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The Comfort of Context: A Critical Self-Reflection on Academic Writing’s Addiction to Background

As I sit here, staring at yet another introduction that begins with “Scholars have long debated…”, I find myself confronting again something uncomfortable about academic writing—our peculiar addiction to creating stability through excessive background and definitions, a practice that actually undermines the very purpose of scholarly discourse. This compulsive need to establish firm ground before making any claims reveals something essential about our relationship with academic writing and perhaps our own insecurities as scholars: We build elaborate foundations of context not because our readers need them, but because we need them, like a security blanket that shields us from the vulnerability of making bold claims in an intellectual landscape where critique is currency.

The ritualism of the academic introduction has become so deeply ingrained in our scholarly consciousness that we barely question its necessity anymore—especially when teaching academic writing to graduates. We meticulously lay out historical trajectories, carefully define every term as if our readers were novices in their own field, and construct elaborate methodological fortresses—all before daring to merely whisper what we actually want to say. This performance of erudition, while comforting to write, creates a peculiar form of what I would call intellectual procrastination. Instead of engaging directly with the tensions and problems that make our research vital, we spend precious pages establishing our membership in the academic club through citation parades and definitional displays. It’s as if we believe our readers won’t trust us to challenge existing knowledge until we’ve proven we can recite it verbatim.

Perhaps most telling is our collective resistance to abandoning these practices even when we intellectually understand their limitations. We know our readers—they are often accomplished scholars in their fields unless we cater our texts explicitly to other audiences—don’t need a Wikipedia-style overview of basic concepts. We recognize that starting with “Since ancient times…” rarely serves any purpose beyond demonstrating our ability to use JSTOR. Yet time and again, we find ourselves falling back into these patterns, like comfort food for the academic soul. This behavior suggests something more than mere habit; it reveals our deep-seated anxiety about academic authority and our place within scholarly discourse. Each carefully constructed paragraph of background becomes a talisman against potential criticism, a way of saying “Look how thoroughly I’ve done my homework!” before daring to contribute an original thought—if at all.

The irony, of course, is that this obsession with stability and stasis often achieves the opposite of its intended effect. Rather than strengthening our arguments, these lengthy preambles dilute them. Rather than engaging our readers, they exhaust them. Rather than demonstrating our mastery of the field, they suggest we’re not confident enough in our contributions to let them stand on their own merits. The real intellectual courage lies perhaps not in proving we know everything that’s come before, but in daring to challenge it directly, to create productive instability that advances our understanding. When we finally do allow ourselves to write introductions that foreground problems rather than background, that challenge assumptions rather than recite them, we often find our writing becoming not just more engaging but more honest about what we’re actually trying to accomplish in our research.

Breaking free from this addiction to context requires more than just technical writing advice—it demands a shift in how we conceive of our relationship with our readers and our role in academic discourse. Instead of viewing our introductions as credentialing exercises, we might reimagine them as invitations to productive discomfort, to the kind of intellectual instability that generates new insights. This means trusting our readers enough to skip the historical tours and definitional parades, and trusting ourselves enough to make bold claims without first constructing elaborate defensive fortifications. Only then might we transform our academic writing from exercises in stability-building to genuine contributions to knowledge that challenge, provoke, and advance our understanding.

Writing, Beyond Background

A Self-Learning Session on Breaking Academic Writing Habits (60 minutes)

STEP 1: Examining Our Academic Security Blankets (15 minutes)

READ these common introduction patterns, reflecting on how often you’ve used them:

Pattern 1: The Historical Journey “Since ancient times, humans have…” “Scholars have long debated…” “The history of [field] shows…”

Pattern 2: The Definition Cascade “Before proceeding, we must define…” “X can be understood as…” “This paper uses Y to mean…”

Pattern 3: The Method Shield “Using qualitative methods…” “Through a mixed-methods approach…” “By applying framework Z…”

Pattern 4: The Citation Club “Smith (2010) argues that…” “Building on Jones’ (2015) framework…” “As numerous scholars have shown (Wilson 2018; Brown 2020)…”

TASK 1: Personal Inventory Write down:

  • Which patterns do you most frequently use in your writing?
  • What makes these patterns feel safe or necessary?
  • When you read others’ work, how do you react to these patterns?
  • What are you trying to prove by using these structures?

STEP 2: Understanding the Psychology of Stability (15 minutes)

READ this reflection: “We construct elaborate backgrounds not because our readers need them, but because we need them. Every definition becomes a shield, every citation a membership card to the academic club. But what if our desire for stability is precisely what prevents us from making meaningful contributions?”

