As a consultant in Arcadia's Writing Center, I encounter on a daily basis many different writers but many of the same myths and misconceptions about writing. So, with the insight of consultant Lexie Rinaldi, I have compiled a short list of these myths, and ways to combat them in your writing. While we are always more than happy to help with any of these issues--and will always try to do it in a way that won't make your head explode--if you can't make it in for a consultation, try to keep these in mind!

The 5-Paragraph Essay

One of the most difficult writing habits to break is one that we have had beaten into our heads practically since our tiny stubby fingers could hold a pencil. I have vivid, painful flashbacks to color-coded, laminated sheets explaining exactly how every single paper we ever right (ever) should be structured. Green means go--that's your introduction. Yellow for the three, evenly divided, 5-7 sentence body paragraphs. Red for the conclusion which, by the way, is where you restate and recap.

Ugh.

There is, of course, a certain merit to this structure--that's why they teach it. It is organized and predictable and, comparatively, very easy to grade. In your thesis statement (more on that next!) you provide three supporting points, and this sets up your three body paragraphs so there's no room for straying from your proposed argument.

But that's the problem--there's no room for straying. While the 5-paragraph essay may be practical for grade school and, arguably, for some of high school, it simply does not cut it in most college courses. College-level writing requires more nuanced and complex thought; you will not have one lonely paragraph dedicated to each point. You will rarely be writing a paper short enough that you can get away with only five paragraphs; more often than not, dependence on this structure leads to writing page-and-a-half long "paragraphs" that contain two or more ideas, just because the writer is so attached to the notion that five paragraphs is the way to go and that splitting them up would be blasphemous.

Take a deep breath. It's going to be okay.

If writing in this structure is easiest for you, then by all means, continue--but be open to revision once you're done. One of my favorite techniques as a consultant is to have the writer label the main idea in each of their paragraphs--when one or more stands out, we know that this paragraph is really several paragraphs in hiding. Breaking out of this habit is a process and it is anything but easy, but it is worth it; splitting paragraphs by idea rather than convention allows both the paper and your mind as a writer to flow more freely between ideas. And, hey--it makes the paper longer, so there's always that! (Kidding. Please, I swear I'm kidding.)

The "Topic Sentence"

The bane of most of our collective existence--the topic sentence. Or, thesis statement. Or, main idea. Whatever you want to call it, you know what it is--it's your argument. It's your focus. It is the thing that, according to high school, you should be restating in every one of your (five!) paragraphs, lest the reader forget what you said less than an inch of writing ago.

This one is tricky.

You do want to relate back to your thesis, of course. You want to be able to say, "The reason I went on this page-long rant about institutionalized racism in America is because it directly affects the family dynamic of non-majority people and that is my thesis." You want to be able to say that.

What you don't want, though, is to be constantly repeating yourself in such a way that the reader cannot help but assume that you, the writer, think your audience is full of easily distracted five-year-old children. Give the reader some credit!

As long as your thesis is clear, and especially as long as you are making strong and thoughtful arguments toward that thesis, your reader is following. While it is valuable to tie back to your thesis statement throughout the paper, don't do it for the sake of doing it--do it in support of a particularly nuanced argument or as a connection after what would otherwise be a tangent. And please, for the love of readers everywhere, try not to open a paragraph with, "This next point relates to my thesis because..."

The Quote-Plunk

You've done it. I've done it. Your professors, at some point in their academic careers, have almost certainly done it. You're writing a paper and you are required to use outside sources or specific textual analysis; you have a page count to reach and it's late and you just want to put on Netflix and curl in bed.

So you do it. You commit the quote-plunk.

The quote-plunk is my (absolutely genius, thank you) term for the instance in which you plunk a quotation into your paper with absolutely no warning or follow-up. No explanations, no analysis, no tie-backs to that pesky little thesis. Just a quote. This person said this, at this point in the text.

The quote-plunk is easy. The quote-plunk is quick. The quote-plunk is absolutely devious and it almost always succeeds in falsely convincing you that there is more substance to it than there is.

