Megan’s English 307 Blog

I’d like to say that I love “the blog,” but I would be lying. I love reading other blogs, but the process of writing on my blog was a bit painful. I do not consider myself part of the online culture (with the exception of Facebook, which my friend signed me up for without my consent). I do not use instant messenger, I do not have Myspace, and Blackboard is something I have to force myself to check daily. So it was NOT natural for me to post my musings, my freewriting, online.

Honestly, I think it is intimidating to have this public space. I was not aware of how public my blog was until I typed my name into Google a few weeks ago and saw my blog on the very first results page. I then promptly changed the setting to restrict search engines from accessing my blog. I was also a little intimidated to have my own classmates view my blog. You see, I don’t even write in a personal journal, so having a blog that people can access with a few clicks seems a bit intrusive. The plus side, though, is that I took each reading response and paper all the more seriously because I knew that all of UMW could potentially access my blog. And I do care what people think about my writing.

The blog was a struggle for me, but it is not without value. Again, I was aware that others could see my work, so I was careful to ensure that I was proud of the writing I posted.

My blog did not force me to think about how I conceive of myself as a writer. The papers I wrote for this class, on the other hand, were far more effective explorations of how I view myself in the writing world.Despite my personal views on blogging, I think this public space has potential. I did not read most of my classmates’ blogs until very recently, so I think that more interaction between blogs from the beginning would work well. It would help, for example, if students were required to comment on another classmate’s blog weekly. This idea works in two ways: it requires students to explore other blogs, AND it makes each student more accountable for his own blog because he knows others will be reading/commenting on it.

Reading each student’s blog was a daunting task. In the end, though, the experience was actually incredibly rewarding and insightful. I decided to try a little experiment (one that I used to do when I was editor of my high-school newspaper). I clicked on the current blog posts-that is, the ones that don’t have the student’s name in the blog title-and tried to discern from the writing whose blog I was reading. My experiment was, in most cases, successful. I credit this success to the presence of voice in nearly every blog I read. I could literally “hear” the actual voice of the student through the blog writing. The fact that voice was so apparent in the blog posts was a testament to the importance of voice in our 307 class.

Each student could get as much (or little) out of the blog as he/she wanted. I do like that the blogs played to each student’s strength. Some blogs were straightforward in design but the writing was beautiful. Other blogs featured sophisticated formatting, extra posts, poetry, and pictures. The blogs allowed plenty of room for creativity. Certain students (and I do include myself in this category), just met the requirements for the blog, and others went above and beyond. I’m not going to mention anyone specifically here, because I could find something I liked in EVERY blog I read.

Some students-like Stephanie-reached beyond our particular Writing Process class. She invited non-class members to view her blog and even explained a bit about the class and the major concepts of the class to the non-307ers. Stephanie and Jocelyn’s “extras” (photos, entries, quotes, poems), led me to the realization that not all students (and this was shocking to me) are blogging just for the grade.

Jennifer and Dave both have a common “thread” that ran throughout their blogs. Jennifer’s is South Africa, and Dave’s is his “Black Hamlet” paper. I enjoyed tracing these experiences through the blogs. Both Jennifer and Dave were reminded of these moments or experiences and reflected on them in more than one blog post. Jennifer’s trip to South Africa was a pivotal moment in her life, while Dave’s “Black Hamlet” paper was more of a pivotal moment in his writing life.

Antonia and Ashley M. were not afraid to bash the scholars. Antonia asked a lot of questions in her blog, and it was refreshing to hear from someone who admits that she doesn’t have all the answers. I found Dave’s rule-breaking especially refreshing. His writing-in papers and blog posts-is risky, and I his writing style is different from anything I’ve read before.

Claire and Ashley G. were able to relate many of the scholarly works and opinions to their own lives. Reading their blogs gave me new perspective; they made the sometimes muddled scholarly works relatable. It is almost as if Claire and Ashley G. translated the works into college speak.

Joey and Caitlin experimented with techniques in their memoirs: particularly dialogue. Joey had a completely created dialogue-almost a play-while Caitlin used italics to represent her thought process.

Although they made effective arguments in their reading responses and papers, Kerri and Brandon were not afraid to poke fun at themselves in their blogs.

