I’m reading Wilfred Hodges’ Logic (1977) and I find it resonates nicely with my reading of Quine. Hodges suggests that we define “logic” as the consistency of our beliefs. That is, our a belief is “logical” if it is consistent with other beliefs. It is “illogical” to believe contradictory things, e.g., two things that can’t both be true. But he is careful to point out, right from the outset that beliefs are expressed in sentences and sentences can be ambiguous. We do not learn logic by studying beliefs directly. We learn it by studying the sentences we use to talk about our beliefs. And once we’ve learned the rules of logic, we are in a better position to maintain what Quine called our “web of belief”; we’re better able to trace the consequences of discovering the (inevitable) inconsistencies in our thinking and correcting our beliefs accordingly. That’s how we learn.

It’s also how we do science. Indeed, almost two-hundred years ago, Bernard Bolzano argued that logic constitutes a “theory of science” and should guide us in our composition of scientific “treatises”. Today, we might satisfy ourselves with the principles for composing journal articles, as long as we include the “logic” of reviewing and critiquing them. (Bolzano image of science was much slower and much more stable than ours is today so he felt that, in principle, “the sum of human knowledge” could be gather in a “single book.” It would be a very, very big book, the size of a library no doubt, but it could be written according to a consistent set of rules, namely, those of logic.

Today, we have abandoned all hope that the totality of science can be made consistent with itself, even within individual disciplines. We expect scientists to disagree with each other, sometimes even on very fundamental matters, and for these disagreements to remain open even as science progresses. Scientists are free to believe what they want, to draw their own conclusions from the evidence of their senses. What we hope, however, is that they are committed to an overarching ideal, namely, that their beliefs should be consistent. And we might add to this that, within any particular discipline or paradigm, scientists should be in broad agreement about what to believe. That is, not only is a scientist committed to personally striving for consistency of belief (logical coherence), it is assumed that since the web of belief involved is largely shared within that scientist’s community, the individual beliefs of individual scientists are formed in attempt to be consistent also with the totality of what is known about the subject.

This is a normative principle, not an empirical claim about science. Scientists should strive for consistency of belief, within themselves and among each other, but they will never perfectly achieve it. That’s what discourse is for: to achieve only a “more perfect union” of beliefs. It is the social practice through which we compare our beliefs and hold them to a certain standard. We can talk here of scholarly standards of citation, methodological standards of data collection, even stylistic and grammatical standards. But, at the end of the day, all these standards are realized in particular beliefs about the status of texts, quality of evidence, and clarity of thinking on particular subjects by particular scholars. These beliefs are then brought together and compared under a higher standard, namely, logic.

For my part, when I mention logic to students and scholars (working mainly in the social sciences) I am not talking about the sort of formal logic that Hodges’ book is a such a good introduction to. It is my sense that most scientific disciplines do not explicitly strive for that kind of logical “consistency”. Rather, in science, what is operative is something like everyday reason, even common sense. We expect each other to be “reasonable” about our beliefs and, when claiming that something is the case, to respect both the other beliefs we hold and the beliefs that are broadly held in the community. If we do challenge some of those beliefs (by insisting on others) we must acknowledge the contradiction, i.e., the inconsistency between the beliefs we hold and those that are generally held. “The civil status of a contradiction, or it status in civil life,” said Wittgenstein: “there is the philosophical problem” (PI§125). It is resolved by carefully taking apart and reweaving our web of belief to regain consistence in discourse with our peers.

Recent advances in artificial intelligence might make this seem like a rhetorical question. What, indeed, is the point of spending hours writing your own sentences and paragraphs when a large language model can do it for you in seconds? I suspect, however, that writing now seems pointless to students, and even some scholars, because they were writing for the wrong reasons before the new technology arrived. It is quite common these days for writing instructors to try to shift the focus from the product to the process, and in a certain sense that’s also what I’d like to do, but I think the problem is mainly what we think the effect of writing is. What are we trying to bring about with our writing? What is the change we seek when we write?

One very natural way to answer this question is to think of the reader. We write in order to somehow affect the mind of our readers, whether to inform, enlighten, provoke, or entertain them. The change we seek is in the readership, i.e., the population of people who read our texts. At a broader level, we might say that we’re trying to influence “the conversation”; we’re trying to change the way a topic is talked about, shift the agenda, raise new questions, reframe the issues. After our text is published, we imagine, people will have accommodate its rhetoric. We may not yet have changed their minds, but something will at some point have to give. We have made a contribution.

A much more cynical answer is to focus on the name we make for ourselves when we write. We write in order to occupy a position in the discourse, to become a recognized “author” on the subject. In this category of answers are also things like writing to sell books and writing to build your list of publications. Writing to be cited would also count in this category, as would the students quest for a good grade. To have have such reasons is not in itself shameful, but it doesn’t point you toward a solution to the problem of writing well. There are too many “tricks of the trade” that will reach these kinds of goals but have little to do with the quality of your writing.

