Word Processing

I have kept several blogs before, off and on.  I’ve gone through two since starting college, both of which are, to my knowledge, still out there, hiding, though I pray that most of my acquaintances don’t find them at this point.  Anyway, not really the point right now.  Looking back, I feel like this blog is - has been - like those blogs.  I’ve made some use of it, I feel like my ideas have been expressed very occasionally, and overall I can be happy with some of it and wished some of it would vanish from the face of the internet.

I have been drawn to blogging before in hopes of reaching a wider audience with my thoughts.  A part of me definitely likes having the possibility that I’ve got loads of readers.  My previous blogs ended up mostly just being visited by my friends, in a few cases with disastrous results.  I have, therefore, become paranoid about policing what I actually put on such things, and feel like I often censor myself more than I’d like in blogs particularly.

Overall, however, I like having some of my writing accessible to readers who seek it out, and I definitely like the idea of having class blogs.  With my personal blogs, occasionally someone I didn’t know would stray onto the blog and post a comment, and that was always oddly gratifying.  The fact that a class blog means that I have a class worth of readers (if only now that we have to review the class blogs) appeals to me greatly.  I wish it had happened earlier, just as I wish, as noted in my post on the class blog, that I had been a better reader over the course of the last semester.

That said, this blog succumbed to my usual problem with blogging much more quickly than any personal blog I have ever kept: laziness.  Yep, there you have it.  I get to the point that I just don’t post because it takes up my precious time.  There were definitely comments I wanted to add to class discussion that I thought about putting up here, and then just never did.  I still have a few posts’ worth of material rolling around in my brain, but I’m still not gonna put it up, because I’d rather go play video games.

The other problem with me and blogging is that I often look at it as kind of a dumping ground.  I have no problem with electronic media for writing, I just guess I have a low opinion of blogs in general because of their massive proliferation.  I often don’t put a great deal of effort into blogging; any thoughts I have are generally just spilled out into the editor, stream-of-consciousness style, and then get posted.  I just kind of let the posts go and roam where they please.

Nonetheless, I like what this part of the class could lead to someday.  I like the idea of extending writing beyond the class and beyond the papers.  I would like to see more interaction between the blogs, certainly, and perhaps a bit more focus on them.  I think there is a lot of potential to create something great, but it isn’t going to happen spontaneously.

I don’t feel very attached to my blog personally, perhaps because, looking back at the posts, very few of them really had much of me in them.  Part of that comes from the fact that they are mostly reading responses, and I wasn’t especially passionate about most of the topics on which we had to do reading responses.  Most of those posts just feel, to me, like me answering a question, by rote, and that’s just not something in which I can feel invested.  It takes a little bit of the personal factor (and the personality) away from the blog.  Perhaps weekly posts would be a better way to go.  Some could certainly be reading responses if something struck the writer’s fancy.  I know that probably would’ve suited me better, and likely just would’ve produced a blog which I can be proud of for more than just the completion of another assignment.

At this point I feel like I’m droning on, trying to extend this final post.  I just don’t have much to say about this blog, and, like with many of the posts on it, I am mostly just responding to the prompt as I go.  I am now ready to shove this blog out of the nest and let it learn how to fly (or not) all on its own.  I am destined for other places.

I feel like this reflection should be a send-off to the class.  Writing it reminds me (perhaps because of reading Kelley’s excellent memoir for the first time this afternoon) of writing my valedictorian speech for graduation back in high school.  I suppose that was a much larger step in my life, but this one is more significant to me.  For some of us this semester is graduation, and so the end of this class can, to a point, be a marker of the end of our (undergraduate, at least) writing education; for others, myself included, this is the end of another class at UMW: not the first class we’ve completed, but not the last, either.

