—“Why should I care about earning a salary?
And why should I care about supporting a family?”—you have
to stop answering at some point in your text. Nevertheless, we
urge you to go as far as possible in answering such questions.
If you take it for granted that readers will somehow intuit the
answers to “so what?” and “who cares?” on their own, you may
make your work seem less interesting than it actually is, and
you run the risk that readers will dismiss your text as irrelevant
and unimportant. By contrast, when you are careful to explain
who cares and why, it’s a little like bringing a cheerleading
squad into your text. And though some expert readers might
already know why your claims matter, even they need to be
reminded. Thus the safest move is to be as explicit as possible
in answering the “so what?” question, even for those already
in the know. When you step back from the text and explain
why it matters, you are urging your audience to keep reading,
pay attention, and care.
1. Find several texts (scholarly essays, newspaper articles,
emails, memos, blogs, etc.) and see whether they answer
s e v e n “ S O W H A T ? W H O C A R E S ? ”
1 0 0
the “so what?” and “who cares?” questions. Probably some do,
some don’t. What difference does it make whether they do
or do not? How do the authors who answer these questions
do so? Do they use any strategies or techniques that you
could borrow for your own writing? Are there any strategies
or techniques recommended in this chapter, or that you’ve
found or developed on your own, that you’d recommend to
these authors?
2. Look over something you’ve written yourself. Do you indi-
cate “so what?” and “who cares”? If not, revise your text to
do so. You might use the following template to get started.
My point here (that ) should interest those who
. Beyond this limited audience, however, my point
should speak to anyone who cares about the larger issue of
1 0 1
“as a result”
Connecting the Parts
We once had a student named Bill, whose characteristic
sentence pattern went something like this.
Spot is a good dog. He has fleas.
“Connect your sentences,” we urged in the margins of Bill’s
papers. “What does Spot being good have to do with his fleas?”
“These two statements seem unrelated. Can you connect them
in some logical way?” When comments like these yielded no
results, we tried inking in suggested connections for him.
Spot is a good dog, but he has fleas.
Spot is a good dog, even though he has fleas.
But our message failed to get across, and Bill’s disconnected
sentence pattern persisted to the end of the semester.
And yet Bill did focus well on his subjects. When he men-
tioned Spot the dog (or Plato, or any other topic) in one sen-
tence, we could count on Spot (or Plato) being the topic of
the following sentence as well. This was not the case with
e i g h t “ A S A R E S U L T ”
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some of Bill’s classmates, who sometimes changed topic from
sentence to sentence or even from clause to clause within a
single sentence. But because Bill neglected to mark his con-
nections, his writing was as frustrating to read as theirs. In all
these cases, we had to struggle to figure out on our own how
the sentences and paragraphs connected or failed to connect
with one another.
What makes such writers so hard to read, in other words,
is that they never gesture back to what they have just said or
forward to what they plan to say. “Never look back” might be
their motto, almost as if they see writing as a process of think-
ing of something to say about a topic and writing it down, then
thinking of something else to say about the topic and writing
that down, too, and on and on until they’ve filled the assigned
number of pages and can hand the paper in. Each sentence
basically starts a new thought, rather than growing out of or
extending the thought of the previous sentence.
When Bill talked about his writing habits, he acknowl-
edged that he never went back and read what he had written.
Indeed, he told us that, other than using his computer software
to check for spelling errors and make sure that his tenses were
all aligned, he never actually reread what he wrote before turn-
ing it in. As Bill seemed to picture it, writing was something one
did while sitting at a computer, whereas reading was a separate
activity generally reserved for an easy chair, book in hand. It
had never occurred to Bill that to write a good sentence he had
to think about how it connected to those that came before and
after; that he had to think hard about how that sentence fit
into the sentences that surrounded it. Each sentence for Bill
existed in a sort of tunnel isolated from every other sentence
on the page. He never bothered to fit all the parts of his essay
Connecting the Parts
1 0 3
together because he apparently thought of writing as a matter
of piling up information or observations rather than building
a sustained argument. What we suggest in this chapter, then,
is that you converse not only with others in your writing but
with yourself: that you establish clear relations between one
statement and the next by connecting those statements.
This chapter addresses the issue of how to connect all the
parts of your writing. The best compositions establish a sense
of momentum and direction by making explicit connections
among their different parts, so that what is said in one sentence
(or paragraph) both sets up what is to come and is clearly
informed by what has already been said. When you write a
sentence, you create an expectation in the reader’s mind that
the next sentence will in some way echo and extend it, even
if—especially if—that next sentence takes your argument in a
new direction.
It may help to think of each sentence you write as having arms
that reach backward and forward, as the figure below suggests.
When your sentences reach outward like this, they establish con-
nections that help your writing flow smoothly in a way readers
appreciate. Conversely, when writing lacks such connections and
moves in fits and starts, readers repeatedly have to go back over
the sentences and guess at the connections on their own. To pre-
vent such disconnection and make your writing flow, we advise
e i g h t “ A S A R E S U L T ”
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following a “do-it-yourself ” principle, which means that it is your
job as a writer to do the hard work of making the connections
rather than, as Bill did, leaving this work to your readers.
This chapter offers several strategies you can use to put this
principle into action: (1) using transition terms (like “there-
fore” and “as a result”); (2) adding pointing words (like “this”
or “such”); (3) developing a set of key terms and phrases for
each text you write; and (4) repeating yourself, but with a
difference—a move that involves repeating what you’ve said,
but with enough variation to avoid being redundant. All these
moves require that you always look back and, in crafting any
one sentence, think hard about those that precede it.
Notice how we ourselves have used such connecting devices
thus far in this chapter. The second paragraph of this chapter,
for example, opens with the transitional “And yet,” signaling
a change in direction, while the opening sentence of the third
includes the phrase “in other words,” telling you to expect a
restatement of a point we’ve just made. If you look through this
book, you should be able to find many sentences that contain
some word or phrase that explicitly hooks them back to some-
thing said earlier, to something about to be said, or both. And
many sentences in this chapter repeat key terms related to the
idea of connection: “connect,” “disconnect,” “link,” “relate,”
“forward,” and “backward.”
use transitions
For readers to follow your train of thought, you need not only
to connect your sentences and paragraphs to each other, but
also to mark the kind of connection you are making. One of
the easiest ways to make this move is to use transitions (from
Connecting the Parts
1 0 5
the Latin root trans, “across”), which help you cross from one
point to another in your text. Transitions are usually placed
at or near the start of sentences so they can signal to readers
where your text is going: in the same direction it has been
moving, or in a new direction. More specifically, transitions
tell readers whether your text is echoing a previous sentence or
paragraph (“in other words”), adding something to it (“in addi-
tion”), offering an example of it (“for example”), generalizing
from it (“as a result”), or modifying it (“and yet”).
