The Rhetorical Turn
You’ve read the essay called “The Turn” by William Langewiesche. At several points in this essay
the writer shifts from one phase of his argument to another. In simple writing instruction, those are
called transitions; in seventh grade you probably worked hard on transitions, and practiced using
various words and phrases called “transitions.” News Flash: words such as “Firstly” or “However” or
“In conclusion” are not transitions themselves; they are transition signals. The transition is within the
writing itself. Simply put: you can slap the word “thirdly” anywhere, but if what follows the word
“thirdly” isn’t substantially different from point two, then your transition is just window-dressing.
It’s time to forget that seventh-grade practice, or to go beyond and above it. In simple writing
situations—such as writing down the directions to drive from one place to another—“next,” “then,”
“now,” are indispensable to clarity. But in the mix of clarity and style we call writing, such obvious
steps obscure the real process of moving through a piece of writing, which involves two sorts of
movement. One good way to sort out those sorts is whether the change takes place in the writer or in
the audience.
A writer can get you the reader to move from point A to point B, or from body to conclusion, with
simple logos—just words, including perhaps some of those cheesy transition phrases you practiced
back there in middle school. In many cases that’s more than enough. Depending on the type of
writing, anything more could be pompous or bombastic.
But more often it’s best--deepest, most effective, most interesting—to change everything at those
key points. A tool writers use to do that is often counterintuitive to good writing. We’re often taught
to stay consistent: consistent in ethos, pathos, logos, consistent in perspective, tone, etc. That’s good
information in the default but rules were meant to be broken, and one of the most effective ways to get
your reader’s attention and keep it is to shift.
I call it “the rhetorical turn.”
For simplicity you might think of it as an actual turn, as in turning from one thing to another. At one
point you are facing one direction; then you move your body to face another. There’s a song about it:
Stand in the place where you live
Now face North
Think about direction
Wonder why you haven't before
Now stand in the place where you work
Now face West
Think about the place where you live
Wonder why you haven't before
The rhetorical turn has a variety of points and applications. There is no simple formula for composing
it, only the main rule of writing: do it on purpose, not by accident. In your proposal essay the form—
a standard, generally expected formula for doing this job—includes the assumption of a clear turn: the
point where you stop talking problem and suggest a solution. On one level it’s form-based: start a
new paragraph, and voila you are on solution now. You do that with words, so it isn’t a big shift. On
another level this shift is created in the mind of your reader, a transition that requires him to make
decisions: do I accept the problem? Do I accept the writer’s ethos? I do? Okay, then I’m receptive
enough to handle the proposal. I’m ready to move on.
Or, do I not? In that case, the turn comes too soon and I resist or reject because the writer didn’t
give me enough to go on (or gave me too much or lost my trust, etc.). On another level, the turn is a
point of challenge: the place where the writer has to let go of control of phase A and move to phase B,
has to give up the power to the reader, has to let the essay fly on its own.
What They Look Like
Choosing the subheading above is a rhetorical choice for me. So is returning to the first person in
this section. So the subhead above signals a change, rather obviously, in anticipating the reader’s
question and sending a message that I intend to answer that question. That’s one form of rhetorical
turn, a rather structured and direct way, not very stylish or engaging, a tad rigid, a bit simple, but
effective. You might choose in your proposal essay to stop your paragraph flow, skip a space, insert a
subheading such as “Proposal”, maybe make it boldface or all caps (I’d make you take it out if you
did, but you could argue that it’s right), skipping another line, then starting your proposal phase. That
would be a rhetorical turn, or at least the appearance of one. If you do such a thing, you had better
deliver what the reader expects: a change. If you don’t deliver the change, then they’ll decide you’re
“crying wolf” (like most idioms, that has a story—if you don’t know it, look it up.) Structurally, you
are promising something whenever you create a turn. That’s why it’s critical to do it clearly, well,
decisively. Some writers hedge their bets (another idiom with a story) and try to sneak or slide their
way from section to section in the essay. In formal writing you should be crisp and decisive; if your
writing isn’t crisp, I’ll call you soggy or mushy.
The big turn-signal above is not skillful or subtle. Such a visual/ formal turn is not a bad
organizational move, but it “talks down” to the reader. Typically I’ll encourage you to transfer some
of the challenge of the turn to the reader; make it more interesting and complex, and challenge
yourself to make it a real and effective rhetorical turn without the obvious signal so the reader
can enjoy the connection that arises.
One common turn-style is the hypothetical, in which you transition from discussing your topic by
inviting the reader to enter the world of the essay. You might say, “Imagine a WHS freshman,
walking down the hallway hunched under the burden of a forty-pound backpack.” Such a choice
commits you to complete that hypothetical, to stay in it and with it until it has served its purpose, then
to disengage from it clearly and crisply so the reader isn’t confused or uncertain.
A more common rhetorical turn is a rhetorical question. These tend to flow prodigally from the pens
of young writers, but they carry a responsibility too. Rhetoricals must be textured carefully. Do you
intend the reader to answer the question in their mind? Can they answer only one way? Or do you
hope that the reader will weigh the question truly and carefully, and then carry the answer they’ve
created forward into the next component of the essay? These two styles of rhetorical are often sloppily
interchanged by students.
While the rest of us feast on pheasant and fava beans, the fourth lunch students are forced to eat the stomped,
linty scrapings from the cafeteria trays. Is this fair?
What choice would you make: put food on the table this week, or pay for health insurance you may not need
now, or ever?