Yet, in my mind and on this page, the end of this class signals the end of something far more treasured than high school ever was.  When I had to make a speech then, I didn’t want to (though, I admit, my reasons were far more petty than Kelley’s); I finally buckled under parental pressure and did something I was still relatively happy with, but from the beginning my heart wasn’t in it.  I was ready to be out.  Now, though, despite the fact that this post isn’t even supposed to be a send-off for the class, I find that my main concern is finding a way to do the experience justice.  You’d think that making that happen for four years of my life would be more difficult than for four months, but there it is.

In exploring everyone’s blogs more thoroughly than I had before, I was left with many impressions.  The first - the strongest right now - is a sense of regret that I didn’t pay the blogs more attention before this.  Certainly, I did what was assigned, and tried to do those assignments well, but when there was no assignment, the blogs were out of sight, out of mind.  Now, though, I see my error.  I am struck by the diversity of voices in this class, in and out of the classroom.  I wish I had heard more of them before, and wish even more that I could continue hearing from them.  I was amazed at the number of times I was compelled to stop and read (I mean, I was doing that already, of course, good student that I am, but I mean really read) something posted on a blog.  I found new versions of papers which I had workshopped, and the changes - I almost said improvements, but that often wouldn’t give the originals enough credit - were staggering.  I found papers which I hadn’t read at all because of the way the groups were arranged, and wished that, somehow, I could’ve read them before.

To offer my experiences:

I marveled at Ashley G’s progression, from shy, reserved student-who-sometimes-had-to-write-stuff to a sincere and endearing writer;

I admired the bluntness and intelligence with which Ashley M presented her opinions, and wish that I could be so forward;

I appreciated Claire’s ability to relate class discussion with reality, and to show us all that the writer is not some mystical, unknowable power, but something we can find everywhere;

I found the insights of writers like Dave and Kristen refreshing, for coming from such different writers than myself and for being so undeniably valid;

I relished the opportunity to discover pieces I had missed during workshops, most notably Jocelyn and Kelley’s memoirs, which were both wonderful;

and I was stunned by the beauty of Stephanie’s words, which painted pictures both lavish, deep, and alive.

I wish I could put into words everything else; you all deserve my praise and thanks.  I am glad that I didn’t miss this opportunity, for it has changed me as a writer, seeing so many different perspectives, both from other writers and from readers (who happen to be writers), and I hope that the experience has been as beneficial for everyone else.  But that’s straying into the domain of my other final post, I suppose.

Like has happened so often in this class, I have reached a point where I know what I want to say, but not how to say it.  Fortunately, I found someone else who had more success articulating the sentiment, and so I direct you to Ashley M’s post on the class blog.  She said it better than I could.  (I wonder if it’s ironic or fitting that I’m citing someone else’s blog in my reflection on the class blogs…)

Thank you everyone for the fine and constructive comments which you have given me over the course of this…uh…course.

Thanks for the words.

What is Miller’s understanding of the self (of the writer) in relation to the text? How’s her conceptualization of that relationship speak to Bazerman’s work?

Miller understands a self that is created by the text, rather than the more common idea (in my experience) of the self creating the text.  This runs interestingly counter (though not necessarily “against,” if “counter” can exist without “against”) to Bazerman’s ideas of the influences that go into a text.  Bazerman builds on the idea of the vast body of experience crafting the author, and thus the text.  This smacks of a self-to-text relationship.  Miller, however, goes after the text-to-self relationship, that one’s self is amorphous and created by the text which they themselves are “writing” at the moment, whether that text is truly written or not (it can also be spoken, or one of many other communicative verbs).  This self does not necessarily reflect the “real” self in any obvious fashion - comparing Miller’s example of writing like a student from a frequently college-bound family despite her more humble beginnings to what Bazerman would expect from her as a writer is a good example of this relationship.

