Witchcraft! Sorcery! Frankenfurter?

Inspired by the mention of my alma mater, I decided to search through the relics of my college days to find my Eng Comp notes or something of the like. I thought: "Well if Bartholomae suggests that our comp classes should be structured in a particular manner, what better way to see if his vision is carried out by his very own English Comp staff?" I remember being subjected to a trace of the model which was discussed as a "theoretically driven seminar with challenging reading and writing assignments" (Mutnick 184). Each Eng Comp class at Pitt has a "theme" introduced by the professor, whether it be film, Feminism, Eastern European folklore, etc. Although I could not find the notes from Jack's class (they HAVE to be SOMEWHERE!--I think), I was successful in recovering the notes from my Women and Literature course from my freshman year and from my Cultures of Mesoamerica class. Let me tell you, people, it's some scary stuff.

I say "scary" for Women and Lit because I, as a 19 year-old, was charged to understand the ideas of Bakhtin and Foucault--to master their philosophy and put it to work. I admit that while I was able to understand, on a cursory level, what Bakhtinian and Foucauldian theory meant to the literary world, I was not able to fully employ their ideas into my own text. In other words, using the language of theory was like on the job training: we learned as we experimented. I thank my professor for allowing us some flexibility in that arduous task and also for understanding our struggle to comprehend things like sexuality and power or social phenomenon and polyvocality (what????). And if learning the language of the academie really was an "on the job" learning experience, I guess I should've gone to class more often.

As Bartholomae indicates, "some students will need to learn to crudely mimic the 'distinctive register' of academic discourse before they are prepare to actually and legitimately do the work of the discourse" (Bartholomae 627). I felt the truth in this statement in my Women and Lit class as I struggled to place words like "dialogism" and "historical poetics." Indeed this language is not part of my every day lexicon. (Okay. It totally is, but I just don't want to brag.) I believe that Bartholomae and Rose approach like topics--a students' place within making meaning of and creating text. However, they bring these topics up in different mediums: the college student entering the world of academic discourse (Bartholomae); the college students' native discourse as interpreted (and/or interrupted?) by academic discourse (Rose). On one hand, Bartholomae approaches how students can assimilate into the classroom culture. On the other hand, Rose lets us know that unique voices are no less intelligent because thoughts are not uttered through "academic" language.

Allow me to summarize using my notes from my Cultures of Mesoamerica course (another personal relic discovered in the abyss of my mother's basement):

In the Mesoamerican culture post Spanish colonization, religion is a veritable blend of indigenous tradition and colonial influence. In other words, "Catholicism" is not "pure"; it incorporates the personae of local gods, goddesses, and the principles of magical folk ritual. Enough with the boring stuff.

We have WITCHES who are:
*born with their supernatural powers
*have an innate/inherent gift
*able to project themselves as (anthropomorphic) entities to explain something that they cannot explain through words
*are independent from "ordinary" man

We have SORCERERS who are:
*people who have learned their powers over time
*are public about their powers
*use them to cure
*hired to cause harm
*use powers to socially interact with others

I wanted to have some fun with this analogy. I thought of WITCHES as people who enter higher education with the basic fundamentals of composition--perhaps like the students whom Bartholomae refers to. Although we cannot say that each student is "innately" talented, witches have been acculturated to understand the system of traditional education. That is to say, they are able to use their "powers" of understanding the system of educational prose so that they may project themselves into the text of the academy. Talented witches may be able to accurately portray themselves (identity) into their texts--or, metaphorically speaking, when a witch anthropomorphically projects herself or himself into animal form to convey meaning inexplicable through human words. (Which is exactly you were thinking, right?)

The SORCERER is a "basic writer" who must learn the language of the institution. To be sure, a basic writer is neither stupid nor incapable of writing coherently. The key, here, is that the Sorcerer is capable of learning the "spells" of the institution. The Sorcerer's challenge is to take his or her ability and apply it to the form of academic discourse so that the or she may be increasingly power-full. Rose indicates that any type of literacy (cultural, visual, historical, textual) is as significant as the other, and to be able to participate in multiple layers of a literate world, it is like a Sorcerer learning the spells of his magical counterparts.

