Speaking up and calling out BS when you see it -- some reflections on Jonathan Rauch's book The Constitution of Knowledge
- One of the should-be tenets of technical writers
- The Constitution of Knowledge
- Workplace hesitation and hindsight
- Generational reservations and fear of rejection
- Trusting your internal red flags
- Conclusion
One of the should-be tenets of technical writers
One of the tenets I’m trying to develop as a technical writer, and I know this is kind of crass and brazen to say, is to call out bullshit when I see it, or even to raise questions when I sense something wrong. Or more professionally, to voice dissent when I feel uneasy or disagree with a position being advanced.
We often hear that tech writers are the “first users” of a system that our feedback parallels real user feedback. Yes, but expressing concerns is more than just relaying a first-user’s perspective. I want to be in tune with my intuition as a writer and call out problematic ideas and wonky directions when I sense them, and not be shy about turning off my mute button and speaking up, even in large groups where dissent feels uncomfortable.
As technical writers, our role is often assumed to be one who simply takes requests from others and carries them out, polishing up the language and publishing the content. That’s actually a disservice to the companies we work for. I didn’t fully realize this until reading Jonathan Rauch’s The Constitution of Knowledge: A Defense of Truth.
The Constitution of Knowledge
To give more context here, I recently read Jonathan Rauch’s The Constitution of Knowledge: A Defense of Truth as part of the Seattle Intellectual Book Club. The book covers many topics, but one of the main ideas is that knowledge is socially agreed upon, not an isolated person’s individual view. Knowledge emerges when different groups—who may initially disagree—eventually arrive at some agreed-upon position (sometimes a middle ground) or simply when one side persuades the other. Our society is set up with institutions to provide this kind of discussion and convergence. These institutions foster the creation and agreement (the constitution) of knowledge.
For example, when scientists have a theory, in order for the theory to become part of the accepted body of knowledge, scientists write an article and submit it to a publication. Peer reviewers examine the article’s quality, the methods and the soundness of the article. They might request a revision or even reject the article. If published, other reviewers might critique or respond to it. The scientist will likely need to argue persuasively at conferences to get the support of others.
The scientist doesn’t just think up an idea in isolation and assume the idea will become visible and widely adopted on its own. There’s a system of social forces and agreements that one has to reckon with to get an idea embraced as knowledge. The idea only takes force when groups of people all decide that the idea is hard to disprove. (Nothing needs to be “true,” just hard to disprove.) This is how knowledge is social—it’s not individually owned but rather the collective agreement that is often hard won through one group’s persuasiveness.
Rauch says the US Constitution was similarly constructed. Checks and balances between different governmental branches prevent tyranny and promote stable governance (or at least should prevent it). The legislative, executive, and judicial branches have to persuade each other about the right course of action, and in that social exchange, a better, more accurate/right position is most likely the one to be adopted. In short, the agreed-upon position is socially mitigated and resolved through these institutions.
Rauch talks about how our society has many of these institutions in place to encourage the exchange of ideas, moving towards some agreement. This is what he means by the “Constitution of Knowledge”—much like the US Constitution, the construction of knowledge depends on multiple groups (like the three branches of government) promoting their ideas to each other, debating and discussing and presenting their best arguments, and then coming to some common agreement.
If individuals within these communities (and the public engaging with them) fail to challenge weak arguments, flawed data, or falsehoods—when they don’t call out BS ideas and poor research—the quiet/passive members weaken those vital checks and balances. Letting misinformation or bad-faith arguments pass uncontested does more than just allow a single bad idea to advance; it erodes the foundations of the system designed to produce truth. Therefore even if it seems awkward, or if it feels like you’re aggressively confronting/contesting another person’s point of view, you should do it in the service of knowledge. Challenging ideas helps move you closer to the truth. This is why we should speak up.
Part of why Rauch champions the sometimes uncomfortable process of speaking up, debating, and challenging norms stems from his own experiences growing up as a gay man in the 1970s and 80s, when the prevailing societal “knowledge” about homosexuality was flawed. It was often rooted in prejudice, misinformation, and fear—essentially, institutionalized “BS.” Progress didn’t happen through quiet acceptance of that status quo. Instead, it required decades of courageous individuals and groups speaking out, challenging discriminatory laws and attitudes, and demanding recognition and rights.
Workplace hesitation and hindsight
I fully agree with Rauch’s ideas about the Constitution of Knowledge, but sometimes it can be hard to speak up—not due to shyness or respect for a higher-up leader’s position, but rather due to internal uncertainty about the criticism to express.