The following is a list of commonly used transitions, catego-
rized according to their different functions.
also in fact
and indeed
besides moreover
furthermore so too
in addition
actually to put it another way
by extension to put it bluntly
in other words to put it succinctly
in short ultimately
that is
after all for instance
as an illustration specifically
consider to take a case in point
for example
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cause and effect
accordingly so
as a result then
consequently therefore
hence thus
along the same lines likewise
in the same way similarly
although nevertheless
but nonetheless
by contrast on the contrary
conversely on the other hand
despite regardless
even though whereas
however while yet
in contrast
admittedly naturally
although it is true of course
granted to be sure
as a result in sum
consequently therefore
hence thus
in conclusion to sum up
in short to summarize
Connecting the Parts
1 0 7
Ideally, transitions should operate so unobtrusively in a piece
of writing that they recede into the background and readers
do not even notice that they are there. It’s a bit like what
happens when drivers use their turn signals before turning
right or left: just as other drivers recognize such signals almost
unconsciously, readers should process transition terms with
a minimum of thought. But even though such terms should
function unobtrusively in your writing, they can be among the
most powerful tools in your vocabulary. Think how your heart
sinks when someone, immediately after praising you, begins a
sentence with “but” or “however.” No matter what follows, you
know it won’t be good.
Notice that some transitions can help you not only to move
from one sentence to another, but to combine two or more sen-
tences into one. Combining sentences in this way helps prevent
the choppy, staccato effect that arises when too many short sen-
tences are strung together, one after the other. For instance, to
combine Bill’s two choppy sentences (“Spot is a good dog. He
has fleas.”) into one, better-flowing sentence, we suggested that
he rewrite them as “Spot is a good dog, even though he has fleas.”
Transitions like these not only guide readers through the
twists and turns of your argument but also help ensure that you
have an argument in the first place. In fact, we think of words
like “but,” “yet,” “nevertheless,” “besides,” and others as argu-
ment words, since it’s hard to use them without making some
kind of argument. The word “therefore,” for instance, commits
you to making sure that the claims preceding it lead logically to
the conclusion that it introduces. “For example” also assumes an
argument, since it requires the material you are introducing to
stand as an instance or proof of some preceding generalization.
As a result, the more you use transitions, the more you’ll be able
not only to connect the parts of your text but also to construct
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a strong argument in the first place. And if you draw on them
frequently enough, using them should eventually become sec-
ond nature.
To be sure, it is possible to overuse transitions, so take time to
read over your drafts carefully and eliminate any transitions that
are unnecessary. But following the maxim that you need to learn
the basic moves of argument before you can deliberately depart
from them, we advise you not to forgo explicit transition terms
until you’ve first mastered their use. In all our years of teaching,
we’ve read countless essays that suffered from having few or no
transitions, but cannot recall one in which the transitions were
overused. Seasoned writers sometimes omit explicit transitions,
but only because they rely heavily on the other types of connect-
ing devices that we turn to in the rest of this chapter.
Before doing so, however, let us warn you about inserting
transitions without really thinking through their meanings—
using “therefore,” say, when your text’s logic actually requires
“nevertheless” or “however.” So beware. Choosing transition
terms should involve a bit of mental sweat, since the whole
point of using them is to make your writing more reader-friendly,
not less. The only thing more frustrating than reading Bill-style
passages like “Spot is a good dog. He has fleas” is reading mis-
connected sentences like “Spot is a good dog. For example, he
has fleas.”
use pointing words
Another way to connect the parts of your argument is by using
pointing words—which, as their name implies, point or refer
backward to some concept in the previous sentence. The most
common of these pointing words include “this,” “these,” “that,”
Connecting the Parts
1 0 9
“those,” “their,” and “such” (as in “these pointing words” near
the start of this sentence) and simple pronouns like “his,” “he,”
“her,” “she,” “it,” and “their.” Such terms help you create the
flow we spoke of earlier that enables readers to move effortlessly
through your text. In a sense, these terms are like an invisible
hand reaching out of your sentence, grabbing what’s needed in
the previous sentences and pulling it along.
Like transitions, however, pointing words need to be used
carefully. It’s dangerously easy to insert pointing words into
your text that don’t refer to a clearly defined object, assuming
that because the object you have in mind is clear to you it will
also be clear to your readers. For example, consider the use of
“this” in the following passage.
Alexis de Tocqueville was highly critical of democratic societ-
ies, which he saw as tending toward mob rule. At the same time,
he accorded democratic societies grudging respect. This is seen in
Tocqueville’s statement that . . .
When “this” is used in such a way it becomes an ambiguous or
free-floating pointer, since readers can’t tell if it refers to Tocque-
ville’s critical attitude toward democratic societies, his grudging
respect for them, or some combination of both. “This what?”
readers mutter as they go back over such passages and try to
figure them out. It’s also tempting to try to cheat with pointing
words, hoping that they will conceal or make up for conceptual
confusions that may lurk in your argument. By referring to a
fuzzy idea as “this” or “that,” you might hope the fuzziness will
somehow come across as clearer than it is.
You can fix problems caused by a free-floating pointer by
making sure there is one and only one possible object in the
vicinity that the pointer could be referring to. It also often helps
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1 1 0
to name the object the pointer is referring to at the same time
that you point to it, replacing the bald “this” in the example
above with a more precise phrase like “this ambivalence toward
democratic societies” or “this grudging respect.”
repeat key terms and phrases
A third strategy for connecting the parts of your argument is
to develop a constellation of key terms and phrases, including
their synonyms and antonyms, that you repeat throughout your
text. When used effectively, your key terms should be items
that readers could extract from your text in order to get a solid
sense of your topic. Playing with key terms also can be a good
way to come up with a title and appropriate section headings
for your text.
Notice how often Martin Luther King Jr. uses the key words
“criticism,” “statement,” “answer,” and “correspondence” in the
opening paragraph of his famous “Letter from Birmingham Jail.”
Dear Fellow Clergymen:
While confined here in the Birmingham city jail, I came across
your recent statement calling my present activities “unwise and
untimely.” Seldom do I pause to answer criticism of my work and
ideas. If I sought to answer all the criticisms that cross my desk,
my secretaries would have little time for anything other than such
correspondence in the course of the day, and I would have no time
for constructive work. But since I feel that you are men of genuine
good will and that your criticisms are sincerely set forth, I want to
try to answer your statement in what I hope will be patient and
reasonable terms.
Martin Luther King Jr., “Letter from Birmingham Jail”
Connecting the Parts
1 1 1
Even though King uses the terms “criticism” and “answer” three
times each and “statement” twice, the effect is not overly repeti-
tive. In fact, these key terms help build a sense of momentum
in the paragraph and bind it together.
