Sharing Our Science: How to Write and Speak STEM

Sharing Our Science

Sharing Our Science

How to Write and Speak STEM

Brandon R. Brown

foreword by Julia Schaletzky

The MIT Press

Cambridge, Massachusetts | London, England

© 2023 Brandon R. Brown

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form by any electronic or mechanical means (including photocopying, recording, or information storage and retrieval) without permission in writing from the publisher.

The MIT Press would like to thank the anonymous peer reviewers who provided comments on drafts of this book. The generous work of academic experts is essential for establishing the authority and quality of our publications. We acknowledge with gratitude the contributions of these otherwise uncredited readers.

This book was set in ITC Stone Serif Std and ITC Stone Sans Std by New Best-set Typesetters Ltd.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available.

ISBN: 978-0-262-54695-9

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

d_r0

To my first writing instructor, Mom,

for those countless careful hours and for convincing me

to take a typing class

Contents

Foreword by Julia Schaletzky

1 Me, You, and This Book

2 Tension

3 Structure: Mapping the Reader’s Path

4 Audience: For Whom the Keys Click

4.5 Prep Talk and Pep Talk

5 Improving Sentences

6 Science-Specific Considerations

7 Numbers on the Brain

8 Details and Anecdotes

9 The Pros and Cons of Metaphor

10 Speaking Science

11 STEM Phenotypes

12 Communicating at Different Social Scales

13 Communicating Calamity

Acknowledgments

Appendix: Fixing Example Sentences

Notes

Index

Foreword

The problems of our time are only solvable across disciplines. But first we need to learn to talk to each other! This book will help you achieve this goal while having fun in recognizing many familiar characters and scientific archetypes.

Before we focus on the how, we’ll need to understand the why. Why do we communicate in the flawed ways we typically do? Language can be used not just like a conduit between people, but like a shield—it can protect us from criticism, from being found out as an imposter, from questions we can’t answer, from being vulnerable. But the shield also prevents real dialogue, joint problem solving, and the emergence of ideas from others. Observing scientists working together for several decades in academic and private-sector settings, I have found that language can clarify but also obfuscate, and weaknesses can be—sometimes subconsciously—covered up by a flood of data. A highly complicated deck packed with jargon and complex concepts can belie the fact that the data may not fully support the conclusion; a complex abstract filled with abbreviations can hide flawed underlying assumptions, which could—in plain view—make the very premise of the paper irrelevant. Tacit agreement can effectively be generated by confusing and overwhelming the audience until no one dares to ask, as revealing ignorance with a potentially stupid question is a social risk when surrounded by esteemed colleagues. It is no coincidence that the clearest, most fundamental questions tend to be asked by already established researchers who are beyond reproach. No longer having to fear being criticized for not doing enough experiments or accused of simplistic thinking, they can take the risk of clarity and deliver slides that are Zen-like in their focus on the essential. Younger, more insecure researchers tend to show all the work in the lab from the last several years, just to make sure everyone knows they have been productive.

Then there is the language itself: scientific disciplines have evolved their own technical language, to name the previously unnamed and to distinguish and point out details that our regular language cannot resolve. In addition to providing clarity and allowing effective communication, specialized terminology becomes a signal for in-group belonging and group identity, excluding others. This behavior, well studied in medical fields, can serve a purpose—for example, to legitimize the provider. Unable to gauge medical specialist expertise, patients are impressed and intimidated by the fluent use of terminology together with nonverbal cues like white coat and stethoscope; they will readily accept that the doctor knows a lot more than they do and will become more compliant, less likely to question decisions. Here, the style of communication goes beyond transmitting information, inspiring trust and respect but also adding elements of power and even intimidation. Talented imposters can go undetected for a shockingly long time as long as they talk and dress the part. Similarly, scientists (and funding agencies) can keep going for a long time without being challenged on their fundamental thinking and results, ultimately to the detriment of scientific progress, and with an opportunity cost of unrealized benefit to society.

What can the individual learn from this? Before designing a presentation or piece of writing, it helps to self-reflect and become aware of what is going on underneath the surface, in the subconscious. Is there a deep-seated goal of looking competent or genius-like, wowing the audience with data and sophistication, establishing status in the field? Is the goal to protect oneself from being caught saying something incorrect, as one qualifies everything down to the last finely branched detail? Or is the goal to allow others to truly understand, to participate in ideation and problem solving?

For the latter, we need empathy. One must be able to put oneself in the audience’s shoes and imagine what it is like to be them, with their background knowledge, and then tailor to that. While conceptually simple, this can be challenging for scientists—ego is generally venerated and many presentations are written to impress others, rather than to make them understand. It is difficult to step back from decades of deep immersion in a scientific field and explain what one assumes everyone knows. In a fundamental shift toward altruism, one needs to move from the self to the other as the true focus of the work. When done well, this can propel a publication from a specialized into a general-interest journal, amplifying its impact. However, clarity takes courage—removing unnecessary data and slides risks making one appear less masterful: more of a teacher, less of a genius. Some may feel like they are being caught with their pants down when they distill concepts, speak clearly, and openly reveal assumptions and gaps in our understanding. It might help to remember Albert Einstein’s comment: If you can’t explain it simply, you don’t understand it well enough.