Here’s a personal experience to illustrate. Recently I was asked to publish a product roadmap for a group. The roadmap had some strange product terms, so I met with several product managers before publishing to discuss some aspects of the roadmap. The meeting had plenty of opportunities for me to voice objections, and they would have been welcomed with a good discussion. But I just wasn’t sure of the right terms. I was still sorting out the issue in my head. I felt the naming was off, but I didn’t know exactly why or how, so I went along with it and published the roadmap. Later in the week some partners were confused, and based on the feedback we decided to revisit the name and change the terms.
I found myself wondering why I didn’t zero in on those details that I was unsure about earlier. I wasn’t in tune with my writer’s inner instincts (or whatever) and didn’t fully pay attention to them. But afterwards, I wished I had called out the problematic terminology and pushed back more. Too often I go along with a product idea because I’m not 100% familiar with the reasoning behind a decision or design. I tell myself that I wasn’t in meetings where partner requests, product limitations, release timelines, and technological approaches were hashed out, and others were. As a result, I often defer to others on the decisions.
A product manager, for example, surely has more context about the audience’s needs, has researched competitors, and has done some early testing to gather feedback. And this is my first exposure to the product, so why should I come out swinging?
But I really wish I weren’t so accommodating all the time. Too often I’m a peacemaker, someone who looks to help smooth over ruffled feathers (make everyone happy and get along). As a result, I might go along with ideas I’m initially mixed about. It’s hard for me to stick a fork in someone’s eye, even if I should. It’s hard to raise my hand and say, wait a minute, this seems off to me. I feel like there are problems with this [idea/term/process]. That can be an awkward, hard conversation, especially if you don’t have a clear alternative or counterpoint to articulate. Raising the objection risks creating some enemies.
As I said earlier, I read Rauch’s book as part of a Seattle book club I participate in. When the theme of speaking up came up during the book club discussions, there was quite a bit of dissent (ironically) about speaking up. In other words, people spoke up about not speaking up. One person insisted on expressing more empathy towards other viewpoints. She said she would only speak out if she really felt strongly about something.
Another person said they avoid confrontation by phrasing their dissent as soft questions, like “Have you considered X?” Or by asking, “Can I ask, why did you decide to approach it that way?” They also agreed that they avoid confrontation and feel uncomfortable in publicly rejecting someone’s ideas.
The soft questions approach seems okay at times, but it might require more direct, straightforward speech for others to understand that you’re not just curious or confused but actually antithetical to their position. Sometimes I’ve asked softball questions, suggesting curiosity more than opposition, only to see the person develop more affinity for their position as they give me more context.
Generational reservations and fear of rejection
Perhaps I’m extra sensitive about this topic because I’m a father raising four kids. In each of my kids, I’ve observed a reserved behavior to challenge authority figures. They’re terrified of disagreeing openly with their teachers or in expressing their dissenting concerns or issues in class (except perhaps in peer-to-peer discussions). I try to encourage them to speak up (and call out teachers who have bullshit ideas or policies), but there’s a reservation that almost seems generationally ingrained.
Here’s a mild example, not even classroom-related. After soccer practice last week, my 14-year-old wanted to stop at a new protein shake shop and see if they had acai bowls. When we pulled up in our car, rather than walk into the store and ask the clerk, my daughter wanted to wait in the car and check the store’s menu on her phone (if the menu was even online) to see if they had them—before going in. Perhaps she feared that the clerk would return a scoffing “no” and provide a kind of rejection about the acai bowls?
I said that was ridiculous since we were already there and just a few feet outside the store. So without thinking much, I got out of the car and we walked in the store, went straight to the clerk, and asked about the acai bowls. I even asked how you pronounce “acai.” The clerk pointed to a small poster on the wall listing the available acai bowls. Yes, Emerald City Shakes has 8 different acai bowl options. This is now my daughter’s favorite place to go for a post-soccer healthy meal.
Trusting your internal red flags
Now let’s take this discussion a step deeper. Underpinning the ability to “call out bullshit” is a skill that’s easy to overlook. It involves learning to trust and investigate our own internal red flags. When we’re reading content, reviewing a design, or listening to an explanation, our minds are constantly pattern-matching against our accumulated experience and knowledge. Sometimes, even before we can articulate why, we sense a dissonance—a sentence feels clunky, an argument seems weak, a term creates friction, the logic doesn’t quite connect. This isn’t mystical; it’s often our subconscious signaling a mismatch or a potential problem that our conscious analysis hasn’t caught yet.
