Kathryn Schulz’s “The Really Big One” isn’t just a powerful piece of science journalism—it’s a masterclass in how to make readers feel the impact of scientific discovery. Through vivid scene work, creative explanation, and smart structure, Schulz transforms earthquake science into something both terrifying and unforgettable. In reading her work closely, I identified three techniques I want to remember for my own writing.
First, Schulz immediately hooks the reader with a surprising moment of irony: “When the 2011 earthquake and tsunami struck Tohoku, Japan, Chris Goldfinger was two hundred miles away, in the city of Kashiwa, at an international meeting on seismology. As the shaking started, everyone in the room began to laugh.” This opening is disarming. We expect panic during an earthquake, not laughter. The moment not only grabs attention but sets up the unsettling realization that even experts can underestimate nature’s power. Schulz uses this scene to show, not just tell, how quickly things can turn. That’s a reminder that the best science writing often begins not with data, but with a human moment that leads us into the science.
Second, Schulz doesn’t just describe the Cascadia subduction zone, she invites the reader to interact with it. She writes: “Take your hands and hold them palms down, middle fingertips touching.” This metaphor turns tectonic movement into something tactile and memorable. I found myself actually doing the hand motion, and suddenly the concept made perfect sense. It’s one thing to explain plate tectonics—it’s another to make your readers feel it in their own bodies. I hadn’t seen this kind of physical engagement in nonfiction before, but now I realize how powerful it can be. This is a tool I want to remember: if a concept is complex, find a way to let readers experience it themselves.
Third, Schulz structures her article like a suspense story. It begins with a single earthquake in Japan and slowly builds to the looming threat facing the Pacific Northwest. With every paragraph, the stakes get higher. She weaves in expert warnings, historical context, and chilling facts, but all of it is driven by narrative momentum. By the end, I wasn’t just informed—I was on edge. She flipped an informative article into a story. It made me understand how structure can shape emotion. The way a story unfolds matters just as much as what it’s about.
In thinking about why this article had such an impact, I remember “The Craft of Science Writing,” and what Siri Carpenter said in the opening part of her close reading chapter: “Part of sharpening one’s craft as a reporter and writer involves understanding what makes notable nonfiction stories tick. One way to do that is to closely read stories that you’ve admired.” That’s what I’ve done here, and it’s made me think of different techniques on how to write clearly and powerfully for a general audience.
It encourages me to think like a storyteller: What tension drives my topic? How can I weave facts into a story? How does structure guide my reader through complexity? These are questions I’ll carry into my own writing. Close reading trains me to recognize, and one day replicate, the craft that makes science writing not just informative, but unforgettable.
Science Writings 