Why Clarity Feels Dangerous (Especially If You’re an Academic)
The Hardest Work in Writing Is Saying What You Really Mean
We can write 10,000 words for a peer-reviewed journal and feel nothing, just the quiet comfort of convention. We’re protected by structure, hedging, and footnotes. But post 300 words on the internet, with our name on it, in our own voice, and suddenly the stakes feel different. Our pulse quickens. We feel exposed. This is one of the great paradoxes of academic life: we train for years to produce knowledge, but most of us are never trained to share it in public. We learn how to publish, but not how to communicate. We are taught to perform, not necessarily to connect. And when we try, it often feels too risky, raw and revealing.
No one really tells you this, but writing in public isn’t just about being clear. It’s about being real. It’s about owning your thoughts without the protective layers of academic convention. Not hiding behind phrases like “this paper argues” or “the literature suggests.” Not cloaking our thoughts in someone else’s authority. To write publicly is to speak without armour. There’s just you, the page, and the risk of saying something in your own voice.
Writing this way means stepping out of our academic comfort zone and leaving the safety of the lectern behind. It’s more like sitting across the table, unguarded. People notice when our hands shake. Our sentences have to stand on their own, with no footnotes to hold them up. For those trained in academic habits, this kind of writing can feel like breaking the rules. It asks us to trade distance for connection. And connection makes us vulnerable. But that discomfort isn’t a signal to retreat, it’s a sign we’re doing something that matters.
Why We Hide Behind Complexity
We often say that academic writing is complex because the ideas are complex. And sometimes, that’s true. But often, complexity becomes a shield. We bury what we mean in layers of jargon or detours, not to sound smart, but to feel safe. The irony is that the harder a piece of writing tries to sound authoritative, the more it risks sounding evasive. Clarity feels like exposure because it is.
To say something plainly, without the performance of sophistication, is to take a position. It’s not just “less formal.” It’s also more accountable. When the reader understands us, they can disagree with us. Which means we can be seen.
I wish I could say that fear is just imagined, that nothing ever comes of writing in public. But that hasn’t been my experience. There have been moments when I’ve faced verbal attacks, even threats simply for op-eds I’ve written in Dutch. Not because I set out to provoke, or because my writing was inflammatory, that’s never been my style, but because it was direct. Because it named things plainly. Because it dared to translate research into something legible and actionable.
In one of those moments, my dear colleague and avid public-facing writer, Cas Mudde reached out. He wrote me two things I still carry with me: “Take a break, for as long as you need. But keep writing. Don’t let them win.” That’s the balance I try to strike: care for myself, and care for my work. Not pushing through harm, but not surrendering either. Because if people are willing to threaten clarity, it means clarity matters.
Why Academics Resist Clarity
In an information ecosystem increasingly driven by algorithms that reward virality, controversy, and engagement, the role of writing has undergone a structural shift. Rather than clarifying ideas or fostering understanding, language is now often deployed as a tactical tool: to capture our attention. Chris Hayes has called this the siren call of attention, where the goal is no longer to hold attention, but to hijack it. And yet, precisely because of this shift, the case for clarity in writing has never been more urgent. When the noise is constant, clarity becomes radical. When the pull of reaction is everywhere, writing with intention becomes resistance.
Many scholars genuinely want to communicate better. But a few persistent barriers get in the way. The first is fear: that clarity will make complex ideas look simplistic. But clarity is not simplism. On the contrary, if an argument can’t survive translation into accessible language, it may not be as strong as we think.
The second is performance: the tendency to signal intellectual credibility through abstraction, theory-laden phrasing, and studied opacity. The result is writing that becomes more about protecting the writer than serving the reader.
And finally, there’s habit. Most of us were trained to imitate dense writing. We internalized the belief that to be taken seriously, our work must sound academic. But seriousness should be a function of the argument, not the language used to dress it up.
