We're more than a month into school now, which means I've finally gotten around to reading my class syllabi. Much to my chagrin, there are multiple minimum-length papers that will require three to four hours of research and four to five weeks of psyching myself to actually sit down and do it. I actually kind of enjoy writing, even essays, but minimum-length requirements always annoy me.

Despite what my parents, friends, and one-time dates might say, I'm actually quite capable of brevity. I think shorter explanations are almost always better explanations. If you can tell someone something in one sentence, then every additional sentence is superfluous (like this one).

Last semester, for instance, I had to write a 10 page paper. The whole thing felt complete by the eighth page, gracefully employing frequent sources and hilarious puns. At three o'clock in the morning, bleary-eyed and reeking of coffee and Cheetos, the final two pages loomed over me like blank mountains I had to scale with a ballpoint pen. So I did what any good mountain climber would do: I jumped onto a nearby ski lift and didn't tell anyone when I got to the top. I changed the margins and increased the font size by incremental amounts, broke down every single contraction, then jammed in tenuously related quotes from people with exceptionally long names. The result was a longer, more impotent paper, brought about by an unnecessary minimum-length requirement and my weaseling attempts to dig under it.

Minimum-length papers do not teach us to get to the point or directly answer questions. They train us to dawdle or be sneaky. This sort of preparation is great for me because I might run for Congress someday, but I have no idea how it's supposed to benefit honest or forthright students.

In writing, as in nearly everything in life, we are rewarded for accomplishing our tasks using the smallest necessary amount of resources we can. Future employers are more likely to say "Get to the point" than "Wait, keep babbling for another two to three minutes."

I have never asked my mechanic to drag out his explanation of why he hasn't fixed that sound my car makes, nor have I ever urged a long-winded friend to be more verbose as I wait for her to quit yapping so I can sprint to the bathroom.

There's also something sly and shifty about expanding an explanation beyond the nugget of necessary words. I've noticed that people who take a long time to answer a simple question are usually lying to me, or distracting me while their friend drives away in my car. For instance, if a girlfriend asked her boyfriend, "Were you kissing that girl?" a dishonest answer would likely be: "What? No. No! She's my cousin! She was just here in town and she looked like she was choking. Also she slipped, see, so I had to catch her. Are those new shoes?"

This, as opposed to "No."

I realize, of course, that no professor thinks to himself or herself "I am training students to be inefficient" or "I will now teach students how to cleverly evade tasks."

Rather, when a minimum of 10 pages is set for a paper, the professor knows that the student will have to work a certain amount in order to fill those 10 pages, or at least work very hard to create the illusion of filling those 10 pages. It is then somewhat unfair of me to criticize the system without offering an alternative to it.

I therefore propose a substitute assignment which rewards quickly and effectively answering a question. Rather than posing an essay as "Explain Kant's Categorical Imperative and notable critiques of it in 10 to 15 pages," assign it as "Explain and debunk Kant's Categorical Imperative in three pages or less using words an eighth grader or Sean Penn could understand."

I think this system is far superior for three reasons. First, it means that answering the question is more important than filling a page. Secondly, a maximum length requirement forces the student to streamline their thoughts in order to pack everything in. Finally, by mandating the use of only simple words, it virtually guarantees that the student knows what they're talking about.

Whenever my arguments with someone seem to be slipping, I just throw in large words: "Oh yeah? Well, I think you're overlooking that your entire church believes in satisfactionalism." A lot of the time these big words impress people, so they assume I know what I'm talking about and move on. Sometimes they don't know what the term means at all, but cannot call me on it. Forcing someone to explain a concept in predominantly monosyllabic words reveals very quickly whether they know what they're talking about or just paraphrasing what they read on a dust jacket.

Remember, when it comes to essays, quality and brevity should always pimp-slap quantity. Good luck.

--Andrew Heaton is a religious studies and political science junior. His column appears every Monday. He can be reached at opinion@oudaily.com.
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