A. Overall Organization
I’ll say very little about overall organization, since that is often determined by discipline. The best way to infer whether a particular journal or press has a rigid arrangement is to analyse articles or books in that journal or press, and see if they have the same organization.[1]
Many scholarly articles have the loose structure of hypo-thesis or thesis question, description of experiment, data, conclusion, implications. If there are multiple “experiments” (case studies or texts), then one might repeat the description/data/conclusion two or three times within an article. In the humanities, historical events, texts, people, or movements fulfill the same rhetorical function as the experiment does in experimental sciences—they provide the data. What this means is that scholarly articles don’t generally have the funnel/proof/conclusion structure often prescribed. Instead, they are likely to look something like:
Introduction (possibly ending with a partition)
Narration (of necessary background material, or of the experimental method)
Data (Proof)
Conclusion (summary of argument)
Speculative conclusion
The “data” section is by far the longest, and should make up the bulk of the article.
There are various ways of arranging one’s proof. In the case of an experiment, it’s usually relatively straightforward. With other kinds of arguments, however, there are more options. First drafts often use a chronological arrangement, and that’s an excellent strategy for generating a draft, but doesn’t necessarily work for all sorts of reasons. The earliest text (or incident, or case, or person, or example) might be the most complicated, the most confusing, or most problematic.
Some version of a list structure is fairly common, but people don’t always realize that there are different ways of organizing a list. The structure might go from least to most important arguments, least to most persuasive, most specific to most abstract, most to least familiar (generally the most desirable, as it means that one going from “known” to “new” information for the reader). Those are ways in which a list might build.
It can be effective for a list to decline, as in journalism (from most to least important), abstract to specific, clear to obscure, least to most familiar. A Nestorian arrangement puts the weakest argument in the middle (particularly effective in speeches, as the audience begins and ends with the strongest points).
Scholarly arguments often have a comparison structure. When you compare two things (Chester and Hubert), you do so in regard to several qualities (size, intelligence, attitude toward the red ball, age). An initial impulse that writers have is to discuss the first thing and then the second, so you have a structure like this:
Chester's size
Chester's intelligence
Chester's attitude toward the red ball
Chester's age
Hubert's size
Hubert's intelligence
Hubert's attitude toward the red ball
Hubert's age
That can work fine, but it can also mean a lot of backtracking along the way (as you remind your reader of the contrast) and a fairly long conclusion (for the same reason). It's often more effective to let the qualities organize the paper:
Size: Chester, Hubert
Intelligence: Chester, Hubert
Attitude toward the red ball: Chester, Hubert
Age: Chester, Hubert
This latter organization is even more helpful when one is comparing three or more things.
Writers don’t always realize that a very common kind of scholarly argument (the theory/application argument) is actually a comparison paper. Much scholarship tests a hypothesis (in the humanities generally called a “theory”) by applying it to a new case, or new kind of case. Since the hypothesis usually has several parts to it (criteria, really) the structure of the argument will likely take each criterion and apply it to the case. Similarly, an article or book that lays out a new hypothesis often does so through a set of criteria. In all three kinds of cases—a true comparison, theory/application, and new theory—scholarly writing is distinguished from student writing by having to argue for the relevance of the case(s) being compared.
For student writing, the reader is often looking just to see that the application demonstrates that the student has understood the theory/hypothesis. The student isn’t expected to change the scholarly conversation significantly, after all, so if s/he does nothing more than show that a theory applies in a new case exactly as it does in the known cases just as one would expect, that’s perfectly acceptable. But a scholarly article that confirms expectations can be a little difficult to place; thus, one needs to argue (usually in or near the introduction) that this specific case is a good test—it has characteristics that might falsify the hypothesis, or one wouldn’t expect it to apply, or it is completely different from the kinds of cases previously discussed.
The main problem with a comparison paper is that you can end up with what I tell students is the comparison paper from hell. One can compare apples and oranges—they are both sort of round, grow on trees, are good in fruit salad, have an ‘a’ in them, have various hybrids. But the comparisons don’t lead to anything interesting. Comparing two things in order to show an unexpected commonality (both were once considered prized gifts) or to argue for a new category (trees I would like to grow in my backyard) can make the trouble of comparison worthwhile (assuming my reader cares about my backyard plans). Applying the theory to a specific case is significant if one argues that the application complicates, contradicts, or confirms the theory, or if it highlights something previously obscured about the case—but it needs to do something other than demonstrate that one can apply the theory.
A chronological structure just follows time and goes from whatever happened first to whatever happened next. As mentioned above, it can be an excellent way to generate a draft, especially if one has lots of time, but it can mislead writers who have limited time. I've found that students who use a chronological structure will sometimes include material that isn't necessary (just because it happened next), or will spend a lot of time on whatever happened first and then run out of energy for whatever happened later. The proportion of their argument ends up being determined by how much time they had left rather than how long that portion of the argument needs to be.
One variation on the chronological structure that can be useful for scholars is the turning-points structure or representative moments structure. Instead of trying to narrate every event (or text) from one thing to the next, one selects specific texts, authors, moments, movements (and so on) either at the center of historical moments or at the turning points. Of course, one has to argue that these are central moments or turning points (but that can often be done through a judicious use of secondary).
The syllogistic structure is the least familiar and most useful for students. You begin with whatever is the main premise of your argument and move through the evidence to your conclusion. To write this structure, you need a pretty good sense of just what you're arguing and what your audience believes. It helps if you're able to state your thesis as "your main assertion because your main argument." A thesis statement like that will enable you to figure out what your main premise is. Another way to do it, though, is to figure out what is shared with your audience--what is the common ground on which your persuasion rests? The paper starts there. Because it moves from common ground through evidence, this structure is tremendously persuasive.
