Mountains Made Low

I finally sent my Christmas list out to my family this morning. The funny part is, I had a hard time thinking of books to put on it. This is a big screaming deal, since Mom is a bookstore manager, and buying me books for Christmas (and my birthday) is, generally speaking, part of her plan. I did come up with a few to put on the list (the first three of Jim Butcher’s Harry Dresden books, for example), but I noticed that I didn’t have much that I actually wanted to put on the list this year, and — in particular — I didn’t have any heavy, academic tomes to add. For someone who’s made the family go, “WTF?” in the past with such requests as the Liddle-Scott Greek Lexicon (a huge volume) and the two-volume Complete Works of Aristotle, this is a new and different feeling.

In part, it has to do with the fact that I’ve got the new books from three authors I really like who published in October and November this year — Under the Dome (Stephen King), Breathless (Dean Koontz), and Her Fearful Symmetry (Audrey Niffinenger). And it part it comes from the fact that my reading habits have really taken a nose dive in the second half of 2009 (were you wondering why I haven’t been keeping track of that New Year’s Resolution or posting about books any more?).

I have been reading some, again, lately, though. I’ve been on a sort of nonfiction kick. Or as I admitted to a friend the other night, I’m actually on a “people behaving badly and then writing about it kick.” I recently finished Tucker Max’s I Hope They Serve Beer in Hell (Tucker Max is a fair writer who’s built his writing career on the back of having lived some quite humorous stories), and have since moved on to Chelsea Handler’s My Horizontal Life (some 40 pages in, I’m not quite sure what to make of Handler, yet: Knowing that she’s a comedian in addition to her writing makes it hard to know what’s cynicism and what’s sarcasm in her work, and I’m having a difficult time with what’s funny because it’s true, much of which would then be funny and very sad simultaneously, and what’s funny because she wants to be funny, much of which is apparently not coming off in print; but we’ll see).

But I do know that today, I am getting written — and listening to oral — book reports from my developmental reading students. As a sample of what I’m looking for in the written report, I gave them all a slightly reworked version of what I wrote here about Arthur Nersesian’s Chinese Takeout. I remarked that when I talk about that class — book reports and vocabulary tests — I sound like I teach the 7th grade. And then I give them my analysis/review of a artfic novel as an example of what I’m looking for in the book report.

Yeah. This will go well!

This started as a comment on the previous post, but it got a little more involved than a comment, perhaps, should. It seems I’m just really annoyed by the very idea that “creativity” is somehow an all-encompassing excuse for the writing that a writing teacher doesn’t like. Interestingly, most students don’t try to pull this bullshit in my classes. Perhaps it’s because I’m clearer about my expectations; perhaps it’s because I’m more specific in my critiques; perhaps it’s because I can pull off no-nonsense in a straightforward and still none-to-aggressive manner.

Whatever its cause, though, it pisses me off (maybe my annoyance is a hold-over from the fact that most of my disciplinary colleagues under the broad umbrella rubric of English Studies still view what I do as somehow inferior or second-class) that students seem to think, at times, that expository writing — composition — or (dare I even say it?) nonfiction writing (because, at this level particularly, there is precious little “academic” about the writing) is somehow inferior to what they see as “creative” writing (you know, what some English professors see as the “real work” of English programs).

I know, of course, that there’s such a thing as creative nonfiction — hell, I teach it on occasion. But “creative” nonfiction is still about the “rules” of exposition and, to a lesser extent, argumentation. It just also applies more of the flavor of narration and more of the logic (if you’ll permit me) and sensibility of verité, of staged reality. Creative nonfiction, that is, is both Heideggerian and Baudrillardian. There’s the sense of “being there,” in nonfiction, a pervasive and inescapable dasein — if it’s done right. But there’s also a sense in which there’s no there there unless and until the creative piece is composed. The essay precedes its subject — logically, if not temporally. The representation creates the represented. Without the writing (as both act and product), there is no event.

The same might be said for the writing that happens in a comp class — even in a developmental one. But I doubt many would want to say it. Composition cannot be said to be creative; it is, though, (omg, more theory) disciplinary in Foucault’s sense. Though many of my colleagues in rhetoric and composition studies (my field, more narrowly construed) may shudder to hear me say it, composition courses are not about teaching students how to write; instead, they’re about teaching students how to be writers. Composition — developmental, first-year, advanced — is really no more or less than basic training (okay, advanced comp may be more like technical school, to extend that metaphor).

By this I mean that we tend to teach our students what it means — in the narrowest possible sense! — to be a writer. At these levels, our students, their writing, and therefore our instruction are (must be?) at their most rule-bound. It’s not, in comp, about what writers can do, under the correct circumstances, but about what those writers must do in order to make themselves understood. And, of course, it’s about what they must not do (at least at first).

Like it or not, we, in composition, discipline the nascent writer. We show them how knowledge is made, how information is conveyed, and how understanding is built and shared in the written text. This is not an attempt to quash “creativity” — no matter how much my last post may have made it seem so. Quite the opposite, in fact.

Creativity is the freedom the student-writer gains through this disciplinary process. Once any writer grasps the things that are not to be done, and why, they are free to focus on subverting the very rules they have first learned. They are free to bend the rules until the rules break, and then break the rules some more. But discipline must precede subversion, for it is logically impossible to subvert that of which we are unaware. Certainly and granted, we can break a rule unknowingly; true subversion of a rule, of a regulation, of a (gack!) hegemonic practice, though, requires that we know what it is we would subvert, know why it is we would subvert it, and understand in depth both how it can be effectively called into question and what is gained from questioning, from subverting, from breaking, and from — well — creating.

I know this has basically turned into a “my theory dick is as big as anyone’s despite the fact that my English PhD is only in Rhet/Comp” style rant. That is not the (main) point, however. Because even though I can, yes, waggle it with the best of ‘em, the main point from my previous post remains: Creativity — the idea of creative writing — is not the goal of composition, and, moreover, cannot be that goal. Most times, the idea of “creativity,” when cited by a student in a composition class, while invoked as a God-term that all English teachers/instructors/professors everywhere should recognize and do unquestioning homage to because the creation of and the study of creative writing (fiction and poetry in particular) are the real business of English studies and screw this composition thing, is most often, in reality, nothing more (or, in fairness, less) than a mask for the student’s laziness (or, to point back at the instructor a bit, the student’s lack of motivation).

Lacking the motivation, intrinsic or extrinsic, to learn the stuff of composition, these students play the card they think will work: “My writing is more creative.” And honestly, that pisses me off.

But perhaps I should be asking myself and my colleagues one other question: How can we address the lack of motivation that seems to be at the root of this matter with these students?

It’s been an interesting hiatus — a hiatus that has pretty seriously overlapped with the whole first half of the semester. I’d offer my thoughts on: new job, teaching six classes, going to meetings, actually being able to have some fun on the weekends, but even I’m having a difficult time giving a flying … well, y’know, about all of that right now.

Instead, I’m going to talk about something that came up, as content, in one of those mythical meetings.

Last night, I was meeting with the folks who teach developmental English around here, and one of them was talking (a lot) about her students and her experiences in the classroom. In particular, this one student who insists that he’s having so much trouble with the Developmental Writing class (and didn’t place into the college-level composition classes) because he’s “really more of a creative writer.”

And by “creative” writer, he means creative in the sense that I mean it when I talk about “creative driving” — that is, ur doin it rong.

I’m sorry, kids, but “creativity,” unlike love, does not cover a multitude of sins. Okay, well, maybe it does, but not the sort of agreement, parallelism, tense, mental-masturbation/stream-of-unconcsiousness sins you seem hell-bent on committing against yourself, your teachers, and the Language — the Logos, the Word — itself.

I’ve probably kvetched enough here. But know this: Claiming it’s “creative” is not a get out of jail free card — not least because this ain’t no creative writing class…even good creative writing would not be appropriate.

Teachers get to make the assignments, and decide if and how well you’ve done them. Hate to say it, but you — most of the time — don’t get a vote in that. And, when you’re in college, in particular, we don’t have to worry so much about trampling on your delicate little flower-like spirit, either.

So do the assignment, and do it well. And save your so-called creative writing. We don’t want or need it.

Surprisingly enough, this brief post is about work, not True Blood (which I’m watching on DVD at the moment), the Southern Vampire Mysteries books, or even my love life (or total lack thereof). Granted, it does touch on the characters of the former two, and may hint at the latter, but it’s really not about them. Really.

