Finding Your Voice: Why Medical Writers Need to Write

The road to becoming a medical writer begins long before the first professional appointment. Undergraduate science degrees involve essays, laboratory reports, experimental write-ups and literature reviews. Students learn to construct arguments, describe methods, present results and draw conclusions. The Introduction, Methods, Results and Discussion (IMRAD) structure becomes familiar, providing a reliable framework for communicating research.

Those who progress to a PhD acquire further experience. You may get the opportunity to write conference abstracts, prepare posters, submit manuscripts, respond to reviewers and defend your interpretation of experimental findings. Such activities develop valuable skills in scientific reasoning and communication. However, knowing how to write up your science Experiments is not the same as developing a distinctive writing voice. And I feel that this becoming more and more important.

Learning the rules without discovering the writer

Professional medical writers get the opportunity to practice how to organise evidence, explain complex concepts, follow regulatory conventions and produce documents that withstand scrutiny from their peers, editors and clients. With feedback and training they may become highly proficient at writing a broad range of documents. Yet there is a question that receives surprisingly little attention during their professional development: when does a medical writer learn to find their own voice?

It is an important question. As large language models (LLMs) become increasingly capable of producing competent scientific prose, technical accuracy and adherence to established formats may no longer be sufficient to distinguish an exceptional medical writer from an automated alternative. I might predict that the ability to think independently, challenge assumptions, engage readers and communicate with a recognisably human perspective is going to become the future currency of medical writing.

Perhaps medical writers need to rediscover something that professional life tends to gradually squeeze out of their work: writing for the pleasure of writing itself.

I remain fascinated by how few medical writers seem inclined to write their own material, whether medical or otherwise. Perhaps spending much of the working day writing leaves little appetite for more of it in the evening. I can also understand why some medical writing companies might be nervous about their writers publishing independently, particularly if their views conflict with messages being promoted by a client. Yet there is something curious about this. Surely many people enter medical writing because they enjoy playing with words, shaping ideas and creating documents that communicate something meaningful? Why, then, do so few seem eager to explore those talents beyond the confines of their day job? Is it simply a lack of time, a lack of confidence, or have we somehow managed to turn a creative profession into one where creativity ends when the working day does? How can they ever find their voice and explore the full extent of their power?

A 2024 qualitative study explored how health researchers developed distinctive voices in their scholarly writing. The authors found that effective writers used more than conventional techniques such as logical structure, signposting and coherence. They also employed evocative language, metaphor, pointed criticism, plain-speaking, humour and attention to rhythm [1]. Their findings challenge the assumption that scientific writing must suppress every trace of its author.

The distinction matters because formal education predominantly teaches writers how to meet the expectations of a particular genre. It does not necessarily teach them how to develop an individual intellectual identity or communicate in a way that readers recognise as distinctly theirs. Professional medical writing adds another complication. Writers are often. Required to follow style guides, document templates and meet regulatory requirements. Unlike academic training, where students may receive structured supervision and progressively undertake independent research, professional development can be less systematic. Writers learn on the job, acquiring skills according to the documents they are assigned, the clients they serve and the preferences of those reviewing and signing-off the work.

This is entirely understandable. A medical writer cannot ignore the protocol that needs to be completed by Friday because they would prefer to explore a philosophical question about the nature of evidence. Nevertheless, there is a risk that professional competence becomes a substitute for creative development. Writers become increasingly accomplished at delivering what others require without ever discovering what they themselves want to say.

Beyond the 9-to-5: learning to think on the page

Finding a voice requires more than simply writing. It requires writing with intellectual independence. A writer must formulate their own thesis, examine competing explanations, question accepted assumptions and decide what they believe the evidence supports in their own narrative. They must also learn to express those conclusions clearly, even when doing so means challenging conventional thinking.

This is particularly relevant to written communication. Science is not simply a collection of established facts. It is a process of testing explanations, revising beliefs and acknowledging uncertainty. A writer who merely reproduces accepted interpretations may communicate information accurately while missing opportunities to explain why the evidence matters, where it remains incomplete or what questions should come next. Critical thinking is therefore not an optional literary embellishment. It is closely connected to the intellectual discipline that makes scientific communication trustworthy.

The research literature on scientific publishing illustrates the importance of this wider perspective. A qualitative study of biomedical researchers in the Netherlands identified concerns about publication pressure, competition, authorship practices and the emphasis placed on bibliometric measures. Participants perceived aspects of publication culture as potentially damaging to scientific practice and the validity of reported findings [2]. Such observations reinforce the need for writers to examine the systems in which scientific knowledge is produced, rather than treating every published statement as an unquestionable authority.

