Theories of composing develop in response to a problem or an effort to understand a phenomenon. The readings for this week, also, seem to suggest that theories of composition develop along a process of conception, application, revision of conception, application, revision etc.
Rohman's and Wlecke's theory does begin with a problem-why students write poorly--and their study is an effort to offer an answer and propose a solution, but they do follow a model of conceiving how they believe students compose, applying it (although we are not privy to their methodology and results which is a weakness of the piece, in my humble opinion), and then revising it. They begin with the idea of "concept transference" and then discover that students cannot simply choose a concept from the ones they have been given by society because they are not truly their concepts and therefore relatively meaningless. Thus, they revise their theory to define the three things that allow for effective concept-formation. Their theory of composition evolves as does any good piece of writing.
Emig's "The Composing Processes of Twelfth Graders" begins with a literature review of the three broad composing processes in an effort to understand the way adolescents write. Each can contribute a certain kind of data, but Emig also focuses on the disadvantages of using just that process as a way of understanding student writing. Accounts from experienced writers, for example, often focus on the feelings of writers about the difficulty of writing and don't actually discuss the act of writing itself. Even the next broad process, dialogue between writer and respondent, is limited for the way it also does not deal with the entire process of writing, but does handle revision a great deal. With his discussion of outside of analyses of the evolution of pieces and rhetoric and composition textbooks, he also indicates what that kind of perspective offers and what it cannot offer. And, with his empirical research about adolescent writing, Emig shows the places that these perspectives do not hold true with students writers. It seems to me that the practical application of a theory to something is what allows the theory to evolve and be re-conceived.
In terms of Fulkerson's piece, what I liked about his discussion of the four philosophies of rhetoric is the idea that it makes composition theory more thoughtful; different kinds of writing call for different methods of evaluation and call for different pedagogical practices. In light of the disadvantages that some of theses pieces outline about any given theory, having a four-pronged perspective seems more useful because it gives a more comprehensive view of composition, rather than focusing on only one angle of composition. He writes of the four philosophies, "Each would provide…both a description of the composition process and a method of evaluating the composed product" (430). Writing changes with the purpose and the audience, so it makes sense to me that the theory we apply to that composition shift accordingly as well.
The advantages of having a composing theory is that it is a way to understand a part of the act of composing. Theory provides a lens through which to view things, and that influences our pedagogical choices and the way we guide students through the writing act, and respond to their writing. In addition, because theories offer us a particular window through which to view composition, it also offers us a kind of terministic screen (to bring Burke into this): a set of guiding key words/principles that helps us organize and process knowledge and our life experiences. But, one of the biggest advantages these pieces offer is the belief that having a composing theory allows us to have more focused teaching practices that can help students achieve what perspective that offers on what it means to compose.
Composition theories are, I think, developed out of *epistemology*. It was evident especially in Emig and Rohman/Wlecke that before a theory of composition could materialize, ideas of knowing must first be presented. In the development of composition theories, concepts of knowledge/idea development, transferance, and application are key.
Leigh mentioned that Rohman/Wlecke addressed a problem, Emig looked for practical application, and Fullerson noted rhetorical purpose—I think all of these things point to the idea of *goals*. In order to develop a theory of composing, one must envision what the goal[s] or mission[s] for composing might be. Rohman/Wlecke write, “We approached writing with the ‘liberal’ assumption that the basic reason we taught students to write was to allow them greater self-actualization through better thinking, ‘to live more abundantly’” (219). A theory of composing might envelop multiple goals for the act of composing, but some idea of what these goals are must be articulated.
Before one can have goals of what composition should do, one must have a clear idea of what composition is. Almost all the pieces we read for this week have articulated definitions or descriptions of what composing is. Rohman /Wlecke’s theory, for example, lays out a clear definition of writing as an activity of transformation and actualization (223). Susan Miller paraphrases Emig’s for us—writing is “a process of finding and developing ideas” (228).
Fulkerson discusses the relationship of writing goals, writing definitions, and theory development much better than me: “[O]ne’s philosophy about what writing is for leads to a theory of what constitutes good writing. That philosophy, in turn, leads to a concept of pedagogical goals, and the goals lead, in turn, to classroom procedures” (433). So, it’s all kind of tangled up together—our beliefs of what writing should do, what good writing is, what we should teach and how…it’s a recursive (at its best) system of developing and refining a lasting theory of composition that can be practically applied.
Another necessary component in the materialization of a theory of composing is *data, evidence, and/or experience.* Emic and Rohman/Wlecke conducted methodological studies. Belanoff, Schreiner, and Elbow reflected on their experiences composing and teaching composition. Berlin and Fulkerson pulled from historical data. Resourcing data gives the composition theory a grounds for practice.
Leigh mentioned advantages to applying a theory, to focus our teaching practices and help students achieve. I agree that teaching specifically from a single theory will ground one’s teaching practices and help students (Fulkerson convinced me of that). I don’t know at this point if there’s a single published teaching philosophy to which I can commit (mostly just because I don't know much). I can see advantages to teaching from any strong theory of composition. I think strong theories share several characteristics. One is that they *participate within a larger conversation*--all of our readings talked across theory boundaries to borrow, critique, and revise other theoretical approaches. Another characteristic of a strong composition theory is that it acknowledges an awareness of and concern for *distribution of power, agency, and accessibility* in a composing process. These concerns came out especially in Schreiner’s response to Emig and Berlin’s overview of ideology in the classroom, but underlies all the readings we did this week. A strong composition theory must also be *flexible*, and allow for change (Schreiner mentions pluralism). Finally, in his review, Elbow wrote: “I don’t see much hope of overcoming the tendency of literary scholars to condescend to the field of composition till composition scholars stop using canned intellectual history” (936). While he’s not talking specifically about theories, I think his words make sense, and I think a strong theory of composing, if written by a rhet/comp scholar, should represent the field of rhet/comp well.
After reading the excerpts and articles presented for this week, it seems to me that one of the chief methods for developing a theory of composing/composition is to look for what has been left out and to create a theory as a counterargument for an already established theory. For example, Rohman and Wlecke realize that there is not an emphasis on the discovery phase of writing and push for what is often referred to as pre-writing or planning to be valued more in process of composing. They posit that this is the most important phase. Later Emig decides to look at a group (high school seniors) that has not been studied to form her theories about composition, which suggest that students need more experience writing in the reflexive/expressive form. How does she come to the conclusion that the reflexive/expressive needs to be valued? She feels that it is missing from the writing of the students she studied. In Elbow’s review essay of Jeanette Harris’s Expressive Discourse, it is clear from Elbow’s remarks that Harris is attempting to provide an argument against expressive writing and to provide an alternative to expressionism. In Berlin’s essay on forms of rhetoric, the same approach to developing a composition theory is employed. Berlin pointedly describes the two dominant forms of rhetoric—cognitive and expressionistic—and the makes an argument for a third form—social-epistemic rhetoric—that he finds to be the best of the three. Schreiner looks at Emig’s study and feels that Emig is only looking at one type of student and making assumptions about that student based on a very different model (the professional writer) and decides that writing is more than the expressive; it can serve different needs for different writers for different occasions. The two Schreiner pieces present a hybrid of the two ways of developing a theory; Schriener saw a gap in Emig’s work and produced a counterargument against expressionistic writing.
Both of these approaches to developing a theory of composition result in a perceived deficiency in the dominant culture of composition at the time of inception for the theory. The first approach described above, which the Rohman and Wlecke and Emig pieces adhere to, do not discredit other approaches. They point out a missing piece of the puzzle and examine the possible value for including that piece in the pedagogy for teaching writing. This approach leaves room for other theories. Harris and Berlin’s approach, however, attempts to place theories of composition at odds with one another and eradicate the older theories. Essentially, this approach takes the Highlander ideology, “There can be only one.” The first-approach can be somewhat overwhelming, because it provides another option for teaching composition. To the frustrated teacher it can feel like one more thing that he/she must do. The second-approach may be less overwhelming as it allows the teacher to define him/herself clearly (or at least that is the hope).