In truth, clarity requires more discipline, not less. It demands that writers define their terms, frame their questions precisely, and structure their arguments coherently. That’s not dilution. That’s rigour.
The Case for Clarity
In 1946, George Orwell wrote an essay that should be required reading for anyone who writes publicly: Politics and the English Language. Orwell warned that unclear writing leads to unclear thinking, and that the degradation of language is both a reflection of, and a catalyst for, deeper intellectual decline. What he couldn’t have foreseen was how, in the 21st century, language itself would become just another unit in the attention economy.
Orwell's concern wasn’t limited to propaganda or politics. We now see this erosion of clarity not just on social media, but in the very spaces where precision should matter most: academia, journalism, policy advice. Language too often functions as a shield, a kind of verbal anesthesia against responsibility and accountability. When language turns vague, inaccessible, or needlessly complex, our thinking unravels alongside it.
To counter this drift into abstraction and jargon, Orwell offered a set of deceptively modest rules of which four are particularly relevant:
Don’t use a difficult word when an easy one will do.
If a word can be cut, cut it.
Use the active voice rather than the passive.
Avoid jargon if an everyday word will suffice.
These aren’t prescriptions for dull writing. They are tools for honest thinking. They challenge writers to interrogate what they mean, rather than obscure it behind decoration or professional habit.
And yet, many writers, especially in academia, still resist these principles. Not out of laziness, but out of fear and long-cultivated habit. There’s a kind of linguistic arms race going on wordiness signals seriousness, and jargon stands in for rigor. But this often backfires. What’s praised in a seminar room can fall flat in public debate. The core mistake? Confusing complexity with clarity.
A Rough Guide to Writing Clearly
To write clearly is to take your readers seriously. It means refusing the safety of abstraction and meeting the moment with language that informs rather than obscures. In the spirit of Orwell’s rules, here’s a working checklist for writing clearly:
Spotlight our core claim: Don’t hide an argument behind abstraction. If we believe something, state it plainly. If we're uncertain, say so.
Define our terms: Especially in public writing, don’t assume our readers to share our definition of “liberalism,” “resilience,” or “hegemony.” And let’s be just as clear about what we don’t mean.
Be specific: Abstract claims are weaker than grounded ones. If we write that “many scholars argue,” be ready to name or quote them.
Trim the fat: Ask: Can this be said more clearly? More simply? Our reader’s time is precious, and we should respect it.
Avoid the passive: “The report was released” distances cause and effect. Say who did what: “The agency released the report.”
Check our tone: Clarity doesn’t require condescension. Be precise without being pedantic, concise without being abrupt.
Above all, write to be understood: Don’t write to be clever, to be admired, but write to connect.
If writing in public feels vulnerable to you, you’re not alone. It still feels that way to me, every single time. But I keep doing it because I believe the kind of writing that endures, the kind that connects, that sharpens thought, isn’t the loudest. What lasts isn’t the hot take, but the piece crafted with care. Writing as clearly as one can, isn’t just a stylistic choice. It’s a way of holding on to meaning in a world that so often trades in distortion. It’s how we make sense of what matters.
If you’re struggling to write publicly, take this as permission to pause. To step back, reflect, and take a breath. But don’t let that turn into disappearance. You have something to say. When you’re ready, say it clearly, and in your own time.
Let’s Keep Carving Together: Subscribe
If this post resonated with you, or if you're chipping away at your own block of marble, I’d love to stay in touch. Respect the Marble is a space for anyone thinking seriously about how we write, why it matters, and how finding our voice is a craft. Each post is paired with a Skillpower Session: practical notes on writing with clarity, structure, and care. Not to spam, just the occasional spark: honest reflections, useful tips, and the odd insight worth chiseling out.
I hope you'll subscribe, share your thoughts, or simply return. You can reply directly to any post or email me, I read every message. Writing is often solitary, but it doesn’t have to be isolating. Let’s keep this conversation going, together.