For policy arguments (and a surprising amount of scholarly argument is actually policy argumentation) the ads/disads structure can be appropriate. As implied by its name, this structure begins with the advantages and then the disadvantages of a proposed policy, theory, or an interpretation. Obviously, one can reverse the order (going from disads to ads). And, as with the comparison structure, one can organize by point or criteria (with the ads and disads on each point).
B. Paragraph Organization
Many students are taught a specific paragraph organization; as far as I can tell, this information is still passed along to students, despite numerous studies having shown it’s false, for two main reasons. First, too few writing teachers read studies about writings. Second, these instructions make it easier to grade student writing, as papers written this way are faster to read. They’re also less persuasive, but it isn’t clear to me how many teachers read papers with an eye to being persuaded.
Students are often taught to begin a paragraph with a main claim, then give a sentence of analysis, then an example or quote, then more analysis, and then a restatement of the claim. This method of writing requires very little research (one only needs a single example or quote) but a heavy use of the thesaurus function. As people move away from student writing, it’s fairly important to move away from this paragraph structure; it isn’t that one should never begin with a main claim, but that readers are more engaged if the paragraph organization varies.
There may be a third reason that people give students that advice, and it goes back to the conflation of topic sentence and main claim. Loosely, a sentence (or even a word or two in a sentence) in a “proof” paragraph may fulfill one (or more) of several functions:
· main claim: just as the thesis is the main claim of the entire text, so the main claim of a paragraph (or section) is what that section is arguing for.
· topic sentence: I use the term “topic sentence” just because that’s the common phrase, but the topic of a paragraph (or section) can be indicated through a phrase or clause (“the issue of bunnies necessarily leads to the question of hay” suggests that this paragraph will be about hay; this sentence is also a transition or “signpost”). A main claim always indicates the topic, but a topic sentence doesn’t necessarily indicate the claim.
· transition: transitions are often indicated through words (ordinals like “first” but also some adjectives like “another” or “next” and adverbs like “similarly” as well as conjunctions) or phrases (“on the other hand”). Some people call them “metadiscourse” as they are ways of speaking directly to the reader about how the information about to come is related to the previously given information.
· evidence: it can be difficult to distinguish between evidence and analysis (and sometimes difficult to distinguish between evidence and sub-claims)—the point is not to label everything obsessively, and these aren’t discrete categories. But, something in a proof paragraph should be carrying the burden of proof—quotes, examples, experimental results, even narratives. What constitutes appropriate evidence varies even within disciplines (whether, for instance, personal observation is relevant) and is best inferred from looking at published texts in one’s desired publishing venues.
· analysis: in some disciplines, analysis is withheld till the data is fully presented; in others it’s expected that there be more analysis than data. Again, the appropriate proportion is best determined by looking at other texts in the journal or press series.
· sub-claim: the more complicated one’s argument, the more likely one is to have a fair number of sub-claims. They modify, extend, or clarify the connection between the analysis and the claim.
As mentioned earlier, Richard Braddock’s analysis showed that proof paragraphs do not always begin with main claims, and various other studies have shown considerable variation in paragraph organization. It’s not uncommon, for instance, for the main claim for one paragraph to be the first sentence of the next (or previous) paragraph. Complicated or controversial claims are generally best delayed till after the evidence, but there are lots of circumstances under which one would violate that rule of thumb. My experience suggests that readers prefer a mix of paragraph structures, so that a text in which every paragraph begins with the main claim will be boring, and one in which the main claim is always at the end of paragraphs will start to seem like a bad mystery novel. Main claims are also often the second or penultimate sentences in paragraphs. They don’t always have to be stated, particularly if there are strong topic sentences, but it seems to me that readers get frustrated if there are never main claims—especially if the topic is complicated or confusing. I have been told, and this seems plausible to me, that it’s also problematic to put one’s main claims in the center of the paragraph (what is sometimes called a “chiasmatic” structure), as that is not where readers expect them.[2]
In short, there is not a single correct way to organize the material within paragraphs (notice that this is the main claim of the previous paragraph). Having a rigid set of rules about how to organize one’s paragraphs can contribute to writing block without even making one’s writing any more effective, since, in fact, the “rules” are highly fluid. As will be discussed in the section on writing process, concerns about paragraph organization are most appropriate while revising one’s work—writing is a bit like juggling, and trying to work about invention and arrangement at the same time is simply too much at once.
And all of this advice about the different kinds of work applies to “proof” paragraphs—that is, paragraphs that are presenting the data—and don’t apply to narration paragraphs. They also apply less well for complicated arguments; sometimes one has a paragraph (or more) that is entirely evidence, entirely analysis, or entirely transition. We give students very little instruction on narration paragraphs (except in textbooks that include a section on writing lab reports)—I’ll explain a bit more about them in the section on writing processes—but here I will simply note that they do not have the same structure or organizational principles as proof paragraphs.
[1] The general question of what journal or press one should try to place one’s work is best discussed with an advisor or mentor in one’s field. How to find a good advisor or mentor will be discussed in the chapter on time management. But, here, on the issue of generic expectations, I should emphasize that one shouldn’t be misled by too quick an analysis of a journal or press. Journals sometimes have special issues or guest editors, and those issues would not be representative samples.
[2] George Gopen’s A Sense of Structure has more specific advice about paragraph organization.
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