Quotations must be analyzed and explained.

I don't like to use the word "must" in writing tips--it is far too absolute and there are far too many complexities to writing. But, in this case, it is nearly universal that the use of a quotation explicitly implies that you will be analyzing its relevance, and not just using it for length or because you need a certain amount of cited references. This can be very difficult, but it can also be very easy. You might use a quote to back up or give credibility to your argument; in this case, explain the quote. "Bob says this, which means this. This is significant because...."

You might be exploring the specific language within the quote. "Bob's use of the word 'tacos' suggests..."

Or, you might be using a quote to give contextual or background information--in which case you might consider paraphrasing, which gets your point across while also illustrating your understanding of the topic.

Whatever you do... no plunking.

The Vocabulary Complex

In one of my favorite courses this semester, my professor spends at least ten minutes lecturing wildly--every class--on the ways we incorporate our voices into our papers. He wants us to be free and unpretentious, and to make "judicious use of the first-person pronoun."

Basically, he wants us to put the thesaurus back on the shelf, stop trying to be Confucius, and go write something that actually means something.

A strong vocabulary is invaluable and there is, of course, a certain level of discourse that we are trained to strive for in academic papers. We want to elevate ourselves past our normal speech patterns. We want to illustrate our vast knowledge of how Synonym.com works and, in doing so, sound like we actually know what we're talking about.

The problem is, most of the time, we DO know what we're talking about... and we don't need a thesaurus to make it so. When you know that there is a word for what you're trying to express but you can't quite find it, by all means, head to the reference books. But when you're revising your paper and changing words at random to make yourself seem "smarter," you are doing more harm than good.

Language does not exist inside a vacuum. Words, all of them, every single one, carry meaning. They carry connotations. They carry implications. Synonyms do not mean the same exact thing. Changing one word can change the meaning of the entire sentence so if you do not have a strong, legitimate reason for it--if you're changing it because the longer word seems more intellectual--do yourself a favor and go with your first choice.

There is nothing wrong with brushing up on your vocabulary--this is always recommended--but five minutes before the paper is due, with a thesaurus open in front of you, is probably not the time to do it.

The "Is it good?"

I saved the best and most terrible for last.

Consultants hear it all the time--teachers, too, and anyone who has ever been asked to look at a friend or colleague's work.

Is it good? Is it good. Good? Is it? Good.

I want to tell you, as a consultant, from the bottom of my heart, I cannot tell you if your work is good. I also want to tell you, as a friend or a peer or an unbiased individual, from the bottom of my heart, I still cannot tell you if your work is good.

You, of course, remember just a few short paragraphs ago when I explained that all words have meaning. This is still true but, to complicate things a little further for the sake of clarity, I amend that statement to recognize that some words' meaning has been utterly stripped from them through overuse and muddlement and general carelessness.

The word "good" has been put on such a high pedestal that we poor, earth-bound creatures can no longer discern its meaning.

When students ask me if their work is good, I ask them if it is good. Usually I get either blank or hostile stares; I then rephrase my question: "What do you mean by 'good'?" Usually, they mean clear. They mean answering the question, following the requirements, grammatically sound. They mean, "Will this paper get me a high grade?"

To which I give a resounding, "It's a mystery!!"

Just kidding. I do remind them, however, that here in the Writing Center we are not concerned with grades or with creating better writing--we are here to help create better writers. We are here to inspire discourse and discussion on all aspects of the writing process; recognizing these myths and misconceptions is a part of that process. We are not perfect writers and we do not expect to either meet or achieve perfection in our clients--there is no shame in struggling with any of these common issues or with any others.

Part of the beauty of writing is that it is so personal; as we grow, our writing grows. And the only way to grow is to practice--to push outside the boundaries of what you have been taught is "right" and, even further, outside the boundaries of believing there is any one "right" way to do anything at all, least of all writing.

(And as we say in the Writing Center--you might want to write that down.)