I’ve been playing around with the idea of subjectivity a lot in writing. As someone who has been writing stories (short and long) since the age of thirteen, I’d say that my writing style is largely creative as opposed to academic. In fact, one comment I kept receiving from my supervisors when I was writing my PhD thesis, as well as from my viva panel, was that my writing was too “narrative”-like, as opposed to objective and academic.
At first, I didn’t really understand the comment. What does it mean to have a piece of writing be “narrative”? In my mind, narrative writing is a form of writing where points flow cohesively into a narrative or story. Regardless of whether you’re writing a story, or a business report, or an academic article—the flow is similar enough that you can adopt a narrative way of writing in pretty much anything.
The Evergreen Structure in Any Piece of Writing
I’ve had the image above in my mind for a while now. The concept is simple. Any kind of structure a writer follows, whether for business, academic or fiction writing, is pretty much the same for any kind of narrative.
When we write, there’s normally the Set Up, which in “business” writing refers to the situation (I like to refer to Mandel Communication’s SCIPAB model). In a research paper, we’d call it the introduction or background, which basically is there to set the scene of the entire story, or article, or business case. In fiction writing, it’s called the Set Up, where we set the scene for the start of the story.
Then, the level of interest goes up. In fiction writing, we call it the Rising Action. In research writing, we call it the Problem Statement, where we describe all the problems that exist that the research is based on, or which it seeks to address. In business communication, this is called the Complication. Basically, this is where, having hooked the reader, we now get them to be invested. Invested in the story, in the need for the research, in the need to read/listen further, and so on.
Then, at the height of a story, we have the Climax. For research papers, this is the Results section, where you describe everything you found. In a business case, we talk about the current Position we are in. This is where the “height” of the “action” takes place. It’s the most intriguing part of the writeup. It’s the whole “point” in getting you all invested with the Rising Action.
And finally, we have the Resolution, where there is a sharp “unwind” as we lead a reader to the end. In research, we talk about the Implications of what we found. In business, we normally end with a call to Action that needs to be taken, and the benefits that come with it. It’s the final “so what” after everything is done.
So, as you can see, the structure of a writing does not determine much at all. Books, even nonfiction books, tend to follow the same structure. Speeches do too. There’s that typical curve that we follow in any narrative that just…resonates. Nobody, at least nobody who wants to retain their audience, would start with the climax, unless they employ the strategy of open loops, which is a subject that needs to be covered in its own post.
So, going back to the issue of my academic thesis being too “narrative”, I eventually realised that the problem is not in my flow or structure. Rather, it’s a lot about the language itself.
Objectivity vs Subjectivity in Writing
In research writing, as a researcher, ideally you want to look at data objectively and draw your conclusions based on what the data tells you. You do not want to start with a theory and try to fit the data around the theory to explain it.
Sherlock Holmes explains this very well, in fact. He says, “It is a capital mistake to theorize before one has data. Insensibly one begins to twist facts to suit theories, instead of theories to suit facts.”
Now where my personal style is concerned, I eventually came to realize that my way of writing is very “narrative” in the sense that I try to link my data together to form a story. In my research, I was trying to figure out what fresh graduates need to do to communicate effectively at the workplace. I’d have data related to the level of linguistic competence they should have, how they should adapt themselves in the workplace culture, how they can communicate more effectively, what they should do in the events of communication breakdown, and I ended up formulating a workable ‘narrative’ that ties all this together.
But essentially, research writing does not work like this.
In research writing, you present the facts first—objectively. You say, “Oh look, this data says they need to have a functional level of grammar, but that grammatical precision in and of itself is not exactly necessary as long as their message is delivered”. You then need to say where this data came from. Whether the data is valid or not, and why. You present the data as it is, as just facts.
It’s only much, much later that you begin to draw your conclusions and fit the data into an “emergent” narrative. It’s only much later that you can say something like, “Well, at fresh graduate level, of course the expectation is that their language won’t necessarily be impeccable. This can be polished later on, through exposure and mentoring and experience.” You take all the data, put them together, and only then fit it into the storyline and what your research is going to say.
In very colorful words, this way of writing is extremely dry. And boring.