Richard Fulkerson’s piece “Four Philosophies of Composition” does not really develop a theory of composition. Instead it speaks to the pedagogy of the writing teacher and the importance of knowing what composition theory guides said teacher. Having a strong sense of identity as a writer and pedagogy as a teacher of writing is, in theory, supposed to make it easier to teach writing, or at least to assess it. Fulkerson’s piece speaks to this idea when he writes, “The problem was not [Charles Silberman] said, that evil or incompetent people were in charge but that educators exhibited a consistent mindlessness about relating means to desired ends” (p. 430). Fulkerson later writes, “My research has convinced me that in many cases composition teachers either fail to have a consistent value theory or fail to let that philosophy shape pedagogy” (p. 434).
Both Elizabeth and Leigh point toward the development of a theory coming about as response to a problem. This could certainly be the case. However, one then must consider Fulkerson's piece. According to Fulkerson the main problem with composition theories is a teacher not adhering to the rules prescribed by the theory he/she prescribes to (an assessment problem or an unclear assignment). While the problem may prompt analysis/research in theories, it seems to me that theories come to be when a there is a gap that needs to be filled or when a current theory fails to propose a viable solution for that problem. In other words, a problem can lead to investigation which may or may not lead to a new theory. Does that make sense???
Like Angie notes, many theories of composition begin with a description of those theories that have already been central to the field. In addition to offering a review of the scholarly conversation and an effort to identify its missing pieces, I think these surveys also provide a way of synthesizing existing definitions of what a composition is/should be in the writing classroom. Though all of these theories seem to center on the teaching of writing, these theories almost always begin with a clarification about the type of writing being valued. Though Rohman and Wecke are concerned with pre-writing, invention and the cognitive processes involved in concept transference, their theory also demands that teachers create writing prompts that encourage personal investment and reflection. Emig advocates a type of teaching that conceives of the student as an artist or creator by assigning reflexive writing. The discussions between Belanoff, Shreiner and Pradl circle around Schreiner’s questions of what constitutes “writer” and “writing.” Elbow defends what he sees as an attack on Expressivism and personal writing. Berlin examines the ideologies embedded in certain types of writing assignments and pedagogies. Fulkerson classifies composition theories into four types depending on what type of writing is valued. He argues that the multiplicity of composition theories is fine, perhaps necessary, that different types of writing and writing situations require different theories of writing, but that teachers of writing often mistakenly assign a writing task that seems to follow one theory of writing but then respond to it with another theory of writing. For instance, he argues, asking students to write about themselves and their opinions but then treating these compositions rhetorically is potentially confusing. In general, theories of composition seem to stem from 1. Observation (either research as in Emig’s case studies or the personal daily observations in the classroom as in Belanoff). 2. Personal stories and feelings either about ones own writing, the teaching of writing or composition scholarship. (Elbow’s complaints that he is being “beat about the head and shoulders” with perjorative and oversimplistic definitions of “expressive discourse” and Belanoff’s belabored description of how Shreiner’s essay made her “feel sad”). 3. A survey of or response to existing composition theory (Nearly everyone falls into this category, though perhaps Berlin more than others). 4. Borrowed theories from “sister arts and sciences” (Fulkerson’s application of literary theory to composition, Emig’s, discussed in Shreiner’s essay, use of theories of music composition to describe the writing process). 5. A survey of writer’s discussions of their writing processes (Emig). For me, Fulkerson’s approach seemed to be the most realistic because it both accounts for inevitable and appropriate disagreement about what should constitute student writing and writing instruction, but also outlines ways of circumventing the confusion the results from a field with many conflicting theories about what the field itself is and what it produces. Many of my worst teaching moments have, I think, resulted from assignments in which the type of writing I wanted students to produce was unclear. In FYC classes, I, particularly in my first year, assigned essays that probably seemed “expressive” and “formalist” to students but which I thought were clearly “rhetorical.” “Why did I get a ‘C’ on this when it’s my opinion??” In creative writing classes, I was often conceiving of writing as “expressive” and “formalist” when students were thinking of it as “mimetic,” “BUT it really happened that way!” or “rhetorical,” “I really wanted to express my ideas about euthanasia in this story!”
I see theories of composition growing primarily out of crises in pedagogy, real or perceived. For most of the authors we read for today, the first building block of a theory of composition is "why has composition failed us thus far?" Rohman and Wlecke begin their article with "Why do students write poorly?" Isn't this the backbone of any theory of composition? And from there one generally has to interrogate the question to find out what we mean when we say a student writes poorly and what we expect to see when a student writes well. (As Fulkerson writes, these two prerogatives are often at odds - what he calls "modal confusion" - in which an instructor asks for a certain kind of product but evaluates that product with an inappropriate rubric.) Should the student have grammatically flawless writing? Should they adequately express themselves? Should they be trying to convince the audience of something? Can we do just one of these things or should a student writer be able to master all of them simultaneously?
Basically, what a theory of composition needs is a specific goal in mind. What is it we mean the students to learn? What should students get from composition? What CAN they get? Having a nebulous idea that we are teaching them to "write well" is insufficient as we can see: it leads us in no specific direction. If we know exactly what we want a student to be able to do, we have a better idea of what we should teach. The advantage of having a certain perspective is that your goals are very clear and your framework is very clear. This helps both the students and the instructors understand what each is responsible for. There is no murky gray area of “bad teacher” vs. “lazy student” when the boundaries of what both expect are defined by a clear theory of composition.
Part of the problem with developing a theory of composition, especially from a pedagogical perspective, is that there is no single use for writing. Laying aside the kind of post-modern concerns of the author-text relationship (can there be a "correct" text!?), I think it is fair to evaluate composition on the basis of its effectiveness to its purpose. If my goal is grammatically air-tight prose, then fine: I will evaluate on that basis. Or if I mean to be passionately expressivist, then sure: the vividness of the experience will weigh heavily in my evaluation. The challenge, then, is to develop a pedagogy that can speak across purposes. Is this possible, though, given the logistical constraints of a classroom?
I agree with both Angie and Marian that theories of composition seem to emerge from two primary questions: what are the current problems in the field; and what do we value in writing? All of the essays we read for this week dealt, to some extent, with these two components.
Berlin, for instance, surveys significant theories in the field and analyzes their limitations before he proposes his own theoretical intervention. Cognitive rhetoric and expressionistic rhetoric, Berlin argues, can too easily serve the interests of a “ruling economic elite.” By denying its connection to ideology and relying too heavily on rationality and a linear/hierarchical composing processes, Cognitive rhetoric reifies the existing class system. Expressionistic rhetoric does not evade its ideological position, but nevertheless alienates and marginalizes the individual, fracturing any sense of organized, coherent resistant to the dominant arrangement. Resistance, Berlin notes, is “always construed in individual terms,” and he sees this as a primary flaw of expressionism. Expressionistic rhetoric promotes a “quest” for self-discovery, something Berlin would agree with, but this quest often leads to a reification of capitalistic values and an obsession with consumer culture. In this ideology, self-expression often presents as consumer behavior; so one finds a “self” by wearing Nike as opposed to Adidas; one becomes, in essence, a “self” comprised of commodities, and thus one is not truly liberated.
Berlin advocates for social-epistemic rhetoric, which favors a historicist orientation and the presupposition that “all arguments arise in ideology,” and knowledge is “an arena of ideological conflict.” This ideology, Berlin feels, offers the most potential for resistance. Citing Ira Shor’s work, Berlin maintains that students will ideally evolve from “manipulated objects into active, critical subjects” (Shor 97).
I find social-epistemic rhetoric fascinating, but I have some problems with it. For one, I’m uncomfortable with Shor’s idea that “students must be taught to identify the ways in which control over their own lives have been denied them, and denied in such a way that they have blamed themselves for their powerlessness” (680). This seems like an ideology of victimization. What’s more troubling is this notion that teachers should tell students how to feel about society, self, and their position in the world. This is gamboling on thin ice, right? Shor’s classroom seems to be a breeding ground for Marxist-inflected social activism. Suggesting that students suffer from various modes of “false consciousness” indicates that the teacher knows the path to “real” consciousness. I don’t feel comfortable establishing that sort of hierarchy in the classroom, nor do I believe the classroom is the place for overt indoctrination.
