Ladder of Abstraction

Some writers are simply better at finding meaning. Their habits of mind find connections that other writers miss. They discover patterns in what others see as chaotic thickets of information. And they have a knack for explaining their findings in ways that relate to the lives of their readers. No doubt some of that ability flows from God-given talent. A good education counts for something, too. But the ability to find meaning is also a skill. Any writer can get better at it. One route to improvement is to copy somebody who's already mastered the skill. And the most analytical writers I know, the ones who make stories significant by finding connections that make them more meaningful, follow specific strategies. One of the most successful exploits the ladder of abstraction, a concept popularized by S.I. Hayakawa a half- century ago. The semanticist's book, "Language in Thought and Action," still makes good reading for reporters and editors. The idea is that everything falls into a hierarchy that ranges from the most concrete - individual objects in the visible world - to the most abstract - the sweeping ideas that have broad application to the whole universe of experience. The first rung of a typical abstraction ladder might represent Hugo, my neighbor's cocker spaniel. The next rung might represent "spaniels." The next: "dogs." Then "mammals," "animals" and so on. As a reader, I may have no particular interest in Hugo. But if a news feature begins with Hugo, and ascends the ladder of abstraction to a generalization about all dogs, then maybe I can see how it connects with Speedy, my ill-behaved Dalmatian. If it can help me keep Speedy off the couch, I'm interested. The same technique can work for a variety of stories. Say, for example, that a reporter stops into a greasy spoon for a quick burger. She strikes up a conversation with Madge, the waitress, who promptly plops herself down at the table and gabs away. The reporter notices the strange notations that fill the woman's order pad, and she asks about them. She finds out that the code has been passed down through a long line of cooks and waitresses. The reporter is fascinated by the order code. It's a form a brief hand, she thinks, similar to what she herself uses for taking notes. And brief hand is an informal version of shorthand, a code that represents a more complete language. Maybe there are principles that apply to all such codes? She calls a linguist at the local university. That leads to several experts on shorthand systems and how they operate. The reporter has herself a Sunday lifestyle story. She opens her story with a vignette describing Madge as she jots down a big order and barks it out to the short-order cook. She describes a few of the arcane scribbles that Madge enters on her order pad. Then comes her nut graf: "The language on the order pad is brief hand, a code that summarizes language for hurried note-takers. Waitresses, secretaries, delivery-truck drivers and reporters all have their own versions. But, as it turns out, certain principles apply to all brief-hand systems. Knowing those can help anybody take faster, more thorough and more accurate notes." Ah ha. Now a story is broad enough to interest a huge swath of possible readers -- even journalists. And it also promises to use specific examples that will add color, emotion and tangible application. The technique can work with just about any subject. A tactic used by labor negotiators can reveal something about resolving all kinds of disputes, including those between husbands and wives. John Glenn's return to space might lead to a feature on the principles of staying active through old age. Roman architecture might connect to modern garden design. The only constant is the habit of mind that leads a writer to move up the ladder of abstraction, out into a broader concept and down into the real world again. The only requirement is that the landing point is somewhere close to the daily concerns of readers.