Finding Your Voice as a Scholar and a Writer

Years ago, I was contracted by several Federal grant-making organizations to provide training to grantees on writing for a public audience. The grantors understood that one of the most important parts of research is writing, and that academics’ findings could only be useful to the broader society if they knew about the findings.

Fast forward to earlier this year and I was helping a scholar-practitioner ready her manuscript for publication and I shared with her that it was my belief that she could end up regretting (as I did with my first book) that her own voice was missing from a publication that had her name on the front. She had worked so hard to elevate the voices of those she interviewed as part of her qualitative study that she had neglected her own voice and experiences as she transitioned from a purely academic dissertation manuscript to a book intended for public consumption.

In over 15 years as an editor who has worked with many academics, I know this is an ongoing issue for many in the academy. Here are some practical tips for finding your voice when writing for a public audience.

Who are the people who will inherently care about your research? Who are the people who should care but likely won’t seek it out? What do you need those people to do with the work?

You should know that you are not writing for everyone, and if you are completely honest with yourself, the purpose of your writing is not simply to inform. Are you hoping to inspire a policy change? Encourage someone to stay the course?

Understanding who you are talking to and what you want them to do is a key part of writing for public audiences. Avoid jargon and explain your research the way you would to your mom and dad or your sorority sister. Make it plain and easy—public writing is not the time to demonstrate your vast vocabulary or prove your competence through technical details.

Use active voice and avoid overly complex sentence structures. Think of it as an ongoing dialogue with your readers—this can help to make your writing feel more engaging and less like a lecture.

In any conversation about branding, I always start by asking people to think about who they are. How do you see yourself, and how do others see you? How do you want others to see you, and where do those three overlap? That overlap is the sweet spot of your brand—but there is often a lot of value in the pieces of how you see yourself and how you want others to see you that represent an opportunity to strengthen your brand.

Think about the reasons you took on your area of research—why are they important to you, and why should they be important to other people? These are likely the pieces of how you see yourself that are missing from how others see you, and they are important to your story—and inspiring others to care about your work. What are the pieces of yourself that you’re bringing to your work that you may not even realize are there?

Women of color in particular are often discouraged from pursuing scholarship that is rooted in and reflects our lived experiences. A “well-meaning” chair might advise you to steer away from topics that you might be “too close” to, like racial disparities in higher education leadership, hoping to help you be objective in your studies. But your writing is so much more powerful when you bring your full self.

I often tell people that the day I stopped trying to divorce myself—as an older Millennial mom, a Black woman who was raising Black children (who are statistically at the bottom of every educational attainment metric, even when you control for external factors like family income and native English speaking)—from my work on education equity, my writing got exponentially better. Because who better to unpack the nuance of some of the issues that continue to plague our society than someone who understands what’s at stake?

Your overall goal in public writing is not objectivity. It is to establish yourself as a credible subject-matter expert, but it is important to remember that people are inclined to believe people they like or trust.

Tell stories about your subject to ground the theoretical in reality, and help people understand the human impact of your work. And understand that just because a term is widely used, that does not necessarily mean it is a good term to use.

My work is on racial disparities in education, for instance, and I know that if I simply say, “underrepresented students,” that umbrella term can distract from specific issues of specific populations. Though the popular language in our current climate is to talk about low-income students in Title I schools if we want to solve for problems facing Black and Brown students, using these terms allows us to sweep the fact that even when you control for income and other factors, Black students are still the least likely to have access to certain educational opportunities.

Avoid deficit language and instead focus on systems as the deficit, not people.

You should always suggest ways to solve any problems you identify that are supported in the literature or through your research. Don’t leave it up to the reader to decide what to do with your findings; give them a roadmap for how to achieve the goal you want them to achieve—whether that’s a policy change or simply advocating for a cause.

Each sentence should contribute to the reader’s understanding of the topic and inspire them to act. If a concept is particularly complex, consider using metaphors or analogies to help bridge the gap.

I always tell people that narratives inspire to people to act, while data justifies action (or inaction). To tell a complete story, you need both personal stories of study participants or those who are impacted by the subject and quantitative data around the problem—and solution—you are discussing. Always acknowledge opposing viewpoints, but it is not your job to argue against your main point in your writing.

And remember: Your ultimate goal is to build community around your work that can help advance solutions for affected populations.