Importantly (for this post, anyway) is that both sorts of reasons are also increasingly going to be reasons to let AI do your writing for you. Language models are only going to get better, and since they are trained on the very discourse you are either trying to affect or impress, their competence to reach your goals may often be greater than your own. If these are your main reasons to write, then, you will find them more and more useful.

The obvious alternative that I’m heading towards is to seek reasons to write within yourself, rather than in your environment. Write for the clarity it brings or the pleasure it affords. Write because it improves your mind, not the minds of your readers. In the future, as most of the prose we need to get by (the prose that stores and transmits useful information) is produced by machines, we will write for the same reason that we swim, rides bikes, jog, go to the gym. It will be something that we enjoy doing (most of the time) and makes us better able to accomplish (and enjoy) our other activities. It will keep us mentally — indeed, spiritually — healthy. A serious scholar (and a serious student) will attend to the reading and writing much as serious athlete attends to their diet and exercise.

It will also open our thinking to criticism from qualified peers. But that is something I harp on about often enough. Today, let me just remind you that learning that you’re wrong is still learning. Enjoy that too.

My advice to students and scholars who want to take control of their writing process is to imagine the academic year as four eight-week periods of discipline, separated by short, one-week breaks in the fall and spring, and longer six- and twelve-week breaks at Christmas and over the summer. During those 32 weeks of discipline, the idea is not to be maximally productive but to be maximally deliberate about your writing. You will write, or not write, on any one of the 160 working days (I’m assuming, on average, a 5-day work week) only when and what you have decided to write. You will not demand of your muse the spontaneous, miraculous production of prose during that time. You will, as Stephen King advises, simply tell your muse where s/he can find you and show up at the appointed time.

For many people, this all seems well and good “in an ideal world”, but assumes a degree of control over their time that they don’t feel they have. My first answer is to remind them that, whether they are teachers or students, they probably expect to be able to show up for class on time on most days. They know where and when they will be for their lectures. Also, they surely expect to have time out of class to read. That is, for an academic (whether student or scholar) a semester is period when they expect to be able to “attend” their classes, that is, apportion their attention to some degree. If you want to improve your discipline, you have to begin with an image of your conditions that make it possible.

Next, appreciate the finitude of the problem. We are talking about 160 days and you will be writing at most 3 hours (6 paragraphs, 3 pages) on any given day. You may write for only half an hour (or even twenty or fifteen minutes) or you may write nothing at all, but you will do so — you will write or not write — deliberately. And we can define exactly what we mean by “deliberately” here. At the end of every day, you will decide what to write about something you knew to be true last week or you will decide not write. You may decide you don’t have time tomorrow or you may be unable to think of anything to write about. But you will spend a few minutes at the end of your day making a conscious decision.

That moment at the end of the day is the key to beginning to build your discipline. I have come to calling it Discipline Zero. It actually isn’t the discipline of starting but the discipline of stopping. End your day of study deliberately. And end each of your writing moments deliberately too. Knowing that you are are able to stop will make it easier to begin. So, the easy answer to the question, “How do I get started?” is introduce that moment at the end of the day to your regular routine. Take a few minutes to think about what you will write tomorrow. Even (and especially) if you think you lack the time and knowledge to begin writing, end your day by deciding you won’t write tomorrow. Look in your calendar, think of your knowledge base as it looked last week, decide that you lack the necessary resources to compose half a page about something you know. Then call it quits for the day and enjoy your evening.

If you really do want to get your writing under control, I suspect you won’t let many days pass like this. One afternoon or evening, when you end your day, you will realize that half an hour is not a lot to ask of yourself, and that you’ve known thousands of truths for many years, any of which could well become a paragraph given a deliberate moment. Decide to write one of those.

When they first encounter it, many writers see my advice as a critique of their usual, habitual ways of writing. The approach I propose is very different from what they normally do; they think that I’m telling them they’ve been “doing it wrong” all this time, that they should stop doing the things that have been producing their texts. In some cases, to be sure, I identify some bad habits and barriers to progress, practices and prejudices that they would do well to abandon if they want to improve either the quantity, quantity, or pleasure of their writing. But much of what people tell me they are doing isn’t actually bad for them. It’s just that they should also try some of the things I propose.

The best example of this is the very common practice of writing to discover what you think. Writers are so used to seeing their ideas materialize in front of them as they write, that they can’t imagine what it would be like to have an idea first, and only then setting about to write it down. My favorite analogy, of looking at your hand, posing it in a comfortable position, and then drawing a picture of it, seems utterly foreign to them when they think about the problem of writing a scholarly article. They think I’m telling them that all the “shitty drafts” they’ve been “thought writing” all these years are a complete waste of time. They should just make up their minds and write their ideas down. They think I don’t know how their minds work; i.e., that my mind works very differently from theirs.

