Self-inducing far-mode: Approaches to preliminary outlining

Since writing is an inherently near-mode activity compared to reading, the effective author will self-induce a far-mode mindset, and since you can outline in different modes, one approach is far-mode outlining. The outlining methods corresponding to modes are constructing logical hierarchies and abstraction hierarchies, and while many outlines use both methods, to self-induce a far-mode mindset you should stress abstraction level.

In a logical hierarchy, child topics imply parent topics (or the reverse) by strict deductive logic; the relationship between mathematical concepts (polygon: square) or between causes of action and their elements (defendant is liable for contract breach: defendant formed a contract) form logical hierarchies. Despite the generality of parent topics, logical relationships are near-mode: high construal (alternately, far-mode or abstract construal) denotes abstraction, not necessarily logical generality. (The distinction is a common obstacle when critics complain of construal-level-theory’s ambiguity.)

An abstraction hierarchy runs from abstract parents to concrete children, where concepts that are more abstract are those achieved by greater cognitive elaboration. (See Ulric Neisser (1967) Cognitive psychology [analysis-by-synthesis].) Abstract concepts are further removed from direct perception than concrete concepts, and it takes more intuition to apply abstract concepts than to apply concrete concepts. As the root entry on construal-level theory discussed, the death of Julius Caesar can be described at different levels of abstractness: an outline depicting them would run kill: stab: knife [verb sense]. Kill is the most abstract because sensory information about the event is removed and a conceptual framework of organisms (which can live or die) introduced; knife is the most concrete because it includes the implement.

Another contrast between a logical and abstraction hierarchies is the strict directionality the logical hierarchy alone exhibits, making it simply false to say square is polygon’s parent. Although abstraction hierarchies often have an inherent direction, purpose or context can reverse it. Stab could be made the parent of kill and wound (alternative results of stabbing), imposing a far-mode perspective on your thinking about stab.

In legal briefs, imposing far-mode can be illustrated by the relationship between issues and cases. An abstraction-level outline might include the name of an important case as the child of a parent stating an issue, but if your task were to analyze the case, the issue could be a child. Cases are inherently more near-mode than legal issues, since they’re impregnated with incidental facts, and lawyers focus excessively on cases compared to issues when they emerge from their research stuck in near-mode due to temptation by logical hierarchies. Logical hierarchies include the case-analysis protocols taught for law-school exams: holding, parties, procedural posture, facts, issues, result—lawyers stuck in near-mode overparticularize. To impose far-mode on your thinking about a concrete case, persevere in abstraction-level outlining, and treat abstract concepts pertaining to the case—such as analogies to the matter you’re briefing—as more concrete than the case itself.

Other choices influence the kind of hierarchies constructed; one is the distinction between a “mindmap” and a linear outline, and the other between topic and full-sentence outlines. A mindmap is a graphical outline radiating from a center point: the visual cues de-emphasize both hierarchy and sequence, making mindmaps more conducive to abstraction-level outlining; topic outlines are also more conducive to abstraction-level outlining, since full-sentence outlines make logical entailment more prominent.

To induce far-mode by preliminary outlining:

1. Favor abstraction-level hierarchies over logical hierarchies. 

2. Impose far-mode if your subject matter is concrete. 

3. Try "mindmapping" software.

4. Favor topic outlines over full-sentence outlines.

Avoiding irrelevance and dilution: Construal-level theory, the endowment effect, and the art of omission

Deciding what to omit (omission) is one of three fundamental writing skills—besides fluency and cohesiveness—supporting the two major Writing Virtues: Clarity and Concision. Although omission is a sophisticated skill not acquirable through panaceas, it is unique among the three fundamental skills because a single roadblock causes most of the congestion. The roadblock is the writer’s innate aversion to deletion; the aversion derives from a universal cognitive bias called loss aversion, meaning we’d rather maintain the status quo than bet a significant amount on the flip of a coin. (See D. Kahneman, Thinking, fast and slow (2011).) The most dramatic expression of loss aversion is the endowment effect: owners will sell property only at a much higher price than they would pay to acquire it. Loss aversion explains an impressive part of wordy or irrelevant writing because it makes adding matter easier than deleting it.

Construal-level theory is a theory about decision and judgment that explains loss aversion and teaches us how to avoid it in writing. Construal-level theory deals with the biases the distinction between practice and theory introduces into our thinking. When our objectives are immediate, the information available rich, and time bountiful, we analyze in a way of thinking called near-mode, which uses high-grain, concrete concepts and attends to incidental features. When our objectives are long-term and the information or time scant, we analyze in a way of thinking called far-mode, which uses low-grain, abstract concepts and focuses on the essential.

Construal-level theory furnishes an explanation of loss aversion and the endowment effect. (D. Kahneman, supra.) Consider a standard example of the endowment effect: a holder of concert tickets costing $50, the most the concert-goer would have paid, refuses to sell for $300. More usually, we value property about twice as much just because we happen to own it already. Construal-level theory explains loss aversion by the tendency to give greater importance to the near than the far. Analogously, we over-value what we’ve written because it’s near, and we’re loathe to part with it.

Construal-level theory has unearthed another source of our reluctance to cut inferior matter: the audience reads in far-mode, which is global, but legal writers often compose it in near-mode, which is sequential. The consequence is that the audience averages the quality of the documents’ parts, whereas the writer is apt to add their quality, meaning that, for the audience, subpar arguments detract from overall quality but, to the writer, they may seem to increase the quality. (K. Weaver et al., The presenter's paradox (Oct. 2012) 39 Journal of Consumer Research 445 [Hat Tip: Overcoming Bias].)

Construal-level theory provides insights to help writers overcome the biases implicated in writing in near-mode for an audience reading in far-mode. Writing systems involving different roles for the author, such as the roles of writer and editor, serve to vary the author’s mode. Specifically for brief writing, Bryan Garner has advanced a more elaborate system of roles, which are distinctively near and far. (B. Garner, The winning brief (1999) at p. 3) The chart below displays the Flowers roles, their typical activities, and the mode mainly engaged.

Flowers-paradigm role	Typical activities	Mode from construal-level theory
Madman	Brainstorming, “Deep thought,” background research	Far
Architect	Outlining, planning, detailed research	Near
Carpenter	Primary writing	Far
Judge	Editing, proofreading	Near

Madman is far because it encourages intuition, a far-mode product. (See G. Gigerenzer, Gut feelings: The Intelligence of the unconscious (2008).) Architect is near-mode because it accentuates logical relationships, which depend heavily on sequencing, a near-mode activity. Carpenter is far-mode because it attempts to make ideas intelligible to others. Judge is near-mode because it involves close reading for error.

The alternation of phases is powerfully effective in engaging both modes without causing the mutual interference to which they are prone when combined simultaneously. It is so effective that the modes can be seen to alternate within roles. Although Madman is predominantly far-mode, it includes periods of near-mode activity, such as close reading of selected cases. Judge, although mostly near-mode, may include far-mode phases, such as hearing the document read aloud. Carpenter and Architect usually alternate more than once, because Carpenter excels at abstraction and Architect at sequencing.

Construal-level theory offers far-mode as the remedy for excess. Because of the relationship between the endowment effect and near-mode, cutting excess is performed most effectively in far-mode, and typical problems in legal writing occur when lawyers compose their briefs in near-mode, often because they write their briefs while they read cases closely. The result is not only the absence of the big picture but also an accumulation of excess. To avoid much of this excess, learn to write in far-mode, and master the research in near-mode in the Architect phase.

Some common advice is misguided because it contributes to excess. Writers are often instructed to be Madmen in the Carpenter role, but although both Madman and Carpenter are far-mode, Carpenter provides the opportunity to pare down irrelevant matter generated in the Madman phase, and the advice to suspend the critic when doing primary writing sacrifices the main opportunity to trim excess. This shouldn’t be left to the Judge, as editing is a near-mode activity, and among the errors the Judge isn’t good at correcting is excess. The erroneous advice comes from seeing an alternation between writer and critic rather than between near-mode and far-mode.

Both far-mode phases are good for trimming excess, as the writer can take steps to stem excess in the Madman role despite heeding the advice to suspend the critic. Although this advice applies to Madman, not to Carpenter, when applied to Madman it admits critical comments. To take advantage of the Madman to combat excess, treat critical ideas related to scope and breadth just as you would any other ideas. If you’re brainstorming, if you think you’ve come up with an idea of doubtful relevance, you should note that thought alongside the idea itself. Having added exclusion as an idea, you will later be unable to avoid discarding one idea or the other, the marginal thought itself and the imperative to disregard it. Therefore, near-mode’s reluctance to part with sentences will resist rejecting the idea to discard as much as it resists rejecting the idea itself.

The Last Word on Procrastination: An integration of ego-depletion theory, construal-level theory, and the irreversibility of writing

Theories

With the elements I’ve previously introduced—Baumeister and Muraven’s ego-depletion theory, Trope and Liberman’s construal-level theory, and my irreversibility-of-writing theory—we can discern the outline of a general explanation of why we often procrastinate. Both ego-depletion theory and construal-level theory have been separately applied to procrastination, but my explanation combines the theories, which I’ll summarize here only insofar as they directly apply.  

Ego-depletion theory says that we have a physically limited daily supply of willpower for implementing our decisions, but we perform habitual acts effortlessly. Researchers in ego-depletion theory advise that we should strategize to utilize our limited supply of willpower efficiently by devoting our efforts to forming productive habits.  

Construal-level theory says that we can conceptualize tasks at concrete or abstract granularities. Abstract construals induce future orientation, and they create and inform our goals and plans, disposing us to seek and implement them later. 

Irreversibility-of-writing theory says that writers’ block may arise from unconsciously apprehending that you’re unprepared to write.

