I'm going to have to admit up front that Jeffrey Williams' essay, "Packaging Theory," did not (for me) appear to add too many new concepts to the on-going Literary Criticism dialogue; that being said, he often phrases things in an interesting way. For instance, I agree whole-heartedly with the sentiment that "the history of criticism is not a neutral or innocent category, but has a polemical significance and legitimates a certain line of criticism and a particular direction of doing literary work" (282). History of any kind is seldom if ever neutral, being controlled by those who control the cultural voice at any given time.
He also states that "the work of criticism is no longer as much 'close reading' but theoretical speculation, on language, interpretation itself, society, gender, culture, and so on" (282). Again, I agree, but this makes me sad. I am, by no means, a formalist at heart, but I do believe we have lost the ability (or maybe the heart?) to look at literature as art. We are too busy trying to find the subversive meanings of real or imagined symbology. The idea of "compartmentalizing" our literature so completely into gender-readings or Marxist-treatise has clouded our ability to simply appreciate language and structure.
His use of the terms "hall-of-fame" and "food-group" to describe specific types of anthologies is humorous as an attempt to explain the way we often try to give a specific order to critical dialogue, with the "hall-of-fame" privileging certain theorists over others and the "food-group:" "[casting] theoretical work in terms of its alignments rather than as individual pockets in intellectual history" (289).
He has an interesting way of describing the way we categorize and use critical theory, and, though I've heard much of this before, I did love his phrasing as he spoke about the "storied history of theory" (295).
Monday, January 26, 2009
Schultz and the "Current-Traditional Paradigm"
"Current-traditional paradigm" (Schultz 10), an interesting turn of phrase that, according to Lucille M. Schultz in "Elaborating Our History: A Look at Mid 19th Century First Books of Composition," denotes the focus of the composition field on the mechanical process of "grammar, rules, style, abstract topics, and other easily named features" (10). Reading Schultz and many of the other essays assigned so far, it is easy to see this "traditional" paradigm as something that will soon be fading away. Looking around college classrooms, however, it is easier yet to see a continuing devotion to grammatical/syntactical correctness. We are still stuck on Subject-Verb-Object.
Textbooks such as John Walker's "The Teacher's Assistant, which Schultz points out are full of sample texts to guide the beginning student, in their time-period, were a step in the right direction, because somethings, even on the subject of writing, are "known" more intuitively through example than explanation, and the idea that "students learn to write" through an "emphasis on memorizing and rules" (14) seems to me to be where many would-be writers have been lost. No one expects us to learn the rules of grammar when we are first learning to speak, but almost from the moment we begin to write, we are given definitions and concepts, forgetting that knowing and understanding must come before any real learning can take place. Suddenly, writing becomes a scary foreign world.
Even though Walker's samples gave students an understanding of what writing could look like, Schultz points out that his text "intended for young writers - does not suggest that students can begin learning to write by writing" (17). We do not learn to ride a bicycle by learning to name the parts of a bicycle; why do we expect students to learn to write by simply by naming the parts of a sentence?
Students were also apparently not given the authority to write about "personal experiences" (19), yet what is not personal seldom has relevance for the student. Without relevance, there is no motivation to write well, or to even care about writing as a skill or practice.
Finally, Schultz makes the point that "the educational hierarchy has assigned more value to what happens at higher levels of education than to what happens at lower levels" (23), but Schultz assigns the practice to the past. It has been my experience that we still expect more from those in four-year colleges and universities than we do of those in high school or even community colleges. It has not been my experience, however, that "good" writing is only a function of higher learning and the "current-traditional paradigm."
Textbooks such as John Walker's "The Teacher's Assistant, which Schultz points out are full of sample texts to guide the beginning student, in their time-period, were a step in the right direction, because somethings, even on the subject of writing, are "known" more intuitively through example than explanation, and the idea that "students learn to write" through an "emphasis on memorizing and rules" (14) seems to me to be where many would-be writers have been lost. No one expects us to learn the rules of grammar when we are first learning to speak, but almost from the moment we begin to write, we are given definitions and concepts, forgetting that knowing and understanding must come before any real learning can take place. Suddenly, writing becomes a scary foreign world.
