Only 393,000,000 hits for "How do I write a blog?"

I honestly don't know if the cat's search was included in that count, but I wouldn't be surprised if he was among the millions drawn to our ever growing "culture of self-disclosure."

"I agree!"..."No, I disagree..."..."Wait a minute, you have a point... but..."..."Yes!"..."No!"...."Well, maybe." That in a nutshell was my reaction to this week's readings. A bit schizophrenic, I know. But that's exactly my mindset when it comes to technology, especially technology in the classroom. 

I feel like it's a bit of a Faustian bargain when I use it. I worry I'm taking a gamble, and the techno stars will not shine on me that day and something will go wrong, and of course I'll have absolutely no idea how to fix it. But then, when it goes right, and it's not just using technology for the sake of using technology, and it's actually a means to improving students' writing, reasoning, thinking skills - then I'm psyched! But then sometimes I have buyer's remorse, when we have a more traditional lesson without the bells and whistles. In other words, we use those ancient tools called paper and pencil, and some students act as if we're in the stone ages. Both "mediums" clearly have their value and both have their advantages and disadvantages. Clearly, what it comes down to is the use of technology in a well planned, well orchestrated manner that benefits all.

Which brings us to Tate. I too have wrestled with the unfairness of it all when I am dealing with students who have limited access to technology. Our current research paper requirement specifies a typed final product; online resources such as "Noodletools" are used for notecards and bibliographies. If a student does not have access to a computer at home, then they are forced to use any available study hall time, come in early to school, leave late, try to convince mom or dad to get them to the public library - all to gain access to small snatches of time to complete the project - a project that is far from easy to begin with, and is now doubly difficult. I've heard myself encouraging them by saying, "you can do this. You just have to manage your time better than the other students. You will gain something from being forced to work harder than everyone else to finish the project." I know, lame. I don't buy it either, and I feel frustrated on their behalf. We have, however, when the student nearly signs their life away, have started to loan lap tops overnight. But honestly, that doesn't do much good if they don't have a wifi hook up nearby. So where does that leave us? Sorry, just posing the question - I haven't the answer.

One last note on blogs, however. While I think they can be self-serving, attention-seeking, dregs of the writing world, I also see their tremendous benefit, and literally - just look at Egypt - they have the powerful potential to unite a world.

Feeling overwhelmed? Try not to share the "wealth."

“Individual opportunity in the United States depends critically on the ability to present one’s thoughts coherently, cogently and persuasively on paper” (Hesse) 

Or as I’ve warned some of my more reluctant (a politically correct way to say “lazy”) students: learn how to write, or otherwise you could easily spend your life saying... 

                 “You want fries with that?” 

But clearly, we shoot ourselves in the educational foot if when we get students to write, we don’t do something productive and beneficial with that effort. In other words, the eternal question arose in this week’s readings – “what’s the best way to grade a student’s writing?”

Frankly, I’m amazed at how much formal and informal education I’ve received over the years about writing, and so much of it should have prepared me how to teach writing, but so little of it really addressed how to respond in BOTH a practical (so we’re not burning ourselves out as educators) and beneficial way to students’ efforts.

Therefore, you would have thought I’d greet Lynn’s writings with open arms this week. I had high hopes when I started the reading, and after a few exhausting pages on hand gestures while speaking, I seemed to see the light when he started on a very practical, straight forward approach to demystifying a syllabus, the first day of class, etc. But after awhile, I honestly felt like I wasn’t reading anything I hadn’t heard/read before. It was,  admittedly very well organized and a down to earth overview, I guess just not the magic bullet I was hoping for.

But that seemed to be my general reaction to all of this week’s articles. Hesse’s starts off with this grand question of “Who owns writing?’ and I thought it was going to be some great debate on appropriating ideas, and work that was considered now in the public domain and free for multiple interpretations, etc. and it just became "– who has the right to have a voice in how we teach writing?" Not something I felt a burning desire to know.

Haswell’s also offered predictable advice, but perhaps his went over better with me because I’ve just recently finished up a program with the University of Penn that strongly advocates selecting “focus correction” areas for students to concentrate on when trying to improve their writing. Or as Haswell summarizes, “Know your student: limit your responses...to no more than two things they can do.”

In other words, don’t overwhelm them. For me, personally, life has been extremely overwhelming lately. So perhaps Haswell caught me on a “good” day, and in my heart I agreed with him. Certainly, the last thing I want to do to my students, to my reluctant writers, is to overwhelm them, to scare them away from what they could potentially learn and accomplish with their life by discouraging them so much that they then truly think the only thing they are capable of saying is “You want fries with that?”

