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| Improving Organizational Writing |
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Improving the Process and Product Enriching Writing Keats' advice in a letter to Shelley to "load every rift in your subject with ore," may strike you as far removed from writing in organizations. But in their effort to pack meaning into the fewest words, and to be visually clear on the page, poets share a good deal with the writers of memos, letters and manuals. However different in motivation and in intended audience, good poetry and good organizational writing resemble each other in distilling meaning to evoke an immediate response. In poetry, the private effect on the reader can be enduring. In organizational writing, the effect is social and catalytic. But the compactness of poetry and of organizational writing creates an opportunity for immediate, powerful communication. Wallace Stevens, the American poet, worked as the vice president of an insurance company. He participated in both worlds: that of the patient writer creating art for its own sake, and that of the businessman admired for the clarity and power of his correspondence. The supreme poet as successful businessman points to an unexpected relationship between thought and action. Imagination and Power We rarely have an opportunity for self-expression beyond the circle of people close to us. Writing in an organization allows us to cross those boundaries, but this privilege exacts compromises. We are expected to adopt a non-critical approach, tactfully working within appropriate formats in a coded language. We rely on institutionalized authority. We substitute a superficial efficiency for ethical responsibility. In these ways, the potential power involved in writing for others is carefully circumscribed by the environment. Personal writing does not have the capability for immediate social impact, but it offers the writer the satisfaction of crafting a lasting product according to his or her deepest vision. The two kinds of writing exemplify complementary passions in a writer, one promoting action, and the other creating meaning. But organizational writing is usually mission-oriented, emphasizing action and product over thought and process. That is why it is much harder to do well than most people realize, and is so difficult to improve. To write deeply and analytically about a subject without reference to a deadline would be futile in an organization: such writing would not find an eager audience, and would be rendered useless once the time for decision or action had passed. But to write shallowly and quickly, simply to fulfill the short-term needs of an intended reader, undermines the decision-making process. In both cases, the writer works from weakness, not strength. Yet the memos, letters, and proposals that people admire are almost always characterized by fresh ideas presented within a comprehensive perspective. In structure and content, they reflect Keats' ideal of loading every rift with ore; in organizations, where people chronically say too little, too much is never enough. To improve communication, thought and action, and imagination and power, must reenforce each other. In order to achieve this integration we need to redefine economy in writing. Economy Follows Analysis Economy is among the most sophisticated of writing skills. It does not result from cutting out all excess words, but from determining what you think, and then conveying it fully, forcefully, and efficiently to the reader. Poets, selecting as few words as possible, create symbols, and orchestrate the music of their words to make the transfer of meaning immediate. Metaphors, whether in poems or political speeches, connote much more to the reader or listener than their few words denote. Economy follows analysis. You can only reduce something to its simplest terms if you understand it in its most complicated terms. The writer's private thought processes are made public through precise explanations that represent the twists, turns, and connections that led to meaning. Three different acts are involved: finding out what you think; clarifying the connections among your ideas; and integrating them for a reader. The first is an intense search, the second a disciplined analysis, and the third a focused presentation. Compression of meaning and adequate representation are not steps to be added on to the writing process as you might run a final draft through a word processor's spelling checker. For the poet, the risk of compression is that meaning becomes too private, inaccessible to readers. In organizations, the risk is that form substitutes for content. It is possible to write briefly and well, but it requires thorough analysis as the basis for clear, compact presentation. Thinking in Three Dimensions Authentic writing can only arise from fresh, comprehensive thinking, an activity that often has a low priority under the pressure of organizational life. Some people may not even realize what they are missing. By way of analogy, imagine that I have reached the end of a transatlantic flight to Boston. My fellow passenger slides his calculator into his attaché case and stands up, ready to leave. "What's that book you've been reading?" he asks. "War and Peace," I say. "Oh, what's that about, anyway?" The two of us move down the aisle with our bags. I only have a minute to characterize the novel, so there's not much hope. "It's about Russia," I say. "In the nineteenth century." It sounds silly. I could have said something about the contrast between Pierre and Prince Andrei, or the relationship between the setting of the novel and its themes--something to give a sense of what the book says, or what it means to me. "I don't read very much," the traveller says, putting on his jacket. "Skip the frills. Give me the main point." I hold up the book, laughing: "This has lots of frills." But the truth is that it doesn't. The characters, incidents, and themes are the main point, the "meaning" of War and Peace. They represent the resolution of years of struggle on the part of the writer, clearly revealed in wide manuscript sheets full of minute additions in both margins. That is why I feel silly about my two-dimensional response, locating the book in space and time as a dictionary might: "Russia, in the nineteenth century." How could I put my feelings about the onethousand-page book into a few sentences? Could I have described the tremendous power that gathers as you read through the novel? If my fellow passenger had asked, "Why do people say it's such a great book?" or "Why do you like it?", it might have been easier. But the neutral question, "What's that about?", was an even greater burden because I felt a responsibility to be objective. Now compare my ineffective answer to this imprecise question with the task of writing a one-page summary of a one-thousand-page report for a cabinet secretary. The writer of the summary may or may not have been one of the researchers, may or may not understand the conclusions, may or may not agree with them, and may simply decide to tell what he or she thinks the secretary wants to hear. Each of these margins for error regularly causes trouble in organizational writing, but they all matter less than the simple fact that you can only give a certain kind of answer in one line or one page, or in a particular format. Whether or not it is free of the familiar organizational tension between appearance and meaning, the answer will be linear and narrow. The secretary may want that, for the sake of efficiency, but will be getting the illusion of efficiency while sacrificing meaning. To improve communication in organizations we have to change the way we evaluate information, especially under pressure. Anadysis and the Axes of Evaluation With questions that require quick thinking on issues affecting many people, what should you put in and what should you leave out? Suppose the question were: "What can we do to improve our students' writing?", or "What should we try to accomplish at the national conference?", or "How can we get the engineers to communicate with the sales force?" Under the usual pressures, we would piece together an answer that: (1) would not cost the organization very much; and (2) would not upset anyone above us, or needlessly concern anyone below us whose support we need. But our answer might be entirely off the point of the question. Confined to the two dimensions of budget and teamwork, both filled with assumptions that may or may not be accurate, we get our part of the job done quickly and obediently, and pass on the responsibility for thinking hard about the real question to someone else. "Who will this rub the wrong way?" (or, at higher levels in the hierarchy, "How will this make us look?"), and "How much will it cost?" are the organizational counterparts of time and space in my oneline description of War and Peace. They are the customary, easily identifiable axes for our two-dimensional, organizational answers. They don't arise from an analysis of a problem, but from an anticipation of how an answer will be evaluated, even when the basis for evaluation may be inadequate. These axes of evaluation confine answers to the needs of the immediate reader, a supervisor or section head, leaving little room for the analytical dimension and the long-range perspective that are the real strengths of good writing. I might have told my fellow passenger that War and Peace was about the way we shape our souls amid the pressures of the world. That's not so two-dimensional, and contains something of the struggle to bring my thoughts and feelings to bear on the question--the kernel of an idea. That answer might have prompted another question from the traveller, or at least given him a thought to ponder. It would not have given him the illusion of understanding something extremely complicated that is difficult to explain in a quick answer. Any piece of writing that neglects an analysis of the question, and of the writer's assumptions about communicating meaning to the reader, will be narrow and incomplete. It will reveal a conflict between meaning and the appearance of meaning. Such writing is what people refer to when they say that there is a communication problem in their organization. They may not be experts in writing, but they know something is wrong. They may think it would be solved if people spelled and punctuated correctly, or if they cut all excess words and got directly to the point. But the real problem is the writers' resignation, fear, or simple lack of experience in authentic writing for good readers. One page of timid writing, punctuated perfectly in a visibly structured layout, with a recommendation in boldface type, is still timid. Worse, it gives both writer and reader the illusion of communication. We know this as readers, but we don't know what to do about it. If the organization's lines of communication carry only narrow, predictable thoughts, writers become frustrated, and cynical about their words. The few good memos, letters, and reports we see are memorable. They are written on the assumption that there is much more to say than can ever be put down on paper. The writer's job is not to reduce all thought to dictionary-like definitions,but to represent as much meaning--and the context for that meaning--as possible. The organization's policy may or may not be based on the two-dimensional axes of "How does this make us look?" and "How much will it cost?" But the writer can address each question as a request, whether explicit or not, for fresh ideas and a comprehensive perspective. On a grid composed of the two-dimentional axes of evaluation, ideas are guilty until proven useful by external pressures; even if a writer discovers something new there may be no audience for it. No one can write well, for long, under these conditions. If people resign themeselves to this fate, their writing becomes detached, unimaginative, and predictable. They produce writing that does not need to be read. One of the functions of any piece of writing in an organization is to provide wisdom about the process of thinking questions through: not backing away from meaning, but arguing clearly and tactfully for it. The Mask of Formality and the Conversational Ideal When two people talk, they have the opportunity to build something together: "You know," one says, "we really should. . . ." "Yes," the other replies, "but to do that we'd have to. . . ." "Well, couldn't we . . . ?" "Sure, but we'd have to lay that out clearly." "But could we afford . . . ?" "It might cost less than what we're doing now. Let's not worry about that until we see if it works." Some version of this conversation takes place in an office, corridor, or laboratory every day in every organization, accomplishing more in a few minutes than months of memos and reports. A flowing, energetic conversation is exciting because it involves both speakers in creating something useful. They can exchange perspectives, experiences, and ideas in building a concept that is stronger than what either of them could achieve alone. Such conversations depend on trust and directness, and freedom from the confined, coded