Theories combined

Explaining procrastination requires understanding how construal level interacts with the allocation of finite willpower, but these are separate research programs, yet unintegrated. Despite the lack of direct experimental evidence, common observation and inference from other research suggest linkages:

• Concrete construals allocate willpower. We expend willpower—whether to accomplish specific tasks or form habits—through concrete construals.
• Abstract construals foreshadow habits. Formed through abstract construal, goals—varying in strength—cause our concrete construals, long-term.

The more controversial contention is that goal setting through abstract construals drives concrete construals and the resulting productive effort, a contention conflicting with the common recommendation  to self-impose the use of concrete construals: focus on the details and the next action. The recommendation is issue begging, since the whole problem in procrastination is that we resist entertaining concrete construals when we engage in pleasurable mental acts of abstract construal. 

Abstract construal gets a bad rap in this commentary; to its derogation, one prolific commentator explains abstract construal as having evolved for the hypocritical manipulation of social signals, but there’s evidence that our abstract construals direct our future concrete construals: childhood ambitions foreshadow adult achievements.

Implications

To minimize procrastination, you must form the right kind of strongly motivating goals. The right kind of goals for forming habits demand immediate action, as do goals constituted by habits, necessarily weakened by delay. If you want to write a book, a more effective goal than completion or publication is becoming a hard-working writer. Since the goal entails altering your personal traits, virtue ethics is a useful framework for forming productive habits, since it fosters the abstract construal of habits as goals. 

Goals coherently expressing your true purposes are strongly motivating, and for the most part, goals arise naturally from self-knowledge. Powerful goals rooted in deep self-knowledge engender strong habits, but they should do so only to the extent that regimentation is help more than hindrance. The point of my irreversibility-of-writing approach is that writers should limit their self-regimentation. But when habits are few, last-minute production is the well-practiced fallback habit. You must balance regimentation’s efficiency against lost opportunities for “deep thought.”

Some writing skills can undermine thought. THE UNITY OF LANGUAGE AND THOUGHT. Part 3.

Earlier entries in The Unity of Language and Thought series:

Part 1. Can bad writers be good thinkers?

Part 2. Are good writers good thinkers?

The skills improving persuasiveness contribute unequally to thought; some may even detract: while good writing renders ideas more precise and manipulable, that’s not all it does. Distinguishing the thought-promoting aspects of persuasion prevents beguilement by rhetorical flair.

Ornamentation and convention contribute little if any to thoughtful quality. Ornamentation (which will consume most of our attention) increases a document’s emotional appeal. Euphony, dependent on surface qualities of expression—those which rarely survive translation—falls in this category. Alliteration, assonance, and consonance bear little relation to the quality of thought.

Also playing on affect are the rhetorical figures (excluding simile and metaphor, because they can make an important contribution to Clarity, a Writing Virtue). Law Professor Ward Farnsworth’s new book Farnsworth’s Classical English Rhetoric abundantly illustrates the rhetorical figures, which invoke three types of pattern: repetition of words and phrases; structure, such as parallelism; and dramatic devices, such as rhetorical questions. Repetition serves adornment most single-mindedly; contrast with parallel structure, obligatory when the elements are logically parallel, as in lists and correlated conjuncts.

The distinction between clarifying and purely rhetorical devices is the difference between a simplicity due to efficient compression of information—as accomplished by any good theory—and simplicity for presentation’s sake. An example of the latter is Republican Presidential–candidate Herman Cain’s 9–9–9 tax plan, a proposal chosen for its sheer simplicity, unbolstered by reasons for taxing the three components identically. The difference is between scientific elegance and marketing catchiness.

This is not to say that the rhetorical figures are unimportant in legal writing. To the contrary, instruction is remiss in its neglect of rhetoric, since legal-brief writing, above all, is persuasive. The point is rather that the rhetorical-figures’ persuasiveness is irrational when it rests on the general qualitative correspondence between writing and thought. But factors besides the quality of thought help persuade judges; and judges, all too human, aren’t entirely rational.

This analysis of rhetoric’s somewhat unreasonable role provides another explanation for legalese, based on its function. Insofar as rhetoric is a means to persuasiveness neither reflecting the writer’s quality of thought nor enhancing the reader’s rationality of judgment, a legal system priding itself on procedural egalitarianism may seek to banish it. While identifying rhetoric by black-letter rule might be impossible, the “system” could approximate its goal by fostering a rhetorically unartful legal-writing style. At the same time, this style incorporates, as “substitute gratification,” formulaic rhetoric, such as trite doublets and triplets. (Notice the analogy between how the law staunches pomposity by supplying pompous forms that don’t make the lawyer look pompous and how it suppresses rhetoric by supplying rhetorical forms with an antirhetorical effect.)

Following arbitrary conventions is another major way (after ornamentation) to improve as writer without necessarily improving as thinker. An excellent speller can be an incompetent thinker. The same goes for other arbitrary conventions, such as capitalization and font choice.

