The Book on Writing: Avoid Pretensions, Goobledygook, and Euphemisms

Afterwards, a troubled professional who writes corporate publications — annual reports and the like — asked what she could do to “keep a foot in both camps.” She meant one foot in clarity and simplicity and the other in bafflegab.
“Why would you want to?” I asked.

“Well, to keep our credibility with our more intelligent readers. We have to write for ma and pa on the farm, and we also have to please a highly educated audience.”

What could I say? She misunderstands the face and function of simplicity. But so do a lot of people. When I was teaching university writing, one of my students declared another professor to be “brilliant” because that professor so seldom said anything she understood. And an engineer once complained that he was having a hard time getting his writing level above the 11th grade; he thought he would sound smarter if he “got a higher grade.” But it was already too high! Again, most people prefer to read at or below the 10th-grade reading level. And that’s no hardship; any decent writer or speaker can handle the most complex material at that level without “dumbing it down.”

Let’s put aside the notion that ma and pa won’t understand anything very “intelligent” — the fact is that there isn’t anything very intelligent about pretentious and abstract writing. To the contrary, one hallmark of intellect is the ability to simplify, to make the complex easy to understand. Anyone can be unclear.

The way to credibility is to speak and write plainly without language that bewilders or misleads. And the way to lose credibility is to veil the message in showy blather. Did Lincoln’s audience at Gettysburg complain about the simplicity of his two-minute speech — a speech that still stands as a model of clarity and elegance?

Was Winston Churchill too clear when he said: “We shall fight on the beaches, we shall fight on the landing grounds, we shall fight in the fields and in the streets, we shall fight in the hills”? Would his more intelligent listeners have preferred to “engage in hostilities with incursive combatants in multiple locations”?

That passage in the second paragraph above with zero percent readability? It’s George Orwell’s deliberately turgid rewrite of a famous verse from Ecclesiastes:

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

That passage is beloved for its simplicity and deep meaning. Most of its words have one syllable; all are plain everyday words. It’s written at the 8th-grade level and has a readability index of 78.3. Does Orwell’s rewrite seem “smarter”? Would the intelligent reader prefer it?

Or does it turn out that what pleases ma and pa pleases us all?

Despite the obvious beauty and superiority of simplicity, dense and arcane phrasing seems to flourish everywhere. It’s a particular problem in specialized fields — business, science, medicine, education, government, etc. It’s as though we offer ourselves more latitude to write poorly when the subject is challenging. But that’s the very time we must be at greater pains to simplify and clarify.

Someone in business might write, for example: “The CEO said that financial exigencies made it necessary for the company to implement budgetary measures to minimize expenditures.” How would that sentence read if it were plain instead of fancy? The CEO said the company had to cut costs.

Turgid writing causes misunderstanding. When the message is obscured by verbal smog, the readers don’t, in fact, get the message. They don’t read, or they misread, or they misunderstand. The wasted time and effort as well as the cost of mistakes and misunderstanding make fuzzy writing an expensive habit wherever it flourishes. Given its cost, what explains the appeal of bloated, pretentious language? Or should I ask: “What elucidates the proliferation of indecipherable terminology and superfluous syllables”? How does “he left his car and ran” become “the perpetrator exited his vehicle and fled on foot”? How does a banana become an “elongated yellow fruit”?

We could probably do a dissertation on the answers. But it’s enough to say that in trying to sound learned, to elevate our diction, we instead merely inflate it. Maybe we confuse simplicity with the over-simple. Maybe we think simplicity means “Run Dick Run.” But simplicity is neither barren nor elementary; it is just immediately, attractively, interestingly clear.

A police chief told me that when he was an officer, he had to put together a report destined for the eyes of the city council. He was nervous about the task and wrote the report with dictionary and thesaurus at his elbow. He was proud of the result, which he thought sounded impressive, and was pleased when his superior and fellow officers said admiringly that they didn’t know he “could write like that.”

On city council day, a message came from the council members: They wanted to see the police officer who wrote the report. He went excitedly, expecting a slap on the back. Instead, the mayor waved the report at him and asked: “What does this mean?”

From then on, the chief added, “I always wrote in my own words.”

Sometimes we slip into gobbledygook when we’re trying to soften the message. Trying to make the message more palatable by manipulating the language sooner or later leads to euphemism, which at best amuses and at worst alienates. “That project lost money” becomes “that project had an adverse impact on anticipated revenue.” Euphemisms don’t work. We all know by now that “collateral damage” means killing civilians. In a radio interview, a Texas prison warden spoke not about rehabilitating the human beings within his walls, but about “creating functioning social units.” One of the oddest and most transparent euphemisms I ever heard came from a personnel manager who spoke of “dehiring” an employee.

Clarity needn’t — and shouldn’t — mean brusque or rude. In any case, euphemistic gobbledygook does not soften. Rather, it makes readers suspicious — they wonder what the truth is behind those slippery words. Simple words seem more sincere and therefore soften best.

Turgid writing also can be an attempt to fudge. In an editing session, a writer once told me regarding a simple and direct revision of his opening paragraphs: “If I’m going to be that clear, I’d also better be that right.”

Being “that right” is always part of the writer’s job.

Should we avoid all long words and abstractions? No. It wouldn’t be desirable even if it were possible. As Albert Einstein advised: “Everything should be made as simple as possible, but not simpler.” A long word is the right word if it’s the best word. What damages clarity is piling up long and abstract words when short and concrete words are readily available. It’s writing “utilization” instead of use. Or “pursuant to” instead of concerning or regarding. Or “indicate” instead of say, show, or suggest. It’s “initiate” and “terminate” instead of begin and end, or “contingent upon” instead of depends on, “personal visitation” instead of visit, “telephonic communication” instead of phone call. It’s “financial wherewithal” for money, “funding” instead of funds, “programming” instead of programs.