Even though Walker's samples gave students an understanding of what writing could look like, Schultz points out that his text "intended for young writers - does not suggest that students can begin learning to write by writing" (17). We do not learn to ride a bicycle by learning to name the parts of a bicycle; why do we expect students to learn to write by simply by naming the parts of a sentence?
Students were also apparently not given the authority to write about "personal experiences" (19), yet what is not personal seldom has relevance for the student. Without relevance, there is no motivation to write well, or to even care about writing as a skill or practice.
Finally, Schultz makes the point that "the educational hierarchy has assigned more value to what happens at higher levels of education than to what happens at lower levels" (23), but Schultz assigns the practice to the past. It has been my experience that we still expect more from those in four-year colleges and universities than we do of those in high school or even community colleges. It has not been my experience, however, that "good" writing is only a function of higher learning and the "current-traditional paradigm."
Pedegogy
Writing is not separate from thinking; it is not separate from conversation; though, it seems we have been teaching it that way within what has been called the “current-traditional paradigm” (Schultz 10). And, maybe this has been tradition for so long, we think it is the way it has always been – and, maybe, should always be – but according to R. Johnson in “Isocrates’ Methods of Teaching,” Isocrates believed that education (especially in rhetorical composition) was a matter of “natural ability, sound teaching, and practice” (26), with the most important of the three being – practice.
The idea that "students learn to write" through an "emphasis on memorizing and rules" (Schultz 14) seems to be where many would-be writers have been lost. No one expects us to learn the rules of grammar when we are first learn to speak, but almost from the moment we begin to write, we are given definitions and concepts, forgetting that knowing and understanding must come before any real learning can take place. Suddenly, upon entering school, writing becomes a scary foreign world. We do not learn to ride a bicycle by learning to name the parts of a bike; why do we expect students to learn to write by simply by naming the parts of a sentence?
When we get the students who have become convinced English is a boring, complicated, and often frightening subject that has only minimal relevance to their lives, we must work to engage them in the process of writing; because, writing is a process, and grammar is simply a tool we use in the process. Close reading of texts should also be introduced at even the remedial levels, possibly using reading material which is outside of traditional canonical choices but more relevant to the student's lives, so that the students may learn to “read, write, and reason as they will be expected to do in other college courses, and thus to absorb the sorts of rhetorical moves that will help them survive in college” (Fulkerson 678). I would add that surviving college is not the only goal of critical thinking skills. While it has been my experience that we still expect more from those in four-year colleges and universities than we do of those in high school or even community colleges, it has not been my experience that "good" writing is only a function of higher learning. Authority to write is granted by simply living and having knowledge of the personal experience gained from entering into different situations with different people where each new voice adds something different to the mix; some things, even on the subject of writing, are "known" more intuitively through example than explanation.
New voices entering into this long-standing, on-going dialogue will always need a new language with which to differentiate them from the voices of the past and a community to nurture their uniqueness. I do believe the true craft is often in the revision, but there is still a need for free-writing while searching for the outline, reaching down deep to find the bones of a composition before revising for punctuation and spelling.
Writing focuses your mind and your thoughts and empowers writers as they unfold their own voice. Beginning students often need an understanding of the process of developing an idea and carrying it through a composition as a complete dialogue containing specific thoughts surrounding a central theme. Composition writing can help them to learn to problem –solve and to think critically, not just in an English class, but in other classes and in the rest of their lives. To that end, while I understand what Donald C. Stewart was getting at when he wrote that the “five-paragraph essay represents a mechanical, not an organic conception of discourse” (Stewart 137), new writers may take the disjointed thinking we all share as composers and not know how to order and transition from thought to thought in a way that allows the reader to follow. At least, starting out with a five-paragraph form enables them to visualize the way a piece can flow without rambling and pulling in needless, unrelated details. It certainly can, and should, be discarded as the student's comfort level and grasp of composition as a complete entity becomes more sophisticated.
