Introductions and Conclusions

Most writers, no matter how experienced they are, would agree that introductions and conclusions are the hardest parts of a piece to write, no matter what kind of writing it is. This issue of Word Works will look at some common difficulties with introductions and conclusions and attempt to offer some advice.

Introductions

Much of the difficulty with introductions comes perhaps from difficulties in understanding what introductions are supposed to do for the reader. Sometimes a writer can break through the introduction block by conjuring up a mental picture of the frame of mind the writer wants the reader to be in. The writer might ask, “If I were reading this for the first time, what’s the first thing I’d want to read?” Often it helps to put the draft away for a while and look at it fresh; that allows the writer to see it more from a reader’s point of view.

There are far too many ways to introduce a piece of writing than we can go into here. Any good handbook or rhetoric text will suggest several options. Specialized texts on writing in the various disciplines will offer more specific advice about the writing conventions of the discipline. We will here look at just a couple of kinds of introductions, one to a familiar essay and the other to a sociological report.

The introduction to the familiar essay looks very different from the introduction to a report in science or social science. Here is the introduction of a familiar essay, “The Smurfette Principle,” by Katha Pollitt.

This Christmas, I finally caved in: I gave my three-year-old daughter, Sophie, her very own cassette of The Little Mermaid. Now, she, too, can sit transfixed by Ariel, the perky teenager with the curvy tail who trades her voice for a pair of shapely legs and a shot at marriage to a prince. (“On land it’s much preferred for ladies not to say a word,” sings the cynical sea witch, “and she who holds her tongue will get her man.” Since she’s the villain, we’re not meant to notice that events prove her correct.)

Now here’s the introduction to a sociological paper, “The Hustler,” by Ned Polsky.

The poolroom hustler makes his living by betting against his opponents in different types of pool or billiard games, and as part of the playing aand betting process he engages in various deceitful practices. The terms “hustler” for such a person and “hustling” for his occupation have been in poolroom argot for decades, antedating their application to prostitutes. Usually the hustler plays with his own money, but often he makes use of a “backer.” In the latter event the standard arrangement is that the backer, in return for assuming all risk of loss, receives half of the hustler’s winnings. blockquote>

One difference that is immediately obvious is that Pollitt is attempting to get readers interested. Since the reading of familiar essays is usually voluntary, readers can decide not to read on if the introduction doesn’t interest them. Pollitt starts in a conversational tone (“I finally caved in”). She gives some tantalizing bits from The Little Mermaid and arouses our curiosity about what she’s going to do with the essay elements she’s introducing. Polsky, by contrast, offers his readers no special invitation. If they want (or need) to learn what he has discovered about hustlers, they will stick with him. His opening paragraph is a straightforward definition of the term hustler. The writer of a familiar essay about hustlers would be more likely to begin with a story or scene and go into the definition later, after the reader’s interest is caught.

But despite the differences, all introductions have one thing in common: they all get the reader oriented, point the way to what’s being discussed, and give an idea of the structure of what is to come. Pollitt does so indirectly. She is heading toward a discussion of how TV programming and other media still shortchange preschool girls, reinforcing sexual stereotypes long after the feminist movement should have made a difference. Ariel in The Little Mermaid, she explains further on, is at least preferable to Cinderella or Sleeping Beauty because “she’s active, brave and determined, the heroine of her own life. She even rescues the prince.”

The introductory section of Polsky’s report is much longer (five paragraphs), typical of such reports, and is very explicit about what is to follow. Paragraph two lists popular opinions about hustlers and the ways they are socially stigmatized. Paragraph three states Polsky’s purpose and scope: he will “try to present hustlers and hustling on their own terms” and avoid a “'social problems' focus.” Paragraphs four and five predict the organization of the report and state the research questions he is seeking to answer.

One piece of advice about introductions that sometimes steers writers wrong is to use the “funnel” model. Students have been taught that an introduction should gradually bring the reader into the subject; it should start broad and narrow down sentence by sentence, until it ends with the thesis sentence. The advice about the placement of the thesis sentence is OK, because that is the point where the thesis often naturally falls. But the rest of the advice, to start broad and narrow down, is not always sound. It leads to the kind of essay openings that make composition teachers groan: “In today’s modern society. . . .” “Ever since the beginning of time, man has wondered. . . .” The reader has to wait for a few sentences to find out what the real subject is. Small wonder that teachers often advise their students to drop the first paragraph and start with paragraph 2, where the essay really gets into the subject.

Here’s a sample introductory paragraph that shows some of the typical problems with introductions. Explanatory notes follow.

Throughout history, societies have been at war with each other.¹ One problem that a victorious army has to deal with is what to do with its prisoners of war.² The Romans were no exception.³ They generally put their defeated enemies to death as criminals for having offended the emperor of Rome. In the Middle Ages, however, the practice of ransoming, or returning prisoners in exchange for money, became common. The primary reasons behind this practice were economic.⁴

Notes on the paragraph:

1. The first sentence is the typical “funnel” opening, starting as broadly as possible. The problem is, the sentence leads readers to expect the subject of the paper to be something about war, not about the treatment of prisoners of war. It does not achieve the writer’s intention of leading the reader into the subject.