What am I? I think that we are all Witches and Sorcerers in our own right. The Witch in me enjoys writing. The Sorcerer in me likes to think that I have the ability to learn, to "grow," to appreciate my own unique cultural literacy. The moral of the story is that as each of these characters, as a student, I have power. As a Witch, I can project myself onto the page, "morph" my thoughts into written word because I have learned that system of communication. But if I didn't already behold the powers of the Witch, I could be a Sorcerer--one who learns how to interpret her own view of the world over time, suggesting that I am not "fixed" into one magical (or social) status. So what are you? A Witch? A Sorcerer? Hopefully not the third kind of magical persona: the blood sucking vampire. Although, I'm really not one to judge; I'm, like, really into vampires.

Sh*t my rhetorical essay says

The bumper sticker, I think, is a wonderful example of social rhetoric. I used this example specifically to tie-in the messages that Covino, Lynn and D’Angelo share with us in this weeks’ readings regarding the traditional and contemporary applications of rhetorical pedagogy. While I realize could have much to say in regards to my previous post, I’ll try to keep things simple (which is ironic considering the subject matter). I might be wrong to make these associations, but what if:

1) we see the bumper sticker as an allegory for traditional rhetorical pedagogy. To me, the bumper sticker is merely a simplified message whereas (to nod to Steven Lynn) “form” is “function.” The function is to relay a message—whether it be profound or something silly—through a medium (mode) which allows for no rebuttal, discussion, etc. It is, as I mention in my own essay, a “passive” mode of communication. That being said, I took the form of the bumper sticker as a way to perceive the traditional use of the 5 paragraph essay. While you can’t obviously say so much in a 2” x 6” block of space, I have to ask: what can you really say within the confines of a 5 paragraph essay?

2) To assume that a proper argument (one which would please the likes of Quintilian, for example) can be made in the form of a 5 paragraph essay is as ridiculous as assuming that you will be able to sway someone with flashy bumper sticker. Is it possible? Sure. Is it likely? Not really.

3) I mentioned earlier “form” and “function” of the bumper sticker. Its limited form limits its function. To assume that the aim of rhetoric is merely to convince your audience is, in fact, quite limiting. Indeed to give a student a particular task with a strict rubric with a particular goal in mind is—you guessed it—limiting.

I took from the readings a few things that have helped me understand the function (aim) of rhetoric, as well as its diverse forms (modes). To escape the limited scope of the traditional rhetorical pedagogy, I interpreted the function of rhetoric is to persuade someone to see that your point of view is valuable (or valid?). I’m not 100% convinced that a well-developed rhetorical assignment has one purpose only: to persuade. If we assume that this is so, then we are also saying that an audience need not think critically about the subject they are reading if the audiences’ job is to give their attention in exchange for conviction. I would like to give more power to the audience. If ancient rhetoricians tell us that a well-developed argument takes time to consider in its fullest potential, then wouldn’t an audience require the same or similar allowances? If a teacher maintains that a persuasive argument MUST convince, then we are teaching a paradox: writers do the thinking for their audiences. But in a classroom environment, who do we consider the “audience?” The student? The teacher? Probably both at times. Perhaps it is better to envision the function of rhetoric as a way to convince an audience to see in new ways.

I propose that Covino, Lynn & D’Angelo lead us to envision rhetoric as a process which enables a student to develop his or her ideas in various forms as part of a larger dynamic social context. I enjoy that Covino points out “the dynamism of rhetoric,” as it is precisely this kind of attitude that, well, gets us somewhere (nod to the bumper sticker, car, huh huh?). I was waiting for the word to be uttered: synecdoche. The parts equal the whole; the whole identifies with its parts. I used several modes—narrative, exposition, argumentation and persuasion—in my essay particularly because I wanted to show that the parts (various modes of rhetoric) can achieve a desired effect (the whole).

