"You've always had the power, my dear. You had it all along."
— Glinda, The Wizard of Oz
Think of a time when you had to convince someone to do (or not do) something. How did you go about it? Did you write them a mean note? Did you offer them money? Did you tell them a sad story? Did you find an article on the Internet to back up whatever you were saying? Did you tell them you took a class on the topic last year so you're practically an expert?
Arguing comes naturally to us. Even though you probably don't use words like fallacies or ethos or syllogism, at an instinctual level, you understand and use effective strategies for making arguments and breaking-down other-people's arguments. What I hope to accomplish in this chapter (and in future chapters that continue the discussion) is to give you a common vocabulary for some of these strategies you already use. When you hear new terms and phrases, chances are you won't be learning something brand new and foreign; rather, you'll simply be putting a name to something you already know at the instinctual level.
You've always had the power to persuade. You've had it all along!
Imagine you are attending a wedding reception where you don’t really know anyone (except, maybe, the bride or groom). When you walk into the room, you will notice small groups of people scattered about, some laughing, some in heated debate, but all of them talking about different things. How would you go about joining one of these conversations?
You would likely circle the room until something interesting caught your attention, and then you would listen for a moment, and once you have a sense of what has already been said, what the various viewpoints are, and what seems to be important to the group, you would join in. And they would let you, because you would be up to speed on the conversation and productively adding to it.
It's the same with writing an argument. That's why your instructors often make you conduct research and write proposals and share your ideas with the class before you even begin drafting your paper. They want to make sure you aren't just running up to the proverbial table and blathering away. They want you to listen to the ongoing conversation, to figure out what’s already been written and researched and argued, so that you can meaningfully add to it.
Continuing the analogy of the reception, you wouldn't walk up to a wall and start spouting off your thoughts on the recent Oscar nominations. Instead, you would either find a group already talking about that, or you would find someone and strike up a conversation.
Too often, though, I read argument papers that feel like the student is yelling at the wall. They write a "This I believe" style paper, where they express all their opinions on a subject, but I don't get a sense that they are actually talking to or responding to anyone.
I like opinion papers, and sometimes I assign them, but opinion papers are not the same thing as argument papers. While there certainly is room for your personal opinion in an argument, an argument paper needs to be based on a claim that can be substantiated, and it needs to include sound evidence and logic to back up that claim. And all of that is in service of convincing real human beings to think or act in a certain way.
Persuading people is a delicate enterprise, and a great deal of psychology goes into it. As you start any argument paper, ask yourself, “What would it really take to actually convince someone of this?” Imagine your mom or roommate or professor who might not agree with you, and try to figure out what it would take to convince him or her.
Sometimes, when we're passionate about something, it feels good to read arguments written by people who we already agree with. That's why Republicans tend to watch conservative news programs and Democrats watch liberal news programs.
While that's a perfectly good way to share news with like-minded individuals, it doesn't do much for continuing the conversation and persuading people to think differently.
There's a term for writing your argument to those who already agree with you: preaching to the choir. If you don't know what that means, imagine a minister who gets a hearty "Hallelujah!" and "Amen!" from the choir each time he or she says something. The choir is already converted. They’re convinced. They believe. As a writer, you might be tempted to do this. It feels good.
But it's not an argument. An argument is meant to persuade, and if your readers already agree with you, then you're not persuading them, you're simply pandering to them and massaging their egos.
Just as it can be tempting to take the easy road to write our argument with a sympathetic audience in mind, you might mistakenly take the opposite approach and envision a reader who will never, ever, under any circumstances, change their mind.
This is not your readership.
This is not who we argue with.
Instead, we write arguments to people who are in the middle—people who perhaps haven’t heard all the facts; people who are still trying to make up their mind; people who are willing to engage in the ongoing conversation and learn from it.
A couple years ago, I watched the riveting debate between Bill Nye "The Science Guy" and Ken Ham, the curator of a creationist museum. They went back and forth for a couple of hours, Dr. Nye attempting to prove genetic evolution is real and Mr. Ham attempting to prove the Earth was created a few thousand years ago.
As was to be expected, it was a stale mate. Neither would budge on their beliefs or views. In fact, the moderator asked Mr. Ham if there was anything Dr. Nye could say to convince him that genetic evolution was real, and Mr. Ham said absolutely not. When asked the same question, Dr. Nye said that there was nothing from the Bible that would compel him to believe in young-Earth creationism. Some declared the debate a bust, but then, convincing each other to change their mind really wasn't the purpose, was it? They knew they would never get their opponent to budge.
The point of the Nye-Ham debate wasn’t to convince each other but to convince their viewers: all of the folks who hadn't quite made up their minds about creationism or genetic evolution. Dr. Nye wanted to bring more people to his side, and Mr. Ham to his. And that’s precisely who you want to target in your own argument papers: those people who can still be persuaded to think or act differently.
I believe in the 20-60-20 principle when it comes to argumentation. On most topics, issues, and debates, expect that roughly 20 percent of people out there will already agree with you. You don’t need to worry about them—they are not your audience. Another 20 percent of people will never agree with you. Again, don’t waste your time on them. There is nothing you could possibly say or do to change their minds. They are not your audience. But the remaining 60 percent of people are in the middle: they have the potential to be persuaded one way or the other. They are your audience! Write with them in mind.
