%201.svg)
Steven Pinker, a linguist and cognitive psychologist at Harvard, is known for his provocative insights into the mind, language, and rationality. One thing I love about Pinker’s work is the crystalline clarity of his prose. Agree with the man or not—you always know exactly what he’s trying to say.
So imagine my delight when I discovered Pinker had written a book on writing. It’s called The Sense of Style: The Thinking Person’s Guide to Writing in the 21st Century, and it takes on the vexing question: “Why is so much writing so bad, and how can we make it better?”
The book is a treat for word nerds—and I think it’s to safe to say most of us lawyers fit that description to one degree or another. We’ve all heard the usual tips for good writing, legal and otherwise: Use the active voice! Stay away from jargon! Show, don’t tell! These are fine pieces of advice, but they lose their punch after you’ve heard them a few thousand times.
What sets this book apart from other style guides is its fresh approach. Pinker blends scientific research about how the brain processes language with common sense and a finely tuned bullshit-detector. Rather than repeating the same tired writing rules, Pinker explains the function the rules serve—and when it’s better to break them.
That brings us to one of Pinker’s key points: writing rules aren’t good or bad in themselves, but they need to serve a purpose. Take, for example, his critique of the obsession many writers have with avoiding split verbs:
Chief Justice John Roberts, a famous stickler for grammar, could not bring himself to have Barack Obama “solemnly swear that I will faithfully execute the office of president of the United States.” Abandoning his strict constructionism, Roberts unilaterally amended the Constitution and had Obama “solemnly swear that I will execute the office of president to the United States faithfully.” The garbled oath raised fears about whether the transfer of power had been legitimate, and so they repeated the oath verbatim, split verb and all, in a private meeting later that afternoon.
This incident illustrates how syntactical rigidity can backfire. But while Pinker is relaxed about many linguistic conventions, he sees others as essential for clear communication. For example, he doesn’t care if you end a sentence with a preposition. But he does demand that verbs agree with their subjects and that verb tense stay consistent throughout a sentence. Why? Because readers can easily lose the thread when these rules are ignored.
And while flexibility in grammar is important, Pinker also acknowledges that certain mistakes can make the writer sound dumb. My inner schoolmarm nodded with vigorous approval at this observation:
Still, a few common errors are so uncontroversial—the run-on sentence, the comma splice, the grocer’s apostrophe, the comma between subject and predicate, the possessive it’s—that they have become tantamount to the confession “I am illiterate,” and no writer should be caught making them.
The bottom line is that good writing uses every available tool—clear sentence structure, logical organization, accurate vocabulary, vivid imagery, thoughtful pacing—to inform and persuade the reader. And it’s not afraid to bend the rules to make the meaning clearer. Setting aside poetry and fiction, the goal should always be the same: to ensure the reader grasps the message without stumbling over needless complexity or ambiguity.
Pinker’s advice resonates with me because it’s a reminder that writing should always serve the reader. It’s not about showing off our superior learning but making sure the message hits home with the who need to act on it. The clearer we are, the stronger our advocacy becomes—whether it’s in a legal brief, a client email, a letter to opposing counsel, or a jury presentation.
