Rhetorical Questions

It all began with a string of sunny summer days and a story, now long lost, about a puffin who loses his red hat in the snow. Excited to pass on her love of reading and anxious to give her son a head start in the world of letters, my mother decided to take my literary education into her own hands. The realization of this goal took the form of nightly bedtime stories that hover at the edges of my earliest memories and reverberate with the question and answer dialogues that accompanied them. As time progressed, trips to the library became a weekly institution. It was my job to hold the large canvas bag that would eventually be filled with the best books I could find. The selection process had to be done very carefully, for we had to contend with the library’s limit of twenty books. Eventually, the time came for me to learn to read. As much as I enjoyed reading, I soon came to realize that I overwhelming preferred the kind of reading that was done to me. Learning to read on my own involved work! It was hard! There we sat on the couch, my mother and I, struggling over what came to be known as The Puffin Book. Slowly, sound-by-sound and word-by-word, I would work my way through the sentences. At the end of each line my mother would stop and recap the story so far. I would study the illustrations, trace the swirling patterns on the couch’s upholstery with my finger, and gaze longingly out the large family room window at the tree outside. There was so much I would rather be doing. I complained that this was too difficult and that it was not any fun.  My mom would bring my attention back to reading, insisting that I would thank her someday. While she turned out to be right, I still remember how much energy it took to toil through that book. So much effort went into figuring out the words that any attempt to form a cohesive story was beyond me. My skills improved with work and guidance, however, and I eventually became quite a voracious reader.

I begin with this story because I have come to firmly believe that reading is the foundation for successful writing. After all, one leans to speak by listening to others speak; it only follows that one learns to write by reading what others have written. I obviously was not doing very much actual writing at this early stage in writing development. However, because language was emphasized to me from the beginning, appreciating it became second nature. It was this fundamental, unconscious value of reading and writing that saw me through years of poor instruction and potential distraction from what has become my academic career.

I spent a great amount of my childhood years with a book in my hand. From 21 Balloons to The Phantom Tollbooth to Treasure Island, as soon as my skills picked up I worked my way through more. This was enhanced both by the encouragement and example of my family. I enjoyed reading and pushed myself to read better so that I could have access to more stories. As a result of this accelerated reading I was often ahead of my classmates in terms of reading level and experience. While this was usually a positive trait, it did occasionally have its shortcomings. In junior high, my English teacher accused me of plagiarizing a paper. She pointed out that the writing I produced could not have been my own. What she failed to understand was that all the reading I had done had shaped my writing in an out-of-school context. I do not mean to imply that my writing was at all perfect or profound; however, the vocabulary and general sentence rhythm I had absorbed through my reading found its way into my writing. Considering the general style of what I had been reading in the few years prior, it seems natural that my writing did not fit the seventh grade norm. Instead of recognizing this and encouraging the development of my writing, my teacher branded me a fraud. Interestingly enough, I was eventually able to convince the teacher in writing that I had not cheated. But by that point, the damage had been done– I tended to try not to exceed a reasonably high level of mediocrity on school writing assignments.

I did not realize it at the time, but one product of these kinds of experiences is a strong aversion towards current-traditional composition pedagogy. While I certainly agree that proper grammar and form are important, it seems in my experience that current-traditional can often become synonymous with lazy teaching. “You will answer these questions in this manner. You must include these points in order to receive a good grade.” It is no wonder that so many students do not like to write (or to read, for that matter). Perhaps this is naïve and idealistic, but it seems that writing is about more than a simple checklist of requirements. If at all possible, it needs to be connected to something the writer cares about. This can be a stretch at times, but I believe that good writing teachers are able to help students find and use that source of motivation.

My high school Honors English teacher exemplifies the opposite of this ideal. Her assignments often combined my favorite kind of reading with my most despised form of writing. Take, for example, the summer reading project that was to decide our acceptance into the school’s inaugural Honors English class. The previous year my teacher had made a great to-do over the serious nature of this assignment, the weighty importance acceptance to the class would carry on college applications, and other self-important hyperbole. After a semester of suspense, the solemn doom finally came down: we were to read Hamlet, A Tale of Two Cities, and either Great Expectations or Jane Eyre, and write an ominous sounding Serious Analysis of each. It could be fun. At least I would get to read and write about something interesting. Unfortunately, the requirements for the Serious Analysis that arrived in the mail on a hot August afternoon would have nothing with enjoyment, or interesting subjects. No, they would be the kind of writing that most encourages me to procrastinate, for they lacked any semblance of creative or critical thought. “What historical event provides the setting for A Tale of Two Cities?” Really? Why don’t I just photocopy the cover for you? “Describe Jane’s childhood experiences.” Not fun. “Was Pip wrong to help the convict?” Did he have much of a choice? Needless to say I put off these mind-numbing rote questions until the last week of summer. There were pages and pages of them, designed to test the patience of the studious and weed out the faint of heart. In fact, as I was outraged to discover later, the five-plus pages I had to write for each book counted for a total of… nine points towards my grade. Nine points. I realized later that the assignment was not a test of comprehension or critical thinking; rather it was simply a strenuous obstacle designed to deter those of wavering motivation. Three Large Novels and Shakespeare, so beware!