In the end, the goal has to be to convince students that there is no one definition of "good writing" by allowing them a say in choosing their language and personal style of writing - at least to a point. Without relevance, there is no motivation to write well, or to even care about writing as a skill or practice. Communication is key and mechanics secondary, so that students may walk away with the understanding that “good writing” is just conversation with punctuation.
The idea that "students learn to write" through an "emphasis on memorizing and rules" (Schultz 14) seems to be where many would-be writers have been lost. No one expects us to learn the rules of grammar when we are first learn to speak, but almost from the moment we begin to write, we are given definitions and concepts, forgetting that knowing and understanding must come before any real learning can take place. Suddenly, upon entering school, writing becomes a scary foreign world. We do not learn to ride a bicycle by learning to name the parts of a bike; why do we expect students to learn to write by simply by naming the parts of a sentence?
When we get the students who have become convinced English is a boring, complicated, and often frightening subject that has only minimal relevance to their lives, we must work to engage them in the process of writing; because, writing is a process, and grammar is simply a tool we use in the process. Close reading of texts should also be introduced at even the remedial levels, possibly using reading material which is outside of traditional canonical choices but more relevant to the student's lives, so that the students may learn to “read, write, and reason as they will be expected to do in other college courses, and thus to absorb the sorts of rhetorical moves that will help them survive in college” (Fulkerson 678). I would add that surviving college is not the only goal of critical thinking skills. While it has been my experience that we still expect more from those in four-year colleges and universities than we do of those in high school or even community colleges, it has not been my experience that "good" writing is only a function of higher learning. Authority to write is granted by simply living and having knowledge of the personal experience gained from entering into different situations with different people where each new voice adds something different to the mix; some things, even on the subject of writing, are "known" more intuitively through example than explanation.
New voices entering into this long-standing, on-going dialogue will always need a new language with which to differentiate them from the voices of the past and a community to nurture their uniqueness. I do believe the true craft is often in the revision, but there is still a need for free-writing while searching for the outline, reaching down deep to find the bones of a composition before revising for punctuation and spelling.
Writing focuses your mind and your thoughts and empowers writers as they unfold their own voice. Beginning students often need an understanding of the process of developing an idea and carrying it through a composition as a complete dialogue containing specific thoughts surrounding a central theme. Composition writing can help them to learn to problem –solve and to think critically, not just in an English class, but in other classes and in the rest of their lives. To that end, while I understand what Donald C. Stewart was getting at when he wrote that the “five-paragraph essay represents a mechanical, not an organic conception of discourse” (Stewart 137), new writers may take the disjointed thinking we all share as composers and not know how to order and transition from thought to thought in a way that allows the reader to follow. At least, starting out with a five-paragraph form enables them to visualize the way a piece can flow without rambling and pulling in needless, unrelated details. It certainly can, and should, be discarded as the student's comfort level and grasp of composition as a complete entity becomes more sophisticated.
In the end, the goal has to be to convince students that there is no one definition of "good writing" by allowing them a say in choosing their language and personal style of writing - at least to a point. Without relevance, there is no motivation to write well, or to even care about writing as a skill or practice. Communication is key and mechanics secondary, so that students may walk away with the understanding that “good writing” is just conversation with punctuation.
Fulkerson and the Definition of "Good Writing"
If I could boil Fulkerson's essay down to one idea that struck home for me, it might be that, in the field of teaching composition, the discourse ought to surround the question of what makes one piece of writing better than another. He begins his inquiry by asking:
1. "Who [are we]?"
2. "What do we wish to achieve with students?"
3. "How [might we] go about it?" (654)
These are valid and necessary questions; though, the ones I find myself asking first, as I teach remedial English students are:
1. How do I engage my students and get them to care about writing in the first place? And,
2. How do I overcome their memories of high school English as boring, complicated, and often frightening?
My gut reaction is that the answer lies not necessarily within cultural studies (gendered, Marxist, etc) and controversial research subjects, but in helping the students to overcome the fear of writing and learn to explore themselves and their world through this medium. (I do have to share, however, that I found it interesting that some writers thought "their courses would not necessarily need to be in English departments" (661) and wondered if such a thought would ever be considered by an art teacher simply because he or she encouraged their students to create with a social conscience.) In the end, the goal has to be to convince the remedial student that there is no one definition of "good writing," and we can do this by allowing them a say-so in choosing their language and personal style of writing - at least to a point.