For another example of the effective use of key terms, con-
sider the following passage, in which the historian Susan Doug-
las develops a constellation of sharply contrasting key terms
around the concept of “cultural schizophrenics”: women like
herself who, Douglas claims, have mixed feelings about the
images of ideal femininity with which they are constantly bom-
barded by the media.
In a variety of ways, the mass media helped make us the cultural
schizophrenics we are today, women who rebel against yet submit
to prevailing images about what a desirable, worthwhile woman
should be. . . . [T]he mass media has engendered in many women a
kind of cultural identity crisis. We are ambivalent toward feminin-
ity on the one hand and feminism on the other. Pulled in opposite
directions—told we were equal, yet told we were subordinate; told
we could change history but told we were trapped by history—we
got the bends at an early age, and we’ve never gotten rid of them.
When I open Vogue, for example, I am simultaneously infu-
riated and seduced XXXXXXXXXXI adore the materialism; I despise the
materialism XXXXXXXXXXI want to look beautiful; I think wanting to look
beautiful is about the most dumb-ass goal you could have. The
magazine stokes my desire; the magazine triggers my bile. And this
doesn’t only happen when I’m reading Vogue; it happens all the
time XXXXXXXXXXOn the one hand, on the other hand—that’s not just
me—that’s what it means to be a woman in America.
To explain this schizophrenia . . .
Susan Douglas, Where the Girls Are:
Growing Up Female with the Mass Media
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1 1 2
In this passage, Douglas establishes “schizophrenia” as a key
concept and then echoes it through synonyms like “identity
crisis,” “ambivalent,” “the bends”—and even demonstrates it
through a series of contrasting words and phrases:
rebel against / submit
told we were equal / told we were subordinate
told we could change history / told we were trapped by history
infuriated / seduced
I adore / I despise
I want / I think wanting . . . is about the most dumb-ass goal
stokes my desire / triggers my bile
on the one hand / on the other hand
These contrasting phrases help flesh out Douglas’s claim that
women are being pulled in two directions at once. In so doing,
they bind the passage together into a unified whole that, despite
its complexity and sophistication, stays focused over its entire
repeat yourself—but with a difference
The last technique we offer for connecting the parts of your
text involves repeating yourself, but with a difference—which
basically means saying the same thing you’ve just said, but in
a slightly different way that avoids sounding monotonous. To
effectively connect the parts of your argument and keep it mov-
ing forward, be careful not to leap from one idea to a different
idea or introduce new ideas cold. Instead, try to build bridges
between your ideas by echoing what you’ve just said while
simultaneously moving your text into new territory.
Connecting the Parts
1 1 3
Several of the connecting devices discussed in this chapter
are ways of repeating yourself in this special way. Key terms,
pointing terms, and even many transitions can be used in a
way that not only brings something forward from the previous
sentence but in some way alters it. When Douglas, for instance,
uses the key term “ambivalent” to echo her earlier reference
to schizophrenics, she is repeating herself with a difference—
repeating the same concept, but with a different word that adds
new associations.
In addition, when you use transition phrases like “in other
words” and “to put it another way,” you repeat yourself with a
difference, since these phrases help you restate earlier claims but
in a different register. When you open a sentence with “in other
words,” you are basically telling your readers that in case they
didn’t fully understand what you meant in the last sentence,
you are now coming at it again from a slightly different angle,
or that since you’re presenting a very important idea, you’re
not going to skip over it quickly but will explore it further to
make sure your readers grasp all its aspects.
We would even go so far as to suggest that after your first
sentence, almost every sentence you write should refer back
to previous statements in some way. Whether you are writing
a “furthermore” comment that adds to what you have just said
or a “for example” statement that illustrates it, each sentence
should echo at least one element of the previous sentence in
some discernible way. Even when your text changes direction
and requires transitions like “in contrast,” “however,” or “but,”
you still need to mark that shift by linking the sentence to
the one just before it, as in the following example.
Cheyenne loved basketball. Nevertheless, she feared her height
would put her at a disadvantage.
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These sentences work because even though the second sen-
tence changes course and qualifies the first, it still echoes key
concepts from the first. Not only does “she” echo “Cheyenne,”
since both refer to the same person, but “feared” echoes “loved”
by establishing the contrast mandated by the term “neverthe-
less.” “Nevertheless,” then, is not an excuse for changing sub-
jects radically. It too requires repetition to help readers shift
gears with you and follow your train of thought.
Repetition, in short, is the central means by which you can
move from point A to point B in a text. To introduce one last
analogy, think of the way experienced rock climbers move up a
steep slope. Instead of jumping or lurching from one handhold
to the next, good climbers get a secure handhold on the position
they have established before reaching for the next ledge. The
same thing applies to writing. To move smoothly from point to
point in your argument, you need to firmly ground what you say
in what you’ve already said. In this way, your writing remains
focused while simultaneously moving forward.
“But hold on,” you may be thinking. “Isn’t repetition pre-
cisely what sophisticated writers should avoid, on the grounds
that it will make their writing sound simplistic—as if they are
belaboring the obvious?” Yes and no. On the one hand, writers
certainly can run into trouble if they merely repeat themselves
and nothing more. On the other hand, repetition is key to creat-
ing continuity in writing. It is impossible to stay on track in a
piece of writing if you don’t repeat your points throughout the
length of the text. Furthermore, writers would never make an
impact on readers if they didn’t repeat their main points often
enough to reinforce those points and make them stand out above
subordinate points. The trick therefore is not to avoid repeating
yourself but to repeat yourself in varied and interesting enough
ways that you advance your argument without sounding tedious.
Connecting the Parts
1 1 5
1. Read the following opening to Chapter 2 of The Road to
Wigan Pier, by George Orwell. Annotate the connecting
devices by underlining the transitions, circling the key
terms, and putting boxes around the pointing terms.
Our civilisation . . . is founded on coal, more completely than
one realises until one stops to think about it. The machines that
keep us alive, and the machines that make the machines, are
all directly or indirectly dependent upon coal. In the metabolism
of the Western world the coal-miner is second in importance
only to the man who ploughs the soil. He is a sort of grimy cary-
atid upon whose shoulders nearly everything that is not grimy
is supported. For this reason the actual process by which coal is
extracted is well worth watching, if you get the chance and are
willing to take the trouble.
When you go down a coal-mine it is important to try and get
to the coal face when the “fillers” are at work. This is not easy,
because when the mine is working visitors are a nuisance and
are not encouraged, but if you go at any other time, it is possible
to come away with a totally wrong impression. On a Sunday, for
instance, a mine seems almost peaceful. The time to go there
is when the machines are roaring and the air is black with coal
dust, and when you can actually see what the miners have to
do. At those times the place is like hell, or at any rate like my
own mental picture of hell. Most of the things one imagines in
hell are there—heat, noise, confusion, darkness, foul air, and,
above all, unbearably cramped space. Everything except the fire,
for there is no fire down there except the feeble beams of Davy
lamps and electric torches which scarcely penetrate the clouds
of coal dust.