Font choice brings us to the second reason for distinguishing those literary aspects enhancing thought from those favoring persuasiveness by other means. Over-valuing one’s own ideas is a pitfall when seeking objectivity and rationality. We’ve seen how writers—by sheer exposure—fall in love with their own style, but exposure also endears their self-produced content to writers’ hearts. Writers striving to think clearly and deeply can benefit from less persuasiveness in their private writing. This is perhaps part of the benefit of handwritten drafts and other formal variations decreasing documents' cognitive fluency, thereby increasing writers' self-criticalness—improving their logical rigor, representational accuracy, and intellectual honesty. Reviewing one’s writing cast in a more disfluent typography, such as 8-point fonts, produces the same effect. Varying the medium—screen or paper—also can contribute to a more critical attitude toward one’s work. These variations benefit private thought for the same reason they sabotage public persuasion.

Pen or Keyboard?

“Most literary people,” according to legal-writing authority Bryan Garner, have “good hands.” Garner, consequently, advises legal writers to improve their penmanship. You might suspect his advice rests on a cum hoc ergo propter hoc fallacy (mistaking correlation for causation), but a more charitable interpretation is possible: perhaps handwriting is more useful to composition than many suspect, and perhaps practice improves penmanship. This seems the best explanation of the correlation between handwriting quality and literary inclination, leading me to experiment with penning first drafts. (One alternative explanation, that proofreading requires clear penmanship, is less compelling because correction neither compels the efficiency of the cursive form nor affords much practice.) One doubt about this reasoning stems from observing that adult penmanship resists improvement. Physicians, for example, have notoriously poor hands, scribbling almost illegibly, just because they write numerous prescriptions, but that enigma may contain its own answer. To improve a skill, you must strive to do well when practicing it; if you practice an illegible scrawl, you are rewarded by permanently acquiring one.

These speculations motivated me to experiment with handwriting, but before discussing the outcome, some description of procedure. First the pen. Occasional earlier tries at handwriting drafts ended adversely, the big difference, this time, the writing tool. Ballpoints, rollerballs, gel pens, pencils, and steel-nibbed fountain pens had demanded excessive effort. The effect of these inferior alternatives wasn’t small: my first drafts with these instruments were unusable—unrevisable. Fourteen or eighteen karat gold-nibbed pens proved far better. Second, the keyboard; to compare pen and keyboard fairly, the experimenter should choose the best of each. A mechanical-switch keyboard, with its tactile feedback, distracts less than the cheaper membrane variant that usually comes with the computer.

Now the results—or at least, my impressions. Whereas the keyboard is unsurpassed when you know in advance what you shall write, the pen is better for figuring it out, that is, for free writing, a surprising finding, since skilled typing is much faster. What’s desirable in free writing is not only speed, which helps production keep pace with thought, but also unobtrusiveness, to minimize the distraction of physical effort. Cursive writing with a quality pen distracted me less than typing. This is a conclusion from mere personal experiment, but the results do cohere: handwriting improves with practice when the writer strives to draft legibly.

What I don’t know is how widely these results transfer. Greater typing speed might make a difference. I type about 90 words per minute, but I’m aware of much faster typists. (Discovering them on the TypeRacer website was a bit deflating.) If a writer can type fast enough, that may overshadow writing ease. Also, the results might depend on preferences. I find typing less pleasurable than handwriting (but only with a proper pen).

If readers have compared pen and keyboard for early drafting, comments are most welcome.

Are good thinkers good writers? Part 2 of THE UNITY OF LANGUAGE AND THOUGHT

The Unity of Language and Thought Series. Part 2

The last entry upheld the indispensability of writing for thought. We now turn now to the indispensability of high-quality writing for deep thought. 

Taking stock empirically is the most direct approach, but perhaps recognized deep thinkers are good writers because writing promotes their recognition, instead of enhancing their cognition. My strategy is to focus on pairs of deep thinkers whose discoveries or inventions were simultaneous, briefly reviewing some relevant commentary and providing short samples of their styles. Promotional considerations are weaker on knowledge's cusp, this particularly true for the less credited thinker, who, after all, failed in his promotional endeavors. Selection by a predetermined criterion also prevents cherry picking samples.

We’ll look at the scientists responsible for two simultaneous discoveries or inventions: Charles Darwin and Alfred Russel Wallace (theory of organic evolution) and Sir Isaac Newton and Gottfried Leibnitz (the calculus).

Darwin is regarded by scholars as a literary as well as scientific genius.

Darwin really was one of the great natural English prose stylists… This is Darwin's method: an apparently modest allegiance to mere fact gathering abruptly crystallizes into a whole world view. Compares his methods to those of Trollope and George Eliot… (http://tinyurl.com/4s8h2yw.)

Here’s a sample:

It may metaphorically be said that natural selection is daily and hourly scrutinizing, throughout the world, the slightest variations; rejecting those that are bad, preserving and adding up all that are good; silently and insensibly working, whenever and wherever opportunity offers, at the improvement of each organic being in relation to its organic and inorganic conditions of life. We see nothing of these slow changes in progress, until the hand of time has marked the lapse of ages, and then so imperfect is our view into long-past geological ages, that we see only that the forms of life are now different from what they formerly were. (Darwin (1872) The Origin of Species.)

Note, for now, one remarkable feature: the 53-word average sentence length.

The co-discoverer of organic evolution, Alfred Russel Wallace, unlike Charles Darwin, isn’t a household name. Scholars regard Wallace as an extraordinary writer; what he lacked was Darwin’s intellectual courage.

… [Wallace’s] consummate writing style. Joseph Conrad kept Wallace’s classic "The Malay Archipelago" on his night table, drawing on it in several of his own books, most notably "Lord Jim." (http://tinyurl.com/5rwnm5a)

Yet you wonder whether Wallace’s intellectual timidity affected his writing style. A sample:

A belief so general, one would think, must rest on indisputable facts, and be a logical deduction from them. Yet I have come to the conclusion that not only is it very doubtful, but absolutely erroneous; that it not only deviates widely from the truth, but is in almost every particular exactly opposed to it. I believe, in short, that birds do not build their nests by instinct; that man does not construct his dwelling by reason; that birds do change and improve when affected by the same causes that make men do so; and that mankind neither alter nor improve when they exist under conditions similar to those which are almost universal among birds. (Alfred Russel Wallace (1870) Contributions to the Theory of Natural Selection.)

Wallace sounds bolder than Darwin, but his writing isn’t quite as good because he uses writing flaws—excessive use of intensifiers, such as “very doubtful,” “absolutely erroneous,” and “exactly opposed"—to amplify the projected impression of boldness, a boldness that protests too much. For our purpose, the relevant observations are that Wallace is more than a competent writer, but his intellectual shortcomings produce writing flaws.

 
Newton’s writing isn’t celebrated, but his frequently quoted bon mots prove his literary capacity, as below:

I have not as yet been able to discover the reason for these properties of gravity from phenomena, and I do not feign hypotheses. For whatever is not deduced from the phenomena must be called a hypothesis; and hypotheses, whether metaphysical or physical, or based on occult qualities, or mechanical, have no place in experimental philosophy. In this philosophy particular propositions are inferred from the phenomena, and afterwards rendered general by induction. (Isaac Newton (1726). Philosophiae Naturalis Principia Mathematica.)

"I do not feign hypotheses” lives on.

 
Leibnitz was an accomplished writer, whose concision is particularly remarkable—he wrote philosophy treatises in the space of pamphlets. Leibnitz’s work methods demonstrate the attention he paid to perfecting the written expression of his ideas as an integral part of their formation.

Leibniz thought on paper, and he even designed a special carriage which rode more smoothly over ruts and bumps, so that he could write while traveling… The way he wrote was as follows: He used folio paper, which was a little shorter and wider than the modern A3, folded in two to make four sides of foolscap, which is a bit narrower and longer than the modern A4. He wrote in the left-hand half of each side, leaving the right-hand half for corrections and additions, of which there were many. He then gave his almost illegible draft to his copyist, to write out a fair copy - usually beautifully written, with plenty of space between the lines. Leibniz would then correct the copy, and either have it sent off; or, if there were too many corrections, get the copyist to write it out again. (http://tinyurl.com/5rwnm5a.)

Leibnitz and Newton fought over priority for the calculus, but that wasn’t their only disagreement: Leibnitz took a different view of Newton's “feigning hypotheses.”

…we find some quality in a subject, we ought to believe that if we understood the nature of both the subject and the quality we would conceive how the quality could arise from it. So within the order of nature (miracles apart) it is not at God's arbitrary discretion to attach this or that quality haphazardly to substances. He will never give them any which are not natural to them, that is, which cannot arise from their nature as explicable modifications. So we may take it that matter will not naturally possess the attractive power referred to above, and that it will not of itself move in a curved path, because it is impossible to conceive how this could happen—that is, to explain it mechanically—whereas what is natural must be such as could become distinctly conceivable by anyone admitted into the secrets of things. (Gottfried Leibnitz (1996) New Essays on Human Understanding, Cambridge University Press.)

In modern terms, Newton and Leibnitz were debating physical action at a distance, posited by Newton’s theory of gravity. History’s verdict regarding this dispute—expressed in Einstein’s general relativity— is that Leibnitz’s positions were true, but Newton’s genius consisted in apprehending the most scientifically useful framework, ignoring even its logical incoherence. Perhaps these tendencies are evident in their writing styles: Newton’s attic and direct. Leibnitz’s writing does an excellent job expressing a dry philosophical question compellingly, bearing in mind he was espousing principles that were only vaguely understood. 