The simplest questions are often the most profound. Be brave and allow others to follow your thinking—the connections, the assumptions, the gaps. This mindset will allow you to make full use of this wonderful, entertaining, and insightful book and venture boldly into the world of true engagement with others.

Dr. Julia Schaletzky, Center of Emerging and Neglected Diseases, University of California, Berkeley

1

Me, You, and This Book

As science-inclined people, we use the tools of our respective trades to probe voids. We call, click, or coo into dark spaces and listen for returning echoes from realms molecular, mechanical, or medical. Many of us would prefer to live fully in that process of exploration, even with the stubbed toes and dropped flashlights, but we regularly have to stop and make a different kind of call. After a deep breath, we turn and shout over our shoulders to describe our findings to others. We hope that they can hear some excitement and promise, because we need their support—some additional rope, and maybe some recruits to continue the journey. For many of us, that second process—repackaging the contours of rarely glimpsed spaces into words—contains less joy and more frustration than the first.

I no longer run a research lab, but when starting this project, I realized that I still address perceived voids. As with my first two books, this one emerged from a simple question that I could not answer to my satisfaction.

Book Genesis

A Silicon Valley engineer and I wrapped up a productive session of writing coaching. After I went line by line through their writing, we tightened and improved the language together, leaving their research report more clear and concise. We also rewrote a draft email (on a sensitive workplace issue), because their blunt messages had previously inflamed workplace conflict. They expressed great satisfaction with our work. But I want to know, they said. What book can I use that has this advice?

I said that out of hundreds of writing books, I would compose a short list of recommendations. I went to my shelves and browsed some old favorites, from Strunk and White to William Zinsser, from the lyrical and celebrated Francine Prose to the literally brainy and less-known Yellowlees Douglas.¹ I next perused the internet of book listings and ordered several possible solutions to review. Some books spoke to science journalists and others to professional technical writers. Some addressed academics, or specifically academic biologists.² Angelika Hofmann’s expert and impressive tome spans more than 700 pages and categorically covers each professional writing task a research scientist might encounter, from abstracts to text for a poster session and all points in between.³ But I had hoped for a tidy volume that spoke to fundamental principles. That’s what I wanted to share with the engineer: core concepts that could guide them through the unique challenges, pitfalls, and opportunities of sharing technical work with various audiences—and through future tasks neither of us had yet contemplated. (Both physicists and fiction writers share a yearning for distilled theories that can address myriad endeavors.)

I decided to speak into the perceived gap. As a scientist who loves writing, I’m aiming to assist you: working scientists, engineers, and other tech-immersed folks who may not love writing. Many of you learn with dismay that your careers involve far more written communication than you would have expected, especially given the minimal writing instruction most receive. And while some rightly draw a bright line between scientific writing for ourselves (as in research papers and grant proposals) and science writing for others (as in press releases, news articles, or marketing materials), I’m going to mix the two.⁴ Fundamental considerations greatly benefit both, and importantly, I’ve learned that a lot of tech workplace writing lives somewhere between the two.

As I will do throughout the book, I’m going to start by inviting you behind a curtain that might normally remain closed.

My agent and I pitched this book idea to various presses. In researching and reading for my other books, I had developed a crush on the MIT Press, and I accepted an invitation to chat with them. My proposal, originally titled Sharing Your Nerdy Work, set out a cut-and-dried book of advice for writing science. But they suggested a modification. What if the book included more of me and my specific communication experiences? What if I put myself more obviously on the pages, so that readers and I could share our work? They noted that I’d worn an unusual number of career hats, writing from a wide range of perspectives. I said I would think about it.

My wife, Dana, made an unusually deep hmmm noise. Dana is a research biologist and an avid reader. She’s also an honest critic of my writing. Like a memoir? she asked, wrinkling her nose.

I shook my head. Yikes. No, I’m not interesting enough. But some of my situations and tasks might be. I thought about many possible stories and started a list of which ones contained lessons.

I repitched the book to MIT. Reviewers assessing the new proposal expressed cautious optimism. One suggested I insert a chapter on field-to-field differences in professional communication, and another said I should address presentations—done and done. And here we are. So, what did the Press mean when mentioning my varied background?

Me and My Hats

As I pursued the traditional path of physics research training, I took writing courses throughout. I needed to scratch both hemispheres of my brain, and I chose my graduate school in no small part because they welcomed a student taking writing courses even as I pursued a science doctorate. (Thank you, Oregon State University.) I used to joke that nothing has benefited my grant writing more than a dozen or so fiction-writing workshops, but now I see that as the plain truth. I developed a writing sensitivity for the ever-present reader. After graduate school, I took a postdoctoral year of science journalism training, from which most graduates step to magazine, radio, and free-lance careers. But in retrospect, I’ve had a more random walk.