Side note: The 20-60-20 principle works in a lot of situations. I recommend Googling it to learn more. In sales, for example, 20% of people who walk into your store are going to buy something regardless of how bad the salespeople are; 20% won't buy anything even if you have the world's best salespeople; but 60% will or won't buy something based on the salesmanship. In education, 20% of students are going to do great regardless of what their teachers do; 20% are going to struggle despite their teachers' best efforts; and 60% will be directly affected by what their teachers do. In church, 20% of members will keep attending church even if the minister is a moron; 20% will fall away even if the minister is incredible; and 60% will either attend or stop attending depending on what the minister does. Get it? It applies to just about everything. Even right now, 20% of my readers will continue reading even if this is boring; 20% will give up even if I do a great job; and 60% will either continue reading or give up depending on how well I do as a writer. Whatever the situation, that middle 60% should be your focus.
Attempting to prove the un-provable isn't really arguing. At best, it's testifying. I've read many passionate papers over the years from students about the existence of God. Some of them have been quite moving and enjoyable. But while the students may have succeeded in proving that they believe in God, they can never successfully argue the actual existence (or non-existence) of God. I wish it was provable, but it isn’t.
That doesn't mean un-provable topics are off limits. Instead, pick an angle that can be proven. Instead of claiming, "God is real," try claiming, "People who believe in God are more likely to succeed in the workplace." Or, “Religious institutions need to be protected by the state.” Or, “People who pray daily are less likely to become depressed.” These are all claims that you can back up with research and anecdotes and statistics.
Similar to the "God is real" papers, I've read papers about why rape is bad, why drugs are dangerous, and why clean air is important. It isn't that none of these things are true or worth writing about, but the claims are so obvious that they don't need be argued. If you want to write about something that might seem obvious, try taking a less-obvious stance: "Rapists should receive the death penalty." Or, "The United States should decriminalize the use of cocaine." Or, "The Utah state government needs to offer local incentives for implementing clean-air programs."
Perhaps the best strategy for writing an argument is finding a quote, a statement, or an idea and responding to it. Watch the news. Read articles. Pay attention to what's going around you, and then respond. If you feel the itch to write, for example, about why Tibet should be its own country, then skim recent articles to find someone who has claimed the opposite, and then respond to him or her. There are no shortage of quotes and opinions and soundbites out there. By responding to something someone has said, whether live or in print, you automatically create a sense of conversation, a sense of audience, even if the person to whom you are responding will never read your writing. Responding to them doesn't necessarily mean writing to them. If President Trump says something with which I disagree, I don't need to write him a letter to get my point across. But I can say something in the start of my essay or article like, "In last-night's address to the U.S. House of Representatives, President Trump claims that cyborgs should be entitled to Social Security benefits. What he failed to consider in his comments, however, was…" and then I could go on to make my argument. Even though I'm sure the president is an avid reader of my blog, I don't have to assume he'll actually be reading it in order to respond. But my readers, whomever they are, will feel a sense of timeliness, relevance, and importance in my argument. They will get a sense of being part of this ongoing conversation, and they can begin preparing their counter-arguments to continue the conversation forward.
Avoiding the Passion Bomb
by Norm DePlume
When people claim to be passionate about something, as a potential employer reading their cover letter or sitting across from them in an interview, I either think they’re lying or that they’re emotionally unstable. Either way, I find it hard to trust anything they say after the words passion and passionately. Passion has its place—bedrooms, fruit stands, sermons, vampire movies—but it’s a grating red flag in cover letters and interviews.
Have you ever claimed to be passionate about something and then, upon reflection, admitted to yourself that you have, at best, a mere interest in it? There is nothing wrong with proclaiming interest or enthusiasm. They are quite acceptable feelings: honest and positive. So what compels us in cover letters and interviews to ratchet up our feelings? Is the concern that potential employers or admissions committees won’t accept anything less than utter passion?
In the ten-plus years I have been reading cover letters, I would venture to say I have only looked at two or three that haven’t used the word passion or passionately at least once. “I am passionate about helping kids learn to read,” or, “I am passionate about chemistry,” or, “I feel passionately that an internship with your firm will help me fulfill my dream of…” or, “I am passionate about higher education.”
There are a variety of more fitting words and phrases to adequately express your interests and desires without causing potential employers and admissions committees to roll their eyes. “I enjoy working with children,” or, “chemistry intrigues me,” or, “I am excited to learn more about your firm through this internship,” or, “I am concerned about the problems with higher education in California and want to be part of the solution.”
It all comes down to the tenants of good writing you have undoubtedly learned in college: be specific, be descriptive, be brief, and be honest. Chances are, you really don’t feel passionately about these things, and there is a better way to express yourself. And if passion really is what you’re feeling, there’s nothing wrong with that. But maybe keep it to yourself long enough to land that job or internship or scholarship so that you can be in a position to do something with that passion.