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1 1 6
When you have finally got there—and getting there is a job in
itself: I will explain that in a moment—you crawl through the last
line of pit props and see opposite you a shiny black wall three or
four feet high. This is the coal face. Overhead is the smooth ceiling
made by the rock from which the coal has been cut; underneath is
the rock again, so that the gallery you are in is only as high as the
ledge of coal itself, probably not much more than a yard. The first
impression of all, overmastering everything else for a while, is the
frightful, deafening din from the conveyor belt which carries the
coal away. You cannot see very far, because the fog of coal dust
throws back the beam of your lamp, but you can see on either side
of you the line of half-naked kneeling men, one to every four or
five yards, driving their shovels under the fallen coal and flinging
it swiftly over their left shoulders. . . .
George Orwell, The Road to Wigan Pier
2. Read over something you’ve written with an eye for the
devices you’ve used to connect the parts. Underline all
the transitions, pointing terms, key terms, and repetition.
Do you see any patterns? Do you rely on certain devices
more than others? Are there any passages that are hard to
follow—and if so, can you make them easier to read by trying
any of the other devices discussed in this chapter?
1 1 7
“you mean i can just
say it that way?”
Academic Writing Doesn’t Mean
Setting Aside Your Own Voice
We wish we had a dollar for each time a student has
asked us a version of the above question. It usually comes when
the student is visiting us during our office hours, seeking advice
about how to improve a draft of an essay he or she is working
on. When we ask the student to tell us in simple words the
point he or she is trying to make in the essay, the student will
almost invariably produce a statement that is far clearer and
more incisive than anything in the draft.
“Write that down,” we will urge. “What you just said is sooo
much better than anything you wrote in your draft. We suggest
going home and revising your paper in a way that makes that
claim the focal point of your essay.”
“Really?” our student will ask, looking surprised. “You mean
I can just say it that way?”
“Sure. Why not?”
“Well, saying it that way seems just so elementary—so obvi-
ous. I mean, I don’t want to sound stupid.”
n i n e “ Y O U M E A N I C A N J U S T S A Y I T T H A T W A Y ? ”
1 1 8
The goal of this chapter is to counteract this common
misconception: that relying in college on the straightforward,
down-to-earth language you use every day will make you sound
stupid; that to impress your teachers you need to set aside your
everyday voice and write in a way that nobody can understand.
It’s easy to see how this misconception took hold, since aca-
demic writing is notoriously obscure. Students can’t be blamed
for such obscurity when so much of the writing they’re assigned
to read is so hard to understand—as we can see in the follow-
ing sentence from a science paper that linguist Steven Pinker
quotes in his essay “Why Academics Stink at Writing”:
Participants read assertions whose veracity was either affirmed or
denied by the subsequent presentation of an assessment word.
After struggling to determine what the writer of this sentence
was trying to say, Pinker finally decided it was probably some-
thing as simple as this:
Participants read sentences, each followed by the word true or false.
Had the author revised the original statement by tapping into his
or her more relaxed, everyday language, as Pinker did in revising
it, much of this struggle could have been avoided. In our view,
then, mastering academic writing does not mean completely
abandoning your normal voice for one that’s stiff, convoluted,
or pompous, as students often assume. Instead, it means creating
a new voice that draws on the voice you already have.
This is not to suggest that any language you use among
friends has a place in academic writing. Nor is it to suggest
that you may fall back on your everyday voice as an excuse to
remain in your comfort zone and avoid learning the rigorous
Academic Writing Doesn’t Mean Setting Aside Your Own Voice
1 1 9
forms and habits that characterize academic culture. After all,
learning new words and forms—moves or templates, as we call
them in this book—is a major part of getting an education.
We do, however, wish to suggest that everyday language can
often enliven such moves and even enhance your precision in
using academic terminology. In our view, then, it is a mistake
to assume that the academic and everyday are completely sepa-
rate languages that can never be used together. Ultimately, we
suggest, academic writing is often at its best when it combines
what we call “everydayspeak” and “academicspeak.”
blend academic and
colloquial styles
In fact, we would argue that, despite their bad reputation, many
academics are highly successful writers who provide models of
how to blend everyday and academic styles. Note, for example,
how Judith Fetterley, a prominent scholar in the field of literary
studies, blends academic and everyday ways of talking in the
following passage on the novelist Willa Cather:
As Merrill Skaggs has put it, “[Cather] is neurotically controlling
and self-conscious about her work, but she knows at all points what
she is doing. Above all else, she is self-conscious.”
Without question, Cather was a control freak.
Judith Fetterley, “Willa Cather and the
Question of Sympathy: An Unofficial Story”
In this passage, Fetterley makes use of what is probably
the most common technique for blending academic and
everyday language: she puts them side by side, juxtapos-
ing “neurotically controlling” and “self-conscious” from
See pp. 248–55
for an essay that
mixes colloquial
and academic
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a quoted source with her own colloquial term, “control freak.”
In this way, Fetterley lightens a potentially dry subject and
makes it more accessible and even entertaining.
a translation recipe
But Fetterley does more than simply put academicspeak and
everydayspeak side by side. She takes a step further by trans-
lating the one into the other. By translating Skaggs’s poly-
syllabic description of Cather as “neurotically controlling and
self-conscious” into the succinct, if blunt, “control freak,” Fet-
terley shows how rarefied, academic ways of talking and more
familiar language can not only coexist but actually enhance
one another—her informal “control freak” serving to explain
the formal language that precedes it.
To be sure, slangy, colloquial expressions like “control freak”
may be far more common in the humanities than in the sci-
ences, and even in the humanities such casual usages are a
recent development. Fifty years ago academic writing in all
disciplines was the linguistic equivalent of a black-tie affair.
But as times have changed, so has the range of options open to
academic writers—so much so that it is not surprising to find
writers in all fields using colloquial expressions and referring
to movies, music, and other forms of popular culture.
Indeed, Fetterley’s passage offers a simple recipe for mixing
styles that we encourage you to try out in your own writing: first
state the point in academic language, then translate the point
into everyday language. Everyone knows that academic terms like
“neurotically controlling” and “self-conscious”—and others you
might encounter like “subject position” or “bifurcate”—can be
hard to understand. But this translation recipe, we think, eases
Academic Writing Doesn’t Mean Setting Aside Your Own Voice
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such difficulties by making the academic familiar. Here is one
way you might translate academicspeak into everydayspeak:
j Scholar X argues, “ .” In other words, .
Instead of “In other words,” you might try variations like the
j Essentially, X argues .
j X’s point, succinctly put, is that .
j Plainly put, .