It feels to me that medical writers should practise this independence outside their assigned work. They can write commentaries on emerging science, critique a recently published paper, challenge a fashionable interpretation or explore the ethical implications of a new technology.  Simple example might be to write about why a clinical trial failed, whether a familiar endpoint still answers the right question, or how artificial intelligence might change the relationship between researchers and their readers. The subject matters less than the act of developing and expressing an informed position. And social platforms allow writers to share their work, scientific or otherwise

Research into expertise provides a useful parallel. Deliberate practice as focused activity designed to improve specific aspects of performance, supported by feedback and repeated efforts builds on your abilities [3]. Simply accumulating years of experience does not guarantee equivalent growth in expertise. For medical writers, the implication is straightforward: producing another protocol using familiar techniques may improve efficiency, but it will not necessarily improve the ability to construct an original argument, write compelling commentary or engage a sceptical audience. Those abilities need to be practised deliberately.

The difference between an editor and an audience

Professional medical writers are familiar with criticism. Their work may pass through several rounds of review involving scientific experts, statisticians, regulatory specialists, clients and house editors. Every comment must be considered, and every change justified or incorporated as appropriate. This scrutiny is essential. Scientific and regulatory documents must be accurate, consistent, transparent and fit for purpose. But editorial approval is not the same as having an audience. A client assesses whether a document meets a requirement. An editor evaluates whether it meets a standard. Neither necessarily answers the more difficult question: does the writing make someone want to read, think, question or act? Finding a voice requires exposure to readers whose reactions cannot be predicted by a project specification.

This means publishing ideas that might be challenged, articles that might attract little attention and arguments that might prove less persuasive than anticipated. It means accepting that a piece of writing can be scientifically sound yet dull, technically impressive yet inaccessible, or beautifully structured yet irrelevant to its intended audience; or simply ignored.

Feedback is central to this process, but not all feedback is equally useful. Research on feedback in health professions education highlights the importance of psychological safety, constructive dialogue and an orientation towards improvement [4]. Applied to writing, this means creating opportunities for candid criticism without treating every disagreement as a personal rejection. Don’t expect your audience to be sensitive to your feelings or be professional in their comments. For example, the British-American journalist and author Christopher Hitchens is often quoted as saying “Everyone has a book inside them, which is exactly where it should, I think, in most cases, remain.”

A useful critic would identify not simply that a piece fails, but why it fails. Is the argument unclear? Is the evidence insufficient? Does the opening promise something the article never delivers? Is the conclusion predictable? Has the writer mistaken complexity for profundity? As a writer, you need to learn how to distinguish criticism that improves the work from criticism that merely makes it more conventional. A distinctive voice will not emerge if every challenging thought is removed because somebody disagrees with it.

Discover what readers actually think

Historically, writers have faced substantial barriers to reaching an audience. Publication depended on editors, publishers, professional networks and, frequently, considerable expense. Those barriers have fallen dramatically. Anyone can now publish a blog, contribute to professional discussions, distribute an essay through LinkedIn or maintain an independent website. Readers can respond immediately. Page views, reading time, shares, comments and repeat visits can provide clues about which ideas attract attention and which fail to connect. These measures are imperfect. An article's popularity does not establish its scientific validity, and a provocative headline may attract more clicks than a careful examination of evidence. Social-media algorithms introduce further biases. Nevertheless, audience metrics can provide useful feedback when interpreted alongside qualitative responses and the writer's own objectives.

Research into the neuroscience of narrative offers a relevant perspective. Researchers reviewed evidence that narratives engage brain systems associated with cognition, emotion and the interpretation of experience, with attention and emotional arousal among the factors associated with shared responses to narratives [5]. This does not mean writing, particularly scientific writing, should become entertainment. It suggests that how information is communicated can influence how readers process it.

A writer who wants to communicate effectively must therefore pay attention to the reader, not simply the information being conveyed. Does the opening of your article establish why the subject matters? Does the argument develop logically? Will the reader understand the implications? Is there an unexpected insight that makes a valuable contribution? These are questions that cannot be answered solely by checking whether the references are correct or the sentences comply with house style.

There is also value in writing about subjects outside one's immediate professional remit. Literature, philosophy, history, organisational behaviour and everyday experience offer different ways to examine human motivations and the assumptions underlying scientific practice. Creative writing can provide opportunities for reflection and professional identity development, as illustrated in a 2001 evaluation of a creative-writing elective for medical students [6].