It might be easier to get students of English to relax and open up if they were sharing and exploring their own experiences and viewpoints, in a language style that makes sense to them, talking about subjects they know and might feel comfortable sharing in written form for a small, well-defined audience (e.g. their teacher, class peer-groups, etc). I also believe the "close reading of texts" (675), should be introduced at the remedial level, using reading material possibly outside of traditional canonical choices, but more relevant to the student's lives. Not only do such readings of material "serve as discourse models" (677), they could be a key component in teaching the students the critical thinking skills they need to successfully create their own compositions not just in the English class, and not just at one point in time, but moving forward into the rest of their college careers and beyond. "The goal is to allow students to read, write, and reason as they will be expected to do in other college courses" (678). Communication is key and mechanics secondary, so that students may walk away with the understanding that “good writing” is just conversation with punctuation.
1. "Who [are we]?"
2. "What do we wish to achieve with students?"
3. "How [might we] go about it?" (654)
These are valid and necessary questions; though, the ones I find myself asking first, as I teach remedial English students are:
1. How do I engage my students and get them to care about writing in the first place? And,
2. How do I overcome their memories of high school English as boring, complicated, and often frightening?
My gut reaction is that the answer lies not necessarily within cultural studies (gendered, Marxist, etc) and controversial research subjects, but in helping the students to overcome the fear of writing and learn to explore themselves and their world through this medium. (I do have to share, however, that I found it interesting that some writers thought "their courses would not necessarily need to be in English departments" (661) and wondered if such a thought would ever be considered by an art teacher simply because he or she encouraged their students to create with a social conscience.) In the end, the goal has to be to convince the remedial student that there is no one definition of "good writing," and we can do this by allowing them a say-so in choosing their language and personal style of writing - at least to a point.
It might be easier to get students of English to relax and open up if they were sharing and exploring their own experiences and viewpoints, in a language style that makes sense to them, talking about subjects they know and might feel comfortable sharing in written form for a small, well-defined audience (e.g. their teacher, class peer-groups, etc). I also believe the "close reading of texts" (675), should be introduced at the remedial level, using reading material possibly outside of traditional canonical choices, but more relevant to the student's lives. Not only do such readings of material "serve as discourse models" (677), they could be a key component in teaching the students the critical thinking skills they need to successfully create their own compositions not just in the English class, and not just at one point in time, but moving forward into the rest of their college careers and beyond. "The goal is to allow students to read, write, and reason as they will be expected to do in other college courses" (678). Communication is key and mechanics secondary, so that students may walk away with the understanding that “good writing” is just conversation with punctuation.
Learning from History and Donald C. Stewart
"A writing teacher's development can be measured by the degree to which that person has become liberated from current-traditional rhetoric" (Stewart 134); luckily, I have yet to be in the field of teaching composition long enough to be mired in current, or any other, traditions; with a little luck, and readings such as Donald C. Stewart's "Some History Lessons for Composition Teachers" behind me, I will manage to stave off such trappings as long as possible.
Long before thinking of teaching, I wrote. As a writer, I am a firm believer in process - I tend to see my writing as expression rather than "product" (135). Before I returned to school at the age of 42, I journaled, wrote poetry, short stories, and even started a novel - all with the barest sense of "superficial mechanical correctness" (135). I wrote the way I spoke and felt, and believed being bound by syntax and grammatical rules would be the kiss of death for any artistic life I might be trying to achieve. I later learned, of course, the power of the grammatical tools that would help me carve and whittle, and sand the edges of my writing, bringing it to another level - one I could not have reached without those rules and boundaries. Even still, I believe in reaching down deep to find the bones of a composition before revising for punctuation and spelling. I learned the true craft was in the revision, but there is still a need for freewriting while searching for the outline of whatever picture we are trying to bring to life with our words. This does not happen all at once; it is a process.
