Reflection on the Class Blog

I intentionally did my own personal reflection on the blog prior to looking at anyone else’s blogs so that my opinions would not become a collage of everyone else’s ideas. After I established my feelings on blogs, it was interesting to read my peers’ blog responses and get a feeling of how they chose to approach their blogs. I was very impressed how many people took the time to build a background and personalize the blog space. To me, the people who took the time to do this, namely Jules, Stephanie and Brandon, had very personal and well-thought-out posts. I had never thought about it before, but I would bet that the graphics and time they spent designing a blog that was an accurate representation of certain elements of their personality made them more comfortable in expressing themselves in their posts.

Going along with that thought, I really enjoyed the exposure I had to people’s writing who had never happened to be in my workshops. I guess sometimes it is hard to notice in class, or through a single presentation, but there is an incredible amount of talent and creativity in our class. I went to Dave’s blog after class when Dr. Allen had brought up his memoir and I was shocked. I thought his topic and his ideas were incredible. I appreciated his experience with a taboo topic, and the unique religious element that he explored. Similarly, I had never been in a group with Lauren, and I found myself laughing out loud at some of her topic choices, such as caffeine and her “Introduction” piece. The creativity didn’t stop there. I used to buy the excuse people would use for not writing, when they would say “I’m just not creative,” but this blog is a good representation to the fallacy of this excuse. Ashley G.’s blog, the same person who said she didn’t like to write, had me reading through every single one of her posts. I think the blogs offer insight to the fact that every individual has creativity within them, and it is just a matter of finding the proper avenue to express it.

A last thing that I enjoyed when I was going through everyone’s blogs is the drastic changes that take place between the workshop draft and the final product. It is not often (even in class where you peer edit) that you can see what suggestions people took and how these suggestions served to transform their pieces. I know after my memoir workshop, I was waiting to see how Stephanie would continue her memoir. Even though she says in class that she is still not done it, I really enjoy the changes she chose to make. Additionally, Kelly and I had talked about the changes we had to make to our memoirs, and I really enjoyed her inclusion of the actual speech and her own honest speech. Many times throughout this semester I had to battle my strong aversion to editing my draft. For my first two papers I felt the draft I turned in was the best I could do, but soon learned the power of the workshop. I think by just looking at the final products of everyone in the class, one can see the huge advancements that can be made when one considers the thoughts and ideas of the external audience.

Blog Reflection

I had to keep a blog for a Marketing class my junior year, and I hated it. I hated it because I could never log on correctly and always had to change my password. I hated it because I knew no one was reading it, not even my teacher. I hated it because there was absolutely nothing reflective to write about Marketing. With this all in mind, as I read the segment of the syllabus that explained about the blog assignment, I wanted to throw up…. and drop the class. The idea of creating another blog seemed like a total waste of time and I always associate blogs with computer nerds.

Obviously I did not drop the class and attempted to approach this assignment with an open mind. When I read the first reading response, I became quickly aware that this was nothing like my other blog. The prompt did not ask that I find a company that had an “appealing logo,” but rather posed a question that was engaging and required reflection. I especially enjoyed the “narcissism” post, because I have often wondered what other people my own age feel about our generation’s outlook on life. Personally I found the blog useful, as it led me to be curious about what others thought about the posed topics. I didn’t think that I would actually spend time looking at my classmates work, but throughout the semester I would periodically look at everyone’s responses. The aspect of the blog I most enjoyed was its convenience. I could access anyone’s writing by simply a click, which made me actually want to do it. In addition to that, I liked the that people could comment on other blogs if they felt inclined. I think that is helpful in a writing class because it allows you to tell the writer what you felt immediately after reading their piece.

In terms of the blog and my writing, I found the blog to offer me a very unique experience. Unlike the reading responses we would do in class, the blogs did not confine me to a time. I did not feel rushed to get all my thoughts and words onto a page, and allowed myself time to reflect. I found that I would spend more time thinking and (if it had to do with an essay) more time reading it. I also enjoyed it because I did not feel a pressure to find the right answer. I felt as though I could express my thoughts honestly because for some reason I didn’t think anyone would immediately read them. The whole blog concept, and not really knowing if anyone was actually going to read them, helped me to express whatever was on my mind.