Finally, I’ll mention that I purposely tried to maintain that bumper stickers are neither good nor bad. In fact, they simply are. As I look over it now, I’m not sure if I properly do that; I wanted to suggest that is the responsibility of the viewer to perceive (and internalize) what he or she wants to when presented with (bumper sticker) rhetoric. And by that same vein, I wanted to further point out that the responsibility of a teacher is to present various modes (as tools) to his or her student so that they may be equipped to articulate a particular message—be it profound or even silly--as well as a way to understand the "global quality" of rhetoric. Let’s hope those “tools” are not restricted to the form of a 5 paragraph essay (production). Or a bumper sticker (consumption).

My Dog's Butt Stinks: To Do or Not to Do the Bumper Sticker

When I was in high school, I posted a bumper sticker to the back of my 96 Neon. It read: "My dog's butt stinks."

In my mind's eye, I see myself as a rather mature 17 year old. Never you mind the fact that I felt compelled to post a message onto my vehicle, suggesting that 1) you should consider the possibility of a dog’s ass, and 2) notice that it also smells. Additionally, I think there may have been a pile of poop. I also remember thinking that poop in any context was funny. Wait. Poop is funny and will always be.

As a self-proclaimed, "mature" 28 year old, I can look back upon this experience and ask myself: “why?” Why, at the height of the formation of my teenage identity, did I feel as though I should tell the world that my dog’s butt stinks? If I could tap into the general teenage psyche, I could speculate that I did this because, hey, it’s cool to have a sense of humor. I also believe that bumper stickers do, in fact, illustrate a part of identity; it is a way to “speak your mind” without direct consequence. Unless someone decides to rear end your vehicle. But that’s another story for another day.

I suppose that the “hear my voice” power of the bumper sticker is true for people of any age. Yet part of me wants to believe that the bumper sticker is not as powerful as it, perhaps, aspires to be. A silly bumper sticker was my teenage “meh.” Ten years later, I realize that the craze of bumper sticker politics has gone from innocuous illustrations of smelly dogs to out-right displays of racism, classism, sexism, and general bigotry sometimes in the form of a "JESUS LOVES YOU BUT NOT IF YOU’RE GAY” bumper sticker. When I decided to make a point of my dog’s smelly rear end, was I consciously making a statement about bumper stickers as propaganda? Probably not. Is a bumper sticker meant purely for entertainment or is it an unwarranted imposition? Yes and no. Are bumper stickers merely a part of our culture, our Constitutional right to "Free Speech?" Do you really "honk" if you're horny? Do you really care if "I'd rather be fishing?"

So many questions. So many answers (which I’ll get to), but in the meantime I have to ask myself: What is the point of the bumper sticker? What am I really doing when I tell you, as I drive away from the traffic light, that my dog’s butt stinks?

The point of the bumper sticker is obvious; it is a rhetorical device which serves as a personal advertisement: these are my beliefs. Read them. Consider them. Judge them. Come back later and throw eggs at my windshield. Or not. Keep driving. Whatever. A bumper sticker tells the drivers behind my BMW X3 that I have something to say and apparently I think my car is an appropriate medium (or vehicle if you prefer puns) to display this message. The bumper sticker is the ultimate form of “putting yourself out there,” drawing parallels to talent shows, open mic nights, and online dating. Except the bumper sticker, unlike a debate team rhetor, is considerably more passive than any of these given examples. In fact, the bumper sticker is removed from the individual driving the car and is, instead, attached to the message and not necessarily who is saying it. The person driving the car, then, is a secondary conduit of information—they are simply the operator, not necessarily its direct medium.

Bumper stickers literally and metaphorically let us “get away” with saying things we may not blurt out in class, at a meeting, in the check-out line at the grocery store. I guess some people may be compelled to publicly exclaim their belief that “Under God’s law the only ‘rights’ gays have is the right to die” according to some Biblical verse. But I’m going to venture to say that most people do not prefer to do so.

