April 21, 2018

The trouble with writing science

Once on a train from Greenwich to Manhattan, on a Tuesday, I watched a man in a grey pinstriped suit, blue oxford cloth shirt and red tie, settle into a seat in front and to the left of me, open the New York Times he had been carrying under his arm and then, without hesitation, toss one unread section of the paper over his shoulder onto the empty seat behind him.

I had no idea who this man was, what he did for a living. Judging by the way he was dressed, he might have been an attorney, a salesperson, perhaps a banker. But clearly, he had no interest in the subject this section focused on. First chance I got, I reached across the aisle and snatched the discarded section: it was the Tuesday science section.

I wonder – I don’t know – if the Times conducts reader surveys to ascertain how many people read and appreciate its daily sections. But I am guessing that the man on the train is one of many who triage a section—or more – from the paper. I myself totally ignore Wednesday food, for example; I have no interest in recipes, restaurants, or the chic chefs that are featured. And many people I know skip Monday Sports. Why invest time reading about something in which you have no interest?

As it happens, I take this question as a personal challenge. I write mostly about science, medicine and technology, I am what some people (not me) might call a science communicator. Or maybe even, in some ways, a science educator. And there is certainly an audience out there for what we write about or teach—people who are into science, love science, are intrigued by science, like those who read the science section of theTimes and other publications like Scientific American. The choir, let’s call them.

But if the goal of a science communicator – or a communicator in any field – is also to attract more people into their own particular fold, be it science or engineering or architecture or whatever, to show how valuable, fascinating and vital those subjects of study are, we have to figure out how to bring our work and passion into the homes and purview of the general public. That is, we have to learn to write about something that maybe doesn’tseem like science, at least as we reach out to people like the guy in the grey pinstripe suit. The non-choir folks.

A problem with communicating science,specifically—and the challenge to overcome–is that it—science – sounds forbidding and foreboding—or just boring—to many in the general public. By starting with “science,” we are saying to the reader or listener: “You really need to learn about science. It is important to know about science and it will benefit you.” It’s like telling children to eat their vegetables because “it is good for you.” Children may learn after parental prodding that they like cauliflower or broccoli, but not because it is a vegetable or that it is good for them, but because, to them, it tastes good. And once they eat and love their cauliflower, maybe they will try other vegetables. But taste, appeal, satisfaction will lead to interest, experimentation, and eventual appreciation.

Which is not to say that the man in the grey pinstripe suit is not reading about or learning about science, whether he knows it or not. The past few years, the sports section and the front pages have inundated with stories about brain trauma affecting National Football League players. Concussion was a book and a movie about science, but how many people would have gone into theatres or forked out $30 at Barnes and Noble if that’s the way it had been advertised and promoted? And for the recent solar eclipse, millions of people went way out of their way, had parties, purchased special eyeglasses when the moon passed over the sun, but not because of science. It was a dramatic, once-in-a-lifetime moment to observe and to share. And in the end, to learn about science—whether they knew it or not.

Suppose a friend came up to you and said, “Let me tell you about cell biology.” You might listen for a little while—or you might suddenly remember an appointment, and you are running late. Or a phone call you need to make. But Rebecca’s Skloot’s best-selling book, The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks, is all about cell biology. It just doesn’t begin that way, though. It first tells the story about a poor black woman dying of cancer, an opportunistic physician, and research practices and racism and, sooner or later, gets to science.

I am not saying that we should not worry about and write about science, or engineering or math or baseball, for that matter, and target audiences who we know will be interested. But let’s try to broaden our perspective and write an interesting story, the people involved, the trouble they are in and sooner or later, better later, get to the science. We don’teven have to call it science. It’s all about the world we live in and the lives we lead. Let’s not talk about science—let’s talk about life and death and taxes and baseball and politics. Because most roads, sooner or later, get back to science. The story will make it happen.