“Voice as Juice: Some Reservations about Evangelical Composition” struck me as oddly indicative of Bartholomae’s work.  This wasn’t until near the end, I admit, but I began to see a similar agenda here (if, in Hashimoto’s case, more scathing).  Hashimoto’s problems with “voice” and “voice”-based instruction sound similar to Bartholomae’s; both scholars seem imminently concerned with the voice drowning out the mechanical bits, the parts that make writing grammatical and correct, if, perhaps, not “good.”  Hashimoto seems to have more of a problem with “voice” in general; his writing seems to tirade against the concept more than Bartholomae’s, even if the latter was apprehensive about voice-teaching.

What this makes me consider is that Elbow’s ideas about voice may be too universal to be accurate.   I still like the idea of voice, but voice can only go so far in making some text matter to a reader.  I think this goes back to the discussion we had last week about the importance of the author versus the importance of the reader; certainly, when it comes to how much a reader likes a piece of writing, the reader is more important.  Most readers have certain topics - probably a long list, in fact - which they simply can’t stomach, no matter how good the writing.  Likewise, other topics will get the benefit of the doubt more readily and more often.  What voice will do is separate the stuff a reader likes from the stuff a reader loves.

Muckelbauer claims that the practices of imitation still have value, despite Romantic conceptions of the subject (i.e. the belief in a unique/autonomous/essential self). HOW does he support this claim?

Muckelbauer supports his claim primarily by invoking the long and arguably successful history of the imitative method.  Only in the last century or two have the “Romantic conceptions” entered the writing arena at large, but we certainly find great thinkers and writers and speakers before that time.  Muckelbauer resides largely in Greece and Rome, dealing with Socrates, Plato, Aristotle, and Quintillian, amongst others; Demosthenes is mentioned as a primary example of someone who used the imitative strategy for some reason or another (though he isn’t especially explicit as to why Demosthenes copied Thucydides so copiously; perhaps we don’t know).   Further, Muckelbauer puts forth three models of imitation, two of which imply some originality and individuality, especially the last of the three, “inspiration.”  Thus, it seems, Muckelbauer is almost attempting to argue that Romantic conception is probably imitation in one form or another, even if we don’t like to admit it (and we don’t).

Okay, so I’ll be the first to admit that I am not a particularly humble person (though, oddly enough, certain people would argue with me on that point; how could they possibly believe that they know better than ME?).  I understand where this study is coming from.  What I don’t get is why they didn’t ask me to be part of it.  It would’ve been sooo much better.

That said, though, I also just really agree with the findings here.  I think that this is a side-effect of our society these days: we are very achievement-driven, for one, so we’re encouraged to look as awesome as we can, because it could be the difference between getting into that school, or getting hired for that job, or even just getting the professor’s good graces in class so that maybe, just maybe, she’ll curve your grade a little because, hey, you deserve it.

That was a repulsively long sentence.

Anyway, that’s what we’re taught.  We’re told we’re special from day one.  And that’s where some of it comes from, too.  We have an interesting contradiction in our culture: we are raised to be the best we can be, to achieve, and yet we are also raised in the belief that everyone is equal.  This is simply not true.  I am number one; all others are number two, or lower (a cookie for whoever can tell me what move that’s paraphrased from).

Joking aside, we are constantly bombarded with this contradictory signals, and it wreaks havoc with us.  Complete.  Havoc.  Because we aren’t sure what we’re actually supposed to be doing.  We know innately, I think, that it is a good thing to help each other, to give each other a hand now and again and to sometimes be selfless.  If we don’t have a sense of it anyway, our parents or grandparents probably get that somewhere in our upbringing, too.  But we’re supposed to just screw everyone else over regularly?  Look out for number one?  Because yeah, that’s gotten us really far to date.

For me this article hit close to home, not just because I consider myself a egomaniac-by-night, but because I am also intimately familiar with the other side which the article implies but doesn’t really discuss: that whole “miserable” side of the equation.  Now, to be sure, “miserable” is a strong word - perhaps too strong for me.  But suffice to say, I was always told that I was pretty awesome, and along the way I started actually believing it.  Then, at some point, I was proven wrong…again, and again, and again.  And now, every little setback I experience seems like this enormous failing.  I hate that I can’t really make mistakes without feeling like I’ve fallen by the wayside and will never amount to anything because, whoops, I missed that comma splice, when I was editing my paper.

