Stanley Fish on “How to Write a Sentence.”

PowerPoint might make you dumb, but understanding why can help keep you from being dumb even when you don’t use PowerPoint.

Edward Tufte is the world’s premier expert on the graphic presentation of information.  In the wider world he’s probably best known for his article, PowerPoint Does Rocket Science–and Better Techniques for Technical Reports, which (1) explained how, in connection with the Columbia space shuttle disaster, a PowerPoint presentation misled NASA decision makers regarding the risks to the shuttle posed by the impact of a piece of foam insulation that broke off of the shuttle’s fuel tank at launch, struck the shuttle’s left wing, and penetrated that wing’s thermal insulation, and (2) made a strong case that it is virtually impossible to convey any complex information using a PowerPoint presentation.

In a 2003 article entitled “PowerPoint Makes You Dumb,”  Clive Thompson, summarizing Tufte’s article, wrote: “When NASA engineers assessed possible wing damage during the mission, they presented the findings in a confusing PowerPoint slide — so crammed with nested bullet points and irregular short forms that it was nearly impossible to untangle. ‘It is easy to understand how a senior manager might read this PowerPoint slide and not realize that it addresses a life-threatening situation,’ the [Columbia Accident Investigation Board] sternly noted.”

Further summarizing Tufte’s article (which is really worth reading in its entirety), Thompson wrote: “[The low resolution of a PowerPoint slide means that it usually contains only about 40 words, or barely eight seconds of reading. PowerPoint also encourages users to rely on bulleted lists, a 'faux analytical'' technique, . . . that dodges the speaker's responsibility to tie his information together. And perhaps worst of all is how PowerPoint renders charts. Charts in newspapers like The Wall Street Journal contain up to 120 elements on average, allowing readers to compare large groupings of data. But, as Tufte found, PowerPoint users typically produce charts with only 12 elements. Ultimately, Tufte concluded, PowerPoint is infused with 'an attitude of commercialism that turns everything into a sales pitch.'''

Think of the difference between a low resolution photo and a high resolution photo of the same scene -- the viewer of the low resolution photo remains ignorant even of the possible presence of information present in the high resolution photo, much less the precise nature of that information.

Tufte self-publishes his books, not because he wouldn't be able to attract a commercial publisher, but, rather, because by self-publishing he can control entirely the manner in which he presents his material. Since his entire mission is to explain how to effectively present graphic information, that control is crucial to his work.

What does the effective presentation of graphic information have to do with lawyering, which primarily relies on the use of verbal information? Plenty. The principles applicable to the effective presentation of visual information are the same principles applicable to the effective presentation of verbal information. Important information must be highlighted, the conclusions must be supported with detailed, "high resolution," step by step explanations and the telling use of narrative, and anything extraneous to the points being made has to be cut out. You must also be acutely aware of your audience and the precise purposes you are trying to achieve. Moreover, as Ruth Anne Robbins has so effectively demonstrated in her article, "Painting With Print: Incorporating concepts of typographic and layout design into the text of legal writing documents," the visual appearance of even our written work is crucial to its effectiveness. Finally, of course, our culture (including our legal culture) is one that increasingly relies on the visual presentation of information. There is no denying, however, that a well written brief, an effective oral argument, or a successful classroom discussion is like a high resolution photo, while a PowerPoint presentation of of the same information is like a low resolution photo of the same subject.

In short, Tufte is exactly right in PowerPoint does Rocket Science when he concludes: "Serious problems require a serious tool: written reports."

But again, merely using words instead of PowerPoint slides isn't the answer. The words need to be chosen and arranged effectively. My students often make the same mistake the NASA engineers made in their PowerPoint presentation, which did in fact contain statements meant to convey the substantial risk that resulted in the Columbia's disintegration upon its reentry into the earth's atmosphere. The problem was that the crucial information was buried in a place and amidst so much other, misleading information that it was impossible for the audience to notice it.

It reminds me of my students when, in response to feedback they don't like, come to me with their work and argue that they really did include in their writing the important points I've said they've neglected. They even can point me to the words that I can see they really did mean to make those points. But those points are either expressed in language that is too obscure or are put in places in which they do not fit into an effective overall analysis. It's not just student's, of course. All of us have those moments when we believe we have expressed our opinion on a subject effectively, but if that if that opinion is unconnected to the evidence, authority, and reasoning that supports it, if it is buried in words that don't support that opinion, or if in any other way its truth is obscured, it might as well not even be there.

Addendum: here's one example of stupid verbal argument that bases its conclusion on the information it presents but is too "low resolution" to make its conclusion convincing. The Washington Examiner argues that "[g]overnment workers, especially at the federal level, make salaries that are scandalously higher than those paid to private sector workers.” I have to admit I was startled when I saw the editorial’s title: “Want to get rich? Work for feds.” Sorry, but none of the rich people I know of outside of Congress (which doesn’t make you rich, but, due to the cost of running for office, requires you to be rich) are government workers.

So what information does the Examiner base its conclusion on? “As of 2008, the average federal salary was $119,982, compared with $59,909 for the average private sector employee. In other words, the average federal bureaucrat makes twice as much as the average working taxpayer.” The Examiner even has a cool little graph to make the same point visually!