language of formal written communication. For almost everyone in organizations, the ease and energy of such conversations make writing seem dull and tedious. But if either participant in our imaginary dialogue wrote a memo about this conversation to a third person, it would contain little sense of excitement and enthusiasm. The memo would be formal, ostensibly objective, and written as if by a machine rather than a person with energy and ideas. The writer would struggle with appearance (headings, bullets, graphics), and format (should this be a "discussion" memo or an "action" memo?). He or she would be tactfully attentive to the particular needs of those above, below, and to the side of the organization. But the excitement of active participation in creating meaning would be missing. Under the pressure of organizational writing, the formal appearance of our letters and memos gives them an illusory finality. That is why a proposal with completely unacceptable arguments, unsupported by any substantial evidence, in page after page of somber, formal language, will be received as if it were a serious document. Its immediate effect within the organization will be political. But the wasted effort in response to it diminishes trust and corrodes the lines of communication. In a conversation, such a tactic could be countered directly, but in dense, formal prose, it exerts a cumulative psychological impact far beyond what the individual writer imagines. The quick, rough writing we do in organizations, lacking the clarity of a well-thought-out-argument, appears to be "final." Yet if formality masks lack of preparation or analysis under pressure, it drains the meaning and energy from carefully prepared arguments. The result is the flat, dull writing we all hate to waste our time reading. People in organizations take the life out of their writing because they think they are supposed to, in the same way that they think they are supposed to write oversimplified memos and reports. The remedy for this loss of vitality in communication is to restore the writer's responsibility. Restoring the Writer's Responsibility Good writing cannot exist in a vacuum, because it requires good readers. While readers are not likely to acknowledge this, writers know it and often feel hopeless about it. In many organizations, writers assume that the intended reader already has defined the issue. They assume their job is simply to meet the reader's needs in a dependable, predictable way. Books and courses about organizational writing reenforce this notion. They present models of tactful, formal letters, memos, press releases, and speeches in conventional formats, tailored to readers above, below, and to the side of the writer, and to people outside. But writing that makes a difference bursts the restraints of conventional formats with fresh analysis, genuine energy, and personal voice. Good organizational writing takes little for granted. It poses useful questions and defines issues in incisive ways. Recommendations are presented in the context of enlightening comparisons, choices, and alternatives. The language is active, fresh, and alive, to engage a reader in completing the act of communication. To achieve these qualities, the writer must meet his or her reader's stated or assumed requirements, and go beyond, to broaden the channel for communication--whether or not the reader is aware of the need. There are, of course, situations in which the writer is not expected to communicate as, for example, when issues are "staffed out" expressly to stall for time. Such bureaucratic strategies may be part of an administrative style, but it would be far better for the writer to turn in blank sheets, or printed flash cards reading "Not in today," than to shortcircuit the communication process. (Consider what it would do to a tennis player to insist that she lose a match for the good of the team.) Even more oppressive is the common situation in which a writer has learned through repeated experience that no matter what he or she writes, the reader will ignore it, or use it within the organization for a different purpose from what the writer intended. It is useless to talk about improving writing if writers have so little control over the expectations for authenticity in an organization. Good writers are flexible, and can adapt their skills to a variety of situations. The need for this versatility is nowhere so strong as in organizations. It is often necessary, under the pressure of time, to write from the materials at hand rather than from carefully sifted research. QUICK WRITING PROCESS can help the writer make the most of what he or she has to say, and to acknowledge what is missing. But skill and power are not at issue if someone is asked to do writing that is futile. Restoring a writer's sense of responsibility for his or her own words, in an authentic context, will help prevent the conflicts with the environment that inevitably erode skill and power. Organizations conceive of writers as providing a neutral service in the same way that engineers contribute to projects whether or not they "approve" of the result. Writers are expected to do their jobs objectively, writing clearly and positively, on demand. The uniform writing code is the policy for implementing these expectations. Although engineers and scientists can refuse to work on certain projects, writers are expected to confirm and support. But if an organization defines the dependent writer's professional responsibility as a function of loyalty, then his or her writing cannot prevent mischief, and may instead contribute to it. It is neither "objective" nor "professional" to compose inaccurate or misleading writing. It may be "loyal," but it is unethical. One necessary step in improving writing in organizations is to open up communication so that people take responsibility for what they say, and what they refrain from saying. Then, there will be far less wasted time, and far more energy for genuine communication. Power in writing can come from meaning; but it can also come from the appearance of meaning. In the long run, the appearance of meaning (a company "story" that is essentially a fantasy; an administrative line that has no connection with reality; a fraudulent research project) becomes an obsession, requiring disproportionate amounts of time and energy. Words can have power when they are separated from wisdom. Part of a writer's responsibility in an organization is to struggle constantly for meaning, and to try to make that struggle matter. |
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