Following Fetterley’s lead and making moves like these can help
you not only demystify challenging academic material, but also
reinterpret it, showing you understand it (and helping readers
understand it) by putting it into your own terms.
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But this translation recipe need not be limited to clarifying the
ideas of others. It can also be used to clarify your own com-
plex ideas, as the following passage by the philosopher Rebecca
Goldstein illustrates:
We can hardly get through our lives—in fact, it’s hard to get
through a week—without considering what makes specific actions
right and others wrong and debating with ourselves whether that
is a difference that must compel the actions we choose. (Okay, it’s
wrong! I get it! But why should I care?)
Rebecca Goldstein, Plato at the Googleplex:
Why Philosophy Won’t Go Away
Though Goldstein’s first sentence may require several reread-
ings, it is one that most of us, with varying degrees of effort,
can come to understand: that we all wrestle regularly with the
challenging philosophical questions of what the ethics of a
given situation are and whether those ethics should alter our
behavior. But instead of leaving us entirely on our own to figure
out what she is saying, Goldstein helps us out in her closing
parenthenthetical remarks, which translate the abstractions of
her first sentence into the kind of concrete everydayspeak that
runs through our heads.
Yet another example of self-translation—one that actually
uses the word “translation”—can be found on the opening page
of a book by scholar Helen Sword:
There is a massive gap between what most readers consider to be
good writing and what academics typically produce and publish. I’m
not talking about the kinds of formal strictures necessarily imposed
Academic Writing Doesn’t Mean Setting Aside Your Own Voice
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by journal editors—article length, citation style, and the like—but
about a deeper, duller kind of disciplinary monotony, a compul-
sive proclivity for discursive obscurantism and circumambulatory
diction (translation: an addiction to big words and soggy syntax).
Helen Sword, Stylish Academic Writing
In this passage, Sword gives her own unique twist to the
translation technique we’ve been discussing. After a stream
of difficult polysyllabic words—“a compulsive proclivity for
discursive obscurantism and circumambulatory diction”—she
then concludes by translating these words into everydayspeak:
“an addiction to big words and soggy syntax.” The effect is
to dramatize her larger point: the “massive gap between what
most readers consider to be good writing and what academics
typically produce and publish.”
famous examples
Even notoriously difficult thinkers could be said to use the
translation practice we have been advocating in this chapter,
as the following famous and widely quoted claims illustrate:
I think, therefore I am. The master’s tools will never
—René Descartes dismantle the master’s house.
—Audre Lorde
The medium is the message. Form follows function.
—Marshall McLuhan —Louis Sullivan
These sentences can be read almost as sound bites, short,
catchy statements that express a more complex idea. Though
the term “sound bite” is usually used to refer to mindless media
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simplifications, the succinct statements above show what valu-
able work they can do. These distillations are admittedly reduc-
tive in that they do not capture all the nuances of the more
complex ideas they represent. But consider their power to stick
in the minds of readers. Without these memorable translations,
we wonder if these authors’ ideas would have achieved such
widespread circulation.
Consider Descartes’ “I think, therefore I am,” for example,
which comes embedded in the following passage, in which
Descartes is struggling to find a philosophical foundation for
absolute truth in the face of skeptical doctrines that doubt that
anything can be known for certain. After putting himself in the
shoes of a radical skeptic and imagining what it would be like to
believe all apparent truths to be false, Descartes “immediately . . .
observed,” he writes,
whilst I thus wished to think that all was false, it was absolutely
necessary that I, who thus thought, should be somewhat; and as I
observed that this truth, I think, therefore I am (cogito ergo sum),
was so certain and of such evidence that no ground of doubt, how-
ever extravagant, could be alleged by the sceptics capable of shak-
ing it, I concluded that I might, without scruple, accept it as the
first principle of the philosophy of which I was in search.
René Descartes, “Discourse on the Method, Part IV”
Had Descartes been less probing and scrupulous, we speculate,
he would have stopped writing and ended the passage after
the statement “it was absolutely necessary that I, who thus
thought, should be somewhat.” After all, the passage up to
this point contains all the basic ingredients that the rest of it
goes on to explain, the simpler, more accessible formulation
Academic Writing Doesn’t Mean Setting Aside Your Own Voice
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“I think, therefore I am” being merely a reformulation of this
earlier material. But just imagine if Descartes had decided that
his job as a writer was finished after his initial claim and had
failed to add the more accessible phrase “I think, therefore I
am.” We suspect this idea of his would not have become one
of the most famous touchstones of Western philosophy.
everyday language as a thinking tool
As the examples in this chapter suggest, then, translating aca-
demic language into everydayspeak can be an indispensable
tool for clarifying and underscoring ideas for readers. But at an
even more basic level, such translation can be an indispensable
means for you as a writer to clarify your ideas to yourself. In
other words, translating academicspeak into everydayspeak can
function as a thinking tool that enables you to discover what
you are trying to say to begin with.
For as writing theorists often note, writing is generally not
a process in which we start with a fully formed idea in our
heads that we then simply transcribe in an unchanged state
onto the page. On the contrary, writing is more often a means
of discovery in which we use the writing process to figure out
what our idea is. This is why writers are often surprised to find
that what they end up with on the page is quite different from
what they thought it would be when they started. What we
are trying to say here is that everydayspeak is often crucial for
this discovery process, that translating your ideas into more
common, simpler terms can help you figure out what your ideas
really are, as opposed to what you initially imagined they were.
Even Descartes, for example, may not have had the formulation
“I think, therefore I am” in mind before he wrote the passage
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above; instead, he may have arrived at it as he worked through
the writing process.
We ourselves have been reminded of this point when engaged
in our own writing. One major benefit of writing collaboratively,
as the two of us do, is that it repeatedly forces us to explain in
simpler terms our less-than-clear ideas when one of us doesn’t
already know what the other means. In the process of writing
and revising this book, for instance, we were always turning to
each other after reading something the other had written and
asking a version of the “Can-you-explain-that-more-simply?”
question that we described asking our students in our office in
this chapter’s opening anecdote: “What do you mean?” “I don’t
get it—can you explain?” “Huh!?” Sometimes, when the idea is
finally stated in plain, everyday terms, we realize that it doesn’t
make sense or that it amounts to nothing more than a cliché—or
that we have something worth pursuing. It’s as if using everyday
language to talk through a draft—as any writer can do by asking
others to critique his or her drafts—shines a bright light on our
writing to expose its strengths and weaknesses.
still not convinced?