Jargon and buzz phrases also make meaning slip away:

This equity account was not immune to the effects of the market’s negative growth because of its broad, benchmark-centric investment approach.

Or: This fund lost money. Or, more specifically: This fund is down almost 60 percent. The linguistic travesty “negative growth” is a contradiction in terms that actually means decrease, reduction, or decline — growth that is “negative” is not growth at all. Writers who pass on such euphemisms are not doing readers a favor.

The passage also misleads in its ploy of saying what something is not rather than what it is. The fund was “not immune.” Sounds relatively benign. In fact, the fund was ravaged. And “broad, benchmark-centric investment approach” sounds impressive. We just don’t know what it means.

An illogical “advance” or “pre” tacked onto words that should stand alone is favored in the world of jargon — advance planning or preplanning, advance warning or prewarning, for example. (All planning and warning must be done in advance.) The airlines’ pre-board is a special oddity. How do you get on the plane before you get on the plane?

George Orwell, who considered abstractions not just unpleasantly unclear but dangerous if they masked the truth, said: “Modern writing at its worst does not consist in picking out words for the sake of their meaning and inventing images in order to make the meaning clearer. It consists in gumming together long strips of words which have already been set in order by someone else, and making the results presentable by sheer humbug.”

How can we sidestep the snare of the pretension? As writers, we must stop admiring and mimicking meaningless language and buzz phrases. We must stop trying to impress and try instead to communicate — heaven knows that’s hard enough. In part, that means disabusing ourselves of the notion that big words “sound” better — more intelligent, more professional, more serious. We’ll seek concrete rather than abstract phrasing. We’ll use only with restraint such abstract nouns as condition, process, nature, issue, case, question, facility, factor, basis, nature. Consider the following: The condition of his health is a problem. He’s in poor health. The clean-up at the federal facility will be a slow process. The federal building clean-up will be slow. They submitted a proposal of a questionable nature. They submitted a questionable proposal. They’re pondering the childcare issue. They’re pondering childcare.

The following passage is from a company considering moving into computer leasing:

Today, technological advances and business needs change at an explosive pace. These changes force technological obsolescence, depreciate equipment values and create the risks associated with asset ownership. Companies are in the precarious position of balancing the desire to take advantage of current and future technologies with the need to maintain a high level of equipment usage on a cost-effective basis. Traditional patterns of equipment ownership do not meet corporate objectives.

Notice that this overblown passage, written by a member of the company’s public relations staff, never uses the words computer or lease. When I pointed this out to the writer, whose work his company asked me to critique, he was shocked and disbelieving. When he saw for himself, however, that he had left out the very words that would best clarify and persuade, he said glumly that he had apparently lost the ability to communicate. But he hadn’t. He communicated perfectly well — clearly, simply, and interestingly — orally.

How does this happen? How does a professional writer forget how to speak on paper? In many cases, it’s because of workplace jargon and abstraction, buzz phrases that sound important and say little.

How could we rewrite the passage above to make it immediately clear, concrete, warm, and meaningful? First, let’s consider the passage in detail:

Today: The reader assumes we’re talking about “today”; no need to sound like a proclamation. At an explosive pace is the same thing as “explosively,” which, although shorter, is an overused adverb. These changes force technological obsolescence, depreciate equipment values and create the risks associated with asset ownership: Whew, a mouthful. And what does it mean — especially “asset ownership”? Companies are in the precarious position of balancing the desire to take advantage of current and future technologies: What is the “precarious position” companies are in? That of balancing a desire with a need. That’s tricky enough, but what is that need? To “take advantage of current and future technologies” and to “maintain a high level of equipment usage on a cost-effective basis.” First, that “future” — how does one “take advantage of” technology that isn’t yet developed? Second, what is the company maintaining a high level of? Equipment usage. Does “a high level of usage” mean heavy use? Does “a cost-effective basis” mean inexpensive? What does not meet corporate objectives? Traditional patterns. Even worse: traditional patterns of equipment ownership. Is ownership a pattern, traditional or otherwise? Doesn’t “patterns of ownership” simply mean ownership?

The big question in rewriting dense and fuzzy passages is the writer’s meaning. Sometimes it takes some digging to discover the embedded message, but once it’s unearthed, you’ll find it’s nearly always simple rather than complex. That’s the case here. There’s never just one way to rewrite a passage, but here’s one version:

Rapid advances in technology have made it impractical for businesses to buy computer systems. Since expensive equipment depreciates overnight and becomes out-dated while still new, owning that equipment can mean loss of both money and productivity. Leasing computers can be cheaper and more efficient, however, because a company can add and upgrade without the cost of ownership.

That version uses concrete words and — as we’ll discuss more fully in the next chapter — it also reduces the size of the words where it can. Short, familiar words promote concrete expression. Short words are small, strong, and suited to story telling; long words are bulky, weak, and suited (often with unfortunate results) to report writing.

Would a storyteller say: “He manifested displeasure as he gained access to his domicile”? No, the storyteller would say: “He scowled as he came into the house.” But as we’ve seen, small words also benefit the complex and specialized worlds of informational writing. We should trust them more.

Chapter 2

Avoid Pretensions, Goobledygook, and Euphemisms