Theorem and Tight Dresses

            Dew drops collected on spider webs, untouched powder weighing down tree boughs, Bozeman sunsets which glow like boiling liquid gold—none can argue against the beauty in these scientific occurrences.  Yet the Pythagorean Theorem, which to a scientist wears a fitted black dress, pearls, nude heels, and dark curly hair, appears to general society as a² + b² = c².  If we investigate the theory, we may arrive in awe at its simplicity and infallibility, but will it be beautiful?  My answer is: it can be.

            Scientists have a knack for seeing the gorgeousness in their practice, not unlike a musician hears melodies in busy city streets or a poet is inspired by a child’s simple conversation.  Kepler called mathematics the “…archetype of the beautiful.” As science writers, we fill the invaluable role of the go-between.  It is given that the researcher is fascinated by their topic and finds exquisiteness in their discovery; our job is to translate that to the public. 

“Thanks Anjeli, that was extraordinarily helpful” (said no one.)  

Okay, so what does this look like in practice?  After reading three badass (in the most beautiful badass way) articles by Sagan, Chandrasekhar, and Wolpert, that described complex scientific ideas in gorgeous ways that held my attention like a friend sharing an amazing experience, I look at my science news brief, and say: 

“I’ve got bad news, kid.  I’m about to destroy you.”

Me sneaking up on my draft.
(A friend drew this of me today, referencing my dark humor.  It seemed applicable.)

            The strongest impression left on me by the pieces read, represented both in their manner and material, was the beauty in simplicity.  If “the simple is the seal of the true,” then our writing will be best understood and most attractive when we combat using complicated words, smarty-pants lingo, or extraneous explanation; when we assume the role of a writer first, scientist second.  Not that we should lack knowledge in our subjects, but that we remember for whom we write: the public.  Or, in Deborah Blum’s mind, “…an elderly woman with curlers in hair, half-dozing over the paper.”  Which is why my news brief needs a hard scrubbing—it’s too fancily written for my liking.  The vocabulary used is heavily Latinate (ones that describe big ideas and concepts) rather than Germanic (words which are sensual and talk about the concrete.)  My piece needs to speak to the senses more, to the cosmos within us that long to be explored—to the space-traveler, alien-hunter in all of us.

        

These were my favorite tidbits from the Field Guide reading:

• Use the AB/BC/CD method of connecting sentences.  Seriously, try it out.  It’s a fantastic way to start the flow of writing when sentences seem to be coming from your mind and fingers at the speed of your Grandmother driving through a school zone.
•  Eliminate clutter.  Find and destroy those deletable phrases and words that operate as excess decorations on a mantle.  Too much, and the brain’s ready to be done reading.  If you can’t delete an extraneous word without losing understandability, re-write the sentence.
• Lastly, each paragraph should be one idea.  My paragraphs have an appetite for taking on two or three ideas—why they need the knife about now.  Develop one clear idea, with the most important sentence at the end.

Sagan said this: “I know personally, both from having science explained to me and from my attempts to explain it to others, how gratifying it is when we get it, when obscure terms suddenly take on meaning, when we grasp what all the fuss is about, when deep wonders are revealed.”  This is our job, friends.