Jules admited that she likes to play “devil’s advocate,” and this sentiment in certainly reflected in her reading responses. I admire that Jules isn’t intimidated by the scholars-she is more than willing to take them on, challenge them.

I found Ashley M. and Lauren to have incredibly honest and humorous blogs. Both blogs radiated with VOICE. Their words and humor had the power to make me laugh out loud.

Margaret’s blog was a study in self-discovery and that things are not always what they seem. I was especially impressed by her memoir and her struggle to be viewed as more than an athlete by her English professor.

Kelsey really came full circle with her memoir paper-I love the fact that she did not give up the quest to find her former teacher and the work that inspired so much of her writing process.

Kelley’s writing was strong and very academic, and I really got a sense of who she is and how that self is reflected in her writing.

Kristen struggled like I did with the whole concept of blogging and technology in general, but even her distaste for computers did not hide the beauty of her writing.

One thing I noticed in a few blogs (at least three) was the word WRITE where “right” should have been, and vice versa. I’m not sure whether this was an intentional play on words or an honest mistake. I think this class made us consider whether there is a RIGHT way to WRITE, so perhaps the line between the two became too blurry to distinguish.

Overall, I was incredibly impressed with the blogs. I am grateful that reading the blogs was an assignment, because had it not been required for our final exam, I would likely not have been exposed to any blog other than my own.

Voicing My Concerns about Voice

My first experience with “voice” in writing was during my senior year of high school when I was editor of my school’s newspaper. I would sit over a stack of rough drafts, (and some were very rough) to edit for the usual grammar, spelling, and adherence to newspaper style. But at the same time, I was aware of something personal and genuine in each piece I read. In retrospect-really, after reading Peter Elbow’s Writing with Power-I realize that I was hearing the writer’s voice. Each article, even if it was full of errors, resounded with such a strong voice that I could quickly identify the author without glancing to the top of the page for a name. Elbow’s excerpt recalls a similar experience with voice. I was struck by Elbow’s description of a student paper that immediately held his attention in spite of errors and simple writing. What attracted Elbow to this particular paper was simply the presence of voice.

I could recognize and even admire voice in other writing, but my focus as an editor was picky. I agonized over words, sentence structure, and other such details. If I didn’t like the way a certain sentence sounded, I proceeded to rewrite the entire sentence as a “suggestion” for improving and cleaning up the writing. It is frightening to realize now that I was not necessarily improving the papers I edited; I was merely inserting my own words into another person’s work. My editing likely stifled some of the real voice in the drafts I “corrected,” and I understand now that I learned this picky brand of editing from my previous English teachers.

In the years before I became a newspaper editor, and even while I was an editor, feedback from my teachers consisted largely of marking up my papers so heavily that I could hardly recognize my original work. With so few salvageable bits of my writing, I generally made all of the recommended corrections and resubmitted the paper without expanding on any of my original ideas. The truth is, I lost control of my voice and vision because it was edited out of my writing. In turn, I learned to self edit as I wrote with such a critical eye that I could barely write a full sentence without stopping to analyze or change it.

My own practice of self-editing in addition to the intrusive editing of former teachers has taken the focus off of my words and created an emphasis on choosing the right words, as if writing is a formula. And all the while, my voice is edited out and farther removed from my control and awareness. Editing has ruled my writing to such an extent that I hardly know if I have a voice.

Voices are meant to be heard, so I have tried to “hear” my voice by reading my writing aloud. The problem is, I hate the voice that I hear when I read my writing aloud. This voice seems forced and unnatural-pseudo-artsy and whiny, even. Since I was young, I have made several attempts to maintain a personal journal. These attempts always end with me tearing the pages into unreadable bits and burying them at the bottom of a trash can because if I go even two days without writing in that journal, I reread the entries and am appalled by how artificial and melodramatic they sound. Creative writing is difficult for me-and I do consider anything beyond straight news writing and formal academic writing creative. The process of writing a diary entry about the events of my day and my feelings is excruciating. I am uncomfortable with unstructured, informal writing; as a result of this discomfort, I scrutinize my journal writing as I would a formal essay. I edit everything, even my most casual writing, as my former English teachers have before me.

Perhaps I cannot recognize my voice because I have never written without either criticizing my own writing or submitting my writing for someone else to critique. In a way, most of my former English teachers (unintentionally or not) have imposed their own voices on my writing. There have been times when a teacher, in the course of grading a paper, has rewritten some of my sentences or changed my existing word order to make my paper “better” (a cycle that I was apparently perpetuating as a newspaper editor).