If I had to attribute a personality/style to the bumper sticker’s delivery, I would say that it’s as passive-aggressive as the co-worker who leaves those special “To the person who is using my barbeque sauce: buy your OWN!” notes in the break room fridge. In other words, the vehicle allows a hostile message like “I’ll keep my freedom, my money and my guns and you can keep the ‘CHANGE’” to be articulated not in spoken word, face à face, but in written text—usually with a color scheme like red, white and blue to imply the statement’s authority in the guises of patriotism. Not only is the message about what you’re saying out-right, it is also a form of doublespeak—to say something that clearly represents the Constitutional value of free speech, yet outwardly undermines the ability of the head of state in colorful (hence, meaningful) patriotic text.

The bumper sticker virtually removes the individual from the message and lets it “hang” on the back of your car, almost as an afterthought, as it resides on the back of the car and not the front. (I am reminded of “kick me” signs in high school.) If you consider the physicality of the bumper sticker as a metaphor, it is a message that resides not in the vanguard of your mind, but somewhere in the posterior of your consciousness. The consequence of its physical presence, then, suggests that while you may have these beliefs and share them with the greater public, you would like to convey them in the most non-threatening way: on the back of your car. In other words, you take the principle of “say it to my face,” and turn it around: “Say what you’re thinking to my face, but while you say it, can you turn around so that your back faces me, too? ” The message just doesn’t have the same effect as if someone is speaking their mind directly to your face, looking you in the eye, demonstrating a respect for your thoughts as well. (But maybe this is a cultural preference, as some cultures do not prefer to show respect with face-to-face communication or eye-contact.) Even so, when you use the medium of your pick-up truck bumper to tell me that you’d rather keep your guns, I’ll only take you half-seriously.

While political and social commentary are common topics of the bumper sticker, I have to ask myself if I can condone a message that intentionally conveys the sentiment of sexism, racism, homophobia, or ethnocentrism? What purpose does it serve to perpetuate ignorance? On one hand, I have to think of the repercussions of the individual who wishes to tell me (via weather treated paper and adhesive) that they feel as though Gays have the right only to die—suggesting that the right to live is not only sinful, it is debatable. The only “good” their bumper sticker will do is encourage people like me to react in disgust, making my beliefs for gay-rights even more apparent in the forefront of my consciousness.

Yet if I am to remain true to my personal feelings about engaging controversial topics for the sake of intellectual cultivation, I will tell you that I am “for” bumper stickers despite those messages in which I personally take offense to (like the aforementioned statement pertaining to homosexuality). At the very least, the bumper sticker may act as a conduit for the “everyman” to voice his or her own opinion or to advocate for individual beliefs. If I don’t have a television show, a newspaper column, a blog, how do I tell you that I am strongly pro-choice? I may do this in casual conversation, but if this belief is so strongly tied to my identity, I may want to make sure you know this about me before you can say “hello.” I’ll put a “Pro-Choice” bumper sticker on my car and instantly associate this belief not only with who I am as an individual; you’ll also see that not only do I value this “right,” but that I also value my ability to voice this belief. And beyond the nod to “free speech” and promotion of individual beliefs, I must add that the bumper sticker at least presents the existence of contemporary ideology. In other words, the argument is there—both in the physical sense, but also in the rhetorical sense: there is a point to be made, argued, supported, or rejected. The sheer presence of the message upon the bumper sticker generates a dialogue about a particular subject of interest. If you never tell me that you would prefer that “if [I’m] going to act like a turd, [I should] go lay in the yard,” I will never be able to tell you that I do, in fact, lay in the yard on a regular basis. But mostly because I want to get a tan and not because I am making an effort to resemble a turd. I also will not be able to mention that even though I am a 28 year-old professional, I still find the word “turd” considerably amusing. All in all, while the bumper sticker allows for an argument to be presented, thus inspiring an exchange of ideas, it does not allow for an exchange between driver and bumper sticker viewer. Except in cases where my middle finger happens to appear in your rear view window. But that is a rare, if not scarce, occasion. I am usually to afraid to flick someone off for fear that I may upset the wrong person—perhaps an angry Scientologist with psychological issues who also happens to be a gun enthusiast. The possibilities are endless.

