Writing is a fickle thing. Sometimes the idea for it can be so true, so real in the writer’s mind, that to think that he could not commit those thoughts to paper seems preposterous. But that isn’t how it works, not always; sometimes nothing happens, and sometimes something else happens; sometimes it’s something wonderful, and sometimes it…isn’t. At times like those I wish for something to help guide me, like the Muses guided ancient craftsmen. But these days we cram into little rooms while a faux-Muse dispenses questionable wisdom, and then in the evening wonders how we could possibly do it any better. I wonder if the Muses laugh at our struggle.
One final paper - one more foray into the world of composition theory - did not seem like too much to ask. I had a topic all picked out; several, in fact, in case my first choice - the relationship between the writer, the reader, and the text, and who decides what that text means - didn’t pan out. I had - still have - plenty to say on the topic. However, as I sat down to write the paper, I found myself staring at the page before me, unsure of where to begin.
Except I was sure! I knew what I wanted to say! So…why wouldn’t the words appear? Why could I not will them into being like in the past?
I worked myself up into quite a funk over this, but the paper had to be done, so I couldn’t look away, as if I were witness to someone kicking a puppy; it was something so horrible that I hated to look upon it, but that same horror demanded my attention. Looking back, as this class has gone on, I have found each successive writing assignment - by no fault of its own - a greater labor, a more extreme effort than the last. The first paper flowed onto the page as if by magic, easier than most of the papers I have written in my years at Mary Washington. The second paper and my article presentation were tremendous efforts to produce. This paper, true to that pattern, very nearly did me in. I didn’t, as I’ve said, lack ideas or ability or time; I lacked something else. It’s as if there existed a barrier between me and the page, something that kept me from being able to put words on it. My thoughts allowed themselves to emerge verbally, fully-formed (which is my euphemistic way of saying I was talking to myself), yet staunchly refused to congeal into anything coherent in writing. In essence, I couldn’t find the words.
By that point I could practically hear Peter Elbow screaming, “Freewrite! Freewrite!” That is, in fact, precisely what I did on the first paper, to fairly good effect, if I do say so myself (and I do say so). And in an almost Pavlovian fashion, I tried freewriting, but couldn’t go for more than a few minutes. Freewriting, it seems, is not the answer to all of the writer’s problems.
This, then, is where I must diverge from Elbow. Much as I appreciate the idea of voice, I simply cannot agree with the freewriting philosophy. For me, writing doesn’t work that way. I cannot make myself write with great efficiency (I can, however, make myself complain on paper with at least moderate efficiency). Writing - especially “voiced” writing - seems to be one of those things that must be seized when it raises its head above the grass. We’ve got no other recourse besides lying in wait for it, setting clever little traps or just outright stalking it, until we see our moment to strike. That perfect, sublime moment, when the writer knows he’s got something. The words, however, are an elusive quarry; they either fall directly into the trap, or deftly escape unscathed. There is little middle ground.
This process is reminiscent of Richard Graves’s extensive efforts to get the writing just right. To extend the hunting metaphor (I’m using a lot of predatory metaphors of late; I wonder what that says about me), Elbow, with his freewriting, his active pursuit of The Words, enjoys the thrill of the chase; Graves is more meticulous, with his fine-grained editing and re-editing, a stalker who examines his prey, learns its strengths and weaknesses, and finally strikes with terrible efficiency when he knows, for sure, that nothing can go wrong with his plan; and I, for example, am much more seat-of-the-pants, darting after what I can get, what I stumble upon, but sometimes deciding that Elbowian pursuit or Gravesian planning simply aren’t worth it.
Peter Elbow explains writing as something that must be worked on and developed as a skill; he’s a writer who resembles, in this, an Olympic athlete, training day in and day out with little exercises that may not resemble the end result much at all, but ultimately serve to improve that result. This is a great idea in principle, but how many people have time to actually make the effort so often? I wish I did, but I don’t, and if I did I sadly admit that it probably wouldn’t be used writing. Elbow’s detractors point to his idea that “anyone” can be a “writer,” even if that writing is as simple as a grocery list or notes in a daily planner. But his own methodology requires some real commitment; it’s not get-rich-quick scheme, nor does Elbow really push it as such. Elbow couples his relative optimism about the identity of the writer - yes, even you can be one! - with the dismal prospect of churning out complete junk for it’s own sake. This is self-help for writers, but the very nature of self-help implies that the patient - the writer - exists in a vacuum, alone. This notion I cannot accept.