To be sure, not everyone will be as enthusiastic as we are about
the benefits of everydayspeak. Many will insist that, while some
fields in the humanities may be open to everyday language,
colloquial expressions, and slang, most fields in the sciences
are not. And some people in both the humanities and the
sciences will argue that some ideas simply can’t be done justice
to in everyday language. “Theory X,” they will say, “is just too
complex to be explained in simple terms,” or “You have to
be in the field to understand it.” Perhaps so. But at least one
Academic Writing Doesn’t Mean Setting Aside Your Own Voice
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distinguished scientist, the celebrated atomic physicist Enrico
Fermi, thought otherwise. Fermi, it is said, believed that all
faculty in his field should teach basic physics to undergradu-
ates, because having to explain the science in relatively plain
English helped to clarify their thinking. This last point can be
stated as a rule of thumb: if you can’t explain it to your Aunt
Franny, chances are you don’t understand it yourself.
Furthermore, when writers tell themselves that their ideas
are just too complex to be explained to nonspecialists, they risk
fooling themselves into thinking that they are making more
sense than they actually are. Translating academicspeak into
everydayspeak functions as a kind of baloney detector, a way
of keeping us honest when we’re in danger of getting carried
away by our own verbosity.
“But come on,” some may say. “Get real! Academic writing
must, in many cases, mean setting aside our own voices.” Sure,
it may be fine to translate challenging academic ideas into
plain everyday language, as Goldstein, Sword, and Descartes
do above, when it’s a language that your audience will under-
stand and find acceptable. But what if your everyday language—
the one you use when you’re most relaxed, with family and
friends—is filled with slang and questionable grammar? And
what if your everyday language is an ethnic or regional dialect—
or a different language altogether? Is there really a place for such
language in academic, professional, or public writing?
Yes and no. On the one hand, there are many situations—
like when you’re applying for a job or submitting a proposal to
be read by an official screening body—in which it’s probably
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safest to write in “standard” English. On the other hand, the
line between language that might confuse audiences and lan-
guage that engages or challenges them is not always obvious.
Nor is the line between foreign words that readers don’t already
know and those that readers might happily learn. After all,
“standard” written English is more open and inclusive than it
may at first appear. And readers often appreciate writers who
take risks and mix things up.
Many prominent writers mix standard written English with
other dialects or languages, employing a practice that cultural
and linguistic theorists Vershawn Ashanti Young and Suresh
Canagarajah call “code-meshing.” For instance, in the titles of
two of her books, Talkin and Testifyin: The Language of Black
America and Black Talk: Words and Phrases From the Hood
to the Amen Corner, the language scholar Geneva Smither-
man mixes African American vernacular phrases with more
scholarly language in order to suggest, as she explicitly argues
in these books, that black vernacular English is as legitimate
a variety of language as “standard” English. Here are three
typical passages:
In Black America, the oral tradition has served as a fundamental
vehicle for gittin ovah. That tradition preserves the Afro-American
heritage and reflects the collective spirit of the race.
Blacks are quick to ridicule “educated fools,” people who done
gone to school and read all dem books and still don’t know nothin!
It is a socially approved verbal strategy for black rappers to talk
about how bad they is.
Geneva Smitherman, Talkin and Testifyin:
The Language of Black America
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In these examples, Smitherman blends the types of terms we
expect in scholarly writing like “oral tradition” and “fundamen-
tal vehicle” with black vernacular phrases like “gittin ovah.”
She even blends the standard English spelling of words with
African American English variants like “dem” and “ovah” in
a way that evokes how some speakers of African American
English sound. Some might object to these unconventional
practices, but this is precisely Smitherman’s point: that our
habitual language practices need to be opened up, and that the
number of participants in the academic conversation needs to
be expanded.
Along similar lines, the writer and activist Gloria Anzaldúa
mixes standard English with what she calls Chicano Spanish
to make a political point about the suppression of the Spanish
language in the United States. In one typical passage, she writes:
From this racial, ideological, cultural, and biological cross-
pollinization, an “alien” consciousness is presently in the making—
a new mestiza consciousness, una conciencia de mujer.
Gloria Anzaldúa,
Borderlands / La Frontera: The New Mestiza
Anzaldúa gets her point across not only through what she says
but through the way she says it, showing that the new hybrid,
or “mestiza consciousness,” that she celebrates is, as she puts
it, “presently in the making.” Ultimately, such code-meshing
suggests that languages, like the people who speak them, are
not distinct, separate islands.
Because there are so many options in writing, then, there is
no need to ever feel limited in your choice of words. You can
always experiment with your language and improve it. Depend-
ing on your audience and purpose, and how much risk you’re
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willing to take, you can dress up your language, dress it down,
or some combination of both. You could even recast the title of
this book, “They Say / I Say,” as a teenager might say it: “She
Goes / I’m Like.”
We hope you agree with us, then, that to succeed as a college
writer, you need not always set aside your everyday voice, even
when that voice may initially seem unwelcome in the academic
world. It is by blending everyday language with standard written
English that what counts as “standard” changes and the range
of possibilities open to academic writers continues to grow.
1. Take a paragraph from this book and dress it down, rewrit-
ing it in informal colloquial language. Then rewrite the same
paragraph again by dressing it up, making it much more for-
mal. Then rewrite the paragraph one more time in a way that
blends the two styles. Share your paragraphs with a classmate,
and discuss which versions are most effective and why.
2. Find something you’ve written for a course, and study it to see
whether you’ve used any of your own everyday expressions,
any words or structures that are not “academic.” If by chance
you don’t find any, see if there’s a place or two where shifting
into more casual or unexpected language would help you make
a point, get your reader’s attention, or just add liveliness to
your text. Be sure to keep your audience and purpose in mind,
and use language that will be appropriate to both.
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“but don’t get me wrong”
The Art of Metacommentary
When we tell people that we are writing a chapter on the
art of metacommentary, they often give us a puzzled look and
tell us that they have no idea what “metacommen tary” is. “We
know what commentary is,” they’ll sometimes say, “but what
does it mean when it’s meta?” Our answer is that whether or
not they know the term, they practice the art of metacommen-
tary on a daily basis whenever they make a point of explain-
ing something they’ve said or written: “What I meant to say
was ,” “My point was not , but ,”
or “You’re probably not going to like what I’m about to say,
but .” In such cases, they are not offering new points
but telling an audience how to interpret what they have already
said or are about to say. In short, then, metacommentary is a
way of commenting on your claims and telling others how—and
how not—to think about them.
It may help to think of metacommentary as being like the
chorus in a Greek play that stands to the side of the drama
unfolding on the stage and explains its meaning to the
audience—or like a voice-over narrator who comments on
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and explains the action in a television show or movie. Think
of metacommentary as a sort of second text that stands along-
side your main text and explains what it means. In the main
text you say something; in the metatext you guide your readers
in interpreting and processing what you’ve said.