Editing that encourages the writer to rephrase an awkward or ambiguous sentence on his own is a far more effective means of both guaranteeing a well-written paper and preserving the original writer’s voice. Receiving a heavily-edited paper that seeks to eliminate every wordy sentence or awkward phrase makes me question whether I even know my own voice. If I can’t even put two words together effectively, how can I ever write confidently in my “voice” without obsessing over the picky details? Had my former English teachers encouraged voice and guided my writing instead of replacing it with their own, I would likely be more comfortable and in tune with my voice as a writer. It is possible that it will take a long time to undo the years of oppressive editing that have shaped the way I write, but I can only hope that my growing awareness of voice will overshadow any editing that touches my writing.

Maybe it is ironic, but I hope to become an editor when I am finished with college. Reading Elbow’s Writing with Power was refreshing, because he helped me realize that without the influence of individual voice, writing would be largely homogenous and boring. In essence, everyone’s writing would read like a textbook. I am now aware how important it is to edit with caution and both preserve and encourage each writer’s voice. Editors can be intimidating, and editing intrusive. I have experienced receiving papers that are so covered in red marks and confusing symbols that I lose sight of my original vision. I do not want to be that kind of editor. Instead, I want to be an editor who stands up for voice above all else. Real voice, though imperfect at best, is at the core of producing effective and moving work.

I am Writer

Let’s face it: the phrase “I am a writer” is elitist. In the simplest sense of the word, a writer is just someone who writes. This very literal interpretation of “writer” is not, however, the way the term functions in the academic world. Not just anybody can call himself a writer.

In a conversation with a friend who is pursuing his Master of Fine Arts, I asked, “So, you want to be a playwright?” His response was, “I am a playwright now-I craft plays.” His response (though intended as sarcasm) made me think. Who can call himself a writer? Someone who writes well according to the scholars? Someone who just likes to write? Someone whose pen occasionally makes contact with a piece of paper?

Generally, if you call yourself a writer, you had better be able to back up that statement with some examples of high-quality writing. The term “writing,” though, is equally problematic. In the academic world-a world inevitably ruled, according to Sidney Dobrin, by academic discourse-not all writing is created equal. A student’s first attempt at a short story, for example, is hardly considered equal to a short story by Flannery O’Connor. So is there any hope for students who find themselves in a mandatory college writing class?

Students are, of course, required to take English classes in the course of their secondary education, but I refer here to college writing classes because generally, higher education is the first time a student’s writing is not structured around a certain curriculum or being molded to meet the standards of state-regulated testing. The mandatory college writing classes, on the other hand, are less restrictive in nature. It is up to professors to decide what and how to teach writing (and how much teaching is really necessary). Granted, not all professors use this freedom to reach out to students who are intimidated by the only writing that has thus far been expected of them: academic writing.

The problem begins, of course, with the current state of the average English class. It is most likely that in this average intro-level college English class, students will have already tagged themselves in one of two ways: writer or non-writer. The writers are the students who have shown a knack for writing, a love for writing, from the beginning of their education. These “writers” are not my primary concern because they will likely adapt to any writing assignment-academic or not-with which they are presented. The non-writers, on the other hand, are the students who to whom academic writing does not come easily. If we do not change the nature of this writing classroom, the writers will continue to thrive in these classrooms; their writing will improve. The non-writers will usually not progress, because they believe that writing is limited to the formal academic essay.

In a highly idealized world of college writing classes-really, in a world where all writing classes were taught by Peter Elbows-writing would not be intimidating and painful for the students who consider themselves non-writers. Because Elbow would argue that everyone can write. Writing (and the designation “writer”) needs to be more universally accessible. While there are important distinctions between writers and good writers, we need to begin by empowering all students to believe that they can write. If we do not loosen the definition of writer and writing, writing classes will only be effective for a select few students.

If, as David Bartholomae suggests, composition classes should focus primarily on academic writing, the danger is that these classes will only reach a very select group of students and isolate the rest. Essentially, a focus on academic writing may serve as a means of making many students more disenchanted with writing in general. They will not learn because they will not be open to learning about writing. Writing to these students-these non-writers-will be something they dread, something they do at 2 a.m. the night before the paper is due. Do we-do teachers- want writing to be something students absolutely dread? How have we reached the point that paper assignments are met with a collective groan?