This is not the case, of course. I, too, know what it is like to sit down in front of a blank page (a white screen with a blinking cursor) and seeing what comes out. My point is just that, at some point, something does come out: an idea forms, and now I know what to say. And, in fact, those ideas were not created in the moment of writing. It may seem that way, but a moment’s reflection will reveal that those ideas must have been “in me” somehow before I began. Where else could they have come from between the time I started writing and the time they appeared on the page? Let’s say I was “capable” of them when I began. I merely showed myself what I was capable of.

That experience is a valuable one, and it is not one that I propose you abandon. I do sometimes suggest that there are plenty of other ways of finding out what you know. You can go for a walk and think something through. You can talk to a good friend or colleague. You can draw a mind map or even an actual picture. You can reread a book. You can listen to an inspiring piece of music or cook a good meal or drink a good glass of wine. These are all activities that might suddenly bring to mind some thought you are capable of, some fact that you are knowledge-able about. Sometimes (as a kind of provocation) I suggest you consider all these activities as being on the same level: “Thought writing is as little writing as a going for a walk or talking to a friend,” I say. Go ahead and do it, but don’t call it writing!

Real writing, I then suggest, is what you do when you have both an idea and a reader firmly in mind. It is what happens when you address yourself to a peer in a deliberate moment of composition. “In classic style,” say Thomas and Turner, “the motive is truth, the purpose is presentation, the reader and writer are intellectual equals, and the occasion is informal.” We can argue about whether “classic style” and “academic style” are exactly the same thing; there are aspects of academic writing that they might call “reflexive” and “practical”. But the basic posture of telling a peer what you think is true is worth developing, worth strengthening through exercise. Sit down (but up straight!) for half an hour and present one of your ideas in 200 words or less with the intent of helping them to believe it, understand it, or overcome their objections to it. Present it, not as one who is in the throes of discovery, but calmly, with poise, as someone who knows what they’re talking about and who they’re talking to. Address the reader in a familiar, informal tone. Stand comfortably before them. Make it clear and simple.

Being an academic doesn’t mean that everyone thinks you’re smart, I like to say; it means that a few smart people think you’re wrong. Addressing yourself to those people is the primary purpose of academic writing. That is, the purpose of academic writing is not to impress your peers (and certainly not your teachers) but to open your thinking to their criticism. This is why it is so important to do your own writing. By articulating your thoughts in prose — by “prosing your world” — you prepare yourself to learn what you are wrong about.

This isn’t as dramatic as it sounds. We expect academics not only to be knowledgeable but to be corrigible. They maintain what is known in an explicitly “logical” form, so that the consequences of changing our minds become conspicuous. It’s not that we’re perfectly deductive in our thinking, but if we’re wrong about one thing, we’re probably wrong about others, and “knowledgeable” people are able to more quickly and easily discover those other errors and carry out the necessary repairs. That is, a knowledge-able person isn’t someone who holds (and professes) a bunch of true beliefs. It is someone who knows how to be wrong — how to admit it and move forward.

What consequences does this have for our style of writing? Well, first of all, we must be clear about what we actually think. The writing must clearly assert facts, i.e., claim that things stand in one way and not in another. It must also clearly state our reasons for believing those facts. These reasons are individual points on which the reader may disagree with the writer, potential errors that, by being made explicit, are now easy (for another knowledgeable person) to identify. In other words, academic writing must be clear about what we think the facts are and why we think they’re that way.

That is one of the reasons we should carefully cite our sources. Much of what we believe we believe because we have read (and believed) someone else. Our reader, however, may have read the same source and had their doubts. By declaring whose authority we’re invoking, we open ourselves to criticism of that authority. More subtly, but just as importantly, we open our reading of the source to such criticism. That is, our reader may have read and believed the same source but understood it differently. We write in order to expose our interpretations of each other’s work to criticism too.

Like I say, I want this to be an argument for doing your own writing. It is possible that a language model can predict exactly what you would say about certain subject, and therefore, in principle, expose the ideas those words would express to the criticism of your peers. But that criticism won’t touch you in the same if the ideas were never form, in those exact words, in your own mind. You will be unprepared to listen to the critique. If you find the criticism persuasive you will now have to reconstruct the argument the machine generated for you in your own mind before you can adjust your thinking.

Now, it’s possible that Calvino’s fantasy (horror?) of a “writing machine surrounded by the hidden ghosts of the individual and of his society” can serve this same purpose. But we must keep in mind that this would mean generating a series of variations and testing each one by reading it until we achieve a “particular effect of one of the permutations on a man endowed with a consciousness and an unconscious, that is, an empirical and historical man,” i.e., the academic whose writing we’re proposing to replace. This effort of internalizing artificially generated prose is surely more demanding (and more risky) than articulating what you really think yourself.