The Goal of Writing

In the introduction to “Writer’s Toolbox,” I mentioned that writing is like chess. Specifically, I compared writing to chess in regard to the mindset of the novice writer versus the mindset of the experienced writer. Writing is like chess also in the sense that writing involves a strategy—a larger game plan—for convincing readers. The strategy of chess is to win (specifically, by putting the opponent’s king in checkmate). What exactly is the strategy of writing? What are you trying to win when you write?

The Three Aspects of Writing: Ethos, Logos, and Pathos

Well, it depends on what you are writing.

Still, I have a pretty good definition for the goal of all writing. I should note that when I say “writing,” I mean writing that is intended for some reader, whether an English teacher or the American reading public—or both.

As much as I’d like to take credit for it, this definition is not mine. John R. Trimble, who wrote what I consider the book on writing, Writing with Style: Conversations on the Art of Writing, gives the following general definition for writing:

“Writing is the art of creating desired effects” within the reader.

I like that definition. It works for any writing, whether it’s a mystery novel (desired effects: suspense and conjectures on “who did it.”), a persuasive essay (desired effect: to convince the reader that the writer’s position is correct, or at least valid), or a romance novel (desired effect: I’d rather not say).

My desired effect for that last parenthetical phrase was to make you laugh. Did it work? My desired effect in this paragraph is to give you the sense that I’m in your head—that I’m conversing with you and responding to the thoughts that come to you as you read my prose. Is that working? (I hope so.) These are smaller desired effects, but they serve the purpose of my larger strategy: to teach as I entertain.

My discussions, for the most part, address the writing form I teach in most composition courses: persuasive writing. As its name implies, the desired effect of persuasive writing is persuasion. (I apologize for the tautology, but I am still amazed at how many people ask me what the goal of persuasive writing is—when the answer is right there in the name.)

Still, there’s more to persuasive writing than persuading. First, what do I mean by “persuasion”? The best case is that my reader—who at first disagreed with my position—enjoys my essay, agrees with me, and promptly changes positions. But, that result is not realistic, no matter how eloquent or convincing the prose. Chances are, people who hold strong worldviews will not change their positions after reading one essay. Still, I hope to convince them that my position is tenable. At the very least, I want my audience to say, “I don’t agree with his position, but he argues it well. And, I like him.”

That last part, the notion of liking a writer, is important. In the writing business, we call that concept ethos (more on that later). When I write, I try to come across as the kind of guy that anyone—even those who disagree with me—would enjoy having a beer with. (That’s one reason I ended that sentence with the preposition “with,” normally a no-no in writing. If I had said, “with whom they would enjoy having a beer,” no one would want to actually have a beer with me. Think about it.)

This level of persuasion is subtle, but powerful. The reader, after finishing the essay, still disagrees completely. However, since the arguments were strong, and since the writer came across as sincere and intelligent, the reader continues to consider the writer’s assertions over the course of the day, the year—the next five years. The memory of the argument lends itself to a body of work that affects the reader, whether he knows it or not, in moving towards the writer’s position. A few bricks fall out of the foundation upon which the reader has built his position.

The Three Aspects of Writing

So, how exactly does a writer achieve persuasion? What is the anatomy of a persuasive essay? In short, you should think of writing as involving three aspects:

1. The writer (ethos)

2. The writing itself (logos)

3. The reader (pathos)

Every writer—or at least, every writer who wants to be successful—must consider all three of these writing aspects. They are all part of the rhetorical game. The writer wants to give a sense that she is an authority on the topic, or at least that she knows her topic well enough to write with some authority. But, she does not want to come across as stodgy or inaccessible. Some personality (infused with a healthy smidgen of honesty) helps give the reader the sense that the writer is a friendly, sincere soul—but one who still knows her stuff. That’s ethos.

What about the writing itself? Is it clearly written? Does the argument make sense? Does the argument ever contradict itself? Is the research cited pertinent to the writer’s arguments or points? That’s logos.