While a bumper sticker may, at the very least, present to the greater public a diverse selection of controversial talking points, I must elaborate further about my frustration with the bumper sticker as the bearer of popular (and not-so-popular) cultural ideology. The success of the bumper sticker resides in its potential to conjure a theoretical tempest, but it fails because of its inability to allow for proper response. The bumper sticker, instead of a proper platform for discourse to occur between two or more individuals, is but a philosophical dick tease. Allow me to elaborate:

Sure I can see that you believe that “life is all about ass: covering it, kicking it, kissing it, and trying to get it.” But if I were to agree or even disagree, I’m left to spatter my commentary to the inanimate attention of my dashboard. If I were to notice your “Save a Fetus, Stop Abortion” sticker on a random Sunday afternoon, I would resolve to eject my pro-choice opinion in the form of verbal masturbation—to myself, by myself, with myself in the solitary seating of my own vehicle. Where does this get me besides all hot and bothered an no where—or no one?—to relieve myself?

I resolve to believe that perhaps bumper stickers, while they may frustrate or amuse me, at least provide a non-threatening outlet of self-expression. And I could make a silly joke about ramming into the back of your mini van because I’m sick of seeing your honor roll student stickers or those stupid family of stick figures holding hands, and it’s beyond my threshold of tolerance. But I won’t. I am also too passive (and perhaps smart?) to risk the confrontation. Or higher insurance rates.

Clearly a bumper sticker does something. I guess the question remains: should it “do?” There are costs and benefits to the bumper sticker and what it does do. However, if a bumper sticker does do hatred or bigotry or perpetuate ignorance, I will not let it do anything more to me than grind my gears. In the meantime, I resolve to write blogs like this one where I reserve the right to make snide comments about the unnecessary presence of “Soccer Caravan” bumper stickers. My teenage perception of the bumper sticker, I think, was probably the best mindset to have in the first place: to not take a piece of waterproof adhesive too seriously. And as a 28 year old who now owns her own dog, I can tell you there is some truth in the generalization about dog’s butts; they really do stink.

Get the Job: A poem for writing anxiety and the color red

Get the Job: A Poem for writing anxiety and the color red

So cut into my words
syntax-slashing
style-slicing
red ink gets
the job done.
Meaning derived
from some swell of creativity:
it stretches the space
between end stop
and capital letter,
but can't quite get
the job done.

Today your assignment is:
What is this mess
of an essay--could it
be a poem confused
with prose--
be creative!
Be unconventional!
Be original!
And eventually
get the job done.
Or drench paper in red
for argument's sake.


I have yet to, I think, ever(?) post a poem I've written. (2011 is the year for taking risks!) I feel like I might be exaggerating, but I can't recall ever being so critical of myself over a blog post. So I must be telling the truth.

Having not yet tackled the readings for this week, yet considering the readings from previous weeks, I wanted to post this poem that I'd written in 2002 during my freshman year in college. I'm fairly certain that I wrote this poem with both the inspiration of high school English in mind, as well as my first year of writing courses at Pitt. I can't remember the precise course or assignment, but I can remember the moment of inspiration to write this poem. In my mind's eye, I can see the draft in my hand, covered in (what seemed like) violent red slashes. It didn't take much to consider the rough draft as a conceit to a B-rated horror flick. So much red. So much negativity. So much ink bleeding from the margins of the page. I think: what a terrible fate to befall an unassuming, innocent piece of white print paper!

So cut into my words: does red ink "really" get the job done? What "job" is being done? We're discussing multiple jobs, here: the assignment given, the assignment completed, the assignment evaluated. Interesting: the task at hand, while in my hands, then out of my hand(s), is executed by someone elses' hands. Think about it.

I'll also mention that I posted this in mind of the creative submissions in the "Teaching English for the Two-Year College" journal, as it (to my pleasant surprise!) also publishes creative pieces.