If I were to offer constructive suggestions on how to make the blog more effective for this class, I would suggest two things. One, I think there should be a few more writing prompts. I don’t think there should be one every class, but a few more to remind the student the blog is there. In the middle of the semester I kind of forgot about it, and thus, didn’t think to write any additional things on it. This could have just been me. Too many blog responses will lead people to make up b.s. responses, so it is a fine line. Secondly, I think more emphasis should be placed on commenting on other people’s blogs. I think this will allow people to get constructive, honest feedback, but also will encourage people to read their classmate’s work outside of the classroom. I think there is a lot to be learned from reading other’s work, and as I said before, the blog is a convenient tool for this. Overall, this blog experience was much more rewarding than my last, and I recommend its usage in other English classes.

Women’s Event- Vagina Monologues

When I first bought my ticket to the Vagina Monologues, I thought I was going to a comedy performance. (Ignorant, I know.) My friends, who were performing in the event, had offered me glimpses of their individual parts, and their parts just so happened to all be humorous. Thus, my perception of the Vagina Monologues. However, as the introduction began, I realized the Vagina Monologues aim was far from a comedy routine. It stood for the plights of women, for abuse, and for the power of self appreciation. As the performance ran its course, I found myself experiencing a variety of different emotions. Sometimes I was laughing uncontrollably, sometimes grimacing, and sometimes willing myself not to cry. As I left the auditorium that night, I was completely impressed by creative idea of Eve Ensler. She crafted a play that allowed any individual in the audience to experience and empathize with the female experience. I found myself changed by the experiences the Vagina Monlogues offered and would recommend it to anyone; male or female.

A Matter of Encouragement

Writing is like rolling down a terraced hill, sometimes the words flow quickly from my mind to the page, and sometimes they slow as each word struggles to escape my mind. I used to wonder whether there was a way to maintain a constant momentum during my writing process, having the words and ideas flow in a consistent, fluid tumble, rather than having to suffer through the rocky transitions that only served to bruise my self-confidence as a writer. I found the answer in a simple theory of writing: voice. I understand voice to be myself—my thoughts, my feelings, my outlooks, and my ideas—depicted through words, put onto the page to be shared with my audience. Voice allows me to incorporate these thoughts into my writing and thus, has helped me to maintain a constant pace throughout my writing process. I find myself encountering “writer’s block” less often, replacing it with scribbles of ideas and thoughts that are products of my personality. Suddenly my energetic and unpredictable nature does not need to be controlled within the confines of the rules of writing. I am free to be myself.

If I were teaching a composition class, I would include this personal experience with voice and its impact on my writing as a source of encouragement to my students. My purpose for sharing this experience would be to offer these individuals, who perhaps do not identify themselves as writers, a tool that they may choose to utilize in reducing the pressures of a developing writing process. I should not present the use of voice as necessary component of good writing because it has served as a safeguard against writer’s block for me, but allow the student to decide. Writing is a very personal process. Voice may be a method to help strengthen my writing, but probably not in everyone’s case. As a teacher, this would not for me to decide. Putting pressure on new writers to include voice in their work could result in writer’s block before the student has begun to write. Encountering writer’s block in the initial stages of developing a writing process could completely cripple the writer. In taking on the role of teaching composition, the teacher must recognize each student as a separate individual and understand the influence of the teacher in forming the student’s writing process.

The influence of the teacher comes with great risk, as writing is an internal process. Though external information is drawn upon to create a cohesive argument or narrative, it is ultimately up to the writer to choose how best to express his or her thoughts, arguments, and feelings. Internal processes differ from writer to writer and, as a result, the discussion of how to teach writing effectively has continued undiminished for years within the writing community. Because no writer is the same, is there really any way to teach how to write?

Before entertaining this question, I find it necessary to engage two theorists who have offered their perspective on the matter of teaching composition. In his article A Dance to the Music of the Mind, Richard Graves discusses that writing should be taught as a “spiritual act.” He proposes that teachers allow students to write on matters of personal importance and offer student’s positive reinforcement as a way to effectively nurture the student’s writing process. Graves argues this will allow the students to “trust their instincts as writers and lose their paralyzing fear of error,” thus, creating a stable writing process. To Graves, “human relations” (between teacher and student) is critical to this teaching process. This relationship needs to be one of mutual comfort and respect for either party to experience “the awesome power of writing.”

