Talking to a Wall May Not be So Bad After All…

            We all can agree that in high school our teachers would say the same things: “Never start a sentence with ‘but’,” “Never use passive voice,” “SHOW me, not TELL me,”— and we all listened, pulling and tweaking our writing to guarantee an “A.”  But what Keith Hjortshoj tells us, in his article “Rules and Errors” in his book The Transition to College Writing, is that these rules are broken, and should not always be applied.  He voices: “I can easily find examples from respectable published writing that contradict these rules” (89).  What we need to find, rather is out own set of rules.

            Proofreading, or rather, finding errors, is not based upon a set of rules, like the ones mentioned above.  I believe, rather, that each writer must find a set of rules that he or she abides by and believes in.

            Many people do multiple drafts, and some make one outline and then produce a paper; both are different means for writing a paper, and both unique to the individual.  As for me, I always write multiple drafts and often spend time reassessing topic sentences.  But most importantly, I always read aloud my work after each draft.  Something as silly as “The girl and the boy, who were a couple for many years, bought a dog,” if read aloud, can be corrected to something like “The girl and boy, who had been a couple for many years, decided to buy a dog.”

            Easily, the sentence becomes much stronger and to put it bluntly, less awkward sounding.  Hjortshoj agrees with this technique: “Your ear for language is also more reliable than your eye” (85).  Reading your paper to a friend, or even to your computer screen is necessary to catch those little errors (And even after I write this blog, I will be reading it aloud to check for errors).  So next time you need some advice, read your paper aloud to the wall; it may not answer you, but you will find some answers on your own.

I May Shit, But Do I Bullshit?

       In a direct response to the essay “A Kind Word for Bullshit: The Problem of Academic Writing?” by Philip Eubanks and John D. Schaeffer, I ask myself this question: do I bullshit?  I myself am an English major and so I relate myself to the Academia and look forward to a future surrounded in this.  But is this future one of total bullshit?  My immediate response to this accusation is to naturally refute and refuse it completely.  How could I agree that what I base my life around, pay 50,000 dollars a year to learn at college, and waste precious hours studying, is all bullshit?  No, no, of course I reject it—it would be mad to agree to this.  However, I know what we do in English, and how writers twist words, is sometimes stretching the truth.  Could it be true: are we all just bullshitters?

       Now, I feel that the term “bullshit” is harsh, and was probably chosen to grab greater attention from the reader.  And while at first I chuckled, as the pages went on, I grew more and more uncomfortable.  Was it because the term is crude or because I was realizing the falsity of English academia?  Well, I cannot be sure exactly, but I feel like it was a bit of both.  The term “bullshit” seems to pull out a greater reaction from the reader, but also seems a bit outlandish.  When the authors bring up Dave Barry’s accusation of the “bullshit” of Moby Dick and the similarities the whale has to the Republic of Ireland, he seems to criticize writers: “If you can regularly come up with lunatic interpretations of simple stories, you should major in English” (373).

       But that seems to be part of the beauty in English; there is no exact answer to each piece of writing.  There are words and lines, but no exact meanings of readings.  Scholars thus write to explain, criticize, or argue points and speak amongst each other.  In one piece of this article, he states: “Their goal is to sell the product, yet they are required to present themselves as benefactors of their potential customers, as persons with only the good of the client at heart” (378).  So in a ways, that makes the writer a salesperson—but can you claim that they are a “bullshitter?”  What if they truly believe in their position (which hopefully they do, putting so much passion and work into a piece)?  They would not claim themselves as a “bullshitter,” and that is no doubt another reason why scholars take great offense to this claim.

       All too often, non-scholars place critical writing in the “bullshit” pile, simply because they do not understand this way of writing.  “For many non-academics, academic writing is not just bullshit but bullshit of the worst kind” (381).  It is not that they are misunderstanding the writing of academia that bothers scholars, but the fact that they toss out this hard work and claim it to be “bullshit.”  I believe that one quote speaks incredibly true of the thoughts of those outside the English academia; the normal reader would read something on, let’s say, Wuthering Heights and recount that: “Such jargon seems to contribute nothing to the reader except confusion” (381).  To them, and some academia, this essay would be bullshit.  It makes no sense, and seems far-fetched and insignificant.  But does that make it bullshit?  Does the author believe it to be bullshit?

       While the article does well in grabbing its reader in with the term “bullshit”, I feel that these authors overuse the term.  And while it is insulting to authors who spend their lives in this business, I feel like it is too negative towards the practice of writing.  Authors work incredibly hard to add essays into discussion, and while their point may be far-fetched and “bullshitted," those of the English Academia are not the only people supposedly “bullshitting."  I would classify most people to be guilty of bullshitting in their life—lawyers, business men and women, actors, salesmen, waiters, doctors, and I could list many more.

Dear Adrienne Rich: Thank You

            For the past two years, I have been tutoring and au paring for a family— an 8^th grade boy and 7^th grade girl.  You might say that these kids are too old to have a babysitter, but trust me—I am much more than that; I help them do homework, organize, and most challenging of all: write essays. 

            In high school, I took AP English and did well on the test, so I believed myself to be prepared for college.  Even more so, I am incredibly passionate when it comes so English.  So while tutoring these two, I never questioned my ability to write—I was not afraid of the language or worried about my capability to produce substantial writing.  I also never doubted my ability to organize and convey my thoughts efficiently.  Entering the college campus, and then taking the necessary CORE class changed my cocky attitude: my professor last year gave me a C on the first assignment.

            I adored my CORE teacher, which is another reason why this grade hit me especially hard.  She was accomplished, composed—everything I believed myself to be—and yet, suddenly, this “C” illuminated my weaknesses.  Winter break came along, and I returned home, questioning my major.

            This family, as usual, wanted me to come over after school everyday, but I felt that I was betraying them somehow.  Why would a “C” student tutor kids?  I should not be allowed anywhere near their house, let alone their homework! 

And yet, I was determined to show I could pull off an “A” on a paper in this class.  That next semester I decided to tackle the poem “The Phenomenology of Anger” by Adrienne Rich in an essay.

            To say that I immersed myself in this project would be an understatement; I have always been a lover of poetry, so it came naturally.  But this project made me fall in love with it again (as I seem to do each time I read a new wonderful poem).  I came in to speak with my teacher, made multiple drafts, and realized the mistakes I made (some, I still seem to make).  I received an “A”. 

            I did not cry, don’t worry—but I almost did.  This “A” not only meant that I at least consciously felt better about tutoring this family, but that I could work hard enough and write well enough to succeed.  It is with this grade that I constantly remind myself that I can help other people, and that I deserve to. 

            Although I doubt myself constantly, I believe it is incredibly important to remember one time (or multiple times) when you have succeeded; compliments remind me that I have been successful and can be once again.
            But even more than that-- that feeling of accomplishment is wonderful, and reminds me that I can change my role as student and tutor.  In Molly Wingate's article "Writing Centers as Sites of Academic Culture", she states: "with their attitude, seriousness, and and experience, tutors and writers help maintain academic culture, and they enhance it" (Wingate, 12).
            Working on my writing not only leaves me feeling accomplished, but able to return to the family I tutor and pass on my passion and strength to their kids.