My Macrorie Experiment

I think I'd be doing Ken Macrorie a disservice if I didn't feel compelled to write creatively after reading a selection from Telling Writing. So I did. And here is what I came up with after 30 minutes of fingers-to-computer-key writing:


It’s Saturday, and I’m cleaning my grandparents’ house so they can sell it. My grandfather has moved out, and I don’t know where he is living. In fact, when I ask about him, my uncles and aunts don’t tell me. Maybe they don’t know, but I figure someone has to.
I help my Mimi sort out some boxes in the living room. She stands next to me: “Jessie, take anything from this box that you might want.” She puts aside Boy Scout pins and Lions Club medals, which means they must be important. We throw away the bits of trash in the box—old receipts and small calendars with scribbling of meetings and dates of car shows and auctions. I try not to cry. I find a pewter letter opener with a dragon head and put it in my pocket. It looks special—like something my Pop would’ve picked up at the Williams Grove flea market on a Saturday morning. Mimi tells me she is trying not to cry, but I don’t reassure her and say “me too” or “it’s ok.” Instead I just stand there and consider taking a Dillsburg tire store pencil holder. It’s old, but I know it doesn’t have any value. I just know it’s something my Pop would carry in his pocket everywhere. I want it as a momento. (But aren't momentos for people who are dead? He's not dead!) I wonder where the hell he is that he’s not taking his pocket pencil with him. I look at my Mimi, her head down and focused, rattling on about who might want what. And I try not to cry.
My mom interrupts us and tells me that Jon needs help cleaning out the shed, so I leave Mimi to her box. I think it takes her all day to sort through it. Outside my stepdad and brother are carrying random pieces of wood and throwing it into a trailer heaped with junk. I wonder where the trailer is going or who is taking it, but all people keep telling me is that it all belongs to my grandpa. Underneath the wood I see some chairs, a mattress, a lamp. I’m confused because if the trailer is for Pop, why are they throwing junk on top of the “nice” things? It hits me: we don’t care. Well, I care. So why haven’t I called my grandpa since Christmas? I go out to carry in a load from the shed and it’s fucking freezing.
Since I forgot to bring gloves, my shed duty is short-lived. I tell my husband that I’m going back inside to do “women’s work” and I smile as I walk away because I know I’ve just made a joke between the two of us.
Inside the house, my aunts are wiping down the kitchen and cleaning out the fridge. My aunt asks me if I want a jar of olives and makes a funny face. She’s being sarcastic, but hell yeah I want the olives. I personally believe that olives never go bad and I’m very into drinking martinis. I choose a couple other things and make a pile on the counter to take home with me, alongside a picture of me and my Pop when I was a baby.
When my family is involved in any task, we usually do things at high speed. It’s like a tornado runs through town, and instead of a trail of complete chaos, your house is clean or your garage door is fixed or your carpet is installed or the hole for your new fish pond is dug up and ready to be filled. We say: “It’s the Shaffer in us.”
My mom asks me to steam clean the floors, but before I can grab the mop, Mimi stops me and asks, “Now. Have you ever used one of these things before?”
“Yes, Mimi.”
But she helps me anyway. To be honest, I’ve never filled a steam mop up, so I really did need her help.
Mimi helps me funnel water into the chamber and asks again if I’ve used one of these things before.
“I’ll be fine.”
I slide the mop over the hallway floors, and I have to admit that it’s relieving to clean up dirt even when it’s not “your” dirt to clean up. The mop pad even catches the edge of a spider web and I watch as its dusty wisps split from the wall. It’s a satisfying feeling.
Each bedroom has been emptied of furniture. I realize I haven’t been in these rooms since my grandma left my grandpa two years ago. Since then, I’ve only seen my grandpa on his porch or once when I came in he was in the sun porch living room asleep with his head slung back and snoring. I remember being a kid and always trying to tickle Pop’s nose or put hats on his head while he slept in his chair with re-runs of Hee-Haw playing in the background. He’d swing his hand around, call me a “little shit,” and I’d run upstairs to laugh.
I am almost finished with the floors. I hear my mom tell my uncle, “Jessica is busy steam cleaning,” which means I don’t have to carry something heavy or go outside again without gloves. I take my time with this job, making sure to clean every floor board with precision like I’m going to get bonus points for doing such a good job. I guess I just want to make my uncle happy—he sells houses, so clean floors make this house easier to sell.
In the living room, I have few spots to soak up since we still have a few pieces of furniture to move. I slide the mop around the edge of the room, making sure to hit the corners with extra cleaning zeal. My aunt calls out to ask if I want to join everyone for dinner—she says it’s a “thank you “ for helping on a Saturday morning. I tell her “Sure,” as I smush a frantic spider hurrying across the floor.