TASK 2: Analyze Your Own Writing

Take a recent introduction you’ve written and:

  1. Highlight every sentence that:
    • Provides historical context
    • Defines terms
    • Reviews literature
    • Describes methods
  2. For each highlighted section, ask:
    • Does this advance my argument?
    • Does this create value for my readers?
    • Could I remove this without losing anything essential?
    • What am I afraid would happen if I cut this?

STEP 3: From Stability to Productive Discomfort (15 minutes)

TASK 3: Transform These Stable Introductions into Problem-Centered Ones

Example: STABLE: “Migration studies has long examined cultural integration in urban spaces. Scholars have defined integration through various lenses, from economic to social factors. This paper uses ethnographic methods to study Berlin’s Turkish Market…”

UNSTABLE: “The celebrated ‘success story’ of Berlin’s Turkish Market masks a troubling paradox: while we praise its cultural authenticity, we simultaneously expect it to adapt to German urban norms. This tension reveals how current frameworks for understanding cultural integration fundamentally misread the dynamic nature of immigrant spaces…”

Now try these:

  1. Transform a historical opening into a current problem
  2. Replace a definition cascade with a conceptual challenge
  3. Convert a methodology shield into a problem-solving approach

STEP 4: Testing Your Transformations (15 minutes)

For each rewritten introduction, ask:

  • Does it create immediate tension?
  • Would readers in your field care about this problem?
  • Does it challenge existing understanding?
  • Does it promise valuable insights?

Final Reflection: Consider how different your writing feels when you:

  • Start with instability rather than stability
  • Challenge rather than reinforce existing knowledge
  • Focus on problems rather than background
  • Trust your readers’ expertise

Homework: Take the introduction of your current project and:

  1. Identify all stability-creating elements
  2. Remove or transform each one
  3. Foreground the key problem or tension
  4. Test whether each sentence creates value for your readers

Remember: Your goal isn’t to prove you’ve done your homework – it’s to show readers why they should care about your work right now.

Writing, The Art of First Paragraphs: What We Learn When Students Review Each Other’s Writing

Today, I ran a peer review session for “Writing the Middle East for Your Daily Read.” The setup was simple: Students exchanged their papers and read just the first few paragraphs. What emerged was a fascinating pattern that writing teachers see constantly but students rarely notice until it’s pointed out.

Most academic papers start with what I call the “knowledge display dance” – a carefully choreographed sequence where writers demonstrate everything they’ve learned before getting to their actual point. It’s perfectly understandable: After weeks of research, we want to show we’ve done our homework. We lead with broad historical backgrounds, throw in a few scholarly references, maybe add some definitions. One student captured it perfectly: “I feel like I need to prove I know what I’m talking about before I can talk about it.” The problem? Readers don’t particularly care what we know. They care about what they might learn that matters to them.

This disconnect became obvious during our review session. When asked what the papers were trying to communicate, readers could identify topics but struggled to articulate why these topics mattered. “It’s about exhibitions of the Middle East in Berlin” one student said, “but I’m not sure why I should care about this.” Another noted, “There’s clearly deep research here, but I had to read three paragraphs before I understood why this research might be important.” This pattern showed up in nearly every paper: Writers leading with their knowledge rather than their contribution.

This happens a lot in academic writing how we usually teach it or require it in university settings. Students learn to write by showing teachers they’ve understood the material. This works perfectly well in school, where the reader (the teacher) is paid to care about your display of knowledge. But academic writing serves a different function – it helps readers understand something better that they already want to understand well. The shift from showing knowledge to serving readers is one of the hardest transitions for academic writers to make.

The review session revealed another common pattern: the “safety blanket introduction.” Writers tend to open with broad, historically sweeping or general statements that feel safe and inarguable. “Trade has been central to human civilization since ancient times.” “Scholars have long debated the role of women in medieval Islamic societies.” These openings feel scholarly, but they actually distance readers from what makes the work interesting. When we asked students in previous semesters to identify what made them want to keep reading, not a single person mentioned these broad openings. Instead, they pointed to moments where papers surfaced specific tensions or challenges in our understanding.

What makes this pattern so persistent? Partly, it’s habit – we write what we’ve read. But there’s also an element of academic imposter syndrome at work. Starting with broad knowledge displays and historical sweeps feels safer than leading with our specific intervention. It’s easier to hide behind other scholars’ work than to stand behind our own contribution.

The good news is that awareness of these patterns is the first step to breaking them. Once students could see how their writing reflected these unconscious habits, they began to imagine different approaches. “What if I started with the problem my research addresses?” one student suggested. “Maybe I could open with the specific question that drove my research,” said another, or “Maybe I could use a personal story.” These insights didn’t come from me lecturing about writing techniques – they emerged naturally from students seeing their work through others’ eyes.

The next challenge will be helping students move from awareness to action. But that’s a topic for another post.