I resonated with Stewart's (or Socrates') "organic conception of discourse" (137). Unless, you are creating a technical manual, "mechanical" thinking will always be a hindrance until your first draft is written. Writing is thinking. It focuses your mind and your thoughts, forcing them down your arm, through your fingers, and out the pen (or onto the keyboard under your fingertips).
The only idea Stewart spoke of that I am still turning over in my mind his (apparent) dismissal of the five-paragraph essay as a teaching tool (137). It certainly can, and should, be discarded as the student's comfort level and grasp of composition as a whole "organic" entity becomes more sophisticated; however; as a tutor-turned-teacher of composition, I have found that one of the most difficult concepts to get across is the idea of what Stewart calls "unity" (138). The most interesting writing is undoubtedly going to be that which doesn't simply move form point to point, but develops an idea - maybe unfolds is an even better word. But, in order to grasp this complexity, beginning students often need an understanding of the process of developing an idea and carrying it through a composition as a complete dialogue containing specific thoughts surrounding a central theme. New writers may take the disjointed thinking we all share as composers and not know how to order and transition from thought to thought in a way that allows the reader to follow. It seems to me that starting out with a five-paragraph form enables them to visualize the way a piece can flow without rambling, that is pulling in needless, unrelated details, as "logic and coherence are defined in terms of particular kins of relationships between ideas and the structures which carry them" (140).
Long before thinking of teaching, I wrote. As a writer, I am a firm believer in process - I tend to see my writing as expression rather than "product" (135). Before I returned to school at the age of 42, I journaled, wrote poetry, short stories, and even started a novel - all with the barest sense of "superficial mechanical correctness" (135). I wrote the way I spoke and felt, and believed being bound by syntax and grammatical rules would be the kiss of death for any artistic life I might be trying to achieve. I later learned, of course, the power of the grammatical tools that would help me carve and whittle, and sand the edges of my writing, bringing it to another level - one I could not have reached without those rules and boundaries. Even still, I believe in reaching down deep to find the bones of a composition before revising for punctuation and spelling. I learned the true craft was in the revision, but there is still a need for freewriting while searching for the outline of whatever picture we are trying to bring to life with our words. This does not happen all at once; it is a process.
I resonated with Stewart's (or Socrates') "organic conception of discourse" (137). Unless, you are creating a technical manual, "mechanical" thinking will always be a hindrance until your first draft is written. Writing is thinking. It focuses your mind and your thoughts, forcing them down your arm, through your fingers, and out the pen (or onto the keyboard under your fingertips).
The only idea Stewart spoke of that I am still turning over in my mind his (apparent) dismissal of the five-paragraph essay as a teaching tool (137). It certainly can, and should, be discarded as the student's comfort level and grasp of composition as a whole "organic" entity becomes more sophisticated; however; as a tutor-turned-teacher of composition, I have found that one of the most difficult concepts to get across is the idea of what Stewart calls "unity" (138). The most interesting writing is undoubtedly going to be that which doesn't simply move form point to point, but develops an idea - maybe unfolds is an even better word. But, in order to grasp this complexity, beginning students often need an understanding of the process of developing an idea and carrying it through a composition as a complete dialogue containing specific thoughts surrounding a central theme. New writers may take the disjointed thinking we all share as composers and not know how to order and transition from thought to thought in a way that allows the reader to follow. It seems to me that starting out with a five-paragraph form enables them to visualize the way a piece can flow without rambling, that is pulling in needless, unrelated details, as "logic and coherence are defined in terms of particular kins of relationships between ideas and the structures which carry them" (140).
Saturday, January 24, 2009
Hopkins vs. Bishop: A Response to Popken's "Edwin Hopkins and the Costly Labor of Composition Teaching"
I understand where Edwin Hopkins was coming from: As an undergraduate student, I had a professor who amazed me with her ability to read our packed-room-full Intro to Lit papers and get them back to us in a timely manner, chock full of helpful suggestions and encouragement. She was easily one of the most popular professors on campus, everyone wanted her for an advisor. She smiled and laughed and helped every student who came to her. For nearly three years, I had her for at least one class a semester, and I watched her struggle against her weariness in order to stay positive for her students; finally, the year after I graduated, she took a well-deserved, probably overdue sabbatical, the the next semester, she was at it again.
