The plot: Convince science-minded people they can’t write. The subplot: Assure them that if they’re good with their facts and figures, their incompetence in writing doesn’t matter, that writing is something only "writers" do. The perpetrators: English majors.

That’s right. Those English majors may seem like nice, harmless people, but they’re not. They’re nefarious, and they’re everywhere. Worse yet, they’re learning how to disguise themselves. Some have exchanged their wire-rimmed glasses for the heavy, black-rimmed type. Others are wearing plastic pocket protectors stuffed with silver twist-top pens and mechanical pencils.

But don’t let appearances fool you. They may act and dress the way you do, but they don’t think the way you do. And they’re out to undermine your confidence.

William Zinsser first blew their cover in his 1988 book, Writing To Learn, when he wrote, "The fear of writing is planted in countless people at an early age -- often, ironically, by English teachers, who make science-minded kids feel stupid for not being `good at words,’ just as science teachers make people like me feel stupid for not being good at science.

"Whichever our type," Zinsser continued, "the loss of confidence stays with us for the rest of our lives."

The English-major conspirators are playing games with your mind. They undermine your confidence by placing unwarranted emphasis on three common deficiencies of scientific and technical writers:

Now, here’s the dirty truth. What the perpetrators fail to acknowledge are your natural strengths and abilities as writers. Think about it. Don’t the following traits apply equally to the science-minded and the language-minded?

*Ability to think logically and to present information coherently.

*Recognition that certain rules, structures, and practices generally produce predictable results.

If the English majors could only get past their short-sightedness, they might offer you a few basic principles of good technical writing, such as:

"Fairs come at the twilight of the year, when the harvest is in and the year’s work is almost done, when the land prepares for its long winter sleep. The final event of the departing summer, the Minnesota State Fair marks a time of celebration, a time of optimism and satisfaction with a job well done. Like a warm, soft Minnesota night, it is a time of rest and play and renewal, a time for learning and contemplation and wonder, a time for dreaming."

With those words, Karal Ann Marling, an American Studies professor and author of Blue Ribbon: A Social and Pictorial History of the Minnesota State Fair, did more than describe the significance of the fair. She also captured the wistful mood of a passing season.

How did she do it? Why was I so taken with the passage?

At first I thought it was her rich, evocative language. But when I read the passage a second time, I realized it was more than that: It also was the sound of her language.

It was the rhythm and soft cadence of her sentences. It was the gentle refrain of phrases punctuated by repetitions of "when" and "a time." One, two. One, two. One, two, three. And within the last sentence a kind of counterpoint before and after the repeated phrase: One, two, three. One, two, three. One, two, three. One.

My reason for traveling to Atlanta was to present a writing workshop to the auditing division of a large corporation. I would be working with a group of auditors to help them write their audit reports more effectively. I would be concentrating on the basics: how to organize and format material for clarity and emphasis, how to eliminate unnecessary words, how to support important points with specific detail, and how to avoid common errors.

I would be working, in other words, with language in a purely utilitarian fashion – or so I thought.

What I had not anticipated, however, was the eagerness and intensity of the auditors. They asked me questions about using verbs rather than nouns to write in a more animated style. They asked me when to use the first person for emphasis and when not to. They wanted to discuss tone and voice and personality in writing.

During a break I commented on the group’s enthusiasm to one of the workshop participants.

"We’re a hand-picked group," she explained. "Most of us will spend about two or three years traveling around the country doing audits, but we won’t be in these positions for long.

"This division is our company’s training ground for future executives. That’s why we’re so interested in what you have to say about writing. We want to learn anything you can teach us to help make us more successful in our future positions."

Mystery solved. Here, I thought, was the antithesis of the stereotypical, numbers-are-the-only-thing-that-really-counts technical writer. Here was a group of future executives who understood the importance of developing and refining their communication skills.

They wanted to know why a sentence such as "Establishing accounting procedures is one thing; following them is another" sounded better than "Establishing accounting procedures is one thing, but compliance has not been consistently achieved." They wanted to know why balanced sentences had special effect.