They Say / I Say: The Moves That Matter in Academic Writing

This chapter focuses on analytical skills rather than writing skills. In it, Graff and Birkenstein expand upon the writing strategies they teach in Part 1 and transfer these skills to close reading practices. They also argue that contextualizing an argument as part of a larger debate makes it easier to unravel its nuances.

Graff and Birkenstein open this chapter with an anecdote from their shared classroom. They write that asking questions about the author’s argument and the reader’s response to the argument resulted in “halting” class discussions that “limped along”—a far cry from the robust debates for which they were hoping. While writing They Say/I Say, Graff and Birkenstein decided to start posing these questions in more specific ways, such as asking about other argument(s) the writer is responding to; questioning whether the writer is disagreeing or agreeing with something, and if so what; asking what motivates the writer’s argument; and prompting if there are other ideas from this class or elsewhere that might be pertinent. There was a clear change in student response, according to Graff and Birkenstein:

The results were often striking. The discussions that followed tended to be far livelier and to draw in a greater number of students. We were still asking students to look for the main argument, but we were now asking them to see that argument as a response to some other argument that provoked it, gave it a reason for being, and helped all of us see why we should care about it (144-45).

With this new set of prompts, the students aren’t recapping arguments and then responding, but rather identifying the conversation the author is participating in and participating in it themselves.

Some arguments can be difficult to decipher because of certain writing practices, such as when an author “ventriloquizes” their cited sources (“they say”) and their naysayers—that is, cites them without explicitly flagging the fact that they are doing so. In such cases, Graff and Birkenstein recommend reconstructing non-explicitly flagged “they say” content: “You have to start by locating the writer’s thesis and then imagine some of the arguments that might be made against it. What would it look like to disagree with this view?” (150). They also identify that some writers’ arguments are based on the absence of prior discussion (rather than a response to an existing argument), making it difficult to contextualize the argument at hand.

Some arguments can be difficult to decipher, not because the “they say” content is subtle, but because the text uses challenging language. Complex subject matter can also make a text difficult to understand. Graff and Birkenstein recommend “translating” such arguments into one’s own words. This, they say, will “build a bridge” between the author’s unfamiliar language and terms that the reader understands better. They demonstrate this with a passage from Judith Butler’s Gender Trouble, which they break down and rewrite in simpler language.

This chapter closes with the authors urging the reader to be open-minded. Allowing oneself to be challenged by readings (ideologically and intellectually) is necessary to academic truth-seeking.

Chapter 13 is written by contributing author Christopher Gillen. He states that “scientific writing is fundamentally argumentative” (156): That is the nature of introducing new theories and interpreting data. Although science writing typically takes an objective and formal tone, Gillen argues that it is actually a highly opinionated genre, which is driven by new suggestions, creativity, and argument. For these reasons, Gillen repurposes Graff and Birkenstein’s rhetorical strategies specifically for science writing and guides the reader through some of the genre’s conventions.

Gillen states that data are the most valuable element of any scientific paper. He reminds the reader that data are also defined by the way they are gathered. If data collection methods are faulty, then the data themselves are meaningless. As such, it is critical for science writers to lay out the context surrounding the data before exploring it in detail.

Gillen recommends beginning with a “they say” section summarizing the “prevailing theories” the paper is responding to. Then comes the methods statement: a description of the way the paper’s data were collected. Next come the “summary and findings” sections, in which the writer provides context for their data and supporting data. These sections are designed to make the information fueling the paper accessible to readers.

Gillen also explains the most rhetorically sound ways to substantiate an opinion in science writing:

You probably can’t argue, for example, that ‘X and Y claim to have studied 6 elephants, but I think they actually only studied 4.’ However, it might be fair to say, ‘X and Y studied only 6 elephants, and this small sample size casts doubts on their conclusions.’ The second statement doesn’t question what the scientists did or found but instead examines how the findings are interpreted (165).

Questioning is fundamental to both science writing and science in general, both of which are “based on debate.” Gillen explains that progress in scientific fields is usually incremental. Changes in consensus happen slowly over time, and these changes are fueled by many nuanced debates that occur over the long term. Being able to approach scientific writing with a similarly nuanced understanding of rhetoric—having the ability to mix agreement and disagreement into a conversation, to say why a datapoint matters, and to contend with feedback—is fundamental to good scientific writing.

Chapter 14 is written by contributing author Erin Ackerman and is similar to Chapter 13 in that it, too, repurposes Graff and Birkenstein’s rhetorical strategies, specifically for social science writing, otherwise known as the “soft” sciences due to their proximity to the humanities.

Ackerman defines social science as the “study of people.” She tells us that “good writing in the social sciences, as in other academic disciplines, requires that you demonstrate that you have thought about what it is you think” (176). She enumerates some of the “basic” rhetorical moves social science writers often make. As with Gillen’s analysis of science writing rhetoric, these moves (e.g., acknowledging objections in nuanced ways; answering the questions of “so what” and “who cares”; and thoughtfully entering an academic conversation) can be spotted in earlier chapters of The Say/I Say. In other words, good writing involves metacommentary, and this is true regardless of the field.

But there are certain conventions that are specific to social science papers, including their organization, which is similar to that of papers in the “hard” sciences, such as geology or ornithology. Ackerman explains:

The introduction sets out the thesis, or point, of the paper, briefly explaining what you will say in your text and how it fits into the preexisting conversation. The literature review summarizes what has already been said on your topic. Your analysis allows you to present data—the information about human behavior you are measuring or testing against what other people have said—and to explain the conclusions you have drawn based on your investigation (177).

The biggest difference between hard and social science papers is the literature review, which is a “they say” section that summarizes and synthesizes a number of outside sources and requires a careful balance of direct quotations, summaries, and commentary.