The challenge is that these signals can be subtle, easily dismissed as mere subjective feeling, especially when we lack confidence or face pressure. But pay attention to those signals. That nagging feeling of uncertainty, that internal “wait, what?” is valuable data. When we look back in hindsight, we often wonder why we didn’t zero in on these moments or elements we felt some uncertainty about. My recommendation: Hone that ability to recognize the internal dissonance and use it as a prompt to pause, question, and investigate—even if just asking “Can you clarify this part for me? Something feels off.” Tapping into this intuition is fundamental to developing a good sense of judgment.
To use an analogy, take the concept of “Intuitive Eating.” At its core, it’s about rejecting external rules and diet culture noise to reconnect with the body’s innate hunger and fullness signals. Instead of eating based on the clock, habit, emotional triggers, or what you think you should eat, the goal is to pause and genuinely assess your physical state. It requires filtering out the considerable noise—stress demanding comfort food, boredom seeking distraction, ingrained beliefs about “good” and “bad” foods—to truly hear the body’s needs. Am I actually hungry? Am I satisfied? The authors of intuitive eating even have students practice listening to their heartbeat as a way to listen to their internal satiety signals. Pause and listen to your heartbeat for a minute. This is a good practice for getting in touch with your inner signals.
The parallel for writers is this: we too operate amidst significant “noise”—project pressure, ingrained jargon, the urge to be agreeable, the assumption that existing ways are correct. Listening to our writer’s intuition requires a similar act of filtering. We need to quiet that noise, pause, and genuinely consult our internal sense of clarity, logic, and usability. In short, to listen to our heartbeat. Is this confusing? Does this term really fit? Is this explanation sound? Trusting that internal assessment, much like trusting your body’s satiety signals, is key to developing good editorial judgement.
Recognizing that something’s off is the first step. If we’re unsure about the reasons why, the next step is to build on our curiosity. Those questions could lead toward soft questions directed to someone who holds the position, like my book club friend who suggested asking, “Can you tell me about why you chose [x]?” From that discussion, hopefully we can build momentum towards a real discussion that surfaces the true concerns, making them clear.
Obviously, if we’re struggling to interpret that internal signal about a potentially poor design or flawed idea, and we can’t yet articulate the problem, then adopting a confrontational rebuttal goes too far. This is when the softball approach is more warranted. In this scenario, shift into investigative mode using open-ended, clarifying questions. Start by saying, “Something seems off here.” Then follow it with another question like the following:
- “Can you help me understand this part better—I’m sensing some friction/confusion here, but I’m still trying to put my finger on exactly why. Can you walk me through it again?”
- “What’s the goal we’re trying to achieve with this specific feature/section/term?”
- “Can you share some of the reasoning or background behind this particular approach/decision?”
- “What other options or alternative approaches did you consider before landing on this one?”
- “How does this specific element fit into the larger user journey or workflow?”
- “Is there any background documentation, research, or prior discussion context I might be missing that would help clarify this for me?”
These kinds of questions shift the dynamic from confrontational opposition to collaborative problem-solving.
Conclusion
In conclusion, let me reinforce the point I made at the start: calling out bullshit should be in our tech writer’s DNA. We shouldn’t hesitate to voice concerns, even when it leads to awkward or uncomfortable situations, as this is part of the constitution of knowledge. Remaining quiet does a disservice to truth. If you love truth/knowledge or even right decisions, take that uncomfortable step and speak up.
When you’re hesitant to raise objections because you can’t articulate the counterpoint or reasons for your concerns, that’s when some soft probing questions are in order, as a way to collaboratively investigate the issues. Pay close attention to your inner writer’s signals—your writer’s intuition—and trust your judgment. Follow your curiosity and see where it leads.
Speaking up gets easier the more you do it. Yes, sometimes people will be upset. I’ve been writing for 20 years on this blog, speaking up in a public way even when doing so might offend others. Too often I’ve shied away from more open critique, as I’ve had a few (thankfully quiet) blow-ups over the years. But reading Rauch and thinking about this topic more reflectively, I think I’ll try to be more open in the future.
About Tom Johnson
I'm an API technical writer based in the Seattle area. On this blog, I write about topics related to technical writing and communication — such as software documentation, API documentation, AI, information architecture, content strategy, writing processes, plain language, tech comm careers, and more. Check out my API documentation course if you're looking for more info about documenting APIs. Or see my posts on AI and AI course section for more on the latest in AI and tech comm.
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