Over the years, I have developed a somewhat maniacal habit: every morning, just after waking up, I sift through three or four newspapers, not for news, but for their op-eds. It is my way of understanding what exactly is going on, not through the raw immediacy of events, but through the refined scribbling of reflection.
These opinion pieces are where thought is distilled from information, and where the pulse of public discourse can best be savoured. Over time, however, one begins to notice certain recurring patterns and faux pas that writers, myself included, often fall victim to. What follows is not a prescriptive manual on how to write the perfect op-ed, but rather a reflection on how not to write one, and, of course, in a non-exhaustive way.
The assumption here is simple: the newspaper, and therefore the op-ed, exists primarily for the public. Policymakers may read it, but they are secondary to its purpose, just as financial statements are addressed to shareholders, though regulators and banks may use them too.
Historically: In the early American press of the 18th and early 19th centuries, there was no clear separation between the two. Newspapers were often mouthpieces for political factions. Alexander Hamilton, for instance, founded the ‘New York Post’ in 1801 as a Federalist platform, primarily to advocate party positions and reprimand Thomas Jefferson. Journalism then was openly partisan.
It was not until the 1830s, with the advent of the ‘penny press’, that journalism began to take on a more commercial and less political tone. Benjamin Day’s ‘New York Sun’ (the first penny newspaper) broadened readership by lowering price and increasing advertising. Neutrality emerged not as a moral ideal but as a business strategy: a nonpartisan paper could attract more readers and advertisers.
In 1841, Horace Greeley’s ‘New York Tribune’ formalised the distinction by creating a dedicated editorial page, an institutional space for opinion separate from news reporting. Early editorials reflected the editor or owner's personality and cultivated long-term relationships with the community. And by the early 20th century, specific writers began receiving bylines and photographs to signal personal opinion pieces rather than institutional stances.
Yet, the evolution of form has not guaranteed the quality of content. To begin with, many writers confuse news with opinion. News is timely, verified information about a subject of public interest, shared by an independent and accountable organisation. An opinion, on the other hand, is a view, judgment, or appraisal formed in the mind about a particular matter. This distinction, seemingly obvious, is often neglected. First learning: Informational mimicry is not an opinion.
Then, another recurring flaw in contemporary opinion writing is bias, not ideological bias alone, but an absence of fair-mindedness. Many writers seem to operate in defiance of the old Latin legal maxim ‘omnia praesumuntur rite et solemniter esse acta donec probetur in contrarium’ (everything is presumed right and solemn about this act until proven to the contrary). In op-eds, however, the presumption is often the opposite: everything the government or its institution does must be wrong until proven right. Rarely does one encounter an appreciation of initiative or an attempt to understand another perspective.
When, for example, the government successfully brokered a difficult loan (at KIBOR minus 90 basis points) with 18 participating commercial banks, the largest banking transaction in the country’s history, to tackle the circular debt that has been haemorrhaging the power sector for years, many still wrote against it without even acknowledging the achievement. Yes, there are structural problems, but not everything needs to be blanketly critiqued without even a one-line appreciation. Second learning: An op-ed built on reckless critique falls flat in the arena of fairness.
Equally troubling is the lack of substantiation. Opinions are, of course, subjective, but they should still rest on a foundation of logic, evidence, or at least a plausible hypothesis. Too often, sweeping generalisations are presented as insight, without supporting evidence, citations, or arguments. Third learning: An ungrounded opinion, no matter how eloquently phrased, remains mere conjecture.
Then there are those who err on the side of excessive diplomacy, writers who lament the dismal state of higher education but never utter the words HEC or MoFEPT, or who criticise the sluggish adoption of artificial intelligence in the banking sector without mentioning the SBP or SECP. Instead, vague placeholders like ‘the regulators’ or ‘the policymakers’ are used, creating a fog of politeness that shields the writer from any counter-criticism or perhaps from losing a potential consultancy opportunity. Fourth learning: Overt diplomacy ultimately vindicates the very subject under fire (of words).
Another problem is repetition. There exists a class of writers bound by the tyranny of topicality, rewriting the same points in slightly different words every few months. For instance, the moment a rumour circulates about an amendment to the industrial policy, the net-metering framework or a climate-related shift, the same opinions resurface across newspapers, adding nothing new and occupying valuable column space without provoking thought or inspiring change. Fifth learning: Filling white space with perfunctory black ink does not make a good op-ed.
Some pieces lack discernible structure. The piece reads less like an argument and more like the marginalia of a bureaucrat’s diary; fragmented thoughts strung together without logic or flow. The reader is left unsure of what the writer wishes to say, whereas the purpose of an op-ed is not just to express but to communicate. Sixth learning: Structure is not the enemy of style; it is its foundation.
Then comes the curse of jargon. Some writers, in their eagerness to sound erudite, deploy unnecessarily viscous diction and technical phrasing where simple language would suffice. This performative use of language can border on gaslighting: making the reader feel ignorant for not understanding what could have been said plainly. It is a kind of sophistry, one that Socrates so famously loathed in Plato’s dialogues, where the art of persuasion triumphs over the pursuit of truth. Seventh leaning: The zing of sophistication should never come at the cost of vividness.
And lastly, there are those who love problems: they linger on the symptoms. They describe the problem in a verbose manner and, in a paragraph, offer a prescription everyone already knows. Rarely do they conduct a diagnostic analysis: the why of the existing problem. For instance, following the recent World Bank report, a barrage of writings has appeared urging BISP to ‘end poverty’, without understanding why it exists, what its multidimensionality entails, or even what poverty itself means – is it purely economic, or also political and social, driving the economic? Eighth learning: Without understanding why problems exist, every solution presented is superficial.
Writing an op-ed is an act of civic engagement, not literary exhibitionism. It is where thought meets the public square. Ergo, op-ed writers should be more mindful whenever writing one. The best pieces neither shout brainlessly nor whisper meekly; they converse. And perhaps that is the true art: not to write for oneself, nor against others, but with the reader in pursuit of change.
The writer is a Peshawar-based researcher who works in the financial sector. He can be reached at: [email protected]