I say again, as I did in my previous blog on Wendy Bishop's "Against the Odds in Composition and Rhetoric," I had no idea when I became an English Major that there was such a disconnect between Literary Scholars and Scholars of Teaching and Composition. I did not know, as Popken points out, that "the current discourse of professionalism valorizes scholarship and demeans teaching" (618) in the way it apparently does. I find it sad that a professor who inspires so many students in the way that my professor did, is, in Bishop's words, so "underappreciated" (324).
But, where Bishop revels in the work ("It is our work and we do well to praise it" (Bishop 324)) - the way I felt my professor did - I sometimes felt that Popken was portraying Hopkins as something of a wimp and a complainer. I'm sure that's not what he meant. I'm guessing (again as a newbie), that Hopkins is more of a hero ("intense, self-driven, almost compulsively detail-oriented" (Popken 622), but the article left me feeling that Hopkins, after a while, spent more of his time thinking about shifting the workload of composition teachers than actually being a teacher. I'm sure the, or what Popken intended, but, via this particular article, I was not able to view Hopkins as Bishop's "[teacher] in love with teaching" (329); rather, when Popken explained that after all of Hopkins' struggles on behalf of compositions teachers that "the impact...was not immediate"(634), though "the teaching load did improve" (634), it did not feel like a great success. When I finished Bishop's essay, I felt proud to be a part of a profession that was all about accomplishing something meaningful (empowering others to find their own voice through composition). When I finished Popken's piece, I felt disheartened.
Then I remembered my own professor, the ways she stirred my love of both literature and composition, the open-hearted way she gave of her time as I and my fellow students struggled to gain our feet in difficult readings and theories. I remembered the changes I felt in myself , the authority and confidence I gained; the direction my life suddenly took was something I had never imagined. I'm sure this was what Hopkins must have envisioned when he received his "calling" from God to teach composition (Popken 622), and the idea of teaching compostion as a calling would be the legacy he would want and not that which Popken appears to have left him with: the idea that "composition is still very costly labor" (636).
I say again, as I did in my previous blog on Wendy Bishop's "Against the Odds in Composition and Rhetoric," I had no idea when I became an English Major that there was such a disconnect between Literary Scholars and Scholars of Teaching and Composition. I did not know, as Popken points out, that "the current discourse of professionalism valorizes scholarship and demeans teaching" (618) in the way it apparently does. I find it sad that a professor who inspires so many students in the way that my professor did, is, in Bishop's words, so "underappreciated" (324).
But, where Bishop revels in the work ("It is our work and we do well to praise it" (Bishop 324)) - the way I felt my professor did - I sometimes felt that Popken was portraying Hopkins as something of a wimp and a complainer. I'm sure that's not what he meant. I'm guessing (again as a newbie), that Hopkins is more of a hero ("intense, self-driven, almost compulsively detail-oriented" (Popken 622), but the article left me feeling that Hopkins, after a while, spent more of his time thinking about shifting the workload of composition teachers than actually being a teacher. I'm sure the, or what Popken intended, but, via this particular article, I was not able to view Hopkins as Bishop's "[teacher] in love with teaching" (329); rather, when Popken explained that after all of Hopkins' struggles on behalf of compositions teachers that "the impact...was not immediate"(634), though "the teaching load did improve" (634), it did not feel like a great success. When I finished Bishop's essay, I felt proud to be a part of a profession that was all about accomplishing something meaningful (empowering others to find their own voice through composition). When I finished Popken's piece, I felt disheartened.
Then I remembered my own professor, the ways she stirred my love of both literature and composition, the open-hearted way she gave of her time as I and my fellow students struggled to gain our feet in difficult readings and theories. I remembered the changes I felt in myself , the authority and confidence I gained; the direction my life suddenly took was something I had never imagined. I'm sure this was what Hopkins must have envisioned when he received his "calling" from God to teach composition (Popken 622), and the idea of teaching compostion as a calling would be the legacy he would want and not that which Popken appears to have left him with: the idea that "composition is still very costly labor" (636).