What we are suggesting, then, is that you think of your text
as two texts joined at the hip: a main text in which you make
your argument and another in which you “work” your ideas,
distinguishing your views from others they may be confused
with, anticipating and answering objections, connecting one
point to another, explaining why your claim might be contro-
versial, and so forth. The figure below demonstrates what we
The Art of Metacommentary
1 3 3
use metacommentary to clarify
and elaborate
But why do you need metacommentary to tell readers what
you mean and guide them through your text? Can’t you just
clearly say what you mean up front? The answer is that, no
matter how clear and precise your writing is, readers can
still fail to understand it in any number of ways. Even the
best writers can provoke reactions in readers that they didn’t
intend, and even good readers can get lost in a complicated
argument or fail to see how one point connects with another.
Readers may also fail to see what follows from your argument,
or they may follow your reasoning and examples yet fail to
see the larger conclusion you draw from them. They may
fail to see your argument’s overall significance, or mistake
what you are saying for a related argument that they have
heard before but that you want to distance yourself from.
As a result, no matter how straightforward a writer you are,
readers still need you to help them grasp what you really
mean. Because the written word is prone to so much mischief
and can be interpreted in so many different ways, we need
metacommentary to keep misinterpretations and other com-
munication misfires at bay.
Another reason to master the art of metacommentary is that
it will help you develop your ideas and generate more text.
If you have ever had trouble producing the required number
of pages for a writing project, metacommentary can help you
add both length and depth to your writing. We’ve seen many
students who try to produce a five-page paper sputter to a halt
at two or three pages, complaining they’ve said everything
they can think of about their topic. “I’ve stated my thesis and
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presented my reasons and evidence,” students have told us.
“What else is there to do?” It’s almost as if such writers have
generated a thesis and don’t know what to do with it. When
these students learn to use metacommentary, however, they
get more out of their ideas and write longer, more substantial
texts. In sum, metacommentary can help you extract the full
potential from your ideas, drawing out important implications,
explaining ideas from different perspectives, and so forth.
So even when you may think you’ve said everything pos-
sible in an argument, try inserting the following types of
j In other words, she doesn’t realize how right she is.
j What really means is .
j My point is not but .
j Ultimately, then, my goal is to demonstrate that .
Ideally, such metacommentary should help you recognize some
implications of your ideas that you didn’t initially realize were
Let’s look at how the cultural critic Neil Postman uses meta-
commentary in the following passage describing the shift in
American culture when it began to move from print and read-
ing to television and movies.
It is my intention in this book to show that a great . . . shift has
taken place in America, with the result that the content of much
of our public discourse has become dangerous nonsense. With this
in view, my task in the chapters ahead is straightforward. I must,
first, demonstrate how, under the governance of the printing
The Art of Metacommentary
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press, discourse in America was different from what it is now—
generally coherent, serious and rational; and then how, under the
governance of television, it has become shriveled and absurd.
But to avoid the possibility that my analysis will be interpreted as
standard-brand academic whimpering, a kind of elitist complaint
against “junk” on television, I must first explain that . . . I appreci-
ate junk as much as the next fellow, and I know full well that the
printing press has generated enough of it to fill the Grand Canyon
to overflowing. Television is not old enough to have matched
printing’s output of junk.
Neil Postman, Amusing Ourselves to Death:
Public Discourse in the Age of Show Business
To see what we mean by metacommentary, look at the phrases
above that we have italicized. With these moves, Postman
essentially stands apart from his main ideas to help readers
follow and understand what he is arguing.
He previews what he will argue: It is my intention in this book
to show . . .
He spells out how he will make his argument: With this in
view, my task in the chapters ahead is . . . I must, first, dem-
onstrate . . . and then . . .
He distinguishes his argument from other arguments it may
easily be confused with: But to avoid the possibility that my
analysis will be interpreted as . . . I must first explain that . . .
titles as metacommentary
Even the title of Postman’s book, Amusing Ourselves to Death:
Public Discourse in the Age of Show Business, functions as a form of
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metacommentary since, like all titles, it stands apart from the text
itself and tells readers the book’s main point: that the very plea-
sure provided by contemporary show business is destructive.
Titles, in fact, are one of the most important forms of
metacommentary, functioning rather like carnival barkers
telling passersby what they can expect if they go inside. Sub-
titles, too, function as metacommentary, further explaining
or elaborating on the main title. The subtitle of this book,
for example, not only explains that it is about “the moves
that matter in academic writing,” but indicates that “they
say / I say” is one of these moves. Thinking of a title as
metacommentary can actually help you develop sharper
titles, ones that, like Postman’s, give readers a hint of what
your argument will be. Contrast such titles with unhelpfully
open-ended ones like “Shakespeare” or “Steroids” or “English
Essay” or essays with no titles at all. Essays with vague titles
(or no titles) send the message that the writer has simply
not bothered to reflect on what he or she is saying and is
uninterested in guiding or orienting readers.
use other moves as metacommentary
Many of the other moves covered in this book function as
metacommentary: entertaining objections, adding transitions,
framing quotations, answering “so what?” and “who cares?”
When you entertain objections, you stand outside of your text
and imagine what a critic might say; when you add transitions,
you essentially explain the relationship between various claims.
And when you answer the “so what?” and “who cares?” ques-
tions, you look beyond your central argument and explain who
should be interested in it and why.
The Art of Metacommentary
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templates for introducing
to ward off potential misunderstandings
The following moves help you differentiate certain views from
ones they might be mistaken for.
j Essentially, I am arguing not that we should give up the policy,
but that we should monitor effects far more closely.
j This is not to say , but rather .
j X is concerned less with than with .
to elaborate on a previous idea
The following moves elaborate on a previous point, saying to
readers: “In case you didn’t get it the first time, I’ll try saying
the same thing in a different way.”
j In other words, .
j To put it another way, .
j What X is saying here is that .
to provide a road map to your text
This move orients readers, clarifying where you have been and
where you are going—and making it easier for them to process
and follow your text.
j Chapter 2 explores , while Chapter 3 examines
j Having just argued that , I want now to complicate the
point by .
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to move from a general claim to a specific example
These moves help you explain a general point by providing a
concrete example that illustrates what you’re saying.
j For example, .
j , for instance, demonstrates .
j Consider , for example.
j To take a case in point, .
to indicate that a claim is more, less, or equally important
The following templates help you give relative emphasis to the
claim that you are introducing, showing whether that claim is
of more or less weight than the previous one, or equal to it.
j Even more important, .
j But above all, .
j Incidentally, we will briefly note, .
j Just as important, .
j Equally, .
j Finally, .
to explain a claim when you anticipate objections
Here’s a template to help you anticipate and respond to pos-
sible objections.
j Although some readers may object that , I would
answer that .
The Art of Metacommentary
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to guide readers to your most general point
These moves show that you are wrapping things up and
tying up various subpoints previously made.
j In sum, then, .
j My conclusion, then, is that .
j In short, .
