Countering: Bringing it Back to the Drawing Board

Personally, I found chapter 3 of Rewriting—which deals with methods of countering—to be the most important and useful (which isn’t to suggest that the other chapters aren’t both of those things). The moment when I learned how exactly to execute a counterargument marked a drastic improvement in my undergraduate papers. I try to convey this technique in the writing center whenever possible, and as such, my opinions here might be a little biased.

Although my first suggestion may lie outside the scope of the book, I’d like to point out that many students encounter their biggest challenge when trying to locate sources to use as counterpoints. Granted, Rewriting is not a guide to research methodologies, but I think that some brief hints on recognizing a good opportunity for countering would be welcomed by undergraduate readers. Perhaps such advice would fit well toward the beginning of the chapter, by way of introduction.

Also, I wonder if a chapter like this one might be a good spot to teach students how to counter more generally, as against an imagined opponent or by anticipating obvious counterpoints to their own arguments (like I do above in the sentence that begins, “Granted, Rewriting…”). Doing so is more of a small technical move than a strategy, but I think it’s an effective way for a student to claim authority, to show that they’ve thoroughly considered the topic. This idea deals with the fundamental language of countering.

My thoughts turn here to Cathy Birkenstein and Gerald Graff’s templates in They Say/I Say (which is where I picked up the move). They provide formulas of varying complexity with which students can practice these moves, such as:

“My own view is that _______. Though I concede that _______, I still maintain that _______. For example, _______. Although some might object that _______, I reply that _______. The issue is important because _______” (Birkenstein and Graff 9).

While the notion of using templates in writing made me uneasy from the beginning, I believe they can serve as helpful springboards if used responsibly—that is, as long as students eventually adapt their own language to these purposes. Templates also provide a bird’s-eye view of academic argument that can give students a sense of the basic structure they should strive for.

On the whole, though, I think chapter 3 answers an important need in writing instruction. Before reading Rewriting, I struggled to talk about countering at length without constantly referring back to Birkenstein and Graff’s templates, so it is nice to see the topic treated from a research-paper perspective. I’m also glad that Joe addresses the topic of civility. Phrases like “It is obvious that…” quickly become a habit, one that is not very flattering to a writer’s audience.

First-Time Teachers: Is Process Really the Be-All-End-All of Writing?

Dear Jess,

First of all, thank you for First Semester. I don’t think I exaggerate by saying that the book is a gift to first-year graduate-student TAs who worry about the issues you address so directly. For me, the concerns of Shirley, Nancy, Anjel, and Tess that you outline in chapter one run the gamut of anxieties that have crossed my mind over the past few months (some moreso than others).

I would summarize the goal of your study in two halves: first, you describe to rhet/comp faculty and WPAs what things are really like on the ground for new TAs. As you point out on page 18, in a field that is rich with theoretical approaches, not much critical work exists on the training and role of TAs, which often results in a disconnect between grad-student instructors and program coordinators. Second, you encourage the reader to think about new ways of considering the first-semester teaching experience, ways that bridge the gap between writing pedagogy theory and practice that often develops during the practicum. You contrast Arendt’s concept of labor with those of action and work to illustrate the survival mechanisms that threaten to rob grad students of the learning opportunities inherent in the first semester of teaching.

I think I benefitted most from your discussion of TAs and the question of authority. This was one of the first worries that came to mind for me when it finally sunk in that I would be leading my own class: why should students listen to me, when I’m only a few years older than they are? What do I know about structuring a 50-minute block of time three days a week? How do I know if students are learning anything? Your point about the possibility of over-emphasizing process prompted me to think about what exactly we hope to accomplish in freshman composition courses. As you say, knowledge of some of the foundational texts of writing pedagogy theory can help us engage intellectually with what we do every day and to develop personal teaching philosophies. But if we ascribe religiously to this idea of writing as a disembodied process, we risk inhibiting our view of student progress and the actual texts they produce. Doing so can cause us to lose sight not only of students’ development, but also of the real, positive effects our courses have on their writing.

As an aside, while you apply Arendt’s theory consistently throughout your study, I appreciate the moments when you note that the theory doesn’t quite hold up for certain observations, like on page 52. Although I don’t know Arendt’s work well enough to take a side, I found these moves useful for understanding the scope of The Human Condition and its relevance to your project.

At this point, my main question goes back to classroom management. Can you say a bit more about how a new TA might handle a class that is not forcefully resistant, but maybe reluctant? At the beginning of the semester, we heard about some of UD’s protocol for dealing with aggressive students, which usually just involves stepping back and reporting the problem to the higher-ups. But what if a particular class is just lukewarm, and you find yourself struggling to fill 50 minutes, even with more interactive lesson plans? On a more logistical note, to what extent were you directive with the participants in your case study? Did Public U allow you, in these cases, to offer your pragmatic advice as a more experienced teacher?

Thank you again. Although I’m sorry that some of the grad students, especially Tess, experienced some difficult moments, it was nice to see some of my anxieties as a teacher-to-be reflected on the page.

Sincerely,

Dan Barlekamp

Twain and the Example of What Not to Do

We would not want to encourage students to write like it is 1895, especially when it comes to academic essays. But the prose of Mark Twain never fails in its readability, its accessibility to multiple generations of readers from various backgrounds. In terms of effective argumentation, organization, and use of humor, Twain’s nonfiction can still serve as a model for beginning writers who are just becoming acclimated to methods of persuasion.