Objectivity demands attention to adverse evidence, and Socrates, who left no written works, stands out. Whether some sophisticated oral methods can play writing’s role in thought deserves exploration, but the reason for Socrates’s barrenness ambiguates its significance. As a matter of principle, Socrates opposed permanent records of ideas, denouncing them as vehicles for dogmatism. Consequently, we don’t know he was a bad writer: he eschewed writing as a means of communication rather than of thought.

Next entry will analyze the writing processes important for thought.

Can bad writers be good thinkers? Part 1 of THE UNITY OF LANGUAGE AND THOUGHT

The Unity of Language and Thought Series. Part 1.

According to a common view, “good enough” writing—a modicum of quality—suffices. If persuasiveness of argument and lucidity of expression are independent factors, a superior product is resource-wasting overkill. Contesting the common view is the doctrine asserting language and thought’s unity. I owe Bryan Garner the idea of applying the doctrine to legal writing:

In law, the quality of writing matters. Good writing can win cases, and bad writing can lose them. To some, this notion is self-evident. But to others it's dubious at best.

What explains these markedly divergent views? Ultimately, the disagreement hinges on the extent to which a given lawyer understands that language molds every human thought. Language is embedded in the very way in which you perceive the world. Thus, it's impossible for a judge to focus exclusively on the merits of a case without being affected by the language used to express those merits. (B. Garner, The Winning Brief.)

The concept of the unity of language and thought itself I owe to the great Russian psychologist Lev Vygotsky:

Speech [read writing] does not merely serve as the expression of developed thought. Thought is restructured as it is transformed into speech. It is not expressed but completed in the word. (L. Vygotsky (1986) Thought and Language.)

Succinctly, “Thought is not expressed by language but takes place in it.” (Ibid.)

Vygotsky’s psychology emphasizes that we think by means of “inner speech”; hence, the terms conveying an argument co-determine its construal and effectiveness. The linguistic character of thought is the essential reason the quality of expression matters.

Anyone who denies that thought and language co-determine a brief’s persuasiveness should find an occupation not involving writing briefs, but the implications of the unity of thought and language go further than this truism about persuasiveness. The unity applies, I claim, not only to writing’s reception but also to its production. The unity of language and thought implies:

1) Good writing requires deep thought;

2) Deep thought requires good writing.

To personalize, good writers are good thinkers and good thinkers are good writers.

Point 1 is less contentious than point 2: vacuous thoughts don’t challenge a writer’s skill; Point 1 is also less interesting: a low order of intellectual depth provides ample space to demonstrate incompetence (hence, competence by comparison). In principle, intellectual shallowness limits expressive power, but in practice it does so weakly.

Point 2, on the other hand, makes a strong, contentious claim. It precludes that popular construct the "homespun philosopher" and rejects the populist tenet that many great thinkers go unrecognized because they're inarticulate.But to avoid unwarranted contention, we must be precise about the meanings of both "thought" and "good": Point 2 doesn't claim that the human intellect rests entirely on literary skill. Only deep thought—coherent multistep reasoning with abstract concepts—requires written expression to flourish. To take a familiar example, a trial attorney who is an incompetent writer but is quick on his feet, alert to testimonial incongruities, and shrewd in negotiation need function only in oral mode. To claim the attorney is a poor thinker is at best ambiguous: such attorneys are, in any event, reasonably intelligent. The claim isn’t that bad writers are stupid.

Nor is "good thinking" good in the sense of being correct. Deep thinking constructs theories that are capable of being true about complex matters involving abstractions. A usage point helps clarify. When shallow thinking is applied to complex abstract matters, we call the result stupid. When deep thinking about the same matters goes very wrong, we instead call it crazy, and crazy thought retains at least the possibility of accuracy: you can’t reasonably reject it without comprehension, whereas shallowness disqualifies thought concerning abstract topics. Good writing doesn’t necessarily deserve consideration, but on such topics, bad writing deserves disregard. Properly understood, the claim—contentious enough as it is—asserts that deep thinkers must be capable writers because writing is part of the thinking process.

With this clarification, the claim still conflicts with the received view, but a certain universal writing experience refutes the received view by demonstrating that writing quality sets a limit on thought quality. The experience is that of arriving at profound insights during writing’s course. We can’t devise a complete plan predicting our conclusions; writing lives its own life and decides its own destiny. Unforeseeable insight proves that thought without written expression would be impoverished.

Intellectual discovery continues to surprise experienced writers —revealing how counter-intuitive is the dependence of thought on writing—despite their coming to accept its occurrence intellectually. But though suggestive, unforeseen discovery doesn’t quite prove the relationship between the quality of writing and the quality of thought. A gap remains between the proof that deep thought requires writing and the conclusion that it requires high-quality writing. In the next entry, I intend to close the gap.

Next entry: Good thinkers are good writers.