“Grammar is a piano I play by ear. All I know about grammar is its power.”

           If you haven’t figured it out by now, I’m a quotes person. I guess I’ve decided when I can’t find just the right words to say something, someone else has likely succeeded. The observation, above, is from one of my favorite writers, Joan Didion. (I know it has absolutely nothing to do with this week’s topic, but I just want to pause here and give a plug for an amazing memoir she wrote a few years ago called “The Year of Magical Thinking.” Read it. Savor it. Her writing has a way of staying with you.)

            What I appreciate about this quote is it beautifully describes the topic Hartwell labored over, and literally sucked the life out of this week: more often than not we follow the appropriate rules of grammar unconsciously, without even knowing we’re following them, and if pressed, we can’t even state the rule we’re following! Grammar is a piano we play by ear, because in so many cases we learn to play it through exposure, habit, and that mysterious instinct that “something just doesn’t sound right,” which then causes us to self-correct. So this then begs the eternal question many of this week’s writers labored over, why is it that we seem to mess things up even more for the struggling English student when we attempt to “teach” grammar?  If Hartwell answered this, it was lost on me amid the confusing array of diagrams.

            Connor’s historical perspective was a bit more interesting; I was surprised how early formal grammar instruction came under attack. Yet, much like with Hartwell, even though a researcher would find fault with such instruction, the overall result is a reluctance to ever abandon such instruction. There’s clearly a fear factor going on here – if you have a gut reaction that something is not working, it’s still difficult to let it go if you have no idea what to replace it with.

            Finishing up the Miller collection with Lunsford & Ede’s self-analysis was somewhat puzzling. I didn’t quite see the connection with the other papers. However, their point that writers “are capable of creating internalized audiences that can lead not only to successful communication but also to disabling silences or to attempts at manipulative control,” was a fascinating point. I had always viewed the ability to write for a particular audience as a plus, not a negative – but I see their point.

            Lynn’s piece provided a well-rounded overview, however, the conversation on style, unfortunately, was very similar to others I’ve read, not truly offering a new perspective. But Lynn shouldn’t be criticized too harshly - defining “style” is a bit like defining beauty, or love, or happiness...finding a universally accepted definition for such a concept is about as likely as finding the ideal way to teach grammar.

"Writing is a socially acceptable form of schizophrenia." - E.L. Doctorow

       When I'm writing, it's not a pretty picture. A good caffeine/sugar buzz is typically required, therefore the half drunk mugs of cold coffee litter the desk, sharing space with whatever horrible-for-you treat is in season: candy hearts in February, jellybeans for Easter, now it's peanut butter patties - aka "tagalongs" if you know Girl Scout cookie lingo. I promise you I have clothes on, but trust me it could be the rattiest jammies/sweat pants combo. 

     And I talk to myself - ALL THE TIME. 

     Doctorow's schizophrenia comment makes tremendous sense. I'll jump up to throw in a load of laundry, empty the part of the dishwasher my kids always ignore, type some more, let the dog out, feed the cats, type some more, etc. I view these things - along with the coffee & sugar - as an integral part of my writing process. I'm not blocked when I do these things - I'm "processing." 

     So when Britton and Flowers/Hayes tackled the concept of discovering how a writer shapes their ideas, how they make meaning, I tried very hard to join them, and think of my own process, my own "discovery" methods. I came up with nada, zilch, question marks galore. It just seems to "happen" - or so I thought.

      But then a few insights this week's authors offered made sense:  Brand said "the thought process involved in the editing process is one of inclusion vs. exclusion." Yes! Exactly! I'm always asking myself, how do I refine this, tighten it, make it sharper? The cognition/emotion link - the very last line of Brand's essay - describes my gut reaction perfectly when I know a sentence works. As Brand wrote, "It is in cognition that ideas make sense. But it is in emotion that this sense finds value." 

     In other words, if I don't feel a legitimate emotional connection to what I just wrote, it has no value to me. It goes back to that honesty issue with Macrorie.  But the focus isn't just on my emotional reaction, I'm constantly focusing on what I predict my audience's emotional reaction will be - and then adjusting in response. As Flower & Hayes notes, experienced writers write for their audiences, struggling writers just want to get the job done and move on.

     While my first attempt to understand how I mold an idea into written form seemed like a failure, ironically, by coercing myself to sit down and write about this topic, I gained insight into my own process. Or as Flowers/Hayes observed: "Writers don't find meanings, they make them." But the million dollar question is, how, as a teacher, can I identify the optimum ways to pass on to my students what I know works for me when I write? I'm pretty sure the school would frown upon the coffee, sugar and jammies approach.
 