But to answer the question of how a theory of composition is formed—Berlin first identifies a value, what he sees as the ultimate goal of composition and education. He asserts that “the liberated consciousness of students is the only educational objective worth considering” (682). So his pedagogy, his approbation of social-epistemic rhetoric, is a form of problem solving—this rhetoric comes closest to meeting his goal in the classroom. To back up further, Berlin first addresses a problem that he sees in teaching composition—most pedagogies either ignore ideology, or promote an ideology that reaffirms capitalist values. No style of teaching is innocent, he argues. Having established the primacy of ideology, he then chooses a pedagogy that foregrounds a particular ideology in service of his goal of “liberated consciousness.” This is the main stalk of his theory from which all other thoughts on composition grow.
Richard Fulkerson’s theory of composing also redresses specific problems in the field: the “bewildering variety” of composition courses, the “back-to-basics cry”, and the place of “dialect” in the classroom. He identifies four major philosophies (interesting that he stays away from the word ideology) all of which are centered around a value theory.
In other words, creating a theory of composition begets the question: what do you value? Expressive, mimetic, rhetorical, and formalist philosophies may share methodologies but emphasize unique values. For Fulkerson, one reaches a theory of composition by first deciding on a philosophy, which in turn leads to a notion of what “constitutes good writing,” which leads to pedagogical goals, and then finally to classroom procedures. I’m not sure I entirely agree with this formulation. How does one decide upon an initial philosophy to initiate this sequence? Wouldn’t the sequence begin with defining “good writing,” and then finding a suitable philosophy that might yield such writing?
I was very interested in Fulkerson’s conclusions. He decides the major problem in the classroom isn’t a lack of philosophies but “modal confusion.” Composition instructors often teach one value judgment and then employ a different value judgment when evaluating a student’s work. In other words, if you give an expressivist writing assignment, but evaluate it in terms of a formalist perspective you are showing bad faith with your students.
Rohman and Wlecke also address a series of problems: how do we motivate students to take ownership over their writing, and make them want to write and not merely fulfill assignments. Their research leads to a theory of composition which prioritizes a writer’s self-actualization. This philosophy emphasizes invention and imagination. Bad writing is usually the result of a lack of engagement in the process of discovery, so the student’s writing reflects inherited ideas and forms rather than demonstrating his or her own unique perspective of the world and the subject.
Peter Elbow’s expressivist theory of composition addresses a problem in the classroom of teachers ignoring invention in favor of formalist values. His theory stems from a belief that students should understand and, by extension, experiment with various types of discourse that suit particular audiences and particular purposes. Students should therefore engage in both pragmatic and aesthetic writing. Jeanette Harris, on the other hand, believes in the primacy of the audience. One of her critiques of expressionism is that a student cannot write for an audience of “self.”
Lastly, as I realize this post has run too long, I want to draw attention to an interesting tension in the formulation of composition theories. Elbow objects to being pigeon-holed by Harris as “expressive.” He objects to being put in a box and labeled. Such practices, he believes, lead to an oversimplification of the history of rhetoric. What’s interesting to me is that all of these essays, to some extent, insist upon categorization; indeed these essays are well nigh obsessed with cataloguing, defining, demarcating, and categorizing philosophies. Even Berlin, who resists a positivistic, over-structured, goal-seeking pedagogy, breaks the field down into “discreet units” only to discuss them in hierarchical terms. It’s therefore strange (or maybe refreshing) to hear Elbow rebuke categorization.
Leigh and Elizabeth did a good job summarizing and pointing out the important parts of these articles, and like Angie, Marian, and Larkin, I think there's no question that when we (anyone) are developing a theory of composition we have to start with what's already been done to (a)define "good" composition and (b)theorize how to achieve that. I don't have much to add to this - I think together they've answered the question well (from my perspective, anyway).
So instead of rehashing what they've already done, I'll speak to some specific points that were made by Elizabeth and Marian, because they both alluded to the Elbow article, which for my money was the most interesting (and also salient to the above question) article this week.
Elizabeth has already pointed to my favorite moment when she said, "Finally, in his review, Elbow wrote: 'I don’t see much hope of overcoming the tendency of literary scholars to condescend to the field of composition till composition scholars stop using canned intellectual history' (936)." This, as we know, is in the context of Elbow's understandable resistance to Harris's book on the basis of her using "oversimplifications hastily created" for the "central building blocks of her argument" (936).
I'll point here to Marian's observation that Elbow in his review is defending "what he sees as an attack on Expressionism and personal writing." While I think there's no valid argument against this (i.e., that expressionism often serves as a punching bag), doesn't it seem that Elbow cares more about how people critique expressionism than that expressionism serves as the object of critique? Meaning, isn't Elbow expressing greater concern for the health of rhet/comp as a field than for the status of his (for all intents and purposes) theoretical baby? Sure, we think of expressionism when we think of Elbow, and vice versa, but isn't that exactly the kind of oversimplification (which I've clearly already done) that he's talking about?
The problem Elbow sees is that Harris's work (with the implication that others do it as well) is that she relies on convenient generalizations instead of fulfilling her "obligation to understand it and to present it more accurately" (935).
My point (I think) is that, to be legit, a given composition theory has to be (as Gere's historical account was) inherently compensatory to the complexities of (a) what "composition" means, (b) who does it mean it to, and (c) why does it mean this (which here goes back to Berlin).
It's pretty clear what the advantage of such an approach would be (besides the fact that you wouldn't get called out publicly by in-field superstars) a clearer understanding of past practices and beliefs, the circumstances in which they became manifest, and the potential applications for present/future circumstances. In other words, why did it used to work this way (what were the real, practical motivations) and how have the changes since then determined what now should be done? For me, that is the exciting part.
Answering questions about what we do when we compose or what we do when we teach composition requires three things in particular: identifying ourselves as instructors within composition classes, identifying who our students are in these classes, and locating these two parties within a classroom. Our theories of composition, it seems, must do these three things to varying degrees and at different scales -- otherwise we’d risk claiming to know everything about everything -- totally not epistemologically cool within Composition studies. From the perspectives of the Compositionists that we read for today, the classroom becomes a locus of engagement across which a wide variety of conflicting, yet vested, interests in writing instruction converge. All of these interests have something to say in response to: Who sits in these classrooms? How are the courses labeled? Who teaches these courses? What do we teach? Where is this teaching occurring? Are these students in the “eleventh hour”of their academic careers? Are they Lynns? Tonys? Quentins? or Nates? (All famous students featured in the work of Compositionists)
Our imagining of these students comes across perhaps most clearly in a recent thread on the WPA listserve. Here, we see our field’s interest in the historically located and our special ability to romanticize these individual students -- students that have become representative of larger groupings of students. Students like Lynn from The Composing Practices of Twelfth Graders, have been critical in shaping pedagogy, theories of composition, and the teachers who put these theories into practice. As we (re)imagine ourselves as teacher, our students, and the locations of our pedagogical practices, we (re)align ourselves in relation to the vested interests that converge within writing classrooms. This alignment is, I think, what a theory of composition establishes.
These theories of composition are developed not from the outside looking in, but from the inside looking out. They are developed as a means by which we can locate ourselves, our students, and our classrooms both in terms of practice and theory -- or as Fulkerson puts it “goals and procedure.”As Leigh points out, this often takes the form of “a response to a problem” or “an effort to understand a phenomenon.”For example, Rohman and Wlecke identify both a “general” and a “specific” problem that ultimately boils down to the fact that “most of the concepts that people hold they have inherited rather than formed for themselves.” In their definition of writing as “a person’s transformation of the events of his life into experienced conceptual structures revealed in language for the sake of his own self-actualization and for communication with other persons through commonly shared patterns of meaning,” Rohman and Wlecke are careful to keep the writing instructor and the student within the classroom -- the “groping” that they look at is all school-sponsored-groping.
