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(323) 652-9451What would his sentences be like? Would they read like his prose, if the prose that he wrote read like this?
“It was this look on the face that (slowly) turned left to look at her from the ambulance–a face that in the very most enuretic and disturbing way both was and was not the face of the husband she loved — that galvanized Jeni Roberts awake and prompted her to gather every bit of her nerve together and make the frantic humiliating call to the man she had once thought very seriously of marrying, an associate sales manager and probationary Rotarian whose own facial asymmetry — he had suffered a serious childhood accident that subsequently caused the left half of his face to develop differently from the right side of his face; his left nostril was unusually large, and gaped, and his left eye, which appeared to be almost all iris, was surrounded by concentric rings and bags of slack flesh that constantly twitched and throbbed as irreversibly damaged nerves randomly fired — was what, Jeni decided after their relationship foundered, had helped fuel her uncontrollable suspicion that he had a secret, impenetrable part to his character that fantasized about lovemaking with other women even while his healthy, perfectly symmetrical, and seemingly uninjurable thingie was inside her.” (Brief Interviews With Hideous Men, “Adult World (I),” p.153.)
Scary? Sure, if you’re the appellate justice’s long-suffering clerk. You might wonder, then, why legal writing guru Bryan Garner took the time to interview said Literary God–David Foster Wallace–about persuasive legal writing, before the LG’s untimely death by suicide in 2008.
Well, wonder no longer. As highlighted in a recent article by Garner himself in the ABA Journal, it turns out that, although his fiction is often . . . er . . . challenging, DFW has something to say about persuasive writing, not only from the perspective of an innovative novelist, but also as both an essayist and an academic. Among the things he said:
“So when I teach nonfiction classes, I spend a disproportionate amount of my time teaching the students how to write transitions, even as simple ones as however and moreover between sentences. Because part of their belief that the reader can somehow read their mind is their failure to see that the reader needs help understanding how two sentences are connected to each other—and also transitions between paragraphs.
I’m thinking of the argumentative things that I like the best, and because of this situation the one that pops into my mind is Orwell’s “Politics and the English Language.” If you look at how that’s put together, there’s a transition in almost every single paragraph. Like: “Moreover, not only is this offense common, but it is harmful in this way.” You know where he is in the argument, but you never get the sense that he’s ticking off items on a checklist; it’s part of an organic whole. My guess would be, if I were an argumentative writer, that I would spend one draft on just the freaking argument, ticking it off like a checklist, and then the real writing part would be weaving it and making the transitions between the parts of the argument—and probably never abandoning the opening, never letting the reader forget what the stakes are here. Right? Never letting the reader think that I’ve lapsed into argument for argument’s sake, but that there’s always a larger, overriding purpose.”
I’m looking forward to the book that contains the fruits of this interview, Quack This Way: David Foster Wallace & Bryan A. Garner Talk Language and Writing. Royalties from the book will apparently support the David Foster Wallace literary archive housed at the Harry Ransom Center at the University of Texas at Austin.
An illustration that’s closer to home. A little over a year ago, I had to seek an emergency continuance of a trial because I had been diagnosed with a detached retina which required immediate surgery and a month of recovery. One of my colleagues, knowing our judge well, said he thought there was only a “50/50” chance the judge would grant the continuance. This meant he thought there was a 50% chance the trial would not be continued!
I’m not sure how I could have simultaneously undergone invasive eye surgery and made an opening statement, but you can imagine how important it was to me that the judge grant my application for a continuance. Not only did I explain in my declaration, step by step, how my vision had rapidly deteriorated over the last few days causing me to insist on an emergency appointment with my doctor, I also attached a doctor’s note (which I had to basically dictate to his assistant) and a series of articles from the internet discussing my condition, how emergency surgery is required to avoid almost certain blindness, and how my head would need to be positioned face down during the recovery period. Fortunately, the judge granted the requested continuance, my surgery was successful and I won the trial! The point is to never assume the judge understands and will adopt your position just because you say she should–it’s crucial to explain why.
I came across this post on the Lawyerist on the question whether good legal writing is inherited or developed. Putting aside that debate (the answer is both, by the way), it occurred to me that there are two steps that mediocre legal writers can take to immediately improve their writing.
There are actually three steps. The first is to realize your legal writing needs help and care enough to try to improve it. There are lots of advocates who slog through an entire career filing nearly incomprehensible briefs. Don’t be that lawyer. Take pride in your product. The fact you have read this far, rather than clicking on to something more compelling, means you are at least curious, or you just got an Apple and haven’t figured out how to navigate away from this page.
The first sure-fire way to improve your legal writing is to strive to use an active rather than a passive voice. It’s ironic that I spent several (ok 6, but who’s counting) years getting a degree in Literature-Writing from a really solid university, but it wasn’t until I was a staff member on Law Review that I truly began to understand the importance of active voice. If you missed the special torture that is editing a legal journal, or were otherwise never trained to write in active versus passive voice, I’ll provide a very easy example to illustrate the difference. Using passive voice, a lawyer might construct a sentence that reads: A man, woman and two children were shot by the defendant. Contrast that sentence with one written using active voice: The defendant shot a man, woman and two children.
See? Simplest thing in the world. But, even those of us who generally strive to use active voice occasionally fall into passive voice. The key is to recognize when you’re doing it and decide whether the sentence you’ve created could be improved by changing the voice.
