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Editor's Notes |
Rare is the occasion when the makers of history realize what they have done and appreciate the consequences. When the fathers of the atomic bomb viewed its power against the darkness of a New Mexico night, they knew the world was changed forever. But when early hominids first used vocalizations and pictographs to convey information, chances are they weren't aware that they had changed the world—even though they had touched off another kind of chain reaction that continues to this day.
Language has the power to motivate, to educate, and to unify. It also has the power to divide and deride. Not surprisingly, editors are often viewed as pedants who are so infatuated with their own power that they use their editorial prerogatives to impose a linguistic orthodoxy that stifles creativity and growth. I readily admit that some authors would accuse me of a linguistic tyranny that exceeds the bounds of common decency. I therefore want to present—as they say in the legal business—an affirmative defense.
In the world of creative writing, in which poets weave marvelous tapestries of words, the only limitations are those imposed by the writer (or the tolerance of the reader). Similarly, writers of both fiction and fact are free to explore not only how they use words but also new art forms, such as the periodically rediscovered (and oxymoronic) "nonfiction novel" that was first made famous by Truman Capote. In all of these creative endeavors, it is the whole that conveys the message and meaning, and I contend that style should not be a "decoration" that can be discerned independently of all else. This is where I believe scientific and technical writing (including documentation) share common ground with even the most avant garde forms of communication. When words are affectations, they detract from the message; when words are obscure, they do not lead to thoughtful reflection.
Authors often believe that the complexity of their message and their use of jargon demonstrates their membership in an elite group. When we all use words the way the dictionary suggests we should, for better or worse, we are admitting that we are just like everyone else—the proverbial hoi polloi—and we must look elsewhere for a way to differentiate ourselves. Consider the following definitions of the word "jargon" (in the order in which I found them): 1) Nonsensical, incoherent, or meaningless talk; 2) A hybrid language or dialect, a pidgin; 3) The specialized or technical language of a trade, profession, or similar group.1
A major accomplishment of members of trades and professions is that we take meaningless talk and give it new life because we, and we alone, know what those words mean. But who is this "we"?
The word "dynamic," much like the word "functional," has taken on almost fetish-like powers in physical therapy. If you find that characterization a bit strong, check out the definition of fetish. ("An object that is believed to have magical or spiritual powers.... An object of unreasonably excessive attention or reverence.... An abnormally obsessive preoccupation or attachment; a fixation."1) The term "dynamic posture" has been used to differentiate something from "static posture." Perhaps this is true among those who know the secret code—that is, in some group of "we" (which does not include me). Dynamic refers to objects in motion with associated acceleration and deceleration. Static, on the other hand, refers to objects at rest or in constant motion, when forces are in equilibrium and there is no acceleration or deceleration. From that perspective, all posture except that which occurs in a wax museum is dynamic—or is this the case of an editor defending a linguistic orthodoxy that stifles creativity and growth?
While wandering through the posters at a recent meeting, I encountered several groups of enthusiastic students prepared to discuss the intricacies of their research. Several of the posters dealt with posture, and all of them had the term "dynamic posture" in their titles. The students assured me that the term was in common use and that they had seen it many journals, but they had some difficulty defining it. Often that powerful, persuasive argument of "you know" seemed to be at work, and I almost expected to be admonished to "forget about it" any minute.
Despite the common use of the term "dynamic posture," there were different experimental paradigms. In one case, dynamicwas used because the subject was moving about; in another case, dynamic was used because subjects were doing reaching tasks that presumably were necessary adjustments to what might be seen as self-perturbating forces. On other occasions, dynamic posture was used to refer to what occurs when a subject is jostled or when the ground beneath the subject moves. Apparently, one term was being used to describe some very different events. This is not a matter of linguistic offense but of scientific inaccuracy.
Knowledge does not progress easily when we adopt the mind-set of Humpty Dumpty, who, in the Lewis Carroll classic Through the Looking-Glass, made it perfectly clear that "when I use a word...it means just what I choose it to mean—neither more nor less." When words and phrases become the emblems of membership in a cohort rather than tools for communication, we all lose. Instead of having such titles as "Function of the Back Muscles During Dynamic Posture" (a hypothetical title to illustrate my point), we could simply say, "Function of the Back Muscles During Reaching Activities" or "Function of the Back Muscles During Walking." Getting rid of vague terms is not that difficult. Accepting the need to do so in our writings and our clinical documentation, however, seems to be another matter.
Much of the scientific literature is impenetrable because of technical necessities, and although that may seem to be an excuse, it really is an acknowledgment of an area in which all of us—authors and editors—can do better. We need to explore new ways of making information clearer to those who (we hope) would use our new knowledge. Although changes in communication cannot occur overnight, we can at least begin to demystify our writing by exhibiting good science and by being precise. There is no longer any excuse for using what I call "all-purpose nouns," words that seem to name something but in fact endow no specific properties at all. For example, we can search dozens of articles that have the word "tone" in the title or among the key words only to find, if we are very vigilant, that the term either is not operationally defined or is defined in many different ways. The bottom line is that the articles may have little in common or at best may represent reports in which different variables were used—variables that had one name but not necessarily one underlying mechanism or meaning.
Too often, clinicians write documentation and authors submit papers in which the same terms are used but with different definitions, and we can only wonder whether the writers appreciate the impact. Results that differ among studies are less confusing to me when I realize that even though the words are similar, the methods used were different. In our clinical practice, we use words that are so ubiquitous that they mean nothing without definitions. Spasticity and strength are two that immediately spring to mind. When we carelessly unleash adjectives such as "functional," "dynamic," or "clinically," the list grows exponentially.
I often wonder why some authors think some things are "clinically acceptable" rather than just "acceptable." Is the standard lower or higher? Does it depend on whether you are the practitioner or the patient? Do we use words like "clinically" because they add meaning or because they make our communications seem more important? (For instance, when things are said to be functional, that sounds good.) Authors also often quote texts in order to characterize reliability coefficients as "poor," "fair," "moderate," or "acceptable." But acceptable for what? For making a potentially life-altering decision, such as whether to place a patient in a facility or supply home care? Or for performing a relatively innocuous range of motion procedure?
Physical Therapy will continue to ask authors to clarify the language they use and will continue to work with authors to find mutually acceptable means of communication. The Journal's job is to keep in mind the needs of its diverse readership—and to uphold the simple (if painful) truth that clarity serves science.
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