Teachers have fostered an environment in which only a few can survive because there is an overall focus on reading and writing about the works of literary greats. Exposing students only to great literary works and providing this literature as the standard of writing is like showing little girls pictures of airbrushed models and saying “This is beauty.” Great writers (like great beauties) are rare. Presenting either to young, vulnerable people is intimidating: “This is writing; now YOU do it.” Students are being faced with a nearly impossible standard, a model of near perfection that cannot be easily challenged or surpassed.

Not all teachers, of course, follow this formula, but it is safe to say that most do. It is almost as if teachers believe their students will learn “good” writing by osmosis. If they are exposed to examples of great writing, this greatness will eventually sink in. There may be some teachers like Elbow who teach with the goal of getting everyone to write, but other teachers are far more interested in molding the writers into little scholars like themselves. I believe that Elbow is on the right track here; in his classroom, he exposes students to both the greats and to writing by fellow students. When Elbow presents his students with examples of great writing, he doesn’t put this writing on a pedestal; instead, he allows students to treat the works of great writers as “fully eligible members of the conversation: not treat them as sacred; not worry about ‘doing justice’ to them or getting them dirty” (Elbow 74). I agree with Elbow’s belief that his class should be exposed to both great writing and peer writing, because both are writing. Most classrooms, though, reinforce to students that academic writing, “great” writing, is the only kind of writing that is real and productive.

An ideal classroom would not highlight the division of writer and non-writer. It would instead work toward the goal of making every student a writer. It is crucial to change the redefine and rework the terms “writer” and “writing.” Everyone has potential to be a writer, but it is the job of teachers to empower. So, I believe that Elbow’s Writing Without Teachers would be more appropriately titled (Sometimes) Writing Without Teachers. In other words, teachers would remain in positions of authority, but they would occasionally relinquish that authority and give their students the freedom to just write. We need to encourage students to write for themselves, not just others. Elbow’s freewriting is one means of allowing the student to write without being evaluated or criticized. Yes, the nature of a college course makes necessary some evaluation, but there must also be times when a student can feel free to write without the restrictions of a formal essay or formal grading.

If we ask students to write an essay based on the literature they have read, the few students who will meet this task enthusiastically and with success are the ones who enjoy writing, who already believe they fall under the category of “writer.” But what happens to the other students? “I can’t write,” they may say, and their papers will reflect this stress and frustration. The resulting paper will lack passion, lack voice. The student will be writing only for the grade. This is where I propose a change.

If this same student-this “non-writer”-is asked to write about what the literature means to him, how the literature interacts with or applies to his life, then perhaps he will meet the task of writing less grudgingly. We must go back to the basics-and by basics, I mean that the student should first write what he knows. Ask a student to write a paper on the feminist influence in a novel, and she may struggle. If you ask the same student, though, to write a few pages on a part of the novel that she can relate to personally, she will likely write with ease. Elbow notes the criticism directed at some writers for being too self-absorbed; he believes, though, that “…autobiography is often the best mode of analysis” (Elbow 80). If we begin by having all students write about what they know best- themselves-then we are paving the way to more advanced, less egocentric writing in the future.

The same philosophy applies to teaching a young child to speak. When a child acquires language, his parents do not begin by teaching him words he would have no concept of, no context for. Instead, parents start with the basics: they teach language by using the words that the child encounters in the small world of his home. The child first learns words for the familiar-he learns words for the people and things that surround him. After he has mastered these first words, he will eventually learn words for things outside of his home, and the learning will continue.

A student must learn writing in the same way. If teachers let allow students to first write and analyze themselves (even, like I mentioned before, draw personal meaning from the novels and scholarly works they read), they-like a child-will grow as a writer. Maybe the student will never master the art of academic writing, but if he can throw himself into other writing-journal-writing, poetry, anything-he can write with passion and voice. Not everyone will become a great writer and academic, but everyone has the ability to be a writer, a person who writes.