The point is not that every medical writer should become a novelist. It is that writing without a client specification can reveal habits and abilities that client-directed work rarely tests.

The human voice in the age of large language models

For me, the emergence of LLMs makes this issue more than an exercise in professional self-improvement. AI systems can generate fluent prose, summarise research, reproduce familiar document structures and adapt language to specified audiences. It is already happening. These capabilities will continue to change the economics and practice of medical writing. No serious assessment of the profession should assume that established tasks will remain the exclusive preserve of human writers.

Equally, it would be premature to conclude that distinctive human authorship automatically guarantees superior writing. AI can generate engaging language, propose alternative arguments and assist with creative exploration. I know from my own experience that I, like any other writer, can produce formulaic, repetitive and unoriginal text. The relevant distinction is not simply human versus machine. It concerns the intellectual responsibility behind the words. Who decides which question deserves attention? Who recognises that an apparently persuasive conclusion rests on a weak assumption? Who determines whether a finding matters to patients, investigators or regulators? Who is prepared to challenge an accepted interpretation and take responsibility for defending that challenge?

It’s my feeling that a medical writer's value will increasingly depend on the ability to exercise judgement, understand context, interrogate evidence and communicate meaningfully with everyone in the project team and the intended audience. A distinctive voice can be evidence of those abilities, although its worth noting that voice alone is no guarantee of scientific competence or integrity.

The challenge of finding your voice is particularly important in a profession where accuracy and conformity are indispensable. The answer is not to introduce personality into a clinical study report (where it does not belong). Rather, it is to develop intellectual and communicative abilities that can be applied appropriately across different medical writing tasks. The writer who has practised constructing original arguments, responding to criticism and engaging readers outside routine assignments has had more opportunities to develop those abilities than the writer who has only ever learnt to satisfy a brief.

Medical writers should write for fun

I appreciate that this opens me to criticism from fellow writers, but for me the most pertinent question is why so few professional medical writers appear to write simply because they want to. The profession attracts people who enjoy science, language, problem-solving and the challenge of explaining complex ideas. Yet employment can gradually reduce writing to a production process: receive the brief, review the source material, draft the document, respond to comments, meet the client’s approval, submit the final version and move on to the next assignment.

Clearly, there is nothing wrong with professional discipline. But if writing becomes exclusively transactional, the opportunity to explore its creative and intellectual possibilities diminishes. It seems to that professional writers should experiment. Write an essay that challenges an established assumption. Review a paper and explain what other authors might have missed. Explore the history behind a scientific discovery. Try satire, narrative or an unfamiliar literary style. Publish something that has no immediate commercial purpose.

Then invite criticism, examine the response and write again. The process may not produce a blog that receives great feedback or an instantly recognisable authorial style. It should, however, create opportunities for reflection, experimentation and deliberate improvement. Ultimately, finding a voice is not about making every piece of writing sound the same. It is about developing a repertoire of approaches while retaining the ability to make independent judgements and communicate them clearly.

Scientific writing needs rigour. Regulatory writing needs discipline. Clinical research needs transparency. None of these requirements demands intellectual anonymity. The future of medical writing may belong not simply to those who can write accurately, but to those who know what deserves to be said, why it matters and how to make another person care. Medical writers already spend their working lives helping other people communicate their science. Perhaps it is time they gave themselves permission to do the same.

References

1. Lingard L, Watling C. The writer's voice repertoire: Exploring how health researchers accomplish a distinctive 'voice' in their writing. Med Educ. 2024 May;58(5):523-534.
2. Tijdink JK, et al. How do scientists perceive the current publication culture? A qualitative focus group interview study among Dutch biomedical researchers. BMJ Open. 2016 Feb 17;6(2):e008681.
3. Ericsson KA. Deliberate practice and acquisition of expert performance: a general overview. Acad Emerg Med. 2008 Nov;15(11):988-94.
4. Johnson CE, Keating JL, Molloy EK. Psychological safety in feedback: What does it look like and how can educators work with learners to foster it? Med Educ. 2020 Jun;54(6):559-570 4154.
5. Jääskeläinen IP, Klucharev V, Panidi K, Shestakova AN. Neural Processing of Narratives: From Individual Processing to Viral Propagation. Front Hum Neurosci. 2020 Jun 26;14:253.
6. Hatem D, Ferrara E. Becoming a doctor: fostering humane caregivers through creative writing. Patient Educ Couns. 2001 Oct;45(1):13-22.