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Key points
- Exposure to poor grammar can produce physical stress.
- Psychology is fundamental to the art and craft of writing.
- We do not find our voice and then write; we write and then find our voice.
A recent study conducted last October at the University of Birmingham found that exposure to poor grammar can lead to physical stress. The researchers studied 41 adults and exposed them to grammatical errors. The participants not only mentally cringed but also experienced a decrease in their heart rate. Their autonomic nervous system was stressed because the cognitive effort to process the language took a toll on their physiological system.
What can explain this response?
Writing has an intimate connection with both psychology and physiology. Psychology is fundamental to the art and craft of writing, in part because most writers make an effort to write in their own voice. But what is this elusive thing we call "voice"?
Many beginning authors struggle to find their own “voice.” As George Gopen, professor emeritus of rhetoric at Duke, argued, we do not find our voice and then write; instead, we write and then find our voice.
So how do we define our writerly voice—the sound of our prose? And how do we attain and refine it? I will draw on the literature of rhetoric and composition, as well as my research on the experiences of bilingual writers, to answer these questions.
I define the writer's voice as the sum of the choices a writer makes in grammar, punctuation, and usage. I will illustrate this definition with examples from a non-native English writer who has just arrived in the United States. These examples are drawn from my Ph.D. research on zero-generation students.
During a class discussion about coronavirus, the teacher asked, “Is it morally acceptable not to practice social distancing?” In reply, one zero-generation student, who has been learning English for only three years, wrote the following response:
“Following the guidelines of public health officials is not optional, just like how strictly not following the law is punishable. It is recommended to keep the one-meter distance. Unless keeping the distance is not feasible, each person should make a faithful attempt to adhere to the proposed guidelines firmly.”
What is the writerly voice of the author of this paragraph? I argue that it is decidedly foreign. In general, native English readers can easily discern the voice of a non-native writer. There are syntax errors, and the word choice is likely to sound awkward to a native English ear. This awkwardness is the result of the choices the foreign author made.
But a revised version of that same response, edited for clarity and style, could sound American with no foreign language interference. Check out the edited version below, reflecting improvements in the writer's voice and prose style:
“Following the guidelines of public health officials is mandatory, akin to following traffic laws. It is recommended to maintain a social distance of about three feet. If it is not possible to adhere to this rule, we should make sincere efforts to maintain an appropriate distance.”
This newly edited version sounds more American, with no foreign language interference and no infelicities. Why? Because the edited version made rhetorical choices in grammar, punctuation, and usage that align more closely with the native English reader’s sensibility and literary conscience.
When I published my recent post about learning to write well, a native American reader wrote to me: “I still haven’t quite figured out my voice. We each have our journeys, styles, and potentials. We also have our audiences and influences. There are many variables that impact why we write the way we write.” I was pleasantly surprised because I had erroneously presumed that native English writers innately have a voice. They don’t. Writers are not born; they are made—often self-made.
I responded to this American reader by encouraging them to read books on grammar, punctuation, and usage—because the sum total of our choices in these areas forms our voice and determines how our prose sounds on the page.
Nonnative English writers may at times lack knowledge of grammar, punctuation, and usage, leading to errors that sound awkward to the American ear. This may have consequences for their relationships—indeed, the University of Birmingham study confirmed the connection between grammatical blunders and induced stress.
We can all find evidence from our reading experiences. When I read obtuse and turgid academic jargon—think Michel Foucault and Judith Butler—I often feel psychologically annoyed and physiologically stressed.
As John Trimble, professor emeritus at The University of Texas at Austin, told me, native English speakers generally do not bother to read texts with language errors that sound off to their ear. I suspect he's right; in my experience, many native English readers are impatient to get to the point and begrudge any author who does not deliver. When the prose does not sound good to their ear, many readers question the credibility of the author.
We attain our writer voice by learning grammar, punctuation, and usage, and by making rhetorical choices that do not jar the ears of our readers. When our writing sounds good to the reader, they are more likely to listen to us. But when our prose does not sound "correct" to native speakers, they are likely to distrust the author and abandon the reading experience.
I learned to write well by reading dictionaries and usage books. These readings helped me refine my literary conscience and attune to American readers’ sensibilities. I have also worked with many copyeditors who have improved my prose. Although I am not American, I believe I have reached the point of producing prose that sounds American to many American readers, without awkward foreign language interference or infelicities. This is a milestone that all non-native and multilingual writers should aim for.