Here, I am not saying that this is a bad thing by any means. I am working towards the observation that these authors claim to have special knowledge through through the theories of writing that they put forth. These theories, however, are careful to align themselves within the weft of power structures and vested interests that intersect across writing classrooms. In doing so, teacher, student, and classroom as location or writing activity are all clearly articulated . . . imagined. The advantages of these approaches to developing a theory of composition are many. In particular, however, they save these authors from needing to claim access to some kind of universal truth. Although, many seem to be making blanket statements about all writing, at the end of the day they can really only be taken to task for that which occurs within the classroom, in front of the student, and under the tutelage of the writing instructors that they articulate across these texts.
As Stephen suggested, the consensus of the group appears to be that a theory of composing is developed in response to whatever the field deems to be the “problem” with how composition is currently treated pedagogically, and as Marian states, the first step to solving the problem is determining the purpose of writing and what kind(s) of writing should be valued in a composition classroom. Marian also does an excellent job of summarizing the various research methods employed by the various authors we read for this week. I was struck by how remarkably different these methods were (empirical, theoretical, and anecdotal). We’ve been discussing this is our Research Methods course, but it’s pretty clear that a theory of composing is heavily reliant on the kinds of research the given theorist values. The more empirical articles, like Emig’s, emphasized practical methods that would improve the process students utilize to produce writing, while the more theoretical pieces, like Fulkerson’s and Berlin’s, promote that the composing instructor and the composer understand how both are situated within a greater context in the hopes of producing texts that are more capable of altering that context. The advantages to adopting and practicing a theory of composing, as Stephen and Larkin indicate, is a more textured (to steal a term from Elizabeth) understanding of what ought to be expected from our students and the texts that they produce. As Berlin illustrates, no pedagogy is innocent; we purport and reinscribe ideologies with our instruction techniques, the papers we assign, and our methods of evaluation. However, I also believe it is necessary for our students to understand 1) what our particular composing theory/theories is/are (after all, academic success is their primary goal and to achieve that they should know how we define or value writing) and 2) that there are indeed multiple theories and perspectives of how “good writing” is defined, within our own discipline and across fields. From this, they will (hopefully) be better prepared to adapt their composing techniques to whatever the exigence might be, and isn’t that our ultimate goal as instructors: to teach them to produce the most effective texts in response to a given assignment or situation?
I agree with Elizabeth that theories of composition begin with epistemology. Beliefs about where knowledge comes from and how it is made are rooted in two key terms from our readings for today, ideology and assumption. I want to agree generally with Berlin’s beginning claim that “rhetoric is … always already ideological” (667), which is to say, there is no objective position outside of ideology where we can stand and examine ideologies rhetorically. I don’t think much more needs to be said on that here in light of our discussions last week about composition being always culturally situated.
What I want to examine more closely is the idea of assumptions. Assumptions are, of course, also ideological, but they are a more specific kind of thing that simply broad ideologies. All of the readings for this week addressed the idea of assumptions as the basis for any theory of composition, some more explicitly than others. Building on Elizabeth’s discussion of epistemology, assumptions about composition and writing stem from how we think of knowledge and knowledge making.
Rohman and Wlecke elucidate the idea of assumptions and their connection to theories of composition most clearly. Specifically they identify the importance of being clear about one’s own assumptions about what composition is, what it should be, how it should be taught, etc. “The most that can be done, it seems to us, is frankly to state your philosophy of writing, and within those frontiers establish whatever methodological and pedagogical laws seems appropriate … We have tried to be more conscious of what we were assuming, and more careful to state that our methods followed from our assumptions” (221).
I think this is a good starting point, but I’m not at all convinced that it is “[t]he most that can be done.” The discussion of process pedagogy that dominated a good portion of our readings for today would seem to support the idea that this is a good idea as a starting point, but there is more that needs to be done to develop a conscientious and useful composition theory. Once your assumptions are stated as clearly and honestly as possible, the next step should be to examine and test these assumptions for some kind of correctness or usability. Although, of course, we come back to ideology in terms of determining any such thing. Ideally, we should be open to letting go of any of our assumptions that prove faulty, but realistically, I think everyone has assumptions so deeply ingrained that abandoning them isn’t even seen as an option.
This brings me to the next idea about assumptions that seems to predominate the readings. Here, I’m specifically referring to the Emig/Shreiner/Belanoff/Pradl sequence. In reading the responses and responses to responses, it seemed clear to me that it is far easier to point out and critique someone else’s assumptions than to successfully identify and grapple with our own. This point is, I think, both obvious and incredibly frustrating.
In order to grapple with this, I want to propose a metaphor drawn from quantum mechanics, a subject in which my knowledge is statistically equivalent to zero. I think I sometimes choose scientific metaphors exactly because I know so little about the vagaries and complexities of the subject that the basic ideas seem fairly simple. In this case, I want to abuse Heisenberg’s Uncertainty Principle for my own ends. Simply put, the uncertainty principle refers to the idea that for certain pairs of phenomena (e.g. momentum and position) it is impossible to measure them both accurately at the same time, and further, the more accurately you measure one, the less accurately it is possible to measure the other.
What I see in the readings on process pedagogy is a sort of uncertainty principle of assumptions. The more painstakingly and precisely you examine and deconstruct one assumption, the less you will be aware of one or more other assumptions upon which your whole examination is based. So, inevitably, another reader will be able to identify those assumptions that you have missed and proceed to deconstruct them. In turn, someone else will be able to point out this reader’s assumptions. Repeat ad nauseum.
So, to return to Rohman and Wlecke, I think the best we can do is try to identify and examine our assumptions, examine and test them, and then be ready and willing to consider the feedback we receive that will inevitably bring to light other assumptions we had not originally considered.
This is getting quite long, and I realize I haven’t really addressed the question of advantages or how theories of composition relate to pedagogy, or even the specific ideas of writing and composition. Briefly, I see the most advantage in a theory that actively considers application in the classroom, its assumptions about the nature and goals of composition, and who our students are as writers. I think Katie said what I’m trying to get at much better in her first paragraph, though, so I’ll end by gesturing at her excellent triangulation of teacher, student, and classroom.
In addition to addressing “the current problem/crisis” as those before me mentioned, I also think that theories of composing are developed in an attempt to make sense out of what exactly happens when our students write (or compose). For me, this process is hard to explain and often difficult to articulate clearly. Have you ever had a student ask you how you write? It’s an interesting question to address right on the spot. What happens between brain and pencil/laptop/iPad? Can you articulate your own composing process? I think this is a tricky, yet necessary, task. And I think it’s an imperative one, especially if we are teaching students how to compose. I believe these theories of composition facilitate this task. They are developed 1) to inform and shape our practice (theory practice), and 2) to explain why we do what we do (practice theory).
For me, I see these scholars’ theories as an opportunity for them to articulate their explanation of the phenomenon, which echoes what Leigh said in her post. Our students’ composing processes are individual, and we can’t necessarily “see” what happens in their processes (and sometimes it’s difficult for them to articulate their own processes), so it’s often difficult for teachers to understand what’s going on and to help address the issues. These theories are an attempt to aid us in understanding how students—or anyone for that matter—compose.
I find that most students, when they walk into my class, are looking for a step-by-step plan for writing. They are often disheartened, and extremely frustrated, when I explain to them that it’s not simple, and unfortunately, there is no formulaic solution.
These theories attempt to help us understand what our students’ experience when they compose. They are rationalizations of phenomenon that most of us encounter as teachers. I think of one of my current students, my “Lynn,” who refuses to talk about anything personal because she’s not comfortable writing about herself. Rohman and Wlecke also express my concerns about my own students’ motivation. I often question myself, what are the “techniques that will make that desire to write more”? (217) And then these concerns often lead to me questioning my own pedagogical processes…is it the students or is it me?
