“Any water droplet can dance. All it needs is the right dance floor.”
These words changed my life. I’ve always appreciated the beauty of a cleverly crafted haiku or an impassioned sonnet, but my first foray into the New York Times science section made me realize that scientific writing can also inspire readers through artistry and emotion.
Throughout high school, I’ve been a huge enthusiast of poetry and chemistry. The passions, though contrasting, felt like a natural combination —they simply engaged different parts of my thinking. One emphasized creative thinking, the other analytical thinking. One explored emotions, the other structure.
I felt this divide while reading scientific news articles to keep up with new developments. As a creative writer, I often found these articles dry even if the research was innovative and thought-provoking. One article detailing extraordinary developments in battery capacity was so mechanical and jargon-ridden that, despite my fascination with the topic resulting from two summers of battery research internships, I had to force myself to finish it. This machine-like writing was standard across most of the papers I encountered. I was disturbed that science was being communicated to non-specialists through lifeless, overly academic language. The obscurity of this writing leads to people becoming uninterested and ill-informed in topics regarding science. As a result, they are less likely to take action--and support policy--based on valid research.
It took my school-sponsored New York Times subscription to make me realize that science writing could be stimulating to laymen. In the article “This Water Drop, It’s the Greatest Dancer,” Nicholas Fleur described how scientists made water drops “twist, twirl and even pirouette” to develop a technology that harvests energy from rain. I was fascinated by his artful presentation of the research while staying true to its purpose of informing the public. Fleur’s informative, creative flair made the article such a fantastic read that I researched the topic further. Clicking through more NYT articles, I discovered that scientific writing, like poetry, can move the heart.
Now, as a creative writer and science enthusiast, I want to use my words to show even people uninterested in science that there is beauty in everything from atomic physics to organic chemistry. I want to increase the public’s engagement with science and inspire activism. I want my compelling description of a world powered by carbon-based batteries to prompt environmentalists to rally for increased research funding and encourage entrepreneurs to develop the technology.
Language and science are not only compatible, but they are also the means toward the same goal of communicating the stories of the world that educate us and change how we think. Thus, I identify myself not as a poet or a scientist, but as someone who can channel the power of both to inform, inspire, and make an impact.
While I’ll never stop writing poetry, I will also always have my dancing shoes on; fingers poised over my keyboard, I’m ready to tango with water droplets, salt bridges, and p-type semiconductors.