It cannot be the teacher’s aim to make clones through offering personal preferences as the true and obvious methods to developing the writing process. I was once instructed that good writing never used the word “that, get, or like.” My teacher felt very strongly about these words and presented his rubric as if it was a widespread and almost sacred writing rule. It was not until years later when I was penalized for the absence of the word “that” in another class, did I learn that this “rule” was merely a personal preference presented in a very fervent and obviously convincing way. I had been so naïve and impressionable as a writer that I did not even think to question him.

Although I appreciate Graves’ discussion, I do not agree with his aim to teach writing as a “spiritual act.” It should not be the teacher’s aim to define a student’s perspective towards writing. The teacher should offer a perspective for the student to consider. It is ultimately up to the student to decide their personal writing experience.
Hashimoto furthers Graves’ discussion in his article Voice as Juice. He engages that teaching composition with such an “evangelical zeal” causes the teacher’s opinion to be presented as “writing dogma.” He offers examples of how composition theorists deem the presence of “voice” to be the deciding factor in “good writing.” Their proclamations of the greatness of voice can be intimidating to those whom they are teaching and severely stunt a student’s willingness to invest themselves in their writing process. It is one thing to offer personal experiences as a source of encouragement to those whom you teach, but it is another to offer these experiences as a source of fact. For example, I was once in a class where the teacher would share when his work got rejected an accepted by publishers. His method of including his student’s in the peaks and valleys of his writing process formed a relationship between my teacher, his words, and myself. This relationship served as inspiration to push against the confines of my own writing boundaries. The next semester I had a teacher spend an hour of class speaking about the ease of learning to write, by spouting personal experiences from her own writing process. No one in the class listened. Here was a teacher who was claiming to have experienced no uncertainty in forming her writing process, in front of a class of students drowning in confusion. This type of teacher-student interaction is harmful for an undeveloped writing process, as it only serves to frustrate the student.

I agree with Hashimoto’s insight on the power of the teacher. It is up to the teacher to establish a relationship with the student that will inspire development of the writing process. Writing cannot be taught by telling students what elements will make them good writers. The approach a teacher adopts to help students understand what it means to become a writer and build a writing process has a critical impact on the student’s development. Hashimoto draws attention to the fact that all students are different, as some may not feel “frustration in writing dead prose” and, therefore, an overbearing teacher is considerably unproductive.

I believe the most effective way to teach writing, is to simply offer encouragement. Encouragement to try. Encouragement to risk. Encouragement to succeed. A good method to establish a student’s comfort in taking risks in order to achieve success is by sharing the various possibilities that lie in writing. After exposure to various possibilities, a student can choose to adopt whatever they feel helps to strengthen his or her writing process. Without adequate encouragement, a student will lose interest and confidence. A teacher’s encouragement will help the student to see their potential as a writer and have a vested interest in their work. The teacher should share personal experiences as a means of motivation for the students. Considering the teacher as a fellow writer, who is still working to develop a writing process, will help the students feel more at ease when writing and lessen the fear of judgment. Teacher and student should have a common goal to develop a writing process that is a good representation of the student’s style and ability.

By taking a more patient, encouraging approach to teaching writing, I believe more students may take interest and see value in their efforts. As seen in the relationship between parents and children, if a parent dictatorially tells a child what to do, it is likely the child will do the opposite in the long run. Teachers, too, need to guard against defining what specific elements compose good writing, as it serves to create boundaries for students. I believe that if the student feels comfortable in the climate that the teacher builds around writing, they will start to believe in themselves as writers. Graves says it best when he concludes his article with “writing itself is a great teacher.” Challenging students to write often is a good way for them to become accustomed to writing and submitting their work for feedback. Once the initial dread of the assignment is overcome, students may welcome the opportunity to try something new. A teacher should be perceived by the student as a nurturing element of their developing writing process.

Though I am a proponent of empowering the student to form their writing process, I am not advocating taking all authority from the teacher and replacing it with an ingenuous attitude that compromises his or her standards of writing. The teacher should serve as a guide to expose students to different elements of writing, such as voice, poetry, and fiction, as a way truly to test themselves and their writing abilities. It is the teacher’s responsibility to provide assignments that force students to test the boundaries of their writing potential and, therefore, help to strengthen the students’ writing processes. Teachers should provide a framework for students to develop a writing process meaningful to them. For example, an assignment can be to write a narrative about any memorable event in the student’s life. This approach allows the teacher to challenge the student to understand an important discussion in the writing community, while allowing the student to feel empowered to express themselves through their writing.

