The magic of maths
Solving for X
In primary school, I was good at maths (or math, depending on where you happen to be reading this). In high school, I was bad at maths. Polynomials were my undoing. I hadn’t the faintest idea what was happening. One thing I did like, despite never experiencing it myself (my approach and my answers were perennially faulty), is that you were often rewarded more for the journey than the destination. If your problem-solving was good but you failed to land the plane, that was actually fine—in fact, you’d likely walk away with better marks than if you’d supplied the right answer but had flimsy working out.
When you’re writing for money, you’d do well to keep maths in mind. We are, after all, being paid to solve problems with our words.
Ta-da!
A writer makes thoughts and feelings visible. A writer is an alchemist who turns inner mess into crisp sentences. A writer is David Blaine with a MacBook Air.
Now, as much as clients enjoy watching us pull verbal rabbits out of our hats, they often wanna (and are entitled to) know how the trick was done; “A magician never tells” ain’t gonna cut it in most boardrooms. Thankfully, telling people how you performed an act of writing sorcery doesn’t diminish its impact—it enhances it.
Ted Chiang’s recent piece in The New Yorker, ‘Why A.I. Isn’t Going to Make Art’, reminds us that “art requires making choices at every scale; the countless small-scale choices made during implementation are just as important to the final product as the few large-scale choices made during the conception. It is a mistake to equate “large-scale” with “important” when it comes to the choices made when creating art; the interrelationship between the large scale and the small scale is where the artistry lies."
Here comes the maths lesson. When you’re presenting work, the answer alone can get the job done. But what if you show your working, too? Suddenly you create a rich, involving story. A story about choices big and small: here’s why it has to be framed like this; here’s why the comma has to go here. About the misfires and almosts (don’t dwell on what could’ve been, but do mention your exploration). About how you think, how you see the world, who you are.
Our writing is the sum of our choices. By making specific, subtle choices, we take a piece of work where we believe it needs to go. Let those choices be known. Even if the output isn’t right, because you’ve taken the time and effort to show your audience how you reached the end result, there’s a greater appreciation of art and artist.
Less talk, more action
It’d be remiss of me to write about showing your working in the abstract, so I’ll end with an annotated example called I’m trying to write a thank you note to someone who bought me a Nutella croissant.
Sure, this is a fake and frivolous thank you note, but there are still so many ways you can go with it, so many choices you can make. Here are three:
1. Short and sweet
Thanks for the Nutella croissant. Very sweet (of you)!
Why this?
I get the gratitude out of the way upfront. If I wanted to, I could end things there, but that’d be boring. As the recipient probably knows, I love using the parenthetical: here, I use it to compare their generous gesture to the sweet treat in question. Shall I compare thee to a Nutella croissant? Infinite apologies to The Bard.
2. Proustian vibe
I first tried Nutella when I was three. I was sitting opposite Nana, in her pristine white kitchen. She always had hydrangeas out. I looked on with wide eyes as Nana scooped enough hazelnut cocoa paste to almost coat the teaspoon (she didn’t skimp when it came to sweets). Nana handed the spoon to me. I didn’t hesitate. A creamy, teeth-clingy revelation. Thanks for reminding me of that.
Why this?
When someone gives me a gift, I like to return the favour. Why not offer them a piece of myself? Why not take them right back to my earliest experience with Nutella, to that special day in Nana’s kitchen? I close by thanking them for unlocking a cherished sensory memory.
3. Friendship-focused
Yesterday was a bad day. You noticed. You made it better.
Why this?
This doesn’t mention the croissant, nor does it say thank you. It’s a piece of flash nonfiction about the nature of our friendship—this person is not only able to read me but also knows how to respond when I’m out of sorts.
People like to see how you got from A to B—even (and sometimes especially) if it’s via Q. Share your choices. Magic will wow the crowd; maths will win them over.
Dan Steiner is a Contributing Writer for The Subtext. He prefers the x-axis to the y-axis. He can be summoned for word jobs via LinkedIn.