But, even if the writer’s points are clear and well argued, who wants to read a dry, clinical list of pertinent data and formalized arguments? Writers win readers over, not only by appealing to readers’ intellects, but also by evoking emotional responses. A good writer makes people think, but she also makes them feel. This aspect of style infuses otherwise dull facts and mute statistics with humanity and purpose. Emotional responses come in many forms. Does the writer want to make the reader laugh? Does she want readers to cry? Does she want her readers to be angry about the issue she’s discussing? Is she writing to shock her readers? Maybe she wants a bit of all four responses. That’s pathos.

The goal is to balance these three aspects in your writing. Often, a writer achieves all three simultaneously.

“Simultaneously? How is that done?” you might ask.

I’ll show you. Here’s an example from Bart Ehrman, one of my favorite non-fiction writers. These passages are drawn from the introduction to Ehrman’s book, God’s Problem: How the Bible Fails to Answer Our Most Important Question—Why We Suffer.

When I was young I always found the Christmas Eve service to be the most meaningful worship experience of the year. The sacred hymns and carols, the prayers and praises, the solemn readings from Scripture, the silent reflections on this most powerful of nights, when the divine Christ came into the world as a human infant…

What moved me most, however, was the congregational prayer, which did not come from the Book of Common Prayer but was written for the occasion, spoken loudly and clearly by a layperson standing in the aisle, his voice filling the vast space of the cavernous church around us. “You came into the darkness and made a difference,” he said. “Come into the darkness again.” This was the refrain of the prayer, repeated several times, in a deep and sonorous voice. And it brought tears to my eyes as I sat with bowed head, listening and thinking. But these were not tears of joy. They were tears of frustration. If God had come into the darkness with the advent of the Christ child, bringing salvation to the world, why is the world in such a state? Why doesn’t he enter into the darkness again? Where is the presence of God in this world of pain and misery? Why is the darkness so overwhelming?…

“You came into the darkness and you made a difference. Come into the darkness again.” Yes, I wanted to affirm this prayer, believe this prayer, commit myself to this prayer. But I couldn’t. The darkness is too deep, the suffering too intense, the divine absence too palpable. During the time that it took for this Christmas Eve service to conclude, more than 700 children in the world would have died of hunger; 250 others from drinking unsafe water; and nearly 300 other people from malaria. Not to mention the ones who had been raped, mutilated, tortured, dismembered, and murdered.

No matter one’s position on the existence of god, the sheer power of Ehrman’s prose is undeniable. It possesses a moving level of sincere frustration (ethos), and Ehrman presents some shocking numbers (logos/pathos) to give reasons for his frustration. In short, this writing represents a perfect fusion of all three writing aspects.

Four Simple Rules for Effective Writing

Here are John Trimble’s four essentials to winning readers. Ehrman’s writing in the passage above exhibits all four of these essentials:

1. Have something to say that’s worth their attention.

2. Be sold on its validity and importance yourself so you can pitch it with conviction.

3. Furnish strong arguments that are well supported with concrete proof.

4. Use confident language—vigorous verbs, strong nouns, and assertive phrasing.

These are the elements of any successful writing strategy.

Want to add apostrophes and commas to your writing toolbox? Follow these links:

• Apostrophes
• Commas

Read, write—and enjoy!

Works Cited

Ehrman, Bart D. God’s Problem: How the Bible Fails to Answer Our Most Important Question—Why We Suffer. New York: HarperCollins, 2008.

Trimble, John R. Writing with Style: Conversations on the Art of Writing. 2nd ed. Upper Saddle River, NJ: Prentice Hall, 2000.

Christopher Altman, a community-college composition specialist, is passionate about bringing the art of effective writing to average, everyday Americans. He has published work in the field of medieval literature, and has authored a book on advertising language entitled, Telling the Truth to Deceive: How Advertisers Manipulate the English Language. Mr. Altman is an assistant professor of English at Onondaga Community College in Syracuse, New York.