What’s the problem with the argument? It takes no account of the differences in education, training, and ability required to do all those federal jobs and the education, training, and ability required to do the jobs done by “the average private sector employee.” How many government jobs are there that compare to the legion of private sector jobs that pay minimum wage to stock shelves in superstores, flip hamburgers in fast food restaurants, or the like?

I know plenty of government employed lawyers. They really do make more, even much more, than “the average private sector employee.” But they make less, much less, than private sector lawyers whose education, training, and ability are no better than theirs. And their education, training, and ability do happen to be considerably more than those of “the average private sector employee.”  So why do my friends who work for the government do what they do? Because they believe in and love what they’re doing. Some are prosecutors. Some are public defenders. Some work for government regulatory agencies. And they’re great at what they do. They definitely don’t do it for the money.

Does anyone believe that going to work for the government is the way to get rich? God, stupidity is rampant.

Does online writing produce better writers? IMHO, it can, but hasn’t yet to any great degree.

In the Chronicle of Higher Education, Josh Keller asks: does the explosion of online writing via social networking sites mean that we’re developing a better generation of writers?

The long and the short of it is that no one knows. Students are writing a lot more, and to audiences about whom they care. On the other hand, Facebook, Twitter, and blogs do not exactly seem to promote the kind of disciplined analysis that most good writing constitutes:

Some scholars say that this new writing is more engaged and more connected to an audience, and that colleges should encourage students to bring lessons from that writing into the classroom. Others argue that tweets and blog posts enforce bad writing habits and have little relevance to the kind of sustained, focused argument that academic work demands.

The debate seems to boil down to whether more writing produces better writing. One researcher states, “People write more now than ever. In order to interact on the Web, you have to write.” But writing, on the one hand, for Facebook and, on the other,  to produce an analytic essay or a legal brief, is writing for entirely different purposes. Sometimes I wonder if the differences are like driving to a Friday night party and driving in the Indy 500 — skill at one does not necessarily translate into skill in the other. As one writing professor quoted in the Chronicle of Higher Education article points out,

[H]e spends more of his time correcting, not integrating, the writing habits that students pick up outside of class. The students in his English courses often turn in papers that are “stylistically impoverished,” and the Internet is partly to blame, he says. Writing for one’s peers online, he says, encourages the kind of quick, unfocused thought that results in a scarcity of coherent sentences and a limited vocabulary.

My own views on the effects of online writing on professional writing are mixed — it hasn’t been the benefit idealists hope for, but it’s an outstanding tool that, properly used, could be a tremendous benefit to producing a new generation of excellent writers.

On the one hand, I have encountered again and again in the past couple of years student efforts at professional writing that are so stylistically inappropriate as to make me cringe. I recently read, for example, an analysis of the jury system that read entirely like a People Magazine article, full of superficial quips and an endless series of references to examples obvious to everyone – the principal point of reference was the O.J. Simpson trial (which, incidentally, I consider an example of atrocious lawyering on the part of the prosecutors, not a failure of the jury system).

On the other hand, the internet is here, and we better get used to it, even if we are training lawyers or political analysts. Students write  a lot on social networking sites. As the article points out, “Students in [one] study ‘almost always’ had more enthusiasm for the writing they were doing outside of class than for their academic work . . . .” Moreover, online writing is “self-directed,” is “often used to connect with peers” and usually is aimed at a “broader audience” than is professional writing. One of the most interesting points to me as a legal writer is that online writing is “also often associated with accomplishing an immediate, concrete goal, such as organizing a group of people or accomplishing a political end . . . .”

These are all characteristics that quite plainly can be used to produce better professional writers even if they have not yet been used effectively to this end. I have struggled to exploit student enthusiasm for online writing. Two years ago, I created a class wiki directed at creating a brief writing check list. I did not consider the effort terribly successful. One year ago, however, I created (as the Chronicle of Higher Education noticed) a class blog to explore issues regarding copyright and fair use in connection with a legal brief the students were assigned to write. While the blog became almost entirely the product of my own work rather than that of my students, it was a huge success in producing better work product. The students were engaged in and argued about the blog, and that engagement and passion produced work that was far more thoughtful and disciplined than anything I could have imagined without the blog.

So does Web 2.0 produce better writers? If you think it does so merely because it makes people write more, no. But it is a tool that, properly employed, sure can help.

Forge ahead, and you’ll find a way, if not the one you were looking for.

My sister, Amy Friedman, is the author of author of 2 memoirs, 100s of essays and stories, and a forthcoming book on her marriage to a man in prison, an aspect of which was featured not long ago in the New York Times About Love column. In an interview with Write on! Online, she covers a lot of ground, but one of my favorite lines, and the one I can relate to most after the nearly 10 months I’ve been writing this blog daily (or as near thereto as I could’ve dreamed possible), is this:

But I love writing . . .; I love the fact that I don’t know where I’m going, that the story sometimes feels so elusive, that what I’m trying to say usually slips away and I discover I’m saying something altogether different from what I thought when I began. 