Why Researchers Can Hardly Write for the Public
Nowadays, researchers (at least in Malaysia) are pressured to translate their research findings and publish them into books and articles that a lay person can read. And I’m sorry to say that I truly believe a lot of them are unable to do this, simply because…they have to first learn the art of writing that is more creative, and closer to the audience, in the first place. They need to understand how to not be so detached, how not to be so objective, in order to talk to people.
As someone who loves to read a lot of nonfiction books, I see good writers always starting their books with their life story first. Books like Peter Attia’s “Outlive”, like James Clear’s “Atomic Habits”, like Susan Pierce Thompson’s “Bright Line Eating”. They cite a whole load of research, including their own empirical knowledge, but they preface this first with their personal stories to relate to reader.
And here we finally come to the issue I actually want to talk about, which is subjective writing.
I feel that subjective writing is where the true art of writing lies. Academic writing is dry and tedious, but it is learnable. Writing creatively (and I don’t mean fiction) requires a bit more finesse. A bit more of…”loose” rules.
It’s an art, essentially.
I was recently drawn to the art of “subjective” writing, or artful writing, thanks to my yearlong involvement in writing a partial memoir for a very renowned and respectable leader—a project I hope will be wrapped up and published very, very soon. I have done my fair share of ghostwriting projects, and while this project was not exactly ghostwriting, it did require me to exercise a bit more creativity in the sentences I construct. The only problem, I realize, is that if you want to write, perspective plays such an important part in enhancing the writing game.
Using Words to Paint the Perspective
There’s an art behind good vocabulary, coupled with clear perspective use, that can really transform a narrative.
Let’s say I want to write about a loud sound.
If I’m writing from the perspective of a fencer or swordsman, I could say that “The noise cut through the air”.
If I’m writing from the perspective of a musician, I’d say “The sound reverberated through the room”.
If I’m a scientist, I’d say that “The sound waves echoed around the room”.
A pilot or truck driver may write, “The sound roared like an engine.”
A doctor or musician could write about “The loud, uneven beat” of a sound.
A carpenter may write about “The hammering of the sound”.
And so on.
I actually listened to a really interesting podcast recently about this. The writer said that in the first draft of anything, he would write from his own perspective. He’d leave the writing for a while to forget it, and when he comes back to it, he’ll edit it through a particular character’s perspective.
See, a fencer would notice how a sound cuts through something. A doctor or musician would notice the beat. A carpenter may hear a sound as being similar to the hammering of his tools.
But none of us are working these specific jobs, are we?
So, if you’re like me and you’re reading this, you’re probably an academic. Or someone working in the corporate sector. So how do we utilize this kind of subjectivity to make our writing more artful?
It actually boils down to how we think. How our backgrounds and expertise and areas of specialization have shaped us.
As an academic, I would observe that, “The loud sound was thunderous, capturing everyone’s immediate attention”—because as an academic, grabbing the attention of students would be the foremost thing I notice. So when something, anything, manages to grab the attention of a group of people, I’d notice this.
If you’re in the corporate sector, you’d probably write something like, “The sound was forceful, making us halt all operations” because that’s also unthinkable unless there’s some of crisis happening.
In short, tap into your inner identity
The idea is to be intentional and internally observant in our descriptions.
As I’m writing this, I look around and notice, for example, the color of the walls where my desk and cubicle sits. The walls are peach. But to me, the walls of my office are not just painted a peach color.
It’s a soft peach color that you’d expect from the peach cream in between two vanilla cakes. It’s like the color of a blouse I once wore to New Zealand and loved because it contrasted so well with the deep blue/green of their ocean.
My way of seeing the color is subjective and very personal to how someone else might notice the color.
Artful writing is anchored into who we are, or to who we’re writing as. This is what gives it the authenticity and personality that distinguishes it from academic or even artificial intelligence generated writing.
In the end, it’s not about wanting to sound like Holmes or Arthur Conan Doyle or like any other researcher—though there is definitely a time and a place for these kinds of “voices”. It’s about wanting to sound like yourself—a version of you with their senses wide open, there to let the reader in to see the world through your eyes.