In terms of the advantages of a given approach, I think Fulkerson answers this clearly: to avoid being labeled a “mindless” teacher. He explains that “in many cases composition teachers either fail to have a consistent value theory or fail to let that philosophy shape pedagogy” (434). If teachers have a theory of composition that supports their practice, then there will be some kind justification for their pedagogical decisions. I think Larkin explained this well: “If we know exactly what we want a student to be able to do, we have a better idea of what we should teach. The advantage of having a certain perspective is that your goals are very clear and your framework is very clear.”
I appreciate Fulkerson’s term “modal confusion.” He says, “[T]here is something seriously wrong with classroom methodology which implies one variety of value judgment when another will actually be employed” (434-35). I think this happens more than we’d like to admit. Therefore, having these theories and being aware of some of the theoretical explanations of why/how our students compose is important for us to consider in depth.
I'm certainly in agreement with Jen in that as teachers we often neglect a thoughtful analysis of how our students think, and how they formulate their written ideas. I' m also in agreement with Logan, because as our Research Methods class shows, inherent in our research questions should be our research methods. The authors who did a lot of the empirical research would probably fall under Fulkerson's theory of a mimetic philosophy. Emig's article, as well as Rohman and Wlecke's article, seems to outline how our understanding of how a student begins the writing process is just as important as our need to drill specific writing practices into them. The idea of discovery almost seems ludicrous in the formalist theories many of us have been subjected to in our writing classroom. When that happened, as Rohman and Wlecke pointed out, a student forms ideas effectively enough, but the ideas them selves don't have substance and aren't fully realized. There is no transference of values or ideals or opinions in the work. Peter Elbow's wonderful review of Jeanette Harris' "Expressive Discourse" seems to reinforce a number of these ideas. Harris' views about the dangers of expressive philosophies in the writing classroom illustrates a marked disinterest in the personal contributions a student can make in a writing classroom. As Elbow points out, Harris' feelings that he world "expressive" is tossed around too frequently, I'm glad he does not agree with her view that a student must never write as an exercise, mustn't explore or freewrite or anything along those lines. These skills are incredibly important when it comes to the process of discovery and invention. One of the many questions our class came up with last term in the Invention workshop was how to encourage our students to do more of it, not less. Invention techniques carry a myriad of benefits, but the very fact that it imbibes our students with agency over their writing, and therefore agency over their own thoughts and opinions, should not be ignored because of the careless approach some members in the writing world have towards those types of expressive discourse.
Based on the reading, I'd have to say that I agree with the previous statements that a theory of composition usually arises from a problem or an obstacle in the composition world, but I also think that the only way to identify those problems is to put more attention into the minds of the students were are trying to teach. How do we encourage concept transferences, or to help the student discover their personal pattern for many of the things they write about? How do we create a classroom with enough theoretical backbone to not fall into Fulkerson's "modal confusion", but also to make a "puzzle form" as Rohman and Wlecke call it, that will allow us to create teaching philosophies clear enough to dictate pedagogical appropriateness that also inspires effective problem-solving techniques in our student's writing? I find it rather tempting to say that we can pick and choose a little from each available theory until we've molded one that can conform to each different student need, but I think the propensity to confuse our students with overly complex teaching methods or writing activities leads to nothing but counter-productivity.
I'd like to add a sincere, "Hear, hear!" to Jen's appreciation of Fulkerson's concept of "modal confusion." I think that every teacher of writing has a theory of composing/ composition, inchoate or fully conscious, that shapes and determines her pedagogical and evaluative methods, and I agree that all too often what we say we believe about writing is not what we actually enact in the classroom. For me, it is the need to understand the ways and means of writing—how it actually happens, how the words get where they do the way they do, how the thoughts are shaped into language—and the desire to help my students learn how to do some of those ways and means for themselves that provides the impetus to create a theory of composing. At the base of most of the ideas expressed in the readings are the notions that writing is related to thinking, that ideas somehow make their way out of the brain and into language on the page, and that, somehow, teachers can help students to do a better job of getting their thoughts into written words. Basically, as Berlin suggests, the conception of rhetoric shapes the ideology enacted in the classroom even as the rhetoric espoused is a function of the ideology within it. Another element of the discussion seems to center around the identity of the writer. Is she a privileged product of our society and its educational system? Is he lying dormant, seedlike, in every student who enters every classroom? Is she some pie-in-the-sky, literary ideal, amalgamated out of bits and pieces of the great authors who populate high school anthologies? Is he the lock-step follower of a tried-and-true linear process that invariably, inevitably leads to good writing? Is she the beneficiary of the opportunity to express her innermost thoughts as she sees fit? It seems that within a particular theory of composition, we must not only determine how writing happens, but we must also decide to whom it happens. Further, we must decide whether it's happening equitably and in alignment with our own, requisitely socially appropriate, ideologies. I was a bit dismayed by the Schreiner-Belanoff-Pradl discussion of Emig's work, not because it was a little contentious but because it seemed to denigrate some ideas and privilege others. While I certainly appreciate some perspectives and theories more than others, I don't understand the need to dismantle one theory to shore up another. Why can't we all get along? It seems that many of these theories say similar things in different words. Rhoman and Wlecke use the plant analogy to explain a linear, pedagogically accessible, course of mental steps in writing, while Elbow considers the "complexity and mysteriousness" (941) of invention, but both theories address the idea of prewriting. Emig uses the ideas of literary authors and literary analogies to inform her explanations of her observations and conclusions, while Fulkerson bases his discussion of the philosophies of composition on Adams's concept of four theories of literature and literary criticism. Sometimes it seems like a case of "to-may-to" and "to-mah-to." As a teacher, my primary goal in trying to define my understanding of composition as a thing that can be taught and practiced and, perhaps, improved, is to enable me to help my students become better writers. Not perfect, not literary, not molded in the eye of the elite; just better. I want to enable them to engage in the discourses they choose, in the situations they select, in the ways they desire, as full participants in the discussions they seek out and join of their own accord. I want them to think clearly and communicate those thoughts clearly and with power. I want them to write whatever they want to write—I don't say "need to write" because I want them to select the occasions of their writing for themselves—fluently, effectively, passionately, and well. I want them to be good writers, and to help them become so.
Blog: Jan. 31st “A bewildering field” (430) as Fulkerson aptly called in his response to a colleague’s lunch time discussion. how his essay entitled “Four Philosophies of Composition” explicates … To me it is bewildering to those who wish to compartmentalize composition studies and it cannot be so. Each theory or concept presented within this week’s selections focuses again and again on these aspects: the writer, the process, the situation, and the audience. Fulkerson comes the closest to reflecting my views that these areas are chiefly inherent in any composition class anywhere. The writer expresses his prior experiences in his present assignment which focuses on a situation he must explain or theorize; then, in creating his writing sample, he must follow some form of a process which we accept to be recursive and in producing his writing sample, do so for a certain audience. What is so perplexing is that no one theorists seems to want to accept a certain way of thinking. Well, there should be nothing perplexing about that given that composition theory develops as a study or field in relation to what is stressed within the educational forum presently and what is spotlighted in society – you might say, the going fad. It does not live in a vacuum. Its philosophical nature will always germinate debate and discourse. It is the very nature of discourse that sets composition studies apart from literature because it typically does not respond to a literary work but rather responds to ideas or concepts that demand discussion and risk debate because students generally formulate the writing topic. When we teach writing in our classes, we do so by valuing a particular theory and employing that theory into our discussions and into our writing assignments. Many of us follow only one theory, i.e., expressionist, process, or social constructionism. All four of Fulkerson’s philosophies encompass many of our current readings including formalism. Emig in “The Composing Process of Twelfth Graders” counters the formalist movement which centers on “correct writing” (431) that meets all grammar, mechanics, and punctuation rules. In other words, the writing is correctly executed. There is truth to having a correctly written composition as one replete with errors will distract the reader from gathering the composition’s message. So, there has to be some formalist mentality existent in a composition class. But, Emig’s viewpoint that writing is a process which demonstrates cognitive development and thus, this is what teachers need to focus on: how does the student produce a writing sample? What does the student think the writing process is? How do schools teach the writing process? If Hirsch’s concept of “relative readability” (qtd. in Fulkerson 431) is all we educators should seek in our students writing, we fail them for we are not getting them to explore their voice and creative modes in expressing that voice. The Expressionists like Elbow create a free space for all to explore safely an student’s idea: no teacher or a hands-off approach or even no evaluation of the student’s writing seems acceptable and inherent in the Expressionist movement. Self-discovery with a base in prior experience is the goal in this camp. Journals and free writing are necessary components to the recursive writing process. So, you might say both Emig and Elbow can co-exist. I think they can in practice but not in theory.