In this chapter we have tried to show that the most persuasive
writing often doubles back and comments on its own claims in
ways that help readers negotiate and process them. Instead of
simply piling claim upon claim, effective writers are constantly
“stage-managing” how their claims will be received. It’s true of
course that to be persuasive a text has to have strong claims
to argue in the first place. But even the strongest arguments
will flounder unless writers use metacommentary to prevent
potential misreadings and make their arguments shine.
1. Read an essay or article and annotate it to indicate the
different ways the author uses metacommentary. Use the
templates on pages 137–39 as your guide. For example, you
may want to circle transitional phrases and write “trans” in
the margins, to put brackets around sentences that elaborate
on earlier sentences and mark them “elab,” or underline
sentences in which the author sums up what he or she has
been saying, writing “sum” in the margins.
How does the author use metacommentary? Does the
author follow any of the templates provided in this book
Chapter 6
has more
templates for
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word for word? Did you find any forms of metacommentary
not discussed in this chapter? If so, can you identify them,
name them, and perhaps devise templates based on them for
use in your own writing? And finally, how do you think the
author’s use of metacommentary enhances (or harms) his or
her writing?
2. Complete each of the following metacommentary templates
in any way that makes sense.
j In making a case for the medical use of marijuana, I am not
saying that .
j But my argument will do more than prove that one particular
industrial chemical has certain toxic properties. In this article,
I will also .
j My point about the national obsessions with sports reinforces
the belief held by many that .
j I believe, therefore, that the war is completely unjustified.
But let me back up and explain how I arrived at this conclu-
sion: . In this way, I came to believe that this war is
a big mistake.
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“he says contends”
Using the Templates to Revise
One of the most important stages of the writing process
is revision, when you look at a draft with an eye for how well
you’ve made your argument and what you need to do to make
it better. The challenge is to figure out what needs work—and
then what exactly you need to do.
Sometimes you’ll have specific comments and suggestions
from a teacher, noting that you need to state your position more
explicitly, that your point is unclear, that you’ve misunderstood
an author you’re summarizing, and so forth. But what if you
don’t have any such guidance, or aren’t sure what to do with
it? The list of guidelines below offers help and points you back
to relevant advice and templates in this book.
Do you present your argument as a response to what others
say? Do you make reference to other views besides your own? Do
you use voice markers to distinguish clearly for readers between
your views and those of others? In order to make your argument
as convincing as possible, would it help to add more concessions
to opposing views, using “yes but” templates?
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Asking yourself these large-scale revision questions will
help you see how well you’ve managed the “they say / I say”
framework and this in turn should help you see where further
revisions are needed. The checklist below follows the order of
chapters in this book.
How Do You Represent What Others Say?
Do you start with what others say? If not, try revising to do so.
See pages 23–28 for templates that can help.
Do you summarize or paraphrase what they’ve said? If so, have you
represented their views accurately—and adequately?
Do you quote others? Do you frame each quotation successfully,
integrating it into your text? Does the quotation support your
argument? Have you introduced each quotation adequately,
naming the person you’re quoting (and saying who that per-
son is if your readers won’t know)? Do you explain in your
own words what the quotation means? Do you then clearly
indicate how the quotation bears on your own argument? See
pages 45–47 for tips on creating a “quotation sandwich.”
Check the verbs you use to introduce any summaries and quo-
tations: do they express accurately what was said? If you’ve
used common signal phrases such as “X said” or “Y believes,”
is there a verb that reflects more accurately what was said?
See pages 40–41 for a list of verbs for introducing summaries
and quotations.
Have you documented all summaries and quotations, both with
parenthetical documentation in your text and a references or
works-cited list?
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Using the Templates to Revise
Do you remind readers of what others say at various points
throughout your text? If not, see pages 27–28 for help revising
in order to do so.
What Do You Say?
Do you agree, disagree, or both with those you’re responding to?
Have you said so explicitly?
If you disagree, do you give reasons why you disagree? If you
agree, what more have you added to the conversation? If you
both agree and disagree, do you do so without confusing readers
or seeming evasive?
Have you stated your position and the one it responds to as a
connected unit?
What reasons and evidence do you offer to support your “I say”?
In other words, do your argument and the argument you are
responding to—your “I say” and “they say”—address the same
topic or issue, or does a switch occur that takes you on a tan-
gent that will confuse readers? One way to ensure that your
“I say” and “they say” are aligned rather than seeming like ships
passing in the night is to use the same key terms in both. See
Chapter 8 for tips on how to do so.
Will readers be able to distinguish what you say from what
others say? See Chapter 5 for advice about using voice
markers to make that distinction clear, especially at moments
when you are moving from your view to someone else’s view
or back.
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Have You Introduced Any Naysayers?
Have you acknowledged likely objections to your argument?
If so, have you represented these views fairly—and responded
to them persuasively? See Chapter 6 for tips on how to do so.
If not, think about what other perspectives exist on your topic,
and incorporate them into your draft.
Have You Used Metacommentary to Clarify What You
Do or Don’t Mean?
No matter how clearly you’ve explained your points, it’s a good
idea to explain what you mean—or don’t mean—with phrases
like “in other words” or “don’t get me wrong.” See Chapter 10
for examples of how to do so.
Do you have a title? If so, does it tell readers what your main
point or issue is, and does it do so in a lively manner? Should
you add a subtitle to elaborate on the title?
Have You Tied It All Together?
Can readers follow your argument from one sentence and para-
graph to the next and see how each successive point supports
your overall argument?
Check your use of transitions, words like “however” and “therefore.”
Such words make clear how your ideas relate to one another; if
you need to add transitions, see pages 105–06 for a complete list.
Check your use of pointing words. Do you use common pointers
like “this” and “that,” which help lead readers from one sentence
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Using the Templates to Revise
to the next? If so, is it always clear what “this” and “that” refer
to, or do you need to add nouns in order to avoid ambiguity?
See pages 108–10 for help working with pointing words.
Have you used what we call “repetition with a difference” to help
connect parts of your argument? See pages 112–14 for examples
of how to do so.
Have You Shown Why Your Argument Matters?
Don’t assume that readers will see why your argument is
important—or why they should care. Be sure that you have
told them why. See Chapter 7 if you need help.
a revised student essay
Here is an example of how one student, Antonia Peacocke,
used this book to revise an essay. Starting with an article she’d
written for her high school newspaper, Peacocke then followed
the advice in our book as she turned her article into a college-
level academic essay. Her original article was a brief account of
why she liked Family Guy, and her first step in revising was to
open with a “they say” and an “I say,” previewing her overall
argument in brief form at the essay’s beginning. While her
original version had acknowledged that many find the show
“objectionable,” she hadn’t named these people or indicated
why they didn’t like the show. In her revised version, after
doing further research, Peacocke identified those with whom
she disagreed and responded to them at length, as the essay
itself illustrates.
May 03, 2021

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