Call me Vampire Bill.

No, I have not taken up with a much younger, attractive, virginal blond cocktail waitress/telepath.

I’m not even saying, “I wish,” on that one.

But here’s the thing. A fact presented itself in my head the other day, a fact about my work, and the people I work with.

Since I started the new job (which, now that I mention it, I’m not sure I’ve even bothered to take the time to write about here, though the fact that I’ve been busy with it might explain at least part of my lack of having written much — if, that is, I hadn’t already stopped writing before I got the new job), I’ve noticed that though all of us basically work for someone else, the people I interact with the most in my work are — wait for it —

Eric. And Pam.

But our collective boss is not, I repeat not, Sophie-Anne. Nor is she a queen.

Like Bill Compton, though, I do work a lot with Eric and Pam.

So call me Vampire Bill.

I wrote a while back that there was at least one thing that I wasn’t talking about yet (not to be confused with the things I don’t talk about, in general). As of about 3:30 pm today, that thing was not resolved, but its resolution had moved 100% above my paygrade, so I feel okay talking about it now.

At 2:30 this afternoon, I had an interview — at my present institution, keep breathing — with my dean and the VP for Academic Affairs, for a different position here. It was my second interview (the first was about a week and a half ago, with the search committee). There are any number of local, office-politics reasons that I have played this close to the vest up to now, which I really won’t go into more than the simple acknowledgment I’ve just given. But now, there’s precious little more I can do. In honesty, all I can do is wait.

I wasn’t sure what to expect of this interview, quite honestly, because no one here remembers ever having seen a second-round interview before. That’s well and good — because I got the sense that the VP (who’s new this year) really wants to take a more active role in — and perhaps make more informed decisions regarding — faculty hiring than did her predecessor(s). Perhaps particularly when hiring the faculty for what she considers key roles for the future and the mission of the college — which this position certainly is.

So anyway, I had my second interview today. And I feel like it went very well. But now, I’ve done all I can, and the decision is out of my hands. And will probably take another week or so.

By then, I’ll be involved in teaching my summer classes. Which doesn’t matter one way or the other, in terms of this position, but at least it will give me something to focus on for the next week or so, rather than obsessing over the potential of the new job.

I’ve completed my first stint on the “committee” side of the hiring table.

Well, completed may be slightly too strong a word. Because there’s always — until a candidate is hired — the possibility that we will have more work to do. But for now….

We interviewed four candidates in three days this week: One on Monday, one yesterday, and two today. We discussed our thoughts and impressions pretty well along the way, and we met for a while this afternoon to sort out what we wanted to do, in terms of a recommendation to the administration. Of course, there are two members of the committee that still need to give their input, but what emerged this afternoon was not a voted outcome, but a consensus. Hopefully, as the other two committee members give their feedback, this will continue to be the case.

It really is a different experience, in terms of sitting across from the candidate, rather than being the candidate. I’m pretty sure I like it, but maybe it’s just the feeling of not being on the hot seat that makes it feel so enjoyable.

It’s truly good to be staying put, and I really did enjoy the other side of the table.

Monday morning, 9:15 am.

It’s finals week. Which, as I may have noted before, is a little different here than any place else I’ve ever taught or been a student. We don’t have a wacky finals week schedule here, to keep track of — just the regular schedule of the semester, and we are expected to meet with each class at least once during the (most commonly two) scheduled times.

So here’s what I’m doing this week.

Monday
2:30-3:30 Dual-Enrollment Task Force (some committees still meet, too)
3:30-4:50 Last Workshop session with my Creative Writing Class

Tuesday
10:30-12:50 Conferences with my Intro. to College Composition students (optional)
2:00-3:20 Final, group presentations from my Effective Speaking class (three presentations)
3:30-4:50 Final meeting with my Technical Writing class (all work due)

Wednesday
2:00-5:00 Creative writing “final”; public reading by students (portfolio of work due)

Thursday
10:30-12:50 Final Meeting with my Intro. to College Composition class (all work due)
2:00-3:50 Final, group presentations from my Effective Speaking class (three presentations)

Friday
Evening: Commencement exercises (faculty attendance requested and required)

And in and among all of that, as the work starts pouring in: Grading, grading, and more grading.

Also, of course, the plain old stuff of life.

Hooray for finals week!