On the irreversibility of writing: Procrastination and writer's block—Part 3. Solutions

To develop a case theory, legal writers profit from deep thought, which they can't turn on at will. These stages depict it:

1. Immersing in the subject, typically legal research;

2. Thinking concretely at a local level, as necessary to refine the research process but insufficient to attach the writer to a theory formed ahead of its basis;

3. Maintaining a reflective and receptive attitude toward the subject for days (only after completing most research);

4. Conceiving an integrative idea (a deep thought), without its immediate instigation;

5. Attending to the thoughts following (but not by inhibiting potentially relevant competing lines of thought).

Hence, the problem: the busy attorney can’t drop everything when blessed with a breakthrough deep thought that evokes more thoughts. Busy attorneys can note the deep thought, but they can’t follow it when it’s fresh. Nor can they afford maintaining a reflective attitude over a span of days. Because attorneys can’t randomly interrupt their workday, the unstructured lifestyle of a writer is more compatible with deep thought, a reason ghostwriter may produce, all else being equal, work superior to attorney’s.

Deep thought isn’t the only way to stave off premature commitment, although it might be most powerful. In free writing, the writer records every thought, while avoiding preoccupation and premature structure. Free writing is hard, and it may prove impossible for a slow typist. You can combine deep thought and free writing; then deep thought should come first.

Trouble deciding between the alternatives, deep thought and free writing? This correlation might help: personality traits distinguish free writers from deep thinkers. Extraverted personalities, seeking external engagement, do better with free writing; introverts with deep thought. Deep thought has one advantage over free writing: it dedicates more mental resources (such as working memory) to thought rather than—as happens no matter how fast the typist—draining resources by typing.

Bryan Garner (The Winning Brief) proposes another method for avoiding premature theorizing, the "whirlybird," popularly called mind mapping. A mind map is an outline that maximizes the amount of information a page displays. (You can see an example of a mind map.) Aficionados are prone to over-rate mind mapping as a creativity device. Although Garner uses mind mapping in the “madman” phase of the writing cycle, it’s more suited for trolling memory. In Garner’s terms, it best serves the “architect" phase.

If deep thought or free writing have laid the groundwork, the writer will continue to conceive deep thoughts while paragraph writing, which compares favorably with mind mapping in fostering creativity. Nobody has explained why paragraph writing beats outlining as a thinking tool. (Few have even noticed.) I offer this conjecture. Paragraph writing encourages deep thought because in finding the right word, the writer unconsciously generates a lexical selection pool. This goad to the unconscious generation of ideas is the missing ingredient in mind mapping and outlining, which discourage linear thinking for spans sufficient to escalate the unconscious production of alternatives.

Deep thought and free writing are options when the misery of procrastination informs you that you aren’t prepared to write—but always keep in mind, they’re no remedy for shallow research, in legal writing the most common cause of procrastination.

On the irreversibility of writing: Procrastination and writer's block—Part 2. The unexpected cause

Even without understanding why, writers know that writing's traces, like Internet postings, are often indelible. Knowledge—that writing without enough time or ideation can set you back—is often the immediate source of blockage. Forgetting what you know is, consequently, one way to surmount a procrastination problem. Assigned a difficult project and subsequently experiencing fallow, the writer may profusely thank an advisor bearing the message, "get anything down." The get-anything-down writing panacea won't improve the quality of the project subjected to it, but as permission quieting conscience, it can augment sheer quantity.

Why assume there's a cause of procrastination specific to writing, when procrastination itself isn't? Good question. First, writing as subject of procrastination—sometimes taking a unique form, blockage—differs from most tasks agents procrastinate about, in that most procrastination concerns unpleasant tasks. Second, a generalized version explains generic procrastination, which also occurs because the procrastinator registers the present moment's prematurity, when premature performance would—by error or inefficiency—ultimately cause the work to be inferior. Writing procrastination differs from generic procrastination in that motivation itself, its arousal depending on a deadline's approach, often is the generic procrastinator's missing component.

Despite the explanation's generalizability, I'll continue to focus on forms of procrastination specific to writing, for which I prescribe forethought, the near opposite of "getting anything down." This is not to say that lawyers don't think much. Good lawyers do immense amounts of research before writing briefs, and significant thought occurs in the interstices of cases and statutes, but lawyers seldom prepare by engaging in sustained thinking. The press of business squeezes out deeper thinking, but not in the notorious, direct way, brute lack of time. Lawyers could allocate a few hours for contemplation, compensated by greater fluidity following submersion in thought. Insufficiency of work time isn't necessarily part of deep-thinking deficiencies, since the lawyer is squeezed when time is ample. The problem lies elsewhere. The kind of thinking suffering deficiency doesn't consist of organizing the lawyer's ideas, but inventing new ones; that can't be scheduled, because its onset can't be willed.