If it walks like a duck, talks like a duck, looks like a...

            To those of you who have not had the pleasure of taking part in the world of mini-van driving, soccer obsessed suburban families, I want to give you a little peak into how dysfunctional this ludicrous little universe can be. My children (10, 13 & 17) are just the perfect age for having grown up in the “everyone gets a trophy” generation. Heaven forbid we give a trophy only to the team that finished first in the neighborhood league – that would make the other players feel bad, so let’s make sure everyone gets a trophy, even the kid who stood in one spot the entire season and would merely pivot to alternate facing east or west if the mood hit him. 

     The high point of this philosophy was when the league held try outs for the “rec” team vs. “traveling team.” These terms have been used for years to designate the more skilled, more competitive team - playing teams of similar caliber, vs. the “rec” kids who might be just learning the sport.  One year, in an effort to be fair to all, they decided to change the team identification terms to “A” vs. “B” team, another year, the “blue” vs. “white” team, noting that the term “Rec” had too many negative connotations. Now, were these parents honestly underestimating their children’s’ intelligence so much that they didn’t realize it would take a millisecond after the team lists were posted for the kids to figure out where they stood in the hierarchy of a local soccer league? Glancing at the names on the list, they knew instantly - - whether you called the team “A”, “Blue,” or “The Platypuses” – what someone had judged their skill level to be.

            This week’s readings sounded simply like a literary version of the issue above. A number of the writers made valid points for keeping remedial writing programs; however, we can’t possibly consider calling them that! After all, the term remedial is considered simply too offensive. There were many strong arguments in favor of having such programs, and even some worthwhile points made for eliminating them but recreating a mainstreamed freshman comp class, or a self-directed comp program (though I’m not really clear on how trustworthy students would be in evaluating their own abilities to move up or down in the comp world). 

     

     But whether or not they call it “remedial”, “basic” (apparently the term of the moment), or some nebulous number like Comp 099, how long do you think it would take for students in such a class to realize there’s a higher level comp. class down the hall that they are not part of? I just felt there was way too much time wasted in this week’s writings addressing the issue of the feelings, emotions, etc. of students who have been deemed to need additional assistance before attainting some level of academic writing a university would deem acceptable.

            What I did find valuable and interesting was the hope that we as English/writing teachers could eventually learn how to interpret students writing errors, not merely circle and quantify them, but rather look for patterns and thought processes associated with such errors. By doing this – which seems no easy task – it would seem to be as if we could address some common writing issues/errors in a more logical, effective manner. 

     Furthermore, while I’m not 100% sure what he meant by it, but I’d certainly like to explore the topic, Mike Rose’s comment that “writing is essential to the very existence of certain kinds of knowledge” was intriguing. While the bulk of Bartholomae’s piece was difficult to follow, there were a few instances were he clearly stated ways he felt we should help "basic" writers, such as demystifying some of the terms we as writing teachers use (think, argue, describe, define) – these few instances of clarity were helpful. It was comforting – in some odd way – to see some of my students writing habits within the examples he provided of different levels of writers. I would hate to say this is an example of “misery loves company” because I truly believe if we as teachers find the right approach, all students in need of a remedial program, or basic writing class, or whatever the politically correct, emotionally-friendly term of the moment will be, will eventually move beyond that level.

To “study rhetoric or not to study rhetoric” that seems to be the question.

I’ve told people for years that I’m “math dyslexic” – words make perfect sense, but put numbers in front of me, and they dance around, taunting me “you can’t figure us out! Breaking out in a cold sweat yet? Feel like you're back in Sister Bertilla’s trigonometry class?” 

Reading sections of Lynn and Tate this week as they went on and on with various explanations of rhetorical theories and strategies, I felt that old familiar panic. I confess, I can’t always recall the difference between deduction and induction, and words like "enthymeme" and “abbreviated syllogism” sound suspiciously mathematical and send my heart racing.

But, nonetheless, I found a kindred soul in Lynn, and breathed a sigh of relief when he wisely observed “one does not need all of Aristotle in order to make use of Aristotle’s approach to invention and logic.” He gives us permission to use some of Aristotle’s analytical tools and rules in order to learn – and teach our students – “how to build or take apart much more difficult or complicated arguments.” It made perfect sense when he noted that we might be asking students to “perform complicated logical tasks without explicitly addressing the underlying skills and materials needed to perform those tasks.”