It was not until my upper division college classes that I was able to escape this kind of busywork and really enjoy writing again. While these experiences did produce some bad habits (like procrastinating because I knew I could pull it off), I believe that they have really prepared me to be a better teacher in my own right. I am better able to sympathies with students who have had to deal with less-than-inspiring writing experiences, and I hope to pass on that appreciation for language that I was given.

I grade the way I do because I am a heartless tyrant thrilled with the prospect of crushing the souls of young freshmen. Actually, that’s not true. I enjoy crushing the souls of older freshmen, too. Aside from this, much of my focus is on rhythm and style. By style I do not necessarily mean a unique, personal voice. Voice is something that emerges from practice and awareness, and is largely immune to  instruction. Rather, I mean style in the sense of the flow, or the rhythm of the words as they wind down the page.  Depending on the writer, this could be a matter of attending to grammar or organization, but it is usually one of the two. I’ve mentioned this before, but I think reading has a lot to do with it. After a while you develop an inner ear for good writing, whatever the style. It’s like music, in a way. You may not be able to play it exactly like someone else, but you can certainly notice if it’s “off”. And this is the important point, when it comes to grading– getting the writer to notice how their choices, intentional or otherwise, shape the reader’s experience. An “off key” composition annoys the reader, at best. The difficulty with this, however, is that first year writers often have enough trouble just putting coherent ideas on the page. Any thought of style or audience response seems frivolous. This attention to audience places me with the Rhetorical philosophy, I would say.

My writing process is not one I would wish upon anyone, nor would I even think about teaching it. Simply put, writing takes me a very long time. A simple writing project can take me hours. I’m not exactly sure why this is. Part of it has to do with the fact that somewhere early on, I got into the habit of composing the majority of it in my head before typing out and revising- line by line- what  is essentially a second draft. This gave me a lot of trouble when it came to writing in-class essays. It was not a matter of being unprepared. I (usually) knew the material. The problem was being able to translate that material into an intelligently written essay in the short space of an hour. While others could immediately begin writing, I often found myself sitting there, waiting for my mind to produce the more or less fully formed piece, and then sprinting to get it all down. All this said, my writing as a product has usually been pretty successful. The process, however, could really use some work. Turning down the perfectionism a few notches would help, but this has been hard to actually put into practice. I think “process” should be a valued part of the composition class. I think it is important for freshmen to realize that, while writing does improve with practice, even the most accomplished writers do not instantly produce perfect work. Writing as an act of creation takes time and effort.

Voice that resonates enhances academic voice. In fact, I would submit that what we call academic voice is actually something closer to academic structure. This structure necessitates things like introductions, conclusions, citations, arguments and evidence. As someone said in class, the way a paper is structured and developed sometimes has more weight than the original subject itself. However, the difference between a dry, dense work and one that engages the reader often comes down to the author’s ability to weave a unique voice through the standard academic format. In skilled hands, structure becomes transparent, and a reader is absorbed into the piece. Unfortunately, it seems that many freshmen comp writers retreat into the familiarity of academic structure  (and even that to varying degrees of success) rather than attempt to shape it with their own voice. But how to strengthen personal voice to the point where we can use it to enhance academic writing? Elbow suggests frequent free-writing. I agree, in the sense that voice can be learned, but not taught. It just requires lots of practice.

In my perfect world, children would grow up listening to their parents read to them and having the best English teachers inspire them.  They would  steadily increase the quality and quantity of their own reading and writing until, by the time they enter college, they had not only mastered grammar, but also made significant inroads into engaging style. Alas, this is not the world we live in. Until I am ruler of the world, we must deal the the reality of students with vastly divergent skills and experiences in the realm of composition. First Year Writing, in one sense,  functions to standardize, as best as possible, the language skill-sets of college freshmen. To some it may be a polish after a long summer, to others an intensive review, and to still others a kind of last chance to make up for poor previous instruction. First Year Writing is more than that, however, for while it catches everyone up to college level writing, it also introduces or reinforces college level critical thinking. This is (obviously) a perfect complement to better writing. Critical thinking influences higher level skills like argumentation, and lower level skills like structure. Writing serves as a vehicle of though, and it seems only logical to build both simultaneously. After all, one could be an amazing critical thinker, but lacking writing skills, be unable to communicate that thinking effectively.

I believe that the three most important concepts in composition are interest, awareness, and practice. Composition seems so much easier when it involves something you are interested in. Not only that, but the quality and quantity of writing improves dramatically. It may not always be the case that a composition project has intrinsic interest value. However, finding a way to take interest in some aspect of it can really be beneficial.

Awareness implies not only composing with a particular audience in mind, but also what I like to think of as writing as a reader. By this I mean actively anticipating audience reactions during the process of writing, and using this to shape the continuous writing experience. This is usually a skill taught to improve persuasive essays, but it can be useful anywhere. I think it helps to make writing more relateable without necessarily effecting formality or other aspects of style.

Practice is essential to (good) composition. As with any skill, practicing writing helps one become a stronger and more efficient writer.  Equally important is practice in the form of reading what others have written. In fact, I believe that reading is a painless way to internalize many of the rules of grammar, structure, and voice without really trying to. Of course that assumes that one enjoys reading, but that’s another post.