The magic of maths
Solving for X
In primary school, I was good at maths (or math, depending on where you happen to be reading this). In high school, I was bad at maths. Polynomials were my undoing. I hadn’t the faintest idea what was happening. One thing I did like, despite never experiencing it myself (my approach and my answers were perennially faulty), is that you were often rewarded more for the journey than the destination. If your problem-solving was good but you failed to land the plane, that was actually fine—in fact, you’d likely walk away with better marks than if you’d supplied the right answer but had flimsy working out.
When you’re writing for money, you’d do well to keep maths in mind. We are, after all, being paid to solve problems with our words.
Ta-da!
A writer makes thoughts and feelings visible. A writer is an alchemist who turns inner mess into crisp sentences. A writer is David Blaine with a MacBook Air.
Now, as much as clients enjoy watching us pull verbal rabbits out of our hats, they often wanna (and are entitled to) know how the trick was done; “A magician never tells” ain’t gonna cut it in most boardrooms. Thankfully, telling people how you performed an act of writing sorcery doesn’t diminish its impact—it enhances it.
Ted Chiang’s recent piece in The New Yorker, ‘Why A.I. Isn’t Going to Make Art’, reminds us that “art requires making choices at every scale; the countless small-scale choices made during implementation are just as important to the final product as the few large-scale choices made during the conception. It is a mistake to equate “large-scale” with “important” when it comes to the choices made when creating art; the interrelationship between the large scale and the small scale is where the artistry lies."
Here comes the maths lesson. When you’re presenting work, the answer alone can get the job done. But what if you show your working, too? Suddenly you create a rich, involving story. A story about choices big and small: here’s why it has to be framed like this; here’s why the comma has to go here. About the misfires and almosts (don’t dwell on what could’ve been, but do mention your exploration). About how you think, how you see the world, who you are.
Our writing is the sum of our choices. By making specific, subtle choices, we take a piece of work where we believe it needs to go. Let those choices be known. Even if the output isn’t right, because you’ve taken the time and effort to show your audience how you reached the end result, there’s a greater appreciation of art and artist.
Less talk, more action
It’d be remiss of me to write about showing your working in the abstract, so I’ll end with an annotated example called I’m trying to write a thank you note to someone who bought me a Nutella croissant.
Sure, this is a fake and frivolous thank you note, but there are still so many ways you can go with it, so many choices you can make. Here are three:
1. Short and sweet
Thanks for the Nutella croissant. Very sweet (of you)!
Why this?
I get the gratitude out of the way upfront. If I wanted to, I could end things there, but that’d be boring. As the recipient probably knows, I love using the parenthetical: here, I use it to compare their generous gesture to the sweet treat in question. Shall I compare thee to a Nutella croissant? Infinite apologies to The Bard.
2. Proustian vibe
I first tried Nutella when I was three. I was sitting opposite Nana, in her pristine white kitchen. She always had hydrangeas out. I looked on with wide eyes as Nana scooped enough hazelnut cocoa paste to almost coat the teaspoon (she didn’t skimp when it came to sweets). Nana handed the spoon to me. I didn’t hesitate. A creamy, teeth-clingy revelation. Thanks for reminding me of that.
Why this?
When someone gives me a gift, I like to return the favour. Why not offer them a piece of myself? Why not take them right back to my earliest experience with Nutella, to that special day in Nana’s kitchen? I close by thanking them for unlocking a cherished sensory memory.
3. Friendship-focused
Yesterday was a bad day. You noticed. You made it better.
Why this?
This doesn’t mention the croissant, nor does it say thank you. It’s a piece of flash nonfiction about the nature of our friendship—this person is not only able to read me but also knows how to respond when I’m out of sorts.
People like to see how you got from A to B—even (and sometimes especially) if it’s via Q. Share your choices. Magic will wow the crowd; maths will win them over.
Dan Steiner is a Contributing Writer for The Subtext. He prefers the x-axis to the y-axis. He can be summoned for word jobs via LinkedIn.