Advantages of a given approach do not exist to me. Numerous advantages exist, not just one theory and that is that. Rather, we need to encapsulate a few in our classes, discuss the relevance of them to our students (the why we have chosen them), and then show the application of each to each assignment and to the assigned readings. But, that last point brings up another problem: not all writers will follow, say, my two or three theoretical stances: rhetorical, process, and expressionist. They might not even follow any known composition theory!
Berlin’s essay “Rhetoric and Ideology in the Writing Classroom” along with Fulkerson’s has become a favorite of mine. Why? Berlin gets his readers to realize that rhetoric is an ideology and subject to the whims of the decades thinking and cultural milieu. If I gather his ideas correctly, rhetoric cannot be looked at through one lens; we need to see how rhetoric is viewed under the broad umbrella of ideology and in its relation to social science, politics, and culture. Therborn cited in Berlin’s article, “insists that ideology is transmitted through language practices that are always the center for conflict and contest” (668). So, we make meaningful meanings within a structured environment only to undo the meaning by debating its existence in relation to another idea or concept. We are constantly reflecting. Hence, composition theory will constantly fluctuate in ideology because of external and internal contests. Through language we define ourselves to ourselves, others, and the world. We, in essence, create our voices to project these to an audience. As Bitzer states, we need a rhetorical situation to make our voices heard and an audience in which to hear them. How we construct our ideas is through the very semantics and syntactical patterns of our English language. “Ideology always carries with it strong social endorsement … seems inevitable” (669). Ideology will always be pluralistic and so, too, composition theory. Emig’s empirical study of 12th graders as she tries to pinpoint what composing is to them and what it should be to us, and even Rohman and Wlecke’s work on the inherent problems with teaching writing and pre-writing, all bear out the desire to name what composing is and what it is not. Both process and product are needed – we need a goal in mind, but how we get there is our process. Typically, our process follows a well-concenived avenue paved with three intersections: planning, drafting, and reviewing stages (or what I call pre-wiritng, drafting, revising, editing, and proofreading - thus, more intersections and lights). Most commentaries that we read implicitly or explicitly like Berlin’s work and the writers cited within, agree that the composing process is recursive. It will always be so. How we discover our ideas and develop them will always be discursive (cognitive rhetoric). But, warning! As Rohman and Wlecke uncovered, our students seem to lack a comfortable grasp of our language and inductive or deductive reasoning. Perhaps, not enough reading and writing is accomplished at the middle and high school level. But, I digress. What we seem to all agree on is that our voice matters and that voice is ours alone and not the teacher’s: the writer chooses his words to fit the situation and his feelings about the situation. How he puts this together is uniquely his own and his process to the product does not follow a linear pattern. It cannot because he is constantly thinking and re-working his ideas. Wait! I stand corrected. Unless the student in high school is shown and given the tools to see that much time is needed in composing, he will not adequately share his voice with us and his reasoning will be flat and uninspiring as it is bogged down in weak syntax. Lastly, Berlin’s comment after a discussion on social-epistemic rhetoric, language usage, and Bhaktin hits the mark. In studying rhetoric, “we are studying the ways in which knowledge comes into existence” (678). I know that I have aligned myself with opposing camps in embracing Berlin and Elbow, but there is a point here too in the seeming contradiction: in their war of ideas we have the mirror that we can hold up and look at ourselves as we debate what is composition and where is it going. These ideas and new ones like activity theory or race theory will come and go on the composing stage. We have just to get used to it. I guess I threw in the towel with that comment! For now.
How are theories of composing developed? And once we have one, what are the advantages of a given approach?
Theories of composing develop in response to a problem or an effort to understand a phenomenon. The readings for this week, also, seem to suggest that theories of composition develop along a process of conception, application, revision of conception, application, revision etc.
ReplyDeleteRohman's and Wlecke's theory does begin with a problem-why students write poorly--and their study is an effort to offer an answer and propose a solution, but they do follow a model of conceiving how they believe students compose, applying it (although we are not privy to their methodology and results which is a weakness of the piece, in my humble opinion), and then revising it. They begin with the idea of "concept transference" and then discover that students cannot simply choose a concept from the ones they have been given by society because they are not truly their concepts and therefore relatively meaningless. Thus, they revise their theory to define the three things that allow for effective concept-formation. Their theory of composition evolves as does any good piece of writing.
Emig's "The Composing Processes of Twelfth Graders" begins with a literature review of the three broad composing processes in an effort to understand the way adolescents write. Each can contribute a certain kind of data, but Emig also focuses on the disadvantages of using just that process as a way of understanding student writing. Accounts from experienced writers, for example, often focus on the feelings of writers about the difficulty of writing and don't actually discuss the act of writing itself. Even the next broad process, dialogue between writer and respondent, is limited for the way it also does not deal with the entire process of writing, but does handle revision a great deal. With his discussion of outside of analyses of the evolution of pieces and rhetoric and composition textbooks, he also indicates what that kind of perspective offers and what it cannot offer. And, with his empirical research about adolescent writing, Emig shows the places that these perspectives do not hold true with students writers. It seems to me that the practical application of a theory to something is what allows the theory to evolve and be re-conceived.
In terms of Fulkerson's piece, what I liked about his discussion of the four philosophies of rhetoric is the idea that it makes composition theory more thoughtful; different kinds of writing call for different methods of evaluation and call for different pedagogical practices. In light of the disadvantages that some of theses pieces outline about any given theory, having a four-pronged perspective seems more useful because it gives a more comprehensive view of composition, rather than focusing on only one angle of composition. He writes of the four philosophies, "Each would provide…both a description of the composition process and a method of evaluating the composed product" (430). Writing changes with the purpose and the audience, so it makes sense to me that the theory we apply to that composition shift accordingly as well.
The advantages of having a composing theory is that it is a way to understand a part of the act of composing. Theory provides a lens through which to view things, and that influences our pedagogical choices and the way we guide students through the writing act, and respond to their writing. In addition, because theories offer us a particular window through which to view composition, it also offers us a kind of terministic screen (to bring Burke into this): a set of guiding key words/principles that helps us organize and process knowledge and our life experiences. But, one of the biggest advantages these pieces offer is the belief that having a composing theory allows us to have more focused teaching practices that can help students achieve what perspective that offers on what it means to compose.
Composition theories are, I think, developed out of *epistemology*. It was evident especially in Emig and Rohman/Wlecke that before a theory of composition could materialize, ideas of knowing must first be presented. In the development of composition theories, concepts of knowledge/idea development, transferance, and application are key.
ReplyDeleteLeigh mentioned that Rohman/Wlecke addressed a problem, Emig looked for practical application, and Fullerson noted rhetorical purpose—I think all of these things point to the idea of *goals*. In order to develop a theory of composing, one must envision what the goal[s] or mission[s] for composing might be. Rohman/Wlecke write, “We approached writing with the ‘liberal’ assumption that the basic reason we taught students to write was to allow them greater self-actualization through better thinking, ‘to live more abundantly’” (219). A theory of composing might envelop multiple goals for the act of composing, but some idea of what these goals are must be articulated.
Before one can have goals of what composition should do, one must have a clear idea of what composition is. Almost all the pieces we read for this week have articulated definitions or descriptions of what composing is. Rohman /Wlecke’s theory, for example, lays out a clear definition of writing as an activity of transformation and actualization (223). Susan Miller paraphrases Emig’s for us—writing is “a process of finding and developing ideas” (228).
Fulkerson discusses the relationship of writing goals, writing definitions, and theory development much better than me: “[O]ne’s philosophy about what writing is for leads to a theory of what constitutes good writing. That philosophy, in turn, leads to a concept of pedagogical goals, and the goals lead, in turn, to classroom procedures” (433). So, it’s all kind of tangled up together—our beliefs of what writing should do, what good writing is, what we should teach and how…it’s a recursive (at its best) system of developing and refining a lasting theory of composition that can be practically applied.
Another necessary component in the materialization of a theory of composing is *data, evidence, and/or experience.* Emic and Rohman/Wlecke conducted methodological studies. Belanoff, Schreiner, and Elbow reflected on their experiences composing and teaching composition. Berlin and Fulkerson pulled from historical data. Resourcing data gives the composition theory a grounds for practice.
Leigh mentioned advantages to applying a theory, to focus our teaching practices and help students achieve. I agree that teaching specifically from a single theory will ground one’s teaching practices and help students (Fulkerson convinced me of that). I don’t know at this point if there’s a single published teaching philosophy to which I can commit (mostly just because I don't know much). I can see advantages to teaching from any strong theory of composition. I think strong theories share several characteristics. One is that they *participate within a larger conversation*--all of our readings talked across theory boundaries to borrow, critique, and revise other theoretical approaches. Another characteristic of a strong composition theory is that it acknowledges an awareness of and concern for *distribution of power, agency, and accessibility* in a composing process. These concerns came out especially in Schreiner’s response to Emig and Berlin’s overview of ideology in the classroom, but underlies all the readings we did this week. A strong composition theory must also be *flexible*, and allow for change (Schreiner mentions pluralism). Finally, in his review, Elbow wrote: “I don’t see much hope of overcoming the tendency of literary scholars to condescend to the field of composition till composition scholars stop using canned intellectual history” (936). While he’s not talking specifically about theories, I think his words make sense, and I think a strong theory of composing, if written by a rhet/comp scholar, should represent the field of rhet/comp well.
After reading the excerpts and articles presented for this week, it seems to me that one of the chief methods for developing a theory of composing/composition is to look for what has been left out and to create a theory as a counterargument for an already established theory. For example, Rohman and Wlecke realize that there is not an emphasis on the discovery phase of writing and push for what is often referred to as pre-writing or planning to be valued more in process of composing. They posit that this is the most important phase. Later Emig decides to look at a group (high school seniors) that has not been studied to form her theories about composition, which suggest that students need more experience writing in the reflexive/expressive form. How does she come to the conclusion that the reflexive/expressive needs to be valued? She feels that it is missing from the writing of the students she studied. In Elbow’s review essay of Jeanette Harris’s Expressive Discourse, it is clear from Elbow’s remarks that Harris is attempting to provide an argument against expressive writing and to provide an alternative to expressionism. In Berlin’s essay on forms of rhetoric, the same approach to developing a composition theory is employed. Berlin pointedly describes the two dominant forms of rhetoric—cognitive and expressionistic—and the makes an argument for a third form—social-epistemic rhetoric—that he finds to be the best of the three. Schreiner looks at Emig’s study and feels that Emig is only looking at one type of student and making assumptions about that student based on a very different model (the professional writer) and decides that writing is more than the expressive; it can serve different needs for different writers for different occasions. The two Schreiner pieces present a hybrid of the two ways of developing a theory; Schriener saw a gap in Emig’s work and produced a counterargument against expressionistic writing.
ReplyDeleteBoth of these approaches to developing a theory of composition result in a perceived deficiency in the dominant culture of composition at the time of inception for the theory. The first approach described above, which the Rohman and Wlecke and Emig pieces adhere to, do not discredit other approaches. They point out a missing piece of the puzzle and examine the possible value for including that piece in the pedagogy for teaching writing. This approach leaves room for other theories. Harris and Berlin’s approach, however, attempts to place theories of composition at odds with one another and eradicate the older theories. Essentially, this approach takes the Highlander ideology, “There can be only one.” The first-approach can be somewhat overwhelming, because it provides another option for teaching composition. To the frustrated teacher it can feel like one more thing that he/she must do. The second-approach may be less overwhelming as it allows the teacher to define him/herself clearly (or at least that is the hope).
Richard Fulkerson’s piece “Four Philosophies of Composition” does not really develop a theory of composition. Instead it speaks to the pedagogy of the writing teacher and the importance of knowing what composition theory guides said teacher. Having a strong sense of identity as a writer and pedagogy as a teacher of writing is, in theory, supposed to make it easier to teach writing, or at least to assess it. Fulkerson’s piece speaks to this idea when he writes, “The problem was not [Charles Silberman] said, that evil or incompetent people were in charge but that educators exhibited a consistent mindlessness about relating means to desired ends” (p. 430). Fulkerson later writes, “My research has convinced me that in many cases composition teachers either fail to have a consistent value theory or fail to let that philosophy shape pedagogy” (p. 434).
Both Elizabeth and Leigh point toward the development of a theory coming about as response to a problem. This could certainly be the case. However, one then must consider Fulkerson's piece. According to Fulkerson the main problem with composition theories is a teacher not adhering to the rules prescribed by the theory he/she prescribes to (an assessment problem or an unclear assignment). While the problem may prompt analysis/research in theories, it seems to me that theories come to be when a there is a gap that needs to be filled or when a current theory fails to propose a viable solution for that problem. In other words, a problem can lead to investigation which may or may not lead to a new theory. Does that make sense???
ReplyDeleteLike Angie notes, many theories of composition begin with a description of those theories that have already been central to the field. In addition to offering a review of the scholarly conversation and an effort to identify its missing pieces, I think these surveys also provide a way of synthesizing existing definitions of what a composition is/should be in the writing classroom. Though all of these theories seem to center on the teaching of writing, these theories almost always begin with a clarification about the type of writing being valued. Though Rohman and Wecke are concerned with pre-writing, invention and the cognitive processes involved in concept transference, their theory also demands that teachers create writing prompts that encourage personal investment and reflection. Emig advocates a type of teaching that conceives of the student as an artist or creator by assigning reflexive writing. The discussions between Belanoff, Shreiner and Pradl circle around Schreiner’s questions of what constitutes “writer” and “writing.” Elbow defends what he sees as an attack on Expressivism and personal writing. Berlin examines the ideologies embedded in certain types of writing assignments and pedagogies. Fulkerson classifies composition theories into four types depending on what type of writing is valued. He argues that the multiplicity of composition theories is fine, perhaps necessary, that different types of writing and writing situations require different theories of writing, but that teachers of writing often mistakenly assign a writing task that seems to follow one theory of writing but then respond to it with another theory of writing. For instance, he argues, asking students to write about themselves and their opinions but then treating these compositions rhetorically is potentially confusing.
ReplyDeleteIn general, theories of composition seem to stem from 1. Observation (either research as in Emig’s case studies or the personal daily observations in the classroom as in Belanoff). 2. Personal stories and feelings either about ones own writing, the teaching of writing or composition scholarship. (Elbow’s complaints that he is being “beat about the head and shoulders” with perjorative and oversimplistic definitions of “expressive discourse” and Belanoff’s belabored description of how Shreiner’s essay made her “feel sad”). 3. A survey of or response to existing composition theory (Nearly everyone falls into this category, though perhaps Berlin more than others). 4. Borrowed theories from “sister arts and sciences” (Fulkerson’s application of literary theory to composition, Emig’s, discussed in Shreiner’s essay, use of theories of music composition to describe the writing process). 5. A survey of writer’s discussions of their writing processes (Emig).
