Forced Transitions

Ever been talking with someone and halfway through whatever you’re saying, you remember something else that’s important to the discussion? In conversation, it’s better to interject this point and explain its relevance than to fumble around it, So we stop abruptly and add whatever important detail we need to. It’s awkward and slows the discussion, but we can’t go back and change the conversation to make it fit better.

However, we can go back and make changes in writing. We work to make the final version appear organic, and we’re responsible for fine tuning, revising, and editing to clarify our arguments and eliminate awkward moments. As writers we take the time to develop and maintain a consistent, logical flow, eliminating inelegant breaks to get everything in. One way to do this is through the careful use of transitions.

A transition is a logical move from one topic to another, usually showing up at the beginning or end of a paragraph (where the big shifts in topic happen). Best case scenario, each paragraph will sit side by side in a logical progression, each developing ideas and concepts explored previously. With a strong logical progression, the transitions should occur naturally, resolving whatever issues were presented while moving others along to be addressed in more detail in the next paragraph.

And then there are forced transitions.

This is when paragraphs begin with words like “and”, “another”, and “also” instead of relying on the logical formation of ideas to make the shift. By themselves these are not bad words: they are useful for joining items in lists or signaling additional information, but they do not work for starting paragraphs. They bring the transition to the reader’s attention. It stands and shouts, “I’m going to talk about something else now!”

It can be easy to see how these might be considered good transitions: they indicate a change in topic after all. However, essay format has its own tools to do this, namely, new lines ( with the next line starting with indentations or a blank line between the two). These are to paragraphs what periods are to sentences: periods signal the end of an idea expressed and developed inside its sentence. 

Paragraphs end with a period and with the line, creating a stronger break and a stronger shift in format. It’s smooth and natural, and we’re trained to understand this is how paragraphs work; it is a simple, unobtrusive way to shift ideas. With paragraph structure as a guide, we can easily read from one paragraph to another, the message of “new topic” coming easily without any distracting words getting in the way or unnecessarily complicating it.

Placing a period and hitting enter isn’t enough though: that makes a new paragraph, but it doesn’t preserve the logical flow of ideas. Instead, it’s best to consider the purpose or function of the paragraph in relationship to those around it. In short, there should be a reason for each paragraph to be wherever it is.

Sometimes, I’ll be looking at a draft with a student and I’ll ask why a given paragraph is wherever it is, and there’s no answer because there isn’t a reason for it to be there. If there was a good reason, it would reflect in how the alignment of paragraphs clarifies the ideas and develops one into the other. These problem paragraphs tend to have forced transitions: paragraphs that start with with statements like “Also, it is important to…” or “Another related issue is…” which just derail the argument.

All in all, forced transitions are a symptom of a much larger problem. As I said above, there’s nothing wrong with these words: it’s just they can be used at inappropriate times to compensate for insufficiencies elsewhere in the essay. So, if you catch yourself using forced transitions, take a good look at the paragraph in question and ask yourself what it’s contributing to the essay as a whole. You may write a few new sentences to better show the transition. You may find a better place for it. You may find the essay is better off without it. Either way, the essay will be improved and logic maintained.

Move on to Policy

Imagine looking at what’s playing at a movie theater with some friends. You have a friendly discussion about which movie is worth seeing, discussing the different styles of different directors and actors, maybe even deriding some of the movies and questioning whether or not some of the worst ones can really be called “movies”. Within this discussion, you and your friends will have hit on the first 3 levels of Stasis:

• Fact: Whether or not what’s playing at the theaters can really be called “movies.”
• Definition: Discussing actor and director style.
• Value: Which movie is the best or worth seeing.

And then none of you go see the movie.

This would mean the discussion never rose to Policy because no action was taken: the discussion ended at Value, merely deciding which is best. While there’s nothing wrong with having Fact, Definition, or Value level arguments, there’s only so much these arguments can do. Because they’re not Policy arguments, by definition, very little or nothing at all directly happens because of them.

Policy deals with what to do. Fact, Definition, and Value deal with what or how something is. It's fairly easy to argue these points because we can easily pick them up and leave them behind. Think about an art exhibition:

• Fact: Do I consider what is being exhibited art?
• Definition: What makes it art or not art? Just what is art?
• Value: Is it good art? Which pieces are better or more important?

And these are arguments you could easily have with anyone: friends, family, curators, artists, and even complete strangers. Some discussions may become heated or deeply philosophical, but if they never go beyond Value, it is very easy to just go on as if nothing has happened.