Thursday, January 22, 2009
Composition vs. Literature: A Response to Bishop's "Against the Odds in Compostion and Rhetoric"
Being new to the field of Composition Theory, I didn't realize there was such a disconnect between this field and that of Literary Theory. It makes perfect sense, of course, and, in some ways, I think I've been, unknowingly, dealing with the issue from my first semester as an English undergraduate.
I began pulling away from my literary roots - migrating toward other fields (e.g. Creative Writing, Mass Communications, Public Administration) - because I became frustrated with what felt like an endlessly broad and intimidating number of both literary and critical texts. I was not at all like Bishop's sparrow, "[dashing] into and out of promised warmth" (325), but more like a plodding sloth. I realized, somewhere during my required LitCrit class, that critical theory was an important dialogue being carried on by great thinkers whose ethos was nearly unimpeachable. How on earth was I supposed to enter into such a conversation? Where could I even start to become relevant? Writing, on the other hand, felt personal, intimate, yet powerful and is where I understand Bishop's "Declaration of Independence:" "I have long been one who preferred to be among others only if I can choose my own way" (326).
Composition, at first glance, appears to be a completely different form of dialogue, one in which authority can be granted by simply living, and have knowledge of the personal experience gained by living. Teaching this sort of writing, helping others to enter expertly into this conversation, is a worthy occupation, and, looking a little deeper, the teacher finds each new voice adds something different to the mix, a new perspective. When we look a little deeper, these are the the bridges that allow us to move from Beethoven to The Blues to The Beatles, from the Brontes and Jane Austin to Toni Morrison, Alice Walker, and Amy Tan, from Romance to Modernism, and from Formalism to Marxist to Gendered theory. Who wouldn't want to be the teacher who discovers such a new voice?
I'm not certain about Bishop's concern about attendance at conferences - probably because I'm so new to this field - but I do resonate with her search for "composing communities" and "configuring spaces... that require new metaphors" (331). New voices entering into this long-standing, on-going dialogue will always need a new language with which to differentiate them from the voices of the past and a community to nurture their uniqueness.
I began pulling away from my literary roots - migrating toward other fields (e.g. Creative Writing, Mass Communications, Public Administration) - because I became frustrated with what felt like an endlessly broad and intimidating number of both literary and critical texts. I was not at all like Bishop's sparrow, "[dashing] into and out of promised warmth" (325), but more like a plodding sloth. I realized, somewhere during my required LitCrit class, that critical theory was an important dialogue being carried on by great thinkers whose ethos was nearly unimpeachable. How on earth was I supposed to enter into such a conversation? Where could I even start to become relevant? Writing, on the other hand, felt personal, intimate, yet powerful and is where I understand Bishop's "Declaration of Independence:" "I have long been one who preferred to be among others only if I can choose my own way" (326).
Composition, at first glance, appears to be a completely different form of dialogue, one in which authority can be granted by simply living, and have knowledge of the personal experience gained by living. Teaching this sort of writing, helping others to enter expertly into this conversation, is a worthy occupation, and, looking a little deeper, the teacher finds each new voice adds something different to the mix, a new perspective. When we look a little deeper, these are the the bridges that allow us to move from Beethoven to The Blues to The Beatles, from the Brontes and Jane Austin to Toni Morrison, Alice Walker, and Amy Tan, from Romance to Modernism, and from Formalism to Marxist to Gendered theory. Who wouldn't want to be the teacher who discovers such a new voice?
I'm not certain about Bishop's concern about attendance at conferences - probably because I'm so new to this field - but I do resonate with her search for "composing communities" and "configuring spaces... that require new metaphors" (331). New voices entering into this long-standing, on-going dialogue will always need a new language with which to differentiate them from the voices of the past and a community to nurture their uniqueness.
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
Why Comp Theory or Why Write About Writing?