Writing. And mind bullets.

I'm taking a bit of a different approach to this week's blog, and I hope it is...well...okay. After assessing the various philosophies, considerations, opinions, and educated commentary regarding writing pedagogy, I have determined that to belong to any one school of thought is not for me. Although I had a hard time getting through Lester Faigley's "Competing Theories of Process: A Critique and a Proposal" I will admit that I found value in his overall argument. Well, I guess you could say that found value in the theme of his argument.

What Faigley suggests is that while Expressive, Cognitive & Social views all have their "selling points," to put only one of these theories in practice in every teaching situation is probably not the best solution. I like that he recommends that "if the process movement is to continue to influence the teaching of writing and to supply alternatives to current-traditional pedagogy, it must take a broader conception of writing, one that understands writing processes are are historically dynamic" (Faigley 662). To be clear, Faigley's essay was my least favorite thing to read (sorry Julie!), but I could at least respect what he was trying to say. In fact, I enjoyed this week's readings not because I agreed with what the various authors/theorists/experts said about writing; I enjoyed the readings because I could begin to fight with the text. In my mind. With MIND BULLETS! (Tenacious D. anyone?)

I liked the fight this week. I liked that I found myself resisting the text, asking questions like:
Can expressive writing be both individually focused and socially engaging?
Can we liken to process of writing to an intellectual economy whereas writing is a means of production--we produce ideas, ideas become a commodity, we consume others' ideas to produce more ideas and if we can participate in this economy, we not only become self-actualized but also advocates for our individualism?

Let me turn around now and take-on a different persona as I respond Ken Macrorie's chapter from Telling Writing. I thoroughly enjoyed working my way through this reading--so much so, that I decided to try one of his exercises myself. Obviously, I am at a particular advantage because 1) I understand what I'm doing with a writing exercise more than the average first year college student; 2) I'm making an attempt to keep my writing "boiled down," if you will, and 3) I had an experience in mind that I wanted to write about. Despite my apparent advantages, I still have a husband who enjoys interrupting me frequently as I try to finish my homework. In other words, attempting to "write without stopping" is almost impossible in my household. Obviously what I've written in a condensed period of time is not anything earth-shattering, but I wanted to see if I Macrorie's tactics could, in fact, lead to something--anything! I wanted to see how I, as a student, responded to the exercise. What I found was that it was difficult for me to "let go" and write what I was thinking. What happens when you are trying to write AND remember at the same time? On one hand, I know I did my best at completing Macrorie's exercise, but I feel like I could do better. Why do I say this? I think that writing non-stop is something that I need to work on feeling more comfortable with. I struggled to consider my audience (and their expectations of my writing), so I know that my voice was somewhat mediated. This makes me wonder...when are we really writing for ourselves? In the classroom...are students ever really writing for themselves if (despite the subject matter, the theme, etc.) the very physicality of the room is, in fact, already chosen for them?

Stewing With Ideas

I’m generally not one to brag about my talents, but I’d like to think that I make one hell of a rockin’ venison stew. Now, when I tell my friends this you can imagine that the idea of eating any kind of wild game is met with a certain resistance, mostly in the form of: “That’s gross, Jess.” or “Remind me not to come over to dinner any time soon.”