The ideas I offer in my discussion on how to teach writing are student-centric. Though I believe the student should be the priority, I am not devaluing the tremendous patience and effort of the teacher. Those in a teaching position must be willing to sacrifice their temptations to turn their students into images of themselves—thus be willing to take a possibly unacknowledged role in the development of their students’ writing process. There is no doubt that the willingness to assume this role is result of a knowledgeable individual, but this knowledge needs to be tempered with encouragement in order to be successful in empowering others to write.

Understanding self in the “moment”

In Miller’s discussion of how the text, or writing, is creating one’s understanding of self, I could not help but notice her constant use of the word “moment.” She uses the concept of “moment” as an explanation of when the text has the power to create a “self” for the writer. She explains that it is only after “she looks back on the moment” can she understand what the writing has created. I think this is interesting because it is almost as if the writer is absent from the “moment” where “self” is born, but can only appreciate the understanding in hindsight. Her insight about how writing results in creation of self is intriguing because it is very different from my thoughts on “self.” I think it is while I am writing and putting my words onto paper that I am making a conscious effort to understand my true “self.” It is a process that requires determination, effort, and reflection. Miller’s concept of “moment” makes the understanding of “self’ as one that does not require much effort, but rather just happens when certain factors, both internal and external, fall into place. After consideration, I find her thoughts on how one can understand “self” very appealing. It seems considerable easier for the writer.

Miller concept of moment is both very similar and different to Bazerman’s concept of “spot.” Both the “moment” and the “spot” are influencing factors on the writer’s understanding of “self.” I think it is interesting that both theorists do not hold the writer directly accountable for the understanding of “self,” but rather place emphasis on factors influencing the writer. Where Miller and Bazerman differ is the atmosphere where “self” is created. “Self” to Miller is created when factors come together at a single moment, and it is in that moment where the writer comes into an understanding of “self.” Bazerman discusses the understanding of “self” to be all of the factors that make up the “spot” from which the writer is writing. These factors influence the writer to an understanding of self that is relative to the “spot” from which they write. The difference is confusing. I think that Miller’s “moment” cannot be drawn out by the writer for any longer than the moment will last and, therefore, it is only in these moments that a writer can understand “self.” Bazerman’s “spot” is the position of the writer during a specific time and is a temporary place where the writer can consistently write as a means to understand “self.”

Hashimoto and Graves

I will bring Hashimoto into conversation with Graves, because I think Graves engages in the evangelical zeal, to a much more realistic and inspiring extent, that Hashimoto discusses throughout his work. Grave’s offers that writing is a “holy act…it defines human condition,” but does not go on to make generalized assertions about the saving grace of voice. Instead he goes on to discuss writing as an integral part of human condition, and due to this, it is not surprising that is accompanied with human problems. I think the part of Grave’s essay where he notes of student’s “profound lack of confidence as writers” to be an obstacle in student’s mind puts him in alignment with the work of Hashimoto. By recognizing that becoming a good writer is not simply as easy as finding voice, Graves differentiates himself from the theorists that Hashimoto criticizes in his work. Graves stresses the necessity to be “gentle” with new writers and offers that in order to write with any level of voice, it is necessary to “trust your instincts.” It is when a writer can believe in himself or herself, not simply write with voice, that a writer can “achieve all that is the realm of human possibility.”

Though Hashimoto is skeptical of the use of “magic” and other “metaphorical language” when discussing writing, I think the thoughts of Graves have enough of a realistic element to be bought by Hashimoto. Nowhere is his work does Graves act as though it is one ingredient (voice) that will make you a writer. Rather, he draws upon developing aspects of the human condition to create and foster a writer’s capabilities. I think Graves’s discussion is what Hashimoto thinks will be more productive when teaching student’s writing, as it does not make intimidating sweeping generalizations, but instead recognizes obstacles and offers inspirational hope to those who aspire to be writers.

Athletic Writing

I presume that if someone were to look at me, “artsy” would not be the first characteristic that would come to mind. In fact, I bet it would never enter that person’s mind. I am well that aware my usual attire of sweatpants and a seemingly unkempt hair style probably screams “athlete,” but there is a side of me that is in awe of other forms of personal expression beyond athletics. I love the competitive, intense atmosphere that characterizes athletics, but every other weekend I escape to the solitude and beauty of the D.C. Smithsonian museums, concerts, live performances, and art galleries. As I gaze at a piece of art or watch a performance, I find myself wondering about the individuals who are engaging in their passions. The genuine excitement and enthusiasm that I feel when in their presence makes me realize there is so much to experience in life outside the confines of the label of athleticism.

I have not shared this side of myself with many people, because with the categorization of “athlete” comes a number of other assumptions, such as arrogant, simple minded, and unintelligent. I have never really cared enough to challenge these people’s views, and it was not until recently that I was inclined to pursue interests outside of athletics. I am particularly fascinated with people who are talented in writing, so I figured taking an English class would allow me to surround myself with such people. As I read about the English courses being offered, I found myself picturing a class sitting in a circle in nature, involved in a deep discussion of the structure and context of a work, while I made dandelion necklaces for everybody in the class. Despite that anxiety, I signed up for a writing class, with the primary motive of learning from people with a talent different from my own.

I left my first writing class with the feeling similar to jumping into a pool only to find out the water is freezing. When I signed up, I knew I would be expected to write, but I did not realize that I would have to share my own work aloud with the rest of the class. I could not imagine myself clearing my throat and reading my work aloud, when I knew that is was not on the same level as my peers. All I wanted was to read their writing, enjoy it, and learn from it; I never considered that I would have to share my own writing. (Irrational, I know). As I deliberated about “workshopping,” I concluded that the class would either offer me honest, helpful feedback or laugh and thrown pens at me. Either situation was an experience I had never before had, so why not? I knew I would not be the best in the class, but I decided to stay and try it out. When the first assignment came due, I was strangely excited to find out where I stood in a collegiate writing class.

Margaret-

Good ideas in the paper, but the structure needs development. You have a very athletic way of writing. — Professor

As I read this comment, I could not help but laugh and wonder what it meant. Perhaps it was common English major lingo. I got a C, which was not a total surprise, as I should have left more time to write the paper, and the organization was scattered. But “athletic”? Yes, I play a sport, but I did not think athleticism could be incorporated into my writing. Considering the grade, “athletic” could not be a positive attribute.

When I approached the professor and asked whether he had a moment after class, I could not help but notice his raised eyebrows and slight smirk at the corner of his mouth. He asked if it was regarding my paper and when I said it was, he chuckled. I had never spoken to this professor before, so I was completely confused by his reaction. I could not tell if he was laughing at my paper, me, or a funny joke he had just told himself. Being the optimist that I am, I fought the feeling of pure annoyance and defensiveness, and opted for the third choice.

Before looking at my paper, he asked me if I was taking his class to fulfill a requirement. I answered no and he looked completely baffled. I could have punched him. Was it that big of a surprise to him that someone besides an English major would take a writing class? This expression of surprise was quickly replaced by the smirk. It was slowly occurring to me that my “athletic way of writing” might have more to do with the athletic clothes I wore to class every day and less to do with my writing itself. Call me perceptive. I felt a pit forming in my stomach and finally got the courage to ask him specifically about my “athletic way of writing.” He paused for a long moment, as if he were crafting the perfect thing to say, and looked me straight in the eye. He began by explaining that in his experience in teaching, he found that all athletes develop ideas in a similar manner. On what grounds could he say those words to me? He did not even know me. He made it clear that he was sympathetic to this fact and, therefore, did not expect me to be the best writer in the class. He was confident that my thought process and writing skills would allow me to get a C. Oh, and he was glad that I was challenging myself by taking such an intense class. I could feel my face burning as I left his office with my eyes glued to the ground, praying that my shock would be strong enough to hold in the hurt that was inevitably going to flow.

As I walked down the stairs, I crumpled my paper, hoping I could condense all of the confusion and hurt I was feeling into that little ball, and throw it all away. How did he know my methods for the development of my ideas? I was brought up in a household with both parents having their doctorates. I figured they might have addressed this stunted mental development with which I was apparently dealt. And, how did he rationalize his generalizations of athletes? I mean, I am positive he never stepped foot on a playing field. I am aware of the fact that some athletes are stupid, but there is stupidity within every group. I could name five people who considered themselves writers whom I felt could get along swimmingly with the mental processes he assigned to athletes. This offered me no real validation and I still felt incredibly insulted and marginalized. I was more surprised that a professor, which because of my upbringing I hold in high regard, could act so ignorantly. I could not understand why he would negatively stereotype someone who had willingly signed up to listen and learn from him.

After complaining to anyone who would listen, I made a resolution that I would go to every class and spend extra time on each assignment just to prove that “athletes” were not all the same — this would be where my competitive, athletic side could serve as an asset in this class. It was funny to think that my initial motivation for taking the class, in order to be in the presence of talented writers, had transformed into a determination to prove to my professor I was not merely a “jock.” It was my sole purpose to establish myself as credible in my professor’s biased eyes. I committed myself to increasing my participation in class discussions and creating a well-developed second paper. I would make this a positive learning experience.

Margaret,

Better organization this time around. Good work. —Professor

There is a God! I was not sure if I was feeling relief or pure satisfaction with the words that probably killed him to write. I could not stop smiling, because I knew I had invested much more of myself into this assignment. As I scanned for the grade, I was shocked to find it was a C. I could feel my hands clench, in hopes I could mask my overwhelming disappointment. Was his comment mocking me? How could my essay have possibly gotten a C? I had three people proof read it and two of them were English majors. I had spent time brainstorming multiple ideas and developing a structure most appropriate for the assignment. For the first time, I had actually felt like an English major, and it had been fun. There was nothing negative in his comment, and he offered no points to improve upon. His lack of any worthwhile feedback made me feel extremely insignificant. As my classmates read over their comments, I shoved my paper in my backpack and stared out the window. Focusing on a fixed point always stops the tears.

As I angrily relayed the situation to my mom, blathering about the unfairness of it all, she advised I go talk to him again and ask what I could do better for the next assignment. Whether it was out of spite or fear of what he would say, I could not meet with him again. I did not want to sit through another discussion of how he understood me and did not expect much from my writing. Having no expectations for me was a clear sign of disrespect, and worse than a terrible grade is that lack of respect. Never before in my academic career had I encountered a professor that expected so little of me. My pride, which I had been fighting to keep on the sidelines, had emerged and was ready to fight. Pride in tow, I was determined to create a final portfolio which offered my professor insight into who I truly was.

Although I still enjoyed the opportunities to hear other people’s thoughts and writings and even share my own, I began to hate being in that classroom. I dreaded every single class, and as the semester progressed, I felt myself withdrawing more and more. Before opening the door to the classroom everyday, I would take a deep breath and try to find one positive aspect of the class I could reflect upon to get me through the class period. Sometimes it was this girl’s eyebrow ring or crazy hair, but many days I could find none. I would fill my paper with doodles and “to-do” lists. I would pick my head up only to listen to my classmates read their works. Once, in a class discussion, my professor asked each student their thoughts on the subject, and when it came to my turn, he literally asked “if I had thoughts.” I had to laugh and answer “No, sadly I don’t.” Normally I am not a quitter, but why try to participate if there was no incentive? I could feel my competitive side giving way to the power of fatalism. I was completely aware of the fact that the professor probably had no idea I interpreted his behavior as disrespectful, and he probably took my declining participation as the behavior of a “typical athlete.” In retrospect, my lack or participation simply confirmed his athlete stereotype. Despite my attitude in the classroom, I was still determined to turn in a final portfolio that I felt expressed my best writing.

Final Portfolio: C

I was devastated. As I leaned up against the cold, tiled bathroom wall, I remembered the countless hours I had spent revising all of my pieces and even writing eight additional ones. There is nothing worse than giving your best effort and having an average result. I felt powerless and as I slid down the wall towards the ground, I allowed myself to accept I was just not that good at writing. As I threw each paper in my portfolio away, piece by piece, I felt more disappointed. This class had not been all bad. It had helped me to realize that I truly enjoy writing. It was the first time I had genuinely committed myself to my writing and had experienced a strange freedom in expressing myself through words. Writing offered me insight into aspects of myself that I had never experienced before and I enjoyed how these insights could have a unique impact on each individual in my audience. I felt as though my writing belonged and with each paper I crafted and read aloud in class, I felt more appreciated and accepted by peers I so admired. I had grown beyond worries of how they would perceive me and if they would judge me by my writing. I no longer felt like an outsider.

As I sat with my head on my knees and my eyes closed, I found I was unable to discount my professor’s evaluation. My writing was average. The insights I shared were nothing special. He was the professor…he must be right…right? It was as if all of the knowledge I had obtained did not matter when I had looked at a grade given by ignorance. That day I went home and shoved my writing journal, the only remnant left of the course, and my interest in writing under my bed with my old stuffed animals and ratty sneakers. I threw myself back into athletics and it was not until later that year that I found the notebook I had used in the class. When I did, I held it and cried. I cried because of memories of the class I had not let enter my brain since the day I received my final portfolio. I cried because of the ignorant stereotype I failed to prove wrong. I cried because I knew I had given up writing, something I loved, because of someone else’s opinion of my worth as a writer.