Over the last three decades, I’ve worked as: a reporter; a professor teaching undergraduates; a lab researcher investigating first superconductivity and then sensory biophysics; a university administrator; a spokesperson, shepherd, and fundraiser for a major science construction project; an author; a writing coach for tech employees; and most recently, as a deputy director for a science policy nonprofit. I’ve published scientific research articles in various biology, physics, and physiology journals. I’ve penned magazine features and newspaper columns on technical topics. I’ve written about twenty funded grant proposals covering materials science, electrochemistry, shark research, physics education, and that science building project. I’ve written a couple of books for general audiences covering science history.

Consistent communication themes emerge from these years, and the various perspectives can benefit you as a hard-working technical person. You’re writing code, creating new technologies, running biochemical assays, or finding cures. You love the science, but you’ve found that you must write (and speak) about your work to maintain collaborations, to defend your ideas, and to keep your projects alive. I think I can help.

Approach and Motivation

To return to Dana’s question, this book thankfully does not function as a memoir. You’ve just completed the autobiographical portion, and from here I just share some telling communication anecdotes. With the help of several skilled and merciless readers, I’ve taken a scalpel to early drafts, reducing some rambles and excising others. Still, I do inhabit the pages and employ my own voice. Given feedback from those aforementioned readers, I now see this approach as honest and appropriate. Admitting an author’s presence resonates with a principle this book will hold dear: in science, we focus intensely on our messages, but at the crux of human communication sits the interplay of the messenger with the intended recipient.

Far from only sharing my stories, this book features a number of fascinating nonscientist voices; we will hear not just from professional writers and editors, but also from scholars of linguistics, philosophy, communication, cognitive science, and those who map the historical evolution of our brains. That last group appears in earnest late in the book, but I must admit they have an ever more commanding place in my own writing mind. Increasing piles of evidence point to our big brains expanding under ancient social pressures (to keep bands of apes working together) and not simply ecological ones (to find edible plants or to sharpen finer spear points). A leading theory of language development, the gossip theory, places social storytelling (which ape did what with whom) as a prime mover for our own chatty evolution.⁵ This book’s advice all flows, ultimately, from that notion. We cannot examine effective communication as a naked broadcast and reception of data—no matter how fine-tuned the separate transmitters and receivers. Instead, we must consider two primates evaluating one another, sometimes unconsciously, even as bits of information pass like offered fruits from one to the other.

As motivation for you turning or scrolling more pages, let’s consider the benefits of improving your writing. Beyond your readers obtaining a better grasp of your work and goals, and beyond their developing more sympathy for your viewpoints, better writing will open more doors in your working life. You will find more career options with crisp, clear prose than you will with mediocre, stilted writing. Now that I’ve worked with and at many organizational levels of tech companies, universities, and NGOs, the signal is clear: leadership usually writes well. To a sneaky extent, good writing can lead a reader to overestimate the comprehensive intellect of the writer. Intelligence, of course, encompasses many different facets, while just a subset help construct an effective document. But if you write well, a reader—perhaps unconsciously—starts to round up when evaluating your brain’s various skills. To what I consider an unfair extent and with no false modesty, my writing has enhanced working-world assumptions about my mental abilities. I am just as confident that poor writing has unfairly dented the career standing of many brighter intellects.

So, with a reader’s writerly benefit in mind, this book aims to:

1. improve your documents (and emails, and slide decks) step by step,

2. raise your awareness of key issues for science communication, from handling numbers to our densely idiosyncratic verbiage, and

3. expand your writing toolkit and writing awareness to address a greater number of tasks as your goals morph and flow.

With a nod to quickly evolving technologies, I know some of you anticipate the day when an artificial intelligence will upgrade or even draft your reports, posts, and emails. Word processors may soon suggest not only grammar and punctuation fixes but also better sentences and paragraphs. Some of you may already be using a chatbot or similar for mundane text tasks. But even in the most futuristic scenarios, I suggest you’ll want to edit machine-manufactured drafts using this book’s advice, and even if these automated tools master aim 1—doubtful if we train them on existing texts—they probably won’t ace aims 2 and 3 for many years to come.

Contents and User Guide

Every chapter has our nerdy work at heart, and this book progresses from basics, like how to edit for clarity, to more advanced topics, such as effectively employing metaphors and navigating interdisciplinary boundaries. Reflecting the three primary goals, the book contains three modules as follows.

Chapters 2 through 5 provide a foundation. While heavily science-flavored, with examples from many fields these chapters can help improve any type of writing. We step through dramatic tension, structure, a focus on audience, and the most fruitful steps of pruning your own writing. We will examine text as a stand-alone mechanism. Since we cannot hover at our readers’ shoulders to help clarify our written ideas or stoke their interest, I’m encouraging you to scrutinize your text as you would experimental design or an engineered device, at arm’s length from your personal fascination, enthusiasm, or horror with the subject itself. Good writing, as many say, primarily involves great editing.

Chapters 6 through 9 cover topics specific to our nerdy types of work. We confront many of our communication challenges, including for those of us who work with English as a secondary language. With cognitive science as a guide, we’ll visit the mathematical brain with an eye to actionable advice. Then, in addition to discussing the great power of anecdotes and case studies, we explore the positives and surprising negatives of using analogies and comparisons.

Chapters 10 through 12 get more social, looking up from our individual pages and screens to blink at our fellow primates. We dissect our speaking opportunities, including structuring our talks and designing good