Next part: Solutions

On the irreversibility of writing: Procrastination and writer's block—Part 1. Premature composition limits thought and weakens style

"Just get something, anything down," well-wishers advise the blocked writer, but a false assumption grounds this advice. The well-wishers assume that the writing process is reversible, and early beginnings don't drive toward predetermined results. Assuming complete reversibility—what is done can always be undone—seems reasonable due to tacit analogy with some common, reversible physical acts. If I pace across the room, I can return to the starting point. The reasoning applied to pacing is sound because pacing is a reversible process. Any point reachable from point A is reachable from point B, this proven by my ability to return to point A from point B. Analogously, writing anything is held at least as good as nothing. The apparent proof: the option to delete the document and start over. Getting something down is at worst harmless, probably useful; at least some passages are bound to be, and if so, writer approaches goal. Elegant but simplistic: most changes aren't reversible. In complex or nonphysical change, irreversibility is the rule. When Humpty Dumpty fell off the wall, all the kings horses and men couldn't put him back together. Truly. What is thoroughly shattered resists all efforts at reassembly. The same holds for nonphysical change. When judge instructs jury to disregard misconduct, some doubt of success lingers about unringing the bell.

Which model, reversible or irreversible, pacing or unringing, resembles writing? Sometimes the writing process resembles return to a spatial starting point; other times, shattering an egg or unringing the bell, but regardless of practical result, the writer changes by retaining the inexpungible memory of previous work. Forms don't matter: detailed outlining complicates thematic reorganization, no matter how facile the software. Another approach to early writing, composing and combining random snippets, creates a different product than front-to-back composition: the transitions aren't as smooth as in a true first draft; corrections, as fresh.

Recent scientific research explains how premature writing constrains thought. The nonobvious finding: each recollection of an idea strengthens the recaller's belief in its truth. Dwelling on initial ideas by premature composing or outlining increases their attractiveness, decreasing their abandonability. The effect works on the principle that exposure (within limits) induces liking (a finding a bit discouraging about human rationality). As ideas become more familiar, legal writers lose perspective by falling in love with their own substance and style.

Next part: The unexpected cause of procrastination and writer's block

“Good enough” consumerism and the myth of imperfectibility

Bloggers' reactions to "good enough" consumerism reveal the problems that keep legal writing inferior. Good-enough consumerism is fascinated by qualitative changes in our tastes attendant on changes of mere degree in production and delivery efficiencies. The paradigm is the rise of the MP3 recording medium, which allows high compression ratios but reverts fidelity to the cassette-tape era.

Professionals espousing work-product quality could resent comparisons with least-common-denominator recording media, but the predominant reaction among bloggers isn't to challenge but to avoid, to find the legal loophole that escapes the good-enough standard's obvious implications. Carolyn Elefant interprets the good-enough concept by denying its obvious meaning, that consumers evaluate services with an eye to convenience and economy, to the derogation of traditional indicia of quality. "[M]y take away from the Wired article isn't that cheap and simple means compromising standards." Compromised standards are exactly what the Wired article means because it says so: "Having it here and now is more important than having it perfect." Another blogger, representing the legal-writing field itself, denies good-enough consumerism's implications instead of its premise. Wayne Schiess acknowledges firms crowd lawyers' time for producing quality work, and he suggests the solution isn't to settle for producing bad work but to strive for excellence, despite the obstacles precluding its achievement. Wayne's sophistic position changes the argument's subject. Where the problem is that legal writers have too little time to produce excellent work, Wayne offers no direct advice on what they should produce; instead, he addresses what they should strive to produce.

The whole discussion lacks analysis of when the "good enough" paradigm applies; when is the correct question to ask "Is it good enough?"; when, "Is it as good as I can make it?" Two factors decide when "good enough" is the correct standard: 1) the perfectibility of the project and 2) the estimability of the "good enough" level. Which standard is rational reduces to whether we can attain relative perfection and whether we can know when a product is good enough. The good-enough standard is unsuitable for legal writing because no one knows what's good enough. Estimates under such uncertainty will run low because of the overcompensation bias, as estimating what's good enough is analogous to compensating for a perfectionistic bias; when we consciously try to temper our performance to compensate for a bias, we overshoot. The high degree of uncertainty regarding adequate quality argues for a relative-perfection standard governing legal-writing projects such as briefs—provided relative perfection is attainable. Proponents of "good-enough" consumerism pronounce, "The perfect is the enemy of the good," but when perfection and reasonable quality war, perfection's unattainability is the casus belli. While no one attains absolute perfection in producing complex work, lawyers unthinkingly apply the conclusion to relative perfection: the best efforts standard.

The myth of relative perfection's unattainability is the work-ethic's neurotic hypertrophy: professionals perennially atone for short-changing customers under the supposedly never-achievable best-efforts standard in the guilty pseudo-knowledge that more, hence better, is always possible; the curses of excessive citation, verbosity, and issue proliferation reinforce the myth of relative imperfectibility. If more always means better, relative imperfectibility would be justified, but on most projects, the point comes when writing more lowers quality. This point of relative perfection isn't necessarily good, but in legal projects, it's the most writers can offer and the least they should.