Communication Is a Joint Venture Between Researchers and Editors

A colleague here at The Scientist recently interviewed a microbiologist on the telephone. They were talking about bacteria, and the scientist commented that if he were an alien who had just arrived on Earth, he would surely be confused about the purposes of the kitchen sink and the toilet in a modern home. Based on microbiological evidence, he explained, he would no doubt incorrectly conclude that the respective uses of these amenities were reversed. As my colleague related this story, we cringed, laughed uncomfortably, and thought about it. The microbiologist's observation is a fine, if minor, example of effective science communication. As journalists, we love to witness the use by scientists of inventive ways to enliven facts by applying them to the human condition. Imagine how much less dramatically the microbiologist would have made his point, had he simply said that potentially harmful bacteria are more plentiful in the kitchen than in the bathroom. And yet, this sort of creativity in communication is merely a bonus to what journalists need most from scientists: clear explanations of processes, systems, or situations that we often understand only vaguely. We can make the metaphors ourselves, we can construct the edifice. What we need is a simplified blueprint. Sometimes, getting scientists to provide it is difficult. Perhaps this is because scientists and journalists are trained by their jobs to think differently. Scientific thinking is largely a search for strategies to be used in altering theories that tend to develop incrementally over time. Rather than relying on the "ah-ha," the sudden burst of insight, scientific discovery is usually guided by reasoning to resolve the anomalies in theories. In that sense, scientists--despite their vaunted preoccupation with detail--are actually big picture people. That's good for journalists in search of blueprints. But problems arise if scientists get so deeply involved in the measurements that the blueprint fades from sight. Journalists thrive on the "ah-ha." We call it the angle or the hook to an article, which is shorthand for an insight that we hope will make the information meaningful to nonspecialist readers. The scientist may deconstruct and reconstruct a system to better understand its form and function, but the reporter seeks to create a narrative line from selected facts. We hang the story on a hook, and the story makes the message memorable. Thus, journalists often focus on a part of the bigger picture, on some aspect or issue--often complex in its own right--that might help to illuminate much larger questions. Unfortunately, the story of scientific inquiry is rarely so tidy. Immersed in a continuum of discovery that constantly modifies what is known, scientists seek clarity through examination of details. Complexity is their truth and, in a sense, anything less than all the known details is misleading. But even if a journalist could take the time and effort to grasp the whole known truth, it wouldn't be printed, because almost nobody would want to read it. A storyteller who won't stop providing seemingly endless detail soon becomes a bore. So, even before the article is written, the editing process begins. The reporter starts deciding what to describe and what to omit. But how are such decisions made correctly, without first having command of all the details? At The Scientist , we find that collaboration on the story between reporter and researcher is often the answer. To a journalist, the very notion of collaborating with interviewees can be frightening. A responsible reporter would no more readily abandon control over the writing of an article than a good scientist would alter experimental results. How can a journalist hope to balance all sides of a science story, the good and the bad, if the scientists involved are allowed to read and alter the text before publication? Is not the integrity of the article undermined by such a process? The reporter who asks this question (and it is frequently asked) has forgotten that integrity itself is undermined by inaccuracy. A published article with a single significant mistake is ruined. Weeks of work have been all but wasted. In journalism as in science, objectivity and integrity are meaningless without accuracy. Recognition of this fact requires a certain humility on the reporter's part. Unlike a scientist, the journalist must accept the role of dilettante. Even the journalist who is also a specialist in a field of science will write many articles about other, quite different specialties. Potential manipulation of articles by scientists with agendas is avoidable by a simple caveat: textual changes are permitted only for the sake of accuracy. On occasion, it becomes the task of the writer and editors to define the fine line between a scientist's version of accuracy and contrary views. The reporter who accepts that she or he cannot hope to fully understand every topic nevertheless does have a specialty. To excel at the craft of journalism, as opposed to achieving mere competence, requires intelligence and diligence. A scientist who works on an article with a good science writer will recognize those traits, just as the writer recognizes the varying abilities of scientists to communicate clearly what it is they do. As this collaboration grows with the growing interest of the public in science, the writer and the researcher will continue to learn about how each other thinks--and the contribution of both to society will be improved. Steve Bunk is a contributing editor for The Scientist.

Communication Is a Joint Venture Between Researchers and Editors

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