A simple rhetorical question has only one logical answer, and functions much like a statement: in the
example above, read “It isn’t fair that we feast on pheasant and fava beans…” etc. The next question
isn’t so simple. The reader is asked to provide an answer, but notice that the writer’s real rhetorical
purpose isn’t to elicit an answer at all. The true purpose is to force the reader to weigh the two
alternatives, and to create a qualitative difference between those two; to put themselves in the position
described; to comprehend the unfairness of the question and (in this case) to see a third answer: the
question itself is a dilemma, a Hobson’s choice.
Simple rhetorical questions can be effective but they tend to be carelessly used, a kind of simple
breakup of the series of statements. They can be lined up in groups with little loss of focus or clarity,
though it isn’t the most refined technique to do so.
The latter sort of question, a Socratic question, should be asked sparingly and never in groups. The
next paragraph of the essay should engage the reader’s answer but should avoid ruling on it; you have
asked the reader’s true opinion, engaged the reader in an active way. These questions make good
conclusion foundations if the purpose or outcome of the essay can tolerate some ambiguity or soft
closure.
Shifting perspective is another style of rhetorical turn. Stepping in to the first person is a powerful
move for a writer. In some situations, a writer must establish that ethos in the first person; but if it can
be delayed, the act of finally coming forward as I earns the writer some added attention and focus.
The same is generally not true when you shift from the third person to the first. First person is informal
but intimate; it changes the psychological effect of ethos, “cashing in” on the authority that the writer
has established. For example:
In 1997, a Pew Charitable Trust survey put the number of homeless people on the streets
of Minneapolis at 1800 on any given night. The number of shelter beds available at that
time was approximately 400; the number of daily free meals served in the city was about
2000. Per capita Minneapolis is about average among large American cities, but this figure is
distorted by the proximity of St. Paul, which has an outsized homeless problem of its own
and fewer resources, leading to some undercounting of people and overcounting of
resources. But Pew also measures homelessness in another way. The Climate Index of
Homelessness (CIH) measures the quality of life for homeless people by factoring in climate,
crime, and law enforcement policies. With the coldest temperatures and the coldest cops of
any major city in the US, Minneapolis is a grueling hell for homeless people in the winter.
Pew’s CIH is a compelling measure of the pain and risk of living out of doors in a
Minnesota winter, but it’s not the best measure. I prefer the less statistical and more
anecdotal “MIH”, the Me Index of Homelessness. It is very accurate, because I spent the
dead of winter 2004 on the streets of Minneapolis.
Writers can also “turn” in time. The general assumption of readers is that things come in
chronological order. This assumption is subliminal, a default, but that expectation can be used to
surprise a reader, or challenge them to work out the relationship between sections in an essay
themselves. Cause-and-effect, tight-focus description, or writing about the nature of things—
definition essays, for example--are an especially likely place to use this type of turn.
In 226 a small Roman garrison force surprised and routed an army of Vandals nearly ten
times its size. The Gauls regrouped, drew in additional forces from their allies to the west,
and wheeled on the Romans, triggering the first great battle in the Ardennes Forest, but not
the last. By the time the two armies collided, the Romans had been reinforced by a single
legion and so was still outnumbered nearly eight to one. But the Roman generals never
hesitated; they advanced in perfect Roman discipline and inflicted crushing losses on the
barbarian force. Fewer than 200 Gauls survived the day, but military historians still mark it
as a Roman defeat. That was the last time the Legions were able to deploy their
superweapon, their technological ace-in-the-hole, unopposed. The secret was out, and the
military superiority it conveyed was lost. During the battle a small detachment of Vandal
scouts surprised and captured a Roman cavalry probe, separated the legionnaires from their
heads, and rode the prime Roman mounts home. They didn’t realize it, but hidden in plain
sight in those cavalry mounts was the secret to Roman military hegemony.
At Thermopylae, a small force of Spartans, allies, and helot slaves held back a massive force
of Persians in 440 BCE. Their secret was the phalanx, and the discipline and guts that made
it work. The phalanx was a land-tank, an armored formation of people moving in perfect
synchronization and purpose learned (at least by the Spartans) over a lifetime of training and
drill. When done well, the phalanx was the military sine qua non, the apex of power and
conquest. After Thermopylae the phalanx only grew stronger, more sophisticated, and more
unstoppable. But within a few years a simple technical innovation killed the phalanx as dead
as a stump.
Imagine a young man, maybe your age; he lives on a cattle spread in central Montana,
perhaps, or maybe a rough livestock-and-corn operation in central Minnesota or a dude
ranch in New Mexico. On any given day this young man mounts his horse in the most
natural and casual manner, but he too is on close terms with the Roman superweapon. In
fact, he’s scraping his boots on it.
Carefully constructed transitions for this essay would try to soften the confusion of three different time
periods in an odd order. But if the writing is engaging and the idea is worth developing with some
juice—as is the concept that the great superweapon of the Romans was nothing more than the fixed
stirrup—readers will create the relationship for themselves. The assumption that history and
technology essays must progress in order has been turned around by the writer, and the surprise or
misdirection can be used to good effect. The reader has to build it, and when readers invest in a piece
of writing to that extent, the payoff is great.
Plan your essays by paragraphs, by purpose, by outline; but plan them also by turns. Know when you
use one; use it sparingly, carefully, but decisively. Most essays have one or more; they are not
“required,” but they are another way of exerting writerly control over your work. If your essay is
ineffective, flat, boring, or unpersuasive, revise it for those key shifts we call “turns.”