Writing

At one time, geographers and others thought about writing as a straightforward mode of communication, one that could be used to directly communicate the results of their research. During recent years, however, geographers and others have examined writing more closely, and we now understand it as a complex form of expression that may indeed be used to convey the results of our research, but never in simple, direct, or unmediated ways, for each person writes from somewhere—from a physical place, as well as from a variety of theoretical and philosophical positions, and based on a personal background—and that influences our writing in every way. Furthermore, the very act of writing, far from simply a summing-up activity related to the presentation of research, has come to be understood as a powerful act of persuasion as well as a formative part of the research process itself; through[Page 546] our writing, we convince others of our arguments, but we also think, discover, and come to understand what those very arguments are, in part, as we write. Although human geographers and others see these issues as complexly intertwined, we can separate them into three groups: how writers present their data and arguments, how writers represent themselves and others in their work, and how writing shapes the research itself.

Since at least the early 20th century, geographers have debated the ways in which geographic research should be written up. For much of that time, most have agreed that geographic writing should be clear and, for that reason, should be written in “plain English”—the language of everyday speech—avoiding the use of jargon as much as possible. Although such advice seems simple, it has been contentious, for even the term plain English here actually refers to that version of the language spoken by those with a university education; for many others, it might not be “plain” at all. Furthermore, although jargon has been derided by some who associate it with pretentious terms used by a small in-group to deliberately obfuscate otherwise obvious meanings (and thereby speak only to members of the in-group), others see it as a necessary shorthand (for its ability to describe, say, a complex concept in one word), and still others see it as an essential part of the development of geography as a field and as a science (arguing that no one would question specialized language in, say, biology or chemistry, and so they should not do so in geography either). What is more, it has also become clear that even apparently plain language can convey unintended or loaded messages, for example, through its use of modifiers, especially superlatives. For example, when I wrote “most” earlier, did I really know for certain that it was the majority or did I just guess? Also, when I wrote “many,” how many did I have in mind and would others agree that this number constitutes “many” in this case? Because simple language can mask meanings and messages, some have argued that purposely prolix prose can, ironically, make those more apparent; by forcing the reader to move slowly through a text, contemplating the multiple meanings of every word, complex writing may actually seek to disrupt the (deviously?) persuasive power of narratives, exposing the writing and research, as well as the researcher, for what they are.

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