You’ve Got the Ideas. What If It’s Your Voice That’s Not Landing?
The Hidden Curriculum of Academic Writing
There’s a part of academic life no one quite prepares us for. We can master our methods, sharpen our question, hone our theory, read and reread the literature. But when it comes time to write, really write, to shape an argument that lands, we realize something is missing. Not knowledge. Not even confidence. But something more elusive: voice.
Voice is one of the most overused and underexplained concepts in writing. We tell students to find “their voice,” as if it’s buried somewhere under the footnotes, waiting to be uncovered. But we rarely teach what that means. And we almost never say this: voice is not something we’re born with, it’s something we build. Sentence by sentence. Piece by piece. Across time, and under pressure.
This Substack grew out of the conviction that clarity in writing isn’t a soft skill, it’s foundational. And yet, we seldom teach it with the seriousness it demands. I’ve started thinking of it as part of the so-called hidden curriculum: the informal, unspoken knowledge about writing that shapes who succeeds and who stalls. Especially when our writing tries to bring a new idea into the conversation.
Writing for Survival
This brings me to a hard truth: when we’re working with new ideas, how we write may matter as much, if not more, than what we write. Not because form is more important than substance, but because form determines whether our content gets through the filter. So if you’re an early-career researcher trying to do something original, here’s my advice: don’t just defend your ideas. Design your writing to make them endure. We can hold complexity and still write clearly. We can challenge orthodoxy without hedging every sentence. And we can develop a voice that adapts to the room without losing its core. That’s not compromise. That’s craft. But don’t forget to be charitable to the thinkers you’re pushing against, because every new idea is built on someone else’s groundwork. We write forward, but never from nothing. Even when we depart, we stand on the scaffolding others left behind. Craft also means care: for the argument, for the reader, and for those who came before us.
Why So Much Academic Writing Feels Voiceless
We tend to equate voice with style, a clever turn of phrase, a confident tone, a distinctive rhythm. And while that’s part of it, the core of voice is more structural. It’s how the argument moves. It’s how ideas connect, how each section earns its place, how our reasoning unfolds with purpose and care. In that sense, voice isn’t something we add at the end, it’s how the writing holds together. The stronger the structure, the clearer the voice.
When I review drafts, dissertations, journal articles, book proposals, I often see work that’s technically sound, but awkward to read. The structure is there, the literature is cited, the methods fit, but something’s missing. Too often, these pieces describe a conversation rather than entering it. They explain what others have said, sometimes in exhausting detail, but hesitate to say what they themselves think. Voice disappears. And without it, the argument loses power. This also means being careful with jargon. Yes, it can signal competence, but more often, it builds walls instead of bridges. Dense language doesn’t make ideas deeper. Clarity doesn’t flatten. It delivers.
The Voice Tax
We also need to stay alert to the structural inequalities and quiet gatekeeping that shape academic life. Recently, I came across a striking result to illustrates this. A team of political scientists and data scientists, Guy Grossman, William Dinneen and Carolina Torreblanca, analyzed over 140,000 journal articles in political science and found something many of us suspected but couldn’t quite quantify: “topically novel work tends to earn more citations over time but faces hurdles in prestigious journal publication.”
In other words, political science, like many disciplines, claims to prize originality, but often rewards familiarity. The most innovative work, the kind that breaks new ground, introduces fresh cases or methods, and might even shift debates if we’re lucky, often struggles to make it through the front door. And when it does, it usually has to conform its voice to sound as if it belongs. That’s not just a technical hurdle. It’s a structural one.
When we’re working on something new or out-of-step, we often pay what I’ve come to think of as a voice tax. We’re expected to speak in the language of the dominant frame, even when our work challenges that very frame. And when we’re told our tone is “not academic,” what’s often meant is: not expected. Voice is never neutral. It’s shaped by discipline, by status, by gatekeeping. By who gets cited and who gets “revise and resubmit.” Who gets to write plainly and be praised for clarity, and who gets dismissed as simplistic? The difference often has little to do with the writing itself. It’s shaped by gender, by class, by race. The same tone that signals authority in one voice can sound like audacity in another. And that judgment doesn’t come from the sentence, it comes from the system reading it.
We also need to acknowledge a deeper contradiction: while we are often told that accessibility is desirable, the reality is that academic culture still tends to reward opacity. Jargon is too often mistaken for intellectual rigor. Writing that is clear, resonant, and readable may be quietly dismissed as lacking depth, especially when it comes from those without institutional power. In that way, the system not only privileges familiarity, but obscurity dressed up as smart and sophisticated.
Academia trains us to write for a test: for the approval of a reviewer, a committee, a gatekeeper. Reviewers and committee members matter, of course. But the real work is writing to be understood. A strong voice isn’t about dazzling the gatekeepers. It’s about building a path, connecting the dots, and making our argument matter.
Making Our Contributions Last
Clarity in writing isn’t an afterthought. It’s not something we add once the thinking is done, it is the thinking. And yet, in academic life, we often treat writing as the final hurdle. We talk endlessly about ideas, but rarely about how to shape them into something others can follow. Form is treated as secondary. Structure, as invisible. Voice, as innate.
Voice isn’t talent or flair. It’s craft: an architecture of thought that shapes our arguments and helps them endure. Like any craft, it can be taught, practiced, refined. For those writing across boundaries, or from the margins, voice is more than a stylistic choice. It’s a way of claiming space. Of insisting: this question, this method, this perspective belongs here, too. In academia, where legitimacy is often coded in tone and structure, voice becomes a quiet form of power. If we care about intellectual innovation, we can’t afford to treat it as an afterthought. Voice isn’t just style, it’s strategy.
A Rough Guide to Building Voice
Voice is one of the most talked-about and least explained aspects of academic writing. We’re told to find it, but rarely shown how to build it. Here’s what I’ve found helpful advice.
Shift from sound to structure: We often think of “voice” as a personal style or tone, focusing on phrasing and vocabulary. But in academic writing, voice is more about structure than flair. It’s not just how we say something, it’s how we build it. A strong voice emerges from the movement of the argument: the connections, the logic, and the flow. Voice isn’t decoration; it’s the foundation.
Treat tone as a tool, not a test: There’s no universal “academic voice.” It’s not about fitting in, but about finding our place. Voice should adapt without disappearing. Watch out for jargon, it can signal expertise but often alienates. When language gets dense, strip it back. Clarity doesn’t dilute ideas, it sharpens them.
Write to be read, not just to be reviewed: Peer reviewers matter, but our true audience is broader. Voice is how the argument moves. We need to say what we’re doing, and why it matters. Readers don’t need to be impressed, they need to follow. Voice isn’t about sounding smart, it’s about showing the way. And that means signposting clearly as we can.
A brief but important clarification: not every revision request is an attack on our voice. Often, especially early on, the issue often isn’t originality, it’s translation (see my post on importance of reading and rereading and literature reviews). Maybe a key term isn’t defined, or the framing misses relevant disciplinary cues. That’s not a failure of voice, but of connection. And revising those things isn’t compromise, it’s how your voice begins to carry.
The goal of academic writing isn’t just to finish a paper or clear peer review. It’s to build work that endures, something that holds its place in the conversation and makes room for others. Because voice isn’t just about how we sound. It’s about who gets heard, and on what terms. What reads as authority from one writer can be read as audacity from another. These judgments aren’t just stylistic, they’re structural. And so, we write, not just to be seen, but to guide, to signpost, and to shape the space itself.
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