The second way to immediately improve your legal writing is equally simple. Pare back the number of words you use to say what you’re trying to say. This was something my mentor taught me when I was a baby lawyer and I’ve generally tried to adhere to the principle, at least when writing to a court or opposing counsel. Basically, every word in any sentence should be necessary. Nothing extraneous. This will automatically take care of the tendency to include “herein” and other pointless words. It also forces the writer, you, to think about what you’re trying to say and how to say it in the clearest way possible. Judges and clerks appreciate clarity.
Now. This second “way to immediately improve your legal writing” is not a rule. It’s just an approach. And, it’s an approach I freely disregard when I want to emphasize something through repetition or diction (word choice). Hell, I often write entire paragraphs in the passive voice and include a lot of extra words. But, when I do it, I do it purposely, usually for effect. Otherwise, I strive to write clean, spare, Hemingway-like sentences, in the active voice, as free as possible of legalese.* (*Ok, I’ll admit an affinity for ancient latin phrases like sua sponte, ab initio, inter alia. I know that writers who know what they’re talking about, as opposed to armchair poseurs (who me?), have zero tolerance for latin phrases. If I give in to the urge to use them in an early draft, I almost always delete them.)
There. If you struggle with your legal writing, try these two suggestions. I guarantee you’ll see results.
Learn MoreA great post on Associate’s Mind, entitled “Millennial Jurors: Entertain Us,” discusses the challenges facing trial lawyers trying to communicate with Gen-Y jurors. In addition to prognostications about how these young adults can’t sit still and pay attention for the hours needed to take in information during a jury trial (how will they check their smartphones?!?), the post (which itself references an article in the Texas Bar Journal) notes how information needs to be presented to Millennial jurors in shorter visual “bites,” as opposed to purely verbal, format. Better make sure it’s not boring, either.
Undoubtedly a cottage industry will sprout from within the ranks of jury consultants and trial support firms of “Millennial specialists” who claim to know the secret to engaging Gen-Y jurors. But I don’t think the shorter attention span, and increased need for engaging visual, as well as verbal, content is really that new or a bad thing at all. I’ve written elsewhere how trials are too long and taxing on jurors’ minds and attention spans. Anyone trying cases in the past 25 or 30 years knows that a purely verbal presentation–without visual aids (even rudimentary visual aids) is risky, even if the subject matter is pretty sexy.
I think that, while the (alleged) changes in attention span, and increased appetite for visual stipulation seen in Gen-Y (and presumably later) generations might be lamented by parents, educators, psychologists, novelists (and other print media writers) and others, it should not necessarily be lamented by those in the business of trying cases. Rather, like any development, it should be prepared for and embraced. It is true that evidence will need to be presented differently if it’s going to get through to Millennial jurors, and this will require some reflection and research. (Perhaps more in-depth research than was undertaken in developing the Texas Bar Journal article, which was simply a survey of law school students.) And, probably, some trial and error.
Turning the coin over, though, there will surely be evidence that only the younger generations will “get,” at least at first. For example, while it’s commonplace now for defense lawyers to scour the internet for impeachment evidence, there are older jurors who don’t surf the internet and don’t understand “The Facebook,” Twitter or LinkedIn. Cases involving new media, reality television and certain progressive technologies might be completely foreign to more senior jurors but completely familiar to members of Gen-Y. (OK, I’m a little biased because I practice in Los Angeles, where every case will someday be “pre-tried” on TMZ). In short, there should be a place at the table for every kind of juror. The challenge to the trial lawyer is to engage, as best as possible, with jurors of every generation, not just the over-30 demographic.
We’ve got to raise our game, or get out of the way.
Learn MoreFew would argue with the suggestion that a crucial skill for any lawyer who makes a living helping clients resolve disputes is the ability to persuade. Anybody can look up a case. And, while novel arguments or clever strategies can enjoy a certain symmetrical beauty, the ability to persuade, to sell, is ultimately what separates a good or great lawyer from the merely adequate. To this premise, I would add that the ability to write, to string together sentences in a clear, articulate and persuasive manner, is the most crucial skill of all and one clients should absolutely insist upon.
Why is writing such a critical skill to our trade? Conceptually, persuasive writing doesn’t just require a command of language, it compels organization. Even a point delivered orally requires a structure, if it is going to persuade. Clear writing always embodies this structure. It reflects the ability to conceptualize and frame an argument. Like the frame of a house, a clearly framed argument helps guide the reader—often a judge—follow on the journey to the desired conclusion. It lays a firm foundation for the real magic which, in the context of the law, is the synthesis, or interweaving, of evidentiary facts with a governing rule. There is no substitute for the ability to organize and frame an argument.
In modern civil disputes, it is always a written instrument—a complaint or claim—which sets a case in motion. While it’s certainly possible to win a massive verdict or coax a settlement out of a case premised on an inartfully drafted complaint, the complaint frames the issues, sets the tone of the case, and introduces the parties and their lawyer. If the complaint is sloppy, exaggerates or overreaches, it underwhelms both the judge and the lawyer on the receiving end. The judge may become prejudiced. Equally important, there can be a subtle, almost imperceptible, shift in the balance of power between the opposing lawyers. Respect between counsel must typically be earned; it is rarely presumed.
Most crucial of all, ask any civil trial or appellate judge and you will hear that, in all but the rarest instances, an argument is won or lost on the quality of the papers. This is not to discount the importance of having favorable law or facts. But good law or compelling facts are worthless if your lawyer has not articulated them in a clear and persuasive manner.
Clients should demand their lawyer have impeccable writing skills!
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