This is where Policy comes in. A Policy level argument focuses on action and change, which requires more attention to audience, implementation, and even considering the repercussions of your actions.

For example, at the art gallery, you have a friendly argument with someone you met and you convince them of the transcendence of a certain piece. Congratulations on your Value level argument. This person then turns to you and asks you to sell them the artwork. But you're in the same position they're in: an observer who came to see the exhibit. If you collect this person's money for this artwork, you'll be guilty of fraud. Instead, you'd have to find out who can sell the artwork (studio or artist) and then purchase it. There could even be a competition for it: a museum could be vying for it, but you want it for your private collection: you have to convince the owner, who may be the studio or the artist but likely not both, that their work is better suited in your collection than in a museum (a Value level argument) so they should sell it to you (Policy level).

Ultimately, this is about recognizing that our decisions, even if they are purely abstract or philosophical, like what constitutes “art” or what art is superior, will reflect itself in our actions and we need to consider the implementation and consequences of those actions. You may decide Artwork A is better than Artwork B, but how could you buy Artwork A? And from there, what happens when you buy Artwork A? Or if you buy Artwork B? How will it impact your life, your home, your social standing? What will happen because other places, like the museum and by extension the general public, won't have access to it?

Policy level arguments require more attention to audience, implementation and repercussions and, whether implicitly or explicitly, involve Fact, Definition and Value level arguments. This is all because Policy focuses on bringing about action. Fact, Definition, and Value level arguments are merely Policy Level arguments waiting to be acted on.

Make more than noise and smoke: Audience Specificity

“Specific Audience” is a term I throw around. This terminology came after I asked students about their audiences and they answered with things like “parents”,“doctors, “teachers”, and “the government.”

I've addressed this elsewhere (in “Write for a specific, powerful audience”), which I will quote here:

Picking an audience varies from genre to genre and purpose to purpose. Unfortunately, students frequently default to “parents,” “teachers,” and (this one makes me want to break things) anything that starts with “people who...” The problem with these audiences is it’s difficult, if not impossible, to address them as a whole because there will be so many different groups within the larger body. Writing for them can mean relying on logical fallacies and broad assumptions that reflect your own bias more than your understanding of the demographic you're trying to write to.

So broad, vague, audiences while trying to write argumentatively, is just spinning your wheels: you'll make some noise and some smoke, but in the end, it'll dissipate and you won't go anywhere.

I think the issue stems from two sources. The first is how arbitrary the concept is in a lot of English education and the second is popular media. As much as teachers pound it in, audience rarely ascends beyond something to mention, especially when it is closely tied to genre in literature studies, with genres written to appeal to broad audiences for the sake of market appeal and sales. This leads me to popular media, which acts the same way. Basically, it's easy to say “people who've watched Star Wars” because, in American culture, if not worldwide, this demographic will be large.

Authors and directors thrive off of this appeal to a wider audience, but, in education, there's the underlying, frequently unstated, fact the teacher is the audience and whatever a student writes, they need to tailor it to their teacher.

As it turns out, paying careful attention to and even seriously researching your audience can help shape what you're writing and helps you to better understand your topic and its implications, which is why audience is especially important in argumentation and persuasion. In the same post as the above quoted paragraph, I also said:

[A] specific audience (one that has a formal name, whether it's an individual or an organizational body) is a far better option.

Sometimes I elaborate on this by asking whether or not the audience has a physical mailing address. If, for example, you were to write to “parents,” what address would you put on the envelope? It's one thing to write for parents saying they should do something, but it's another thing to write to, for example, a major publication that has a large audience consisting of parents who share your concerns and interests.

Allow me to elaborate:

Vague Audience	Specific Audience
Parents	Parenting magazines, websites, and blogs
Teachers	A specific school, a school district, a parent-teacher association, a state's board of education.
Doctors	A hospital or clinic, a medical association
Government	State legislature, a senator or congressperson, a state managed organization
Employers	The Better Business Burearu, a manager, supervisor, or owner of a business.

Note that saying something like “a school district” is still indistinct because every school district has different priorities and standards: your essay that may be gladly accepted by one would be vehemently rejected by another.

Basically, if your audience is vague, adjust it to a more specific audience that has direct influence over the issue you are concerned with. This may seem redundant but it is significantly more realistic because, outside of the classroom, this is how you would do it and because it forces you to evaluate your audience and tailor your writing to them.

So, in short, specify your audience.