As the tears ran out, I picked up a pen and nervously let my words pour onto the page. And as I wrote, I found a confidence I had never before experienced. I was confident that those words were the exact replication of my thoughts at that moment and I loved the person who I had become. It was as if I was rediscovering myself as a writer. It included no mention of my professor, my grade, or that class. Though I still have that piece of notebook paper today, I have never reread it. I am worried I might impose a critical eye upon it, and once again resign myself to being average. I keep it in the front of my writing journal as a reminder to myself that people can overcome the limitations of a label. No matter what grades I receive or how my writing is evaluated, I will never again forget what I learned from this experience. It is now part of my identity. I am a writer.

Tripping Over My Voice

Tripping Over My Voice

The phrase, “Tripping Over My Voice,” is taken from a free write that was completely unrelated to the topic of this paper, and serves as a perfect example of a habit that plagues my academic career. I fall in love, too easily, too often, with certain phrases in my writing. When my words come together in ways I could not have predicted, I get so excited and cannot let them go. It is as if there is a certain “specialness” to the words—a fateful bond. And, like many devotees, I have committed myself to saving the relationship. Our chemistry is fabulous. The imaginative sparks that fly and the insightful images that are evoked make this particular phrase difficult to delete. No matter how many times I read it, I never get bored; therefore, the phrase must be welcomed and included. As I read the words that surround it, I ignore the glaring truth that it simply does not fit with the overall work. I smile and continue writing, knowing that somehow I will meld it into my work, as its unique personality is a beautiful expression of myself.

I am in my final stages of editing and all that is left, marked in red pen, is this phrase. It is still just as gorgeous as it was when I first wrote it, but the words surrounding it are so jealous. They refuse to like my phrase. It is far superior, and therefore, they will not accept it. I reread the paragraph, searching for any word I could delete so as to make my phrase look even better. I cannot delete it. I will not delete it. I love it. It will be my title.

Elbow warns his readers not to become too invested in the words and phrasing of their writing because the investment only serves to pollute the work and stifle the writing process. The more invested the writer is in their words, the less likely they will be able to effectively evaluate those words’ necessity. It is better to continue writing and not stop to evaluate or edit, for you run the risk of eliminating, or worse, “falling in love” with your words. When this happens, the writing will stops growing and the creative, open process that Elbow encourages, comes to a sudden halt. It is as if the writer needs to carefully evaluate and choose the perfect words so as to appease the ones that precede it. The investment that Elbow warns against is something I constantly partake in during my writing process.

In my own writing, I find my unwillingness to let go of certain phrases is because I consider these phrases to be expressions of my true voice. I feel as though I have finally written honestly, and therefore, I am very reluctant to rid my paper of “the phrase.” When I first caught myself doing this, I rationalized it by acknowledging I was finally coming into my own as a writer and encouraging the development of my voice. Suddenly, I was creating combinations of words that were fluid and coherent, which sharply

contrasted my previously jerky and unconnected writing. And because I believed this was an indication of my growth, I embraced it and allowed myself to indulge. But as time went on, I realized that this “healthy” love of my own words had turned into an obsession that was blocking me from any further growth. I would get so concerned with how to include a specific phrase that it would slowly lose the authenticity that it once held.

The example I offer at the beginning of the paper, “Tripping Over My Voice,” is a phrase that I consider to be an insightful exploration of my relationship with my writing voice. It is honest and forthcoming, offering my audience insight to the helplessness and uncertainty I feel towards my voice, and though I cannot find a proper place for it in my paper, I am nervous to delete it. It is in these phrases that my true voice emerges. What if I am never able to conjure my voice again? What if suddenly I lose it altogether? I should not risk it. I cannot delete it.

However, Elbow offers a much different outlook. This fixation with my words, believing it is only through scattered phrases that I am able to offer my real voice to the world, is the very thing keeping me from fully discovering and nurturing my voice. Because I lack confidence in my ability to write in a consistent and durable voice, I “fall in love” with these phrases, believing they are the only way I will be able to share part of myself with my readers. I fall in love with words, rather than allowing myself to fall in love with my complete voice.

It is no secret that love requires work. At first, it can come easily, requiring little to no effort because it is natural. Sometimes, I reread my old free writes and feel a connection to my words that I was unaware of when writing them. But when I make it my aim to write in my “voice,” I find that it is impossible for me. Suddenly, even those short phrases, which were glimpses of my true voice, disappear. Many times I feel myself resigning to the fact I just do not have the talent. But, those phrases must be an indication of something and they offer me hope that I do have a valuable voice that is waiting for the time it can be freed. This freedom is a process of understanding and accepting myself, and will undoubtedly take many years of commitment. It will be a challenging process beset with much frustration, confusion, and dissatisfaction. But as I work to develop the relationship between my voice and my writing, I hope to become deeply invested in its potential and discover how I can express my true voice as a sincere demonstration of my self.

Imitation and Invention in Antiquity

           In his article, Muckelbauer discusses that the ethos of “romantic subjectivity,” characterized by an emergence or originality and genius, is not necessarily in direct conflict with the logic of imitation.  He tackles this bold claim by offering an understanding of three movements that entertain the elements of the act of imitation (a model, a copy, and “some relation of likeness between them”) and their relation to encouraging invention.             

              In the first movement, “repetition on the same,” Muckelbauer addresses the perception that identical imitation requires no thought from the imitator, thus stifling invention.  For a student to choose a work to imitate, they must critically consider the worth of the writer’s qualities, as they will serve as the model, and aspire to imitate them.  The values seen in each model will differ for each student, and the culmination of differing qualities from various models will result in a product that is naturally unique to the student.  This model of “repetition of the same,” though theoretically in contrast with creativity, is a valuable creator of an inventive through the use of the practice of imitation.              

              In the second movement, the “repetition of difference,” Muckelbauer demonstrates the great opportunity that lies in imitation.  Imitation of the model must be done by altering it.  Each person has a unique “effect” with the model, and a successful imitation will capture these “effects.”  This movement differs from the first movement, as it does not endorse identical imitation, but rather places an importance on capturing the true effect of the model.  This challenges the student to internalize the model in order to reproduce an effect, and by engaging the model, variation is created.             

            The third movement of “difference and repetition,” differs from the other two.  Variation, in this movement, is achieved when the model awakens an “inspiration” within the copier.  This movement is based on the idea of a self- transformation that is inspired due to the imitative encounter between the model and the copier.  It is through the practice of imitation where an individual can encounter another’s inspiration, which can serve to arouse their own spirit. 

            The way that Muckelbauer engages the dismissal of imitation as a worthless practice is very effective.  By offering insight from both classical and contemporary individuals, his arguments are both credible and interesting.  Additionally, the way he uses models and examples to build his claim, helps to effectively convince the reader that the practice of imitation still has value.

Generation Y and Narcissism

          Coming from a family with older parents, I have always been very aware of the growing narcissistic mentality of my generation.  For as long as I can remember, my mother has been commenting on how often my siblings and I look at ourselves in the mirror, our obsession with being “right,” and our need to vie for compliments.  She always followed her comments with a warning that this “all about me” mindset was as dangerous as quicksand.  She would always remind us that just because we said we were special, did not mean the rest of the world was going to agree.  Back then, I used to get annoyed with what I perceived as her nagging me, but as I reached high school, I realized this mindset she warned against was everywhere.  Going to a private school probably offered me an inflated view of this mindset, but those four years were filled with parents fighting teachers when their son/daughter was clearly in the wrong and students speaking to teachers as if they were doing the teacher a favor by being there.  It was in high school that I first noticed how right my mother’s insights really were.

         As high school went on and I was surrounded by peers of a higher social class than my own, I became disgusted by my generations growing obsession with ourselves.  People would talk just to here themselves, and rarely was it intelligent.  Suddenly, it was as if even if you did not know anything about a topic, you could pretend to be an expert merely by adding your own eighteen-year of experience opinion.  In junior year, we spent an entire English class discussing the grading of the AP exams.  “It was unfair because people in AP classes are smart that’s why we are in the classes.  It was those beneath us that should be tested.”  Personally, I think people were scared that their may be someone out there better than themselves.

          So, as I read this article, all I could do was shake my head and laugh.  Mothers are always right.  Maybe I’ll heed her advice next time she reprimands me for standing in front of the mirror for too long.