We shouldn’t busy ourselves celebrating how great we are, because a lot of the time we’re really not (except for me), especially when we’re tooting our own horn.  There’s so much more I could say about the topic; it’s been on my mind for years.  But I’ll spare you the experience.  My point is this: we should be concerned with who we are, not how good we are at stuff, not how many people pay attention to us.  We should take the small victories that come every day and be secure in the fact that we have fulfilled a great purpose to someone, somewhere; secure in the knowledge that our being has made a difference to someone (probably even someones).

Being as I’m a Trekkie, and I’ve already used one movie quote in this post, I’ll use another (from, as the beginning of the sentence foreshadowed, a Star Trek movie): “Don’t try to be a great man, just be a man, and let history make its own judgments.”  That’s what we don’t get.  We’re too wrapped up in being great people.  But why, in the end, does it matter?

And why can’t we just escape it?

Corbett is an advocate of imitation in writing, but he also warns that if you want to develop your own voice, you shouldn’t work with one author for too long. First why does Corbett advocate for imitation? What are the benefits, according to him? Then, what do *you* think of his warning about voice and imitation? Do you buy it? Why/not?

Corbett’s opinion is that imitation will allow you, as a writer, to pick up certain aspects of the imitated writer’s style, which presumably is a good thing; it would be rather foolish to imitate a writer whose work you don’t respect or revere.  Thus, by imitating successful writers, you, too, may be able to become successful by assimilating aspects of their writing styles into your own.  This is running on the assumption that what has worked in the past will work again…although, I suppose, that isn’t a bad assumption most of the time.

However, Corbett warns that imitating one writer too much can and will result in that writer’s voice superseding your own; instead of taking style and diction from the writer, you will take much more and sound like what you are: an imitation.  I can easily see that as a danger; try too much to be like someone else, and you will achieve it, at the cost of what made you different from that person.  Writing is no exception to this rule.  Why would it be?

For my part, though, I don’t really advocate such blatant tactics as Corbett suggests.  Copying a particular stylistic element does not make it yours.  And really, I’m not sure why you would want someone else’s style in your own writing intentionally; don’t we get enough imitation these days without recycling our authors, too?

Please post your comments to my participation in the workshops here.

How does race (as a concept, an issue, or a part of your identity) affect your writing — how you write and what you write about? If you find that you never think about your race as a factor in your writing, what does that suggest to you, e.g. about your own racial identity, about race as a social category, about how you’ve learned to write… [and so the possibilities go]?

I’m not sure how race really informs my writing. I mean, I imagine it does - how could it not? - but I can’t place as to exactly how it does. I suppose I don’t think much about race, per se, in my day-to-day life. I’ve never lived in especially diverse areas, so it doesn’t come up. More than the question of my own race, though, I am definitely influenced by the more general idea of how races (classes, genders, whatever) relate to each other, usually in a fictional setting, I admit, but it’s there. Some of my favorite pieces of writing - both my own and others’ - have at their core such a situation, the trouble of the judgments we make about people based on what they look like or where they come from, and the trouble of the retaliation for that original injustice. I don’t so much add myself and my own race (specifically, anyway) into this equation when I’m writing about it, which I admit isn’t all that common, and it never really crosses my mind when I don’t set out with the intention to write about it.

What does that say about me? I’m not sure. It sounds bad, but I take race, in some instances, for granted; I don’t think of myself or others of my “race” as particularly racial in any way. I guess that’s just what I consider “normal.” My rational mind says that this is borderline racist, which I don’t like, but that is my impulse. As such, the topic often doesn’t inform my writing if it isn’t a prominent part of that writing…I think.