2. The second sentence starts narrowing down toward the subject – it’s not there yet. Trouble is, it’s as unnecessary as the first sentence and may be equally misleading.

3. The third sentence continues narrowing, but it is empty of information content, except for the introduction of the Romans.

4. The sixth sentence goes partway toward stating a thesis, but it is flabby and vague. It has no tension or interest in it.

Now here's a revised version of the same paragraph.

In Roman times, defeated enemies were generally put to death as criminals for having offended the emperor or Rome. In the Middle Ages, however, the practice of ransoming, or returning prisoners in exchange for money, became common. Though some saw this custom as a step toward a more humane society, the primary reasons behind it were economic rather than humanitarian.

Note how the first sentence gets the reader into the subject much faster than the original. There was no need to funnel down from war to prisoners of war to the Romans. The thesis sentence is sharper and more interesting. It sets up a tension between what some people in the Middle Ages saw to be the reason for ransoming prisoners and the real reason, and a tension between humanitarian and economic reasons. The reader gets a clearer idea of where the discussion is going: in the direction of a causal argument. (For more on thesis statements, see Word Works # 114).

Besides being misled by the funnel idea, many student writers believe they should stay away from introductions that are too obvious, that forecast too plainly the parts of the paper to come, for example: “This report will examine the research on. . ., explain the theory behind. . . , apply the theory to three individual cases of. . . , and conclude with. . . .” But often the obvious introduction is required by the conventions of the report – and is exactly what readers need in order to find what they are looking for.

Conclusions

What worries most writers about conclusions is, how can I get out of this piece gracefully without sounding repetitive or leaving the reader hanging? As with introductions, a good handbook or rhetoric text will suggest several options. We will stick with what Pollitt and Polsky do to conclude their pieces.

Before we look at their conclusions, though, let’s bring up a bit of advice that’s often offered in relation to introductions and conclusions: “Tell them what you’re going to tell them, tell them, and tell them what you told them.” As with other advice about writing, this can be either helpful or damaging. In a very long document or an oral presentation, the three “tell thems” might be a useful strategy. And, as we mentioned above, student writers often don’t do enough to “tell them what you’re going to tell them.” But by the end, readers don’t like to be reminded of what they can remember perfectly well without help, especially if the paper is short.

Another piece of advice that can lead writers astray is that the conclusion should not bring up new ideas or information. That’s true if the new ideas or information beg for further development – but not if they reveal further meaning in what has already been developed. Notice how Pollitt concludes her essay:

“We’re working on it,” Dulcy Singer, the executive producer of Sesame Street, told me when I raised the sensitive question of those all-male Muppets. After all, the show has only been on the air for a quarter of a century; these things take time. The trouble is, our preschoolers don’t have time. My funny, clever, bold, adventurous daughter is forming her gender ideas right now. I do what I can to counteract the messages she gets from her entertainment, and so does her father – Sophie watches very little television. But I can see we have our work cut out for us. It sure would help if the bunnies took off their hair ribbons, and if half the monsters were fuzzy, blue – and female.

Pollitt reminds her readers of the gender issues the body of her essay has raised – not by baldly restating them, but by more subtle reference to “those all-male Muppets.” Then she pushes on a little further, with the bit of sarcasm of “only. . . a quarter of a century” and the point that time is running out for today’s preschoolers. She tries to persuade readers that the changes have been delayed too long. This idea does not call for more development; it works as a brief note of urgency to cap her argument.

[S]ociology has unduly neglected the study of people who engage in sports or games for their livelihood. The sociological reason for this neglect is that sociology is compartmentalized into “fields” that tend to make such people, for all their visibility to the sociologist as citizen, invisible to him in his role as a sociologist.[. . .] Thus a largely unexplored area of social research consists of the people who work at what most of us play at.

As different as these two endings are, both end by summing up without mechanically repeating every point – what they do is “tell them what they told them” with a difference – and by pointing the way to further implications growing out of what they have said.

The main reason these two conclusions are so different lies in the different audiences and purposes. By “different audiences” we do not necessarily mean different people. The same readers might read both Pollitt’s essay and Polsky’s report for different purposes, but they will read each one as different readers. After a quick look at Polsky’s introduction, they may very will go straight to his conclusion, where they will expect to find the gist of what the report has to say. If they want more detail or want to see how Polsky gathered his data and how he arrived at his conclusions, they will read other parts of the report. By contrast, they will read Pollitt’s piece as a more informal essay (even though it does argue a serious point), starting at the beginning and reading through to the end.

Unless the type of document doesn’t require a certain kind of conclusion, it’s sometimes not worth the energy spent trying to think up a fancy one. It’s sometimes okay just to stop.

RL