The making of a lawyer

Most law schools are odd places.  I suspect most people outside the law believe a law school’s principal mission is to train lawyers.  I am a law professor, and I happen to believe that too.  But I am a very odd duck within law school academia.  Practice for twelve years and partnership in a top nationwide firm is of very little value as a qualifaction to be a law professor.  Rather, the valuable assets among law school faculty are articles published in journals edited by students and rarely read by lawyers.  Most law school classes address theory (or “doctrine”) in a manner remarkably removed from its real world application.  Qualifying for law school rests to a significant degree, perhaps primarily, on an applicant’s score on the LSAT test, which may correlate to success in law school but bears little relationship to one’ effectiveness as a lawyer.  To add to the gap between law school and legal practice, the principal criterion underlying the rankings on which law schools and applicants rely to rate the quality of a law school is the median LSAT score of the school’s students.  Those rankings provide a tremendous incentive for a law school to act in ways intended to accept applicant’s with higher LSAT scores — scores that don’t correlate to effectiveness as a lawyer — at the expense of acting in ways that increase the effectiveness of its graduates as lawyers.

So I am thrilled to read in yesterday’s New York Times that professors at the University of California, Berkeley, have studied what makes lawyers (not law students or law professors) effective and “have come up with a test that they say is better at predicting success in” practicing law than is the LSAT.  The study concluded, as I’ve long been convinced, that “LSAT scores . . . ‘were not particularly useful’ in predicting lawyer effectiveness’. . .”  What does the new test consider factors that contribute to lawyerly effectiveness?

“[T]he ability to write, manage stress, listen, research the law and solve problems.”

I am also not surprised to read that the new test is no better than the LSAT at predicting how well participants would do in law school.  As I wrote above, there is far too great a gap between most law school instruction and the actual practice to consider a test that measures effectiveness in the latter able to test effectiveness in the former.

I wish all my students would read this post.  They’ve been dealing with a considerable degree of stress of late that they blame on me and the problems I’ve given them to try to solve — problems that are down and dirty real life problems lawyers face — and they’ve been complaining a lot.  One student in my Contracts course yesterday complainied that online discussion boards made clear to him that students at other schools were covering a lot more “theory” than I am.  I looked at him a little in surprise.  That’s the whole point of my teaching.  And it’s the whole point of the rather unusual curriculum at the school where I am a visiting professor, the University of Detroit Mercy Law School, where it has been recognized that theory and practice are inextricably intertwined and that each can only be understood in the law in relation to one another.  Thus, the school offers a “revolutionary new curriculum . . . [that] complements traditional theory- and doctrine-based coursework with practical learning, providing a solid transition between law school and a legal career.

But it’s hard to teach students to manage stress, listen, and solve problems.  First, it mean subjecting them to the stress of solving problems they do not know the solutions to in advance because what lawyers do is solve problems they don’t know the solutions to in advance.  No one enjoys stress.  I like to think that the students realize the stress I am subjecting to them is not one intended to or that will break them.  It’s school.  As I’ve always told them, in law school we hurl you into the water to see if you can swim, but the water’s only about 4 feet deep, so when you can’t swim, you just get on your feet, come back, try to figure out what went wrong, and then try again.  It’s when you’re a lawyer trying to solve problems you don’t know the solutions to in advance that the stress can be truly overwhelming, especially if you have not been at all prepared for it.

You hang yourself with your own words.

One thing I learned well as a lawyer is that you could almost always hang an adversary with his own words.  When deposing the opposing party or a witness for the opposing party, my strategy was always to get the person to talk as freely and voluably as possible.  I’d ask open ended questions, nod agreeably, follow up with words like “Really?” to prompt even more loggorhea, and, invariably, when the transcript came back I’d find one piece of testimony after another that was damaging to my adversary’s case.  Conversely, when I prepared witnesses to testify in response to the questions of adversarial lawyers, the advice, pounded in with a hammer, was to answer the question and SHUT UP.  If a yes or a no answered the question, just say yes or no and SHUT UP.

Here’s an amusing example (pdf): in a prosecutor’s opposition to a defense attorney’s request for a delay in the defendant’s trial, the prosecutor explains that the defense attorney “is a partner in a large law firm (over 325 attorneys) and presumably has daily access to a horde of eager, smart, hard working associates to assist in this case.”  That’s not all that bad an argument about why there should be no delay in the trial, but it doesn’t have all that much bite.   But her footnote points out that the defense attorney “touts himself as a ‘Super Lawyer’ on his website.”  Ouch.  Surely a Super Lawyer shouldn’t need more time given the other points the prosecutor has made.

The threat one’s own words pose to oneself is one of the things that scares me most about writing so much on the internet.  Shoot me if I ever refer to myself as a super lawyer.  But how can I?  A recent commenter wrote that something in a recent post of mine wasn’t “worthy of a First Year, much less a professor of law.”   And, after all, considering what the prospect for a hanging does to one’s mind, being wary of being hanged by my own words probably not the worst thing to consider when I’m spouting off.

(hat tip to Southwest Virginia Law Blog, via Brian Ledbetter)