Hence, the value in studying rhetorical theories and techniques. But, and a big BUT here. We know full well that such material is a challenge to break down, present simply, and – (most important to students)  – RELEVANTLY – to any grade level. If you don’t agree with me, please read over my first two paragraphs again for a case in point.

I don’t think Lynn, Tate & D'Angelo (in Miller) answered this “how to” question for me – all simply reinforced the value of studying the classical methods of discourse in order to learn how they may enlighten, influence, and in some cases be incorporated into our modern methods to perhaps – hopefully – improve our teaching of composition.  A few of them gave some worthwhile instructional suggestions at the end, which I plan to test out. And – somewhat comforting – a few are similar to techniques I use already, such as recognizing the value of using good writing as a model for students.

There was a tremendous amount to address in these readings – which hopefully we’ll touch on in class (such as the recognition of the value of schema, and Tate’s description of Kenneth Burke as “dangerous”)...but one final, rather dangerous thought perhaps of my own, that I’d like to share...and I’ll likely get an earful on this, but – for struggling writers – I’m a fan of the “dreaded” five paragraph essay. There I said it. I’m waiting to see if the writing gods and educational theorists strike me down as I type.

“A word, after a word, after a word is power.” 

         - - Margaret Attwood

My head hurts. That is the most simple, direct and (with a nod to Ken Macrorie) “sharp and truly” honest way I can describe my reaction to this week’s readings.

There’s the urge to channel the parent within me, dope-slap these guys across the head and say: “oh, please, just stop picking on one another. Do you know how annoying you sound?”  Elbow and Harris are engaged in a he-said, she-said criticism over expressivists’ place in the world vs. traditional pedagogies. Even Elbow confesses this might be an “intersection of competing paranoias.” Faugly engages in the very Engfish Macrorie hopes to banish. Macrorie puts his writing eggs in one basket: Free writing will save us all from the dreaded creature, “Engfish!”

I’m annoyed because in their effort to perhaps “publish or perish,” to be the one with all the answers, they seem to have lost sight of what should be a common goal: to educate our children, encourage them to write, and to help them discover the thrill of crafting a truly great sentence.

My head hurt for another reason; I will admit at some point I did share in Elbow & Harris’ paranoia. I clearly don’t come down on one side or the other in the traditional vs. expressivist debate. Am I just wishy-washy, or the product of writing teachers who didn’t know how to teach writing? Am I haphazard in my approach or creative? I give my students free writing opportunities. We’re fully emerged in that right now with a project I absolutely love – the writing of their own “This I Believe” essays. But we also write strictly academic pieces in direct response to literature they’ve read. And yes, we even do the dreaded research paper, with (gasp!) a third-person point of view.

However, no matter what writing lesson I’m planning, of late I’ve realized that my inspiration seems to always be returning to the question “How did I learn how to do this?” And more often than not, I come back to the fact that I was taught early on to fall in love with great sentences – and for some reason, I wanted in the worst way to duplicate them, the sound, the feel, the flow, the energy. Recently, I have someone in my corner.

Consider picking up New York Times columnist Stanley Fish’s recently released book “How to Write A Sentence.” Here’s what Fish said that caught my attention:

“I am always on the lookout for sentences that take your breath away, for sentences that make you say, “Isn’t that something?” or “What a sentence!”

Fish told NPR, that “writing a fine sentence is a delicate process – but it’s a process that can be learned. He laments that many educators approach teaching the craft the wrong way – by relying on rules rather than examples...he believes “analyzing great sentences will tell you more about...what you can possibly hope to imitate than a set of sterile rules that seem often impossibly abstract.”

Consider it some food for thought. And for no other reason than simply the fact that I loved it so much, here’s the opening paragraph of Fish’s book:

In her book The Writing Life (1989), Annie Dillard tells the story of a fellow writer who was asked by a student, "Do you think I could be a writer?" " 'Well,' the writer said, 'do you like sentences?' " The student is surprised by the question, but Dillard knows exactly what was meant. He was being told, she explains, that "if he liked sentences he could begin," and she remembers a similar conversation with a painter friend. "I asked him how he came to be a painter. He said, 'I like the smell of paint.' " The point, made implicitly (Dillard does not belabor it), is that you don't begin with a grand conception, either of the great American novel or a masterpiece that will hang in the Louvre. You begin with a feel for the nitty-gritty material of the medium, paint in one case, sentences in the other.

From:

How To Write A Sentence: And How To Read One
By Stanley Fish
Hardcover, 176 pages
Harper
List price: $19.99

Amazon’s Kindle Price: $9.99