Mountains Made Low

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.

When I was updating regularly in the first half of this year, about my new year’s resolutions, I noted that, to my chagrin, I hadn’t been watching as many movies as I had planned and I doubted whether I’d make my resolution goal of 50. I still have my doubts, though too many nights like the last couple may well turn that around.

The last movie I wrote about here was Caprica, the direct-to-DVD Battlestar Galactica prequel film, which was released to whet viewers’ appetites for the new series on SyFy (don’t get me started). That was at the end of June, and was film #20 at about the time #25 should have been rolling in.

I haven’t written about a movie since. But I will be soon. Because I’m now six (count ‘em) movies behind on the writing. Since then Caprica (and actually much more recently than that — July was pretty much movie-free), I have watched Iron Man, V for Vendetta, Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, Star Trek, Hancock, and Crashing (cue the Sesame Street “One of These Things is Not Like the Others” music). A little geeky, to be sure. But I’ve enjoyed them.

So, while I know that for some of you, the movie reviews are not your favorite posts in the world, I’m going to write #21 through #26 soon. And I may well slip seven behind before I get to writing them. Who knows?

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.

No sweeping proclamations about being “back” today. That’s bitten me in the backside more than once this summer already. But here’s a new post for the first time in a long while.

What have I been doing since last I posted (regularly), you might find yourself asking. The most accurate answer to that question that I can come up with is, simply put: I’m not quite sure.

I’ve been teaching summer classes; that’s all over but the grading. I’ve been jumping headlong into the new lead faculty job at work (working several hours per day on staffing and scheduling beyond the summer teaching). I’ve watched a couple of movies (Iron Man and V for Vendetta — let’s hear it for comic book movies). I don’t think I’ve finished any books (I am reading Dean Koontz’s Relentless and Fyodor Dostoyevsky’s The Brothers Karamazov — schizoid, I know). I haven’t written a thing. It’s been a while since I’ve been on a date, but I have been spending time with friends regularly. I’ve gone to Mom and Dad’s four times in the past 3½ weeks. I’ve started watching True Blood on DVD, and I do have some thoughts to share about that a later date.

So I guess that something — a number of somethings. But it feels like the past five or six weeks have really been a blur.

We’ll see where things go from here — though I’m planning, at this point, on being able to be able to take at least three days of my last week of summer off (not in a row, though, that would be too easy). Then “start-up week” starts on the 17th and fall classes start on the 24th.

And I’m still here.

Ish.

That’s what I’m missing.

From MilkandCookies.com.

Yep. Must find a cool product.

A while ago, I wrote about the Microsoft ad featuring a “real person” named Lauren. If you remember, Lauren was on a mission to purchase a new notebook computer with a 17″ screen, for under $1000. She ended up picking one that met these two requirements (no mention of her choice’s other specs, though we were led — likely misled — to believe that it was pretty tricked out in terms of RAM and hard drive capacity, too).

Anyway, Apple fired back. With their Web ad entitled “elimination,” in which a computer shopper names the features she wants in her computer, and the helpful (you really do feel bad for him, sometimes) PC helps her to select the right PC for her, finally conceding to the Mac, “She’s all yours.”

Here’s “Elimination”: