The Grammar Blog

My best friend from law school reads my blog, which surprised me; she (we) graduated close to two decades ago and so her interest in reading about the vagaries of the admissions process is unclear. At first I thought: maybe she’s just reading in an attempt to ferret out whether I would have admitted her if I had somehow magically been in charge of admissions at the time we both applied. (As it happens, I’m fairly sure I wouldn’t have admitted myself. After a couple of years on the job, I got my nerve up to go dig out my application file and read my personal statement. It was—what’s the word? —wretched. I was filled with existential dread to realize I wouldn’t have admitted me to the law school that set me on the path to admitting other people to that law school, but what can one do? In any event, I feel sure I would have admitted her.)

As it turns out, that hypothesized motivation was totally wrong. I’m now quite sure she’s reading my blog so she can correct my grammar. My posts occasionally elicit a very charming, gentle inquiry to the effect of, “what the hell were you thinking when you wrote THAT?” What I love best about the exchanges is how she responds to my mortified admission of error by producing all the conflicting authority that would tend to have supported me in my error in the first place—a small gift translating to, “don’t worry, Z, there are lots of idiots who make that same mistake.” Lawyers are ethically obligated, when writing for a court, to reveal all the case law that goes against their argument; that obligation does not actually extend to grammar-critiquing emails, but I guess old habits die hard.

Let me be clear: I am not complaining. I love the input—and not merely because I derive a little glee from thinking how hard I’m making her work in order to lob these bombs in a gentle manner.

I love the byplay because I love to write, and she loves to write, and that shared love is part of our friendship. Talking about writing, even teensy little nitpicky aspects of writing—wait, especially those nitpicky aspects—is something many lawyers love to do, because many lawyers think great writing is the sine qua non of great lawyering. Indeed, my friend—a supervisor in a renowned appellate criminal defense practice—says that people in her division can be great oral arguers, and wonderfully knowledgeable about the law, but if they’re not strong writers, they’re useless.

That may strike some as odd, because many laypeople firmly believe that crap writing is in fact the identifying hallmark of legal writing. Partly that’s because popular conceptions of what legal writing consists of are rooted strongly in what it was a half century ago; since then, things have evolved a lot. But partly that’s because many lawyers just aren’t great writers.

The belief that great writing is a necessary component of great lawyering underlies one of the recurring bits of feedback I get from faculty: the exhortation that I need to be vetting carefully for writing skills. I take that to heart. But I also believe, very strongly, that people learn a lot about writing when they get here—both from the curriculum (our legal practice class requires a ton of work from both students and professors, with amazing results) but also just from being around other people who care about writing. Becoming a better writer requires caring about becoming a better writer. Seeking out feedback, incorporating the feedback into future writing, reading the great writing of others mindfully—those all improve our writing. So if you’ve been admitted to law school and are wondering, “what ought I to be doing to prepare for law school?,” or if you’re considering applying to law school and are wondering how you can put yourself in a better position, then start thinking about your writing.

-Dean Z.
Assistant Dean and Director of Admissions