Of all the journalism specialties, science writing may well be the most challenging. Science writers cover fields undergoing some of the most rapid advances in history, from stunning advances in genetics and biotechnology to exotic discoveries in astrophysics. A science writer’s week may include coverage of new discoveries about viruses, the brain, evolution, artificial intelligence, planets around other suns, and global climate change and its environmental impact, to name only a few topics.
Writing anything that’s any good is hard work, but science writers labor tinder a particular, and rather peculiar, set of constraints. Science is new — only about 400 years old, as a going concern — and prodigious, having transformed our conception of the universe and of our place in it. But precisely because its impact has been so rapid and so monumental, science has not yet been absorbed into our common consciousness. Readers come to the printed page already knowing something about crime and punishment, love and loss, triumph and tragedy — but not, necessarily, about the roles played by theory and observation in identifying a virus or tracing the curvature of intergalactic space. Hence science writers have to keep explaining things, from the significance of scientific facts to the methods by which they are adduced, while simultaneously holding the readers’ attention and moving the story along. It’s as if business reporters had to constantly explain what is meant by “turning a profit”, or sportswriters by “scoring a touchdown”.
Unsurprisingly, we science writers are often misunderstood. People tend to assume that we write computer software manuals or those buckram-bound engineering textbooks assigned to students in technical studies. Fellow authors dismiss us as translators. Editors may think us narrow. A quarter-century ago, when I was struggling to move away from writing about politics and rock music in order to concentrate on astronomy, the editor of a major magazine pressed me to do an article, called “The Bionic Man”, on artificial body parts. When I declined, he became impatient.
“Well, what do you want to write about?” he asked, throwing up his hands, like a motorist cut off in traffic.
“Astronomy,” I replied.
“You’ve already written about astronomy!”
“Yes, but I like it. It was my original interest in life.”
“Aren’t you afraid of becoming some sort of Johnny One Note?”
“Well, not really. You know, what’s out there is something like ninety-nine, then a decimal point, then twenty-eight more nines per cent of everything. Covering nearly everything doesn’t seem all that limiting. And it leads to lots of other things.”
I’ve been on the wrong side of arguments with editors more often than it is comfortable to recall, but on this occasion I turned out to have been right. Astronomy did lead to everything else. It led me into other sciences of course — among them physics, chemistry, and biology — and also, by many winding paths, to poetry, literature, history, philosophy, art, music, and into conversation with some of the smartest and most creative people in the world.
【小题1】According to the writer, what is the main difficulty facing science writers?| A．Finding new science topics. |
| B．Meeting the reader’s expectations of science. |
| C．Overcoming the reader's unfamiliarity with science. |
| D．Keeping up with the rapid developments in science. |
| A．He had no expertise in the topic. |
| B．He was not passionate about the topic. |
| C．He did not realize the potential of the topic. |
| D．He did not want to write about the same topic again. |
| A．He finds it difficult to get recognition from others as a science writer. |
| B．He feels quite comfortable with the previous arguments he had with editors. |
| C．A keen interest in astronomy contributes to his exploration of other disciplines. |
| D．Astronomy helps him form a connection with some great minds in the world. |
| A．indifference | B．amusement | C．frustration | D．satisfaction |