Miller’s understanding of the writer’s relationship to the text gives words a new kind of power.  It is the words and the text, Miller says, that create the writer.  The writing process itself–a process that Miller does not seek to define in clear terms–is also crucial is constructing the writer.  The text and the writing process that results in the text is also capable of creating “many MEs.”  Miller’s perspective is a new one for me, and I am inspired by the possibility that my own words can actually work on me, construct me.  Miller points out that once her writing is published, it is no longer “only writing.”  Her text is now in the hands of the reader, who also plays an important part in this writer-text-reader process.  As Miller points out, those words then have the ability to convince readers that she is someone she isn’t–a person from a highly-educated family, an aging scholar, etc.  Other scholars, including Bazerman (and I’m sure many students as well), believe that the writer creates the text and not vice versa.  Bazerman goes farther to say that it is experiences that create and situate the writer into a certain role, and that role determines what he writes.  Miller’s contrasting argument opens up the ability of writing to create NEW experiences for the writer. 

‘C’ ing the Light

I had never gotten a ‘C’ in my life. A ‘C’ to me was not “average,” as the secondary school report-card grading scales may have you believe. On my personal grading scale-my own measure of academic success-a ‘C’ was a failing grade. A poor grade in math I may have be able to excuse, because I could never make any sense of the most logical of subjects. Perhaps I would have been less devastated if I had done poorly on a math or science test, but this was my writing. English had always been my thing.

My parents began reading to my twin sister and me when we were babies, and they gradually progressed to reading us chapter-book series like The Boxcar Children and The Little House on the Prairie. Writing came soon after. Even before I was able to transcribe anything beyond large scrawls only vaguely resembling the letters of the alphabet, I liked to narrate stories-every word of which my mom would dutifully record. As soon as I was able, I began to write stories and poems on my own. From the time I was in first grade, my teachers’ feedback always pointed to writing as my “strength.” The positive feedback on my writing that continued through most of my secondary schooling contributed to my confidence and made the ‘C’ during my senior year of high school all the more shocking.

Until that moment, I was content to keep my writing at a sort of standstill. Writing to me was static. I had done well enough on my paper assignments during high school that I thought I would continue to do well. My learning, I thought, was over; I already knew how to write. During my first three years of high school, I was still receptive to feedback and open to learning. I was eager to break free of the standard five-paragraph essay and surface-level readings of novels during which I was only expected to identify characters, plot, climax, and resolution of novels. During these high-school years, my English teachers first taught me to analyze literature and look for symbols and recurring themes. I began to develop a basis for the analysis and writing that would later be required of me in upper-level college English classes. While I recognize now that my first three high-school teachers exposed me to the writing and skills necessary to progress to the writing expected in the subsequent years of high skill, I would say to them now: “Why didn’t you criticize my writing more?”

Mrs. Pearson-my ninth-grade teacher who was more like a friend than an instructor to her students-began to teach me the art of reading closely and writing outside of the confining standard five-paragraph essay. Her grading policy, however, was extremely lax, and my writing was rarely critiqued. When I did receive criticism on my papers, it generally was limited to comments like “Make sure you know the difference between a dash and a hyphen,” or “Avoid using ‘however’ to start a sentence.” While I did pay careful attention to any criticism of my work in order to avoid repeating a mistake, I was thrilled that the only critique my teacher had was relatively minor and easy to remedy. During tenth grade, Mrs. Love focused on teaching us to write a well-researched, focused paper. Again, the feedback I received on my papers was largely positive and led me to believe that I was an excellent writer who could do no wrong. My eleventh-grade teacher, Mrs. Kaminsky, was a comforting, grandmotherly woman who emphasized long group discussions on literature. This was also the first point in my writing life that a teacher asked me to look at two books side-by-side, find a common theme, and tie them together in an essay. After much practice (and more positive feedback that further inflated my ego), I believed that I had the art of essay writing down, and I took that confidence with me to my senior year. My somewhat cocky belief was that I had actually reached the peak of my writing in my third year of high school, and I wasn’t prepared for the tough love to come.