Meanwhile, Graves strikes a better chord with me. He likens writing to dancing, and I know a few steps myself (certainly more in the writing realm than on an actual dance floor!). His process is more focused on a single objective, or at least that’s what I gather. However, he more deeply explores that objective, that topic, with his multiple rewritings, than I feel like I could ever stomach. I am easily distracted by the Next Idea; if The Words to the old one are hiding from me well enough, I’ll move on and lament the missed opportunity later. The problem here, of course, is that Graves, like Elbow, requires the writer to work the dance floor constantly, like a pro (or like someone trying to be a pro), while waiting for the next partner. Does this not create a result similar to Elbow’s ideas? Where Elbow assumes that the writer must be a loner, Graves must assume that the writer simply can’t get a date. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have to sit around and wait for the next dance; he could just suggest it at will.
I know of no two writers who do their hunting in the same fashion, and maybe that, in the end, is why Elbow and Graves and, I would guess, others assume a solitary process. This works fine, certainly, if you’re at the top of the proverbial food chain, or if you employ the right strategies; Edward Corbett, for example, through his emphasis on imitative writing, inhabits our writing savanna as a scavenger, nipping at the heels of the masters of the land and picking at the scraps. Of course, Corbett believes that this is how things should be done, and wouldn’t have a writer try to take down the next prey; he insists upon following the lions without really caring to become one.
This does, to me, beg the question: what point is a writing class? Certainly, a class like ours can be interesting and useful, but this is because of its more survey-like nature; we’ve covered enough different scholars that we’ve hit several angles on writing, and everyone is bound to take something from this class - be it freewriting, voice, or a general detestation for everything composition. Beyond that, however - and this is a reason I’ve regularly dodged creative writing classes - what can a writing class do? What are the odds that a single class could serve multiple writers in any profound fashion? After all, if you stick some lions, a few tigers, maybe a wolf, a pack of hyenas, three vultures, seventeen alligators, and a rattlesnake in a room, there will be more than a few carcasses left over at the end.
Assuming that “conventional” classrooms aren’t especially fit for writing instruction (much less storage of live animals), we can move to our scholars again for some direction. Peter Elbow offers the most tantalizing option: the teacherless writing class, in the aptly-named Writing Without Teachers. Elbow spends a significant portion of the book explaining such a class and how it would work. The idea is based upon the theory that a group of writers can teach each other better than a teacher can teach a group of students to write. More precisely, by creating a collaborative environment where everyone participates in regular workshopping, the teacherless writing class helps writers see how their work is received and then teach themselves how to change it, through trial and error. This is, perhaps, closer to the right direction - working with other writers always feels most correct to me, and I know from experience that I cannot do anything as long term as Graves (for example) without someone(s) else to fuel me with their comments along the way. Without that input, I lose steam.
Problematically, however, Elbow’s teacherless writing class violates Graves general plan of striking while the iron is hot; the class requires writing for every session, and though it can be anything, this still creates a deadline. Deadlines, I think, are deadly to a writer. They are a fact of life for many professional writers, a necessary evil, but in my mind they are restrictive and damaging to the process. I believe that writing is a singular event, an experience, which cannot be rushed or forced; traditional classes certainly cross the line, and the teacherless writing class would at least skirt it.
Instead, I posit that writing is best entertained not through a class, but through (and I’ll bring back the predator metaphor now; I was starting to miss it) a sort of “pack mentality.” Rather than writing in isolation, writing alongside other writers produces the best results. This gives each writer an audience as well as a colleague, a companion, a brother-in-arms. This camaraderie, forged from the shared experience of pursuing and battling for The Words, allows a learning community to arise, even if it is only a community of two. A community of more is probably better, of course. This model works, I believe, because writing is never in true isolation. The writer must always be aware of a reader at the very least, even if that reader is himself. Ignoring this fact is like ignoring that treacherous, pen-wielding leopard-writer over there who happens to be eying the same idea/gazelle-thing as you. Blink and you might miss it.
This “pack” should be a diverse bunch - too many writers of the same breed will only crowd each other and encourage repetition and homogeny. Yes, this means what you think: a writing class is almost certainly an excellent example of such a community. With the pack thus formed, it needs a leader, the proverbial “alpha” (though such a position certainly doesn’t have to be held by a male in the “writing pack”). Luckily, writing classes tend to have professors in them (yes, those things I so scathingly labeled “faux-Muses” way back in the first paragraph). This is starting to look like a regular writing class again, isn’t it?
Obviously, then, I don’t propose to do away with writing classes. However, I think that talking about how to teach writing, beyond the technical level, is an exercise in futility; the writer must run off of a mix of instinct and self-discovery. As with most anything, this process is eased by having companions for the journey, packmates who can help set up skillful ambushes for The Words which can be so difficult to catch. Writing education should not, therefore, be a hierarchy, with a teacher and students; it should instead be a community of equals, for even the most experienced of us can stand to learn something. We should not be wondering about the techniques of the professor, but the role of the professor: a director, a guide, but also, and most importantly, a comrade, who has just as powerful a need to eat as the rest. End this classical masquerade and join the hunt!
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