What They Don't... (Brevity)

This will be quick. I promise.

When I am given the assignment to write a paper, I don’t instantly seek out the minimum page requirement; instead, I check to see if there is a maximum. When assignments like “Analyze Aristotle’s use of the term ‘Substance’ in Categories and Metaphysics in a 4-5 page essay” or “In a 5-7 page essay, explain John Donne’s use of metaphor in three of his ‘Holy Sonnets’” are given out by a professor, my stomach instinctually knots itself as I question internally whether they are really serious about that upper limit or not. I can’t help myself. The pages inevitably stack up: A one page “reading response” written about a poem of no more than twelve lines suddenly becomes a three page mini-treatise on the metaphors for race in the closing stanza or the use of assonance in lines five through nine.

Now I could blame my propensity for prolixity on genetics (my father is notoriously long-winded, but that’s a story for another day), but what seems to be the root cause for my lack of brevity is in fact a fear of being misunderstood. Having never had a speech impediment, nor suffered under the weight of any learning disability, such a fear seems to have sprung from nowhere. My pattern of thought has only recently been complicated to the point of near absurdity by virtue of the higher education system, but this is neither here nor there, as I should, by the same token, still be able to say what needs to be said. But that’s not how it is: superfluous clarifications, the laying on of detail after detail, and a knee-jerk impulse to make every list of characteristics into a perfect set of three means that, where others nail their points in one shot, my words circle the rim timorously for pages and pages. The question of whether or not I am making any sense inspires an anxious verbosity, just as perching at the edge of a high-dive compels my knees to turn to Jell-O. My fear’s manifestations are evident even now: as I write these brief comments, I find myself squirming to avoid the short, simple statements of fact that would have rendered a succinct and concise essay upon my fear of being incomprehensible.


It seems to me that most fears people have are at base reasonably motivated: a fear of spiders brought on by the possibility of coming in contact with a Brown Recluse, a dread of high places incited by an understanding of gravity and density, or even a fear of crossing bridges brought on by a unseemly (though at least partially warranted) distrust in civil engineering. My own trepidation at being misunderstood seems just as rational as these in some sense; people who have speech impediments or have trouble putting words to their thoughts must suffer from such misgivings as well, but at least in their case they have good reason. The reality of their situation is completely lost on me; why my own fear is still manifested in spite of accolades from professors and peers for the high quality and clarity of my writing is a mystery worth investigating. The discontinuity of it certainly gives one food for thought…but that’s a story for another day.