What can I learn about writing from learning how writing is created? That was a question I asked myself for years. When I was in my early to mid-twenties, I was a young mother with four children under the age of 6. We had one car, which my husband used to get to work - so I was left alone with the kids 5 days out of 7, with no escape.
Before my fourth child was born, I began asking (later demanding) one day away from home every week - I called it "My Day Out," and it was sacred. We lived in California at the time, so on a Saturday or a Sunday I would go out and wander the streets of Pasadena. I went to flea markets, and used book stores. I found an old theater (with long, carpeted staircases leading up to second floor balconies; someone, of course, had turned it into a discount multiplex, but still I could imagine people arriving for the premiers of Gone With the Wind and The Wizard of Oz. At the time of my endless wanderings, I could go there and watch a double feature for $3; it was bliss. But, as wonderful as my Day Out journies were, it was journaling that saved my life.
One day, while rummaging through a used bookstore, I found a book on journaling full of exercises and writing prompts, and meditations on the importance of getting to know and like oneself. I bought the book, then bought the first of many spiralbound notebooks and a package of pens, and I began to write.
But, even after divorcing and moving away from California with my four children, learning to struggle and survive on my own, and even after making the earth-shattering decision to return to college and finish my bachelor's degree after more than 20 years, I still didn't understand why I should take classes on learning to write - I wrote, all of the time. Why "learn how" after so many years?
Because composition writing, if done correctly, can take you deeper into yourself than you've ever been. It is one thing to write down the joys and sorrows of everyday life - it is another to carefully construct (or reconstruct) the important moments of your life, choosing just the right words, paying attention to sentence-lengths, and deciding on just the right punctuation to make the moments of your life live, not only in your memory but actually come to life in the mind of someone else, who may very well recognize themselves in your words. Writing is a dialogue with the world - as the internet and its thousands upon thousands of blog-spots prove, writing is still one of the most powerful communication tools available to us as human beings. And, if we teach those who come after us to wield this sword, we empower them and challenge them to find their authentic selves and learn to dialogue with each other across the global community.
Before my fourth child was born, I began asking (later demanding) one day away from home every week - I called it "My Day Out," and it was sacred. We lived in California at the time, so on a Saturday or a Sunday I would go out and wander the streets of Pasadena. I went to flea markets, and used book stores. I found an old theater (with long, carpeted staircases leading up to second floor balconies; someone, of course, had turned it into a discount multiplex, but still I could imagine people arriving for the premiers of Gone With the Wind and The Wizard of Oz. At the time of my endless wanderings, I could go there and watch a double feature for $3; it was bliss. But, as wonderful as my Day Out journies were, it was journaling that saved my life.
One day, while rummaging through a used bookstore, I found a book on journaling full of exercises and writing prompts, and meditations on the importance of getting to know and like oneself. I bought the book, then bought the first of many spiralbound notebooks and a package of pens, and I began to write.
But, even after divorcing and moving away from California with my four children, learning to struggle and survive on my own, and even after making the earth-shattering decision to return to college and finish my bachelor's degree after more than 20 years, I still didn't understand why I should take classes on learning to write - I wrote, all of the time. Why "learn how" after so many years?
Because composition writing, if done correctly, can take you deeper into yourself than you've ever been. It is one thing to write down the joys and sorrows of everyday life - it is another to carefully construct (or reconstruct) the important moments of your life, choosing just the right words, paying attention to sentence-lengths, and deciding on just the right punctuation to make the moments of your life live, not only in your memory but actually come to life in the mind of someone else, who may very well recognize themselves in your words. Writing is a dialogue with the world - as the internet and its thousands upon thousands of blog-spots prove, writing is still one of the most powerful communication tools available to us as human beings. And, if we teach those who come after us to wield this sword, we empower them and challenge them to find their authentic selves and learn to dialogue with each other across the global community.
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
Looking Forward
I'm excited about being back here at CSU-Pueblo and even more excited to be following my passion once more. Actually, I've been very lucky over the last two months; somehow, the stars have all aligned, and I've been given the chance to combine all of my passions: literature, teaching literature, and working in the nonprofit arena. This is going to be a great semester.
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