The reader does not need to be familiar with the novels of James Fenimore Cooper to appreciate the tight structure of Mark Twain’s famous piece of criticism, “Fenimore Cooper’s Literary Offenses” (1895). Twain opens by situating himself among previous scholars of Cooper’s work, clearly laying out the argument with which he is about to disagree. And in that respect, he wastes no time naming his purpose for writing, declaring in the first sentence that the thinkers quoted at the outset are “far from right” in their estimation of Cooper’s talents. This kind of concision is to be encouraged in college writing, particularly for new students who often indulge in lengthy introductions as a way of coming to terms with their own thoughts on a subject.

Regardless of Twain’s sincerity in delivering his eighteen rules of romantic fiction (and the validity of these rules), the process of presenting one’s evidence in logical, linear fashion is one of the tenets of academic writing, and often proves difficult for beginners to grasp. Of course, simply numbering the stages of one’s argument would be inappropriate in a finished humanities paper, but Twain’s list suggests an effective prewriting exercise for students of all levels: mapping out the fundamentals of one’s argument before (or while) attempting to weave them into a coherent whole.

In addition, some of Twain’s eighteen rules can act as helpful snippets of advice to writers who are entering academe. Numbers twelve through eighteen in particular (perhaps omitting seventeen) deal with Twain’s principle of the “economy of language.” A solid academic essay or article usually says just what it proposes to say, using just the right words, and in a straightforward style.

While Twain roots his essay in comedy, he approaches his textual evidence meticulously, pointing the reader to individual sentences or phrases and discussing each one before moving on. Indeed, there are moments of unexpected seriousness where Twain takes a break from levity to really drive home his critique of Cooper’s style. After the hilarious retelling of the five “Cooper Indians” who miss the boat, for instance, Twain soberly concludes that the scene “does not thrill, because the inaccuracy of details throw a sort of air of fictitiousness and improbability over it. This comes of Cooper’s inadequacy as observer.” Despite the comic understatement of the first sentence, Twain’s comment on Cooper’s lack of observation skills is pointed and succinct. Granted, most students will not be asked to write humor pieces for college. Nevertheless, beginning academic writers can learn a lot from Twain’s eye for detail and his systematic approach to a text.

It is not only as a model of an effective essay that “Fenimore Cooper’s Literary Offenses” would work well in a composition class for college freshman. It is a manageable, accessible, and enjoyable read, and this is the point at which Twain’s humor becomes just as important as his prose style. As mentioned above, the reader does not need to have read Cooper or to be an English major to laugh at Twain’s scathing insults. In fact, this satire of the literary canon can help make literary studies, and scholarly writing in general, less intimidating to those who are new to the game.

Link to essay: http://twain.lib.virginia.edu/projects/rissetto/offense.html

Inherent or Acquired? The Writing Process as a Learned Skill

Victor Villanueva and Kristin L. Arola’s opening statement that “writing is a process sounds pretty obvious” (1) leaves unanswered at least one fundamental question: To whom does it sound obvious? Granted, as teachers and tutors of writing, we have incorporated this notion of process into our everyday thoughts and activities to the point that it feels automatic. There is little reason to suppose, however, that the feeling is mutual for less experienced writers, especially those about to face college-level writing for the first time.

Personally, as an entering college freshman, I had never written a paper that was longer than ten or twelve pages, and that was only once, as a history research project. I had mostly been used to standard five- or six-page English papers that asked for close-readings of specified texts. My strategy, so to speak, was to churn out a paragraph, take a break, churn out another paragraph, take a break, and so on until I had reached the required page limit, at which point I would hasten to a conclusion and tie everything up neatly. I thought that outlines were busywork, and my only revision method was a quick spell check before I would print the paper, hand it in, and forget about it.

Of course, high-school homework assignments are an extreme example of a lack of concern for the writing process, and the expectations of my college professors forced me to rethink my strategy. But the point here is that I rethought my strategy only once the demands became greater and once I received some direction from my professors. I knew that outlines existed and were recommended, but I did not understand their value until I saw a context in which they were useful; I had no grasp of the larger concept of prewriting. Similarly, I equated “revision” with “proofreading” until the first time an English professor really tore apart one of my essays and sent me home to rewrite it. In other words, the pieces of process gradually came together, but not without guidance and some real-life examples of its application.

The idea of process as a “given” is championed by Donald M. Murray, who suggests that teachers can best expose their students to the writing process “[f]irst by shutting up. When you are talking he isn’t writing. And you don’t learn a process by talking about it, but by doing it… We have to be quiet, to listen, to respond… We have to be patient and wait, and wait, and wait” (5). Murray’s point that the most effective way to learn an active process is through engagement is well taken. But in order to recognize the process as it occurs, to really take advantage of it, I think that students should be told, at least to an extent, what it is they are “doing.” While I agree that open-ended assignments, such as those that allow unrestricted paper topics, are a great way to get students writing, contextualization of such assignments can provide a helpful framework in which to see their practical purpose.

Is process in writing a given? To many of us, yes. But not to all. That does not mean, however, that it cannot become a given relatively quickly.