And while venison stew may not be for everybody,I can say that I find it enjoyable to take a meat that is typically not on the menu at your average restaurant and turn it into something special—like stew. For the culinarily-inclined folks out there (yes, I think I just made up a word?), you know that making any kind of stew is fairly simple: dredge your meat in flour, then cook it in butter, throw in some broth, veggies, potatoes salt and pepper—poof! Stew. But beyond the combination of these simple ingredients, let’s not forget that our most key component to this dish is, in fact, something that has nothing to do with meat or vegetables or seasoning. You need time.

You need time to make stew, “stew." Otherwise, you'd be eating soup. I like that the name of the end product connotes its cooking process; you're eating how you made. It's nice. And satisfying.

I have a sneaking suspicion that Donald M. Murray and Lad Tobin would delight in an analogy which likens the process of cooking a (rockin' venison) stew to the process of writing. It takes time to get to a "satisfying" end product. Tobin's chapter on "Process Pedagogy" is an insightful narrative which reveals his personal teaching history and how he came to understand his craft. It is clear that he values students as writers--"that student essays[are] texts to be interpreted, discussed, marveled at, and that writing students were, amazingly enough, writers" (Tobin 6). But he didn't come to this understanding overnight or within his first year of teaching; this process took time. Like the process of understanding his own craft, a writer develops his or her own written work over time. Tobin tells us that his teaching style "was not to tell the writer where she had gone wrong or right but to help her see what she had accomplished and what the essay might become in its next incarnation" (6). The process, therefore, becomes the most important ingredient next to the (meta)physical components like words or ideas. You could argue that a good essay is most likely a product of time (written, re-written, revised, edited, etc.).
I will, again, go back to my English Composition class in college. Until that point, it had not occurred to me how magical such a thing like an essay draft could be. Unlike high school papers, I had an entire semester to turn-in a cohesive, well-thought written work unlike any I had produced before. I remember being confused. "What? You mean that we're only handing in one final draft?" And Professor Giles would smile at us and say, "Well, you'll be doing some work on it in the mean time." And by "some" he meant "enough to make you experts in your own ideas." I can't say that my high school teachers did not allow for us to have plenty of time to complete final writing pieces, but I recall feeling like I was detached from the whole process. Like Tobin suggests, the goal of my high school writing courses was to produce--to turn out writing assignments like a fast food restaurant slings burgers and fries. Which is precisely the opposite of a slow-cooked stew.


Just as a stew involves a special combination of ingredients to produce a distinctive creation, a writer will "collect warehouses of information...to produce meaning" (Murray 716). Eventually, this "meaning" is transposed like that of a recipe to blend original ideas and concepts into something truly special. Taking from Murray's distinctive style, I will turn to my favorite writer, Margaret Atwood, for inspiration as she says: "A ratio of failures is built into the process of writing. The wastebasket has evolved for a reason." There is a reason why my venison stew is good; it's taken several tries to finally get it "right." I like that Murray warns us not to "write too soon," so that we can feel less guilty when it takes us some time to get our ideas "right." I know what when I read any assignment, I like to wait a few days and spend time thinking. I think while I heat up my Smart Ones on my lunch break. I think while I'm driving to class at night. Don't tell my boss, but sometimes I take a "thinking break" while I'm busy at my computer. There are only so many emails I can write before it becomes annoying. After I think, I talk to myself. As I've stated in class, I prefer to talk out my ideas to myself or with others before I even put pen to paper or finger to key. I have to admit that I've often wondered if I was weird or different because my "process" was not to write, but to do the opposite: to sit and think.
I am glad that I am not the only one who chooses not to write "too soon," and that I'm comfortable making mistakes on first drafts.
As our readings and class discussions have indicated, writing takes risks. Writing takes risks of making mistakes and choosing vocabulary words that are unfamiliar (like "panacea" in Tobin's essay). When I create something--a product of my ideas and offshoots of others (to reference Lynn), I am conscious that I may not get it right on the first try. But I keep trying because I know I will find the the best recipe; it is only a matter of time.