For me, Fulkerson’s approach seemed to be the most realistic because it both accounts for inevitable and appropriate disagreement about what should constitute student writing and writing instruction, but also outlines ways of circumventing the confusion the results from a field with many conflicting theories about what the field itself is and what it produces. Many of my worst teaching moments have, I think, resulted from assignments in which the type of writing I wanted students to produce was unclear. In FYC classes, I, particularly in my first year, assigned essays that probably seemed “expressive” and “formalist” to students but which I thought were clearly “rhetorical.” “Why did I get a ‘C’ on this when it’s my opinion??” In creative writing classes, I was often conceiving of writing as “expressive” and “formalist” when students were thinking of it as “mimetic,” “BUT it really happened that way!” or “rhetorical,” “I really wanted to express my ideas about euthanasia in this story!”
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ReplyDeleteI see theories of composition growing primarily out of crises in pedagogy, real or perceived. For most of the authors we read for today, the first building block of a theory of composition is "why has composition failed us thus far?" Rohman and Wlecke begin their article with "Why do students write poorly?" Isn't this the backbone of any theory of composition? And from there one generally has to interrogate the question to find out what we mean when we say a student writes poorly and what we expect to see when a student writes well. (As Fulkerson writes, these two prerogatives are often at odds - what he calls "modal confusion" - in which an instructor asks for a certain kind of product but evaluates that product with an inappropriate rubric.) Should the student have grammatically flawless writing? Should they adequately express themselves? Should they be trying to convince the audience of something? Can we do just one of these things or should a student writer be able to master all of them simultaneously?
ReplyDeleteBasically, what a theory of composition needs is a specific goal in mind. What is it we mean the students to learn? What should students get from composition? What CAN they get? Having a nebulous idea that we are teaching them to "write well" is insufficient as we can see: it leads us in no specific direction. If we know exactly what we want a student to be able to do, we have a better idea of what we should teach. The advantage of having a certain perspective is that your goals are very clear and your framework is very clear. This helps both the students and the instructors understand what each is responsible for. There is no murky gray area of “bad teacher” vs. “lazy student” when the boundaries of what both expect are defined by a clear theory of composition.
Part of the problem with developing a theory of composition, especially from a pedagogical perspective, is that there is no single use for writing. Laying aside the kind of post-modern concerns of the author-text relationship (can there be a "correct" text!?), I think it is fair to evaluate composition on the basis of its effectiveness to its purpose. If my goal is grammatically air-tight prose, then fine: I will evaluate on that basis. Or if I mean to be passionately expressivist, then sure: the vividness of the experience will weigh heavily in my evaluation. The challenge, then, is to develop a pedagogy that can speak across purposes. Is this possible, though, given the logistical constraints of a classroom?
Part I:
ReplyDeleteI agree with both Angie and Marian that theories of composition seem to emerge from two primary questions: what are the current problems in the field; and what do we value in writing? All of the essays we read for this week dealt, to some extent, with these two components.
Berlin, for instance, surveys significant theories in the field and analyzes their limitations before he proposes his own theoretical intervention. Cognitive rhetoric and expressionistic rhetoric, Berlin argues, can too easily serve the interests of a “ruling economic elite.” By denying its connection to ideology and relying too heavily on rationality and a linear/hierarchical composing processes, Cognitive rhetoric reifies the existing class system. Expressionistic rhetoric does not evade its ideological position, but nevertheless alienates and marginalizes the individual, fracturing any sense of organized, coherent resistant to the dominant arrangement. Resistance, Berlin notes, is “always construed in individual terms,” and he sees this as a primary flaw of expressionism. Expressionistic rhetoric promotes a “quest” for self-discovery, something Berlin would agree with, but this quest often leads to a reification of capitalistic values and an obsession with consumer culture. In this ideology, self-expression often presents as consumer behavior; so one finds a “self” by wearing Nike as opposed to Adidas; one becomes, in essence, a “self” comprised of commodities, and thus one is not truly liberated.
Berlin advocates for social-epistemic rhetoric, which favors a historicist orientation and the presupposition that “all arguments arise in ideology,” and knowledge is “an arena of ideological conflict.” This ideology, Berlin feels, offers the most potential for resistance. Citing Ira Shor’s work, Berlin maintains that students will ideally evolve from “manipulated objects into active, critical subjects” (Shor 97).
I find social-epistemic rhetoric fascinating, but I have some problems with it. For one, I’m uncomfortable with Shor’s idea that “students must be taught to identify the ways in which control over their own lives have been denied them, and denied in such a way that they have blamed themselves for their powerlessness” (680). This seems like an ideology of victimization. What’s more troubling is this notion that teachers should tell students how to feel about society, self, and their position in the world. This is gamboling on thin ice, right? Shor’s classroom seems to be a breeding ground for Marxist-inflected social activism. Suggesting that students suffer from various modes of “false consciousness” indicates that the teacher knows the path to “real” consciousness. I don’t feel comfortable establishing that sort of hierarchy in the classroom, nor do I believe the classroom is the place for overt indoctrination.
But to answer the question of how a theory of composition is formed—Berlin first identifies a value, what he sees as the ultimate goal of composition and education. He asserts that “the liberated consciousness of students is the only educational objective worth considering” (682). So his pedagogy, his approbation of social-epistemic rhetoric, is a form of problem solving—this rhetoric comes closest to meeting his goal in the classroom. To back up further, Berlin first addresses a problem that he sees in teaching composition—most pedagogies either ignore ideology, or promote an ideology that reaffirms capitalist values. No style of teaching is innocent, he argues. Having established the primacy of ideology, he then chooses a pedagogy that foregrounds a particular ideology in service of his goal of “liberated consciousness.” This is the main stalk of his theory from which all other thoughts on composition grow.
Part II:
ReplyDeleteRichard Fulkerson’s theory of composing also redresses specific problems in the field: the “bewildering variety” of composition courses, the “back-to-basics cry”, and the place of “dialect” in the classroom. He identifies four major philosophies (interesting that he stays away from the word ideology) all of which are centered around a value theory.
In other words, creating a theory of composition begets the question: what do you value? Expressive, mimetic, rhetorical, and formalist philosophies may share methodologies but emphasize unique values. For Fulkerson, one reaches a theory of composition by first deciding on a philosophy, which in turn leads to a notion of what “constitutes good writing,” which leads to pedagogical goals, and then finally to classroom procedures. I’m not sure I entirely agree with this formulation. How does one decide upon an initial philosophy to initiate this sequence? Wouldn’t the sequence begin with defining “good writing,” and then finding a suitable philosophy that might yield such writing?
I was very interested in Fulkerson’s conclusions. He decides the major problem in the classroom isn’t a lack of philosophies but “modal confusion.” Composition instructors often teach one value judgment and then employ a different value judgment when evaluating a student’s work. In other words, if you give an expressivist writing assignment, but evaluate it in terms of a formalist perspective you are showing bad faith with your students.
Rohman and Wlecke also address a series of problems: how do we motivate students to take ownership over their writing, and make them want to write and not merely fulfill assignments. Their research leads to a theory of composition which prioritizes a writer’s self-actualization. This philosophy emphasizes invention and imagination. Bad writing is usually the result of a lack of engagement in the process of discovery, so the student’s writing reflects inherited ideas and forms rather than demonstrating his or her own unique perspective of the world and the subject.
Peter Elbow’s expressivist theory of composition addresses a problem in the classroom of teachers ignoring invention in favor of formalist values. His theory stems from a belief that students should understand and, by extension, experiment with various types of discourse that suit particular audiences and particular purposes. Students should therefore engage in both pragmatic and aesthetic writing. Jeanette Harris, on the other hand, believes in the primacy of the audience. One of her critiques of expressionism is that a student cannot write for an audience of “self.”
Lastly, as I realize this post has run too long, I want to draw attention to an interesting tension in the formulation of composition theories. Elbow objects to being pigeon-holed by Harris as “expressive.” He objects to being put in a box and labeled. Such practices, he believes, lead to an oversimplification of the history of rhetoric. What’s interesting to me is that all of these essays, to some extent, insist upon categorization; indeed these essays are well nigh obsessed with cataloguing