As promised by my high school, my senior year Advanced Placement English class was comparable to a college class. Until then, I’d had a series of free-spirited, comforting, female English teachers. Mr. Miller was the opposite. Dressed impeccably in button-down shirts and dress pants and more than a little obsessive compulsive, Mr. Miller began from the very first class to throw around terms like literary canon and ‘x’ and ‘y’ value (”The novel seems to be about ‘x,’ but it is really about ‘y’). From the beginning, Mr. Miller wanted his students to recognize that every work has surface-level, superficial meaning-the ‘x’ value-but the reader must look more closely to find the ‘y’ value, or the meaning enmeshed more deeply in the work. As Mr. Miller was Shakespeare’s number-one fan, our reading list for the class consisted of 90 percent Shakespearean plays and one Dostoevsky novel thrown in for variety. I immediately felt like these new concepts were way over my head; I was used to looking for obvious, literal symbols and meanings- the color red or the use of satire, for example. While I should have guessed that Mr. Miller’s emphasis on in-depth analysis would extend to our writing as well, I felt little anxiety over our first paper assignment. For our first paper assignment, we were asked to take two or more of Shakespeare’s plays that we had read and find a “common thread,” to quote Mr. Miller. Easy enough, I thought: I’ve done this before. I then proceeded to write my paper on the presence of evil fathers in Shakespeare’s Hamlet. Two weeks later, Mr. Miller returned our papers. Apparently I had not found a “thread” at all; what I had come up with was more like a whole ball of yarn. A “thread,” Mr. Miller explained, would be a close, textually-based discussion of how Shakespeare’s corrupt fathers are ultimately punished. Merely pointing out that there are evil fathers in Shakespeare’s plays was not enough.

My initial reaction was anger. There was no way, I thought, that I deserved a ‘C’ on this paper. The essay was (and I can say this even now) well written, but good writing and nothing more was no longer enough to get me an ‘A.’ When Mr. Miller asked the class to write a response about the strengths and weaknesses of our paper, I am humiliated to say that-in a moment of complete immaturity-I took this opportunity to bash Mr. Miller’s grading rather than point out any faults in my paper. Although I was too proud at first to admit that my writing-and attitude-was in dire need of a makeover, grades were still important to me, and I was not about to get another ‘C.’

The ‘C’ was a swift slap in the face that brought me back to reality. I had always been able to pull off good grades-mostly ‘A’s’ and an occasional ‘B’-even in my weakest subjects. Although I was always an ‘A’ and ‘B’ student, I often had to struggle for good grades in my weaker subjects. I could get an ‘A’ on a math test, but it required hours of preparation to even begin to comprehend the concepts. My writing, however, was nearly effortless. I looked forward to essays because I could write them painlessly and get a good grade-that is, until my senior year. The ‘C’ made me question this prior ease with writing; now I realized that I still had a lot to learn.

I had a decision to make, a moment of realization that my focus in writing could be one of two things: I could write with the goal of getting good grades, or I could use this opportunity to actually improve my writing. Ultimately, I decided that the two were intrinsically tied; in order to actually get a good grade, I would have to learn to write effectively enough to earn a good grade. Until that point, I had skated by with “good” writing and never been challenged or criticized. The papers I wrote-even as late as eleventh grade-were embarrassingly broad and simplistic in nature. Looking back on these eleventh-grade essays, I cringe. Really, all I could come up with was the role of women in society in The Scarlet Letter and The Great Gatsby?

Without Mr. Miller (and by extension, my first ‘C’) my writing would have been torn to shreds in college. The material we covered in my first college writing class was so eerily similar to Mr. Miller’s class-the term ‘x’ and ‘y’ values was actually used-that I realized how well he had prepared me for college. My other high-school English teachers had a definite role in shaping my understanding of literature and introducing me to formal academic writing, but Mr. Miller helped shape my writing (and thinking about writing) into what it most resembles today. What I took from Mr. Miller that is most essential to the writer I am today is the knowledge that I am never finished learning to write. I also began to recognize (and value) criticism as a means of making myself a stronger writer. Writing is a skill that is never completely mastered; it is a learning process, and there is always room for improvement.

The knowledge that writing can never be filed away into an “acquired skills” category is daunting and has certainly been confirmed in my college writing classes. College has exposed me to academic writing, newspaper writing, and various forms of creative writing. I would like to say I excel at each, but the truth is, each paper I write is now a challenge. Each paper is a new experience, a learning tool. I credit Mr. Miller with teaching me that criticism is a means of improvement that can be later channeled into productive work. When I get an ‘A’ on a paper now, I realize that the grade was not handed to me-I really worked for it. A poor grade, though, is no longer quite so devastating. It merely serves as a reminder that my work is never finished.

Hashimoto’s piece comes most explicitly into contact with Elbow’s work and notions of voice. While Hashimoto does not discount Elbow’s idea of voice entirely, he certainly critiques Elbow’s definition (or non-definition, really) of voice. I agree with Hashimoto’s hesitancy to preach for “voice” above all else, because there are far too many other issues in writing that must be acknowledged. Elbow himself is aware that “voice” may really be a produced when words resonate to the reader–not necessarily the writer. I also believe that if voice must be experienced and can never truly be defined, then voice is absolutely apparent when the reader is emotionally invested in the work. Hashimoto’s example that many teachers who advocate voice in good writing would not be open to the voice of a child rapist describing the beauty of youth is especially accurate. As a reader, I would be so disgusted by the subject matter that I would lose all appreciation and awareness of the writer’s voice.

Another point Hashimoto makes is that to Elbow, all good writing must have voice. Voice is, according to Elbow, the difference between phony work and honest, beautiful work. Hashimoto counters that a statement from a committee cannot possibly resonate with one “voice” because it was not written by one person. Is that writing automatically “bad,” then? I don’t think so. Not all writing has the purpose of reflecting on the writer’s thoughts or evoking emotion. Some writing, like informative writing, serves an entirely different purpose. I have read pieces in which I am certain I can detect the writer’s voice, but who really knows how genuine this voice is. No one person–not even Elbow–can be the god of voice. Voice is somewhere in the interaction between the writer, the piece, and the reader. I can’t “hear” voice in every work, but that does not mean it’s not there.

Muckelbauer makes the argument that the practice of imitation does have value despite the romantic notions of subject.  His argument is strengthened by his expanded definition of “imitation.”  Imitation has three forms, Muckelbauer says, that include reproduction, variation, and inspiration.  Imitation, then, is a multi-step process that involves a certain progression.  Imitation does not just mean an exact copy of the subject.

Imitation remains valuable (and was also value in the time of the scholars), because it can be tailored to fit a particular person’s skills and tendencies.  Muckelbauer points out that imitation does not involve copying the “greats” with no questions asked.  More effective imitative practices begin when a student imitates a “great” who  has similar tendencies to the student himself.  Muckelbauer’s expanded definition of imitation allows room for creativity and individuality and involves a move to imitating through inspiration.

Narcissism can be a tricky word, because it is of course a matter of opinion. Some of the elements of narcissism as mentioned in the article are actually qualities that happy and well-adjusted people possess. I am speaking primarily of confidence and assertiveness, both of which I consider POSITIVE qualities.

There is a fine line, though, between confidence and over-confidence as well as assertiveness and over-assertiveness. A person who is confident generally likes herself and is not limited by her self-doubt and uncertainty. Someone who is overconfident can run the risk of being insufferably cocky. Similarly, a certain degree of assertiveness allows a person to say what she is thinking and stand up for herself rather than concealing her feelings and opinions from others. An over-assertive person, however, gives her opinion ALL of the time and has no tact.

It is important to like yourself, and in order to like yourself, you may need to embrace some characteristics of a narcissistic person. Just don’t like yourself too much. As with many things in life, narcissism in moderation is not a bad thing.

Corbett advocates imitation in writing as a useful tool for improving one’s own writing. The first step in the imitation process, though, involves directly copying another writer’s words. Corbett suggests that through the act of imitating a respected writer’s exact words, the beginning writer (or the writer who is trying to improve his writing), will almost subconsciously pick up on strong word choice, formatting, and general style and begin to incorporate some of that writer’s techniques into his own writing.

The danger, of course, is when the learning writer becomes too similar to the writer he is imitating, and that is precisely where he begins to shut out his own voice and adopt the other writer’s voice. It is important that in the process of imitating a writer, one does not become the writer.

I agree with Corbett’s warning about voice and imitation. If I used Corbett’s technique of copying an author’s passage verbatim, I fear that the process of copying would acquaint me with one very particular style of writing. Then, my own writing would become fused and almost inseparable from the person whose writing I was imitating. Corbett’s suggestion of “imitating” many authors’ writings is a good one, then, because it would encourage me to pick and choose. I could decide to imitate one writer’s diction, another writer’s sentence structure, and yet another writer’s format (and so on). In other words, I would be inspired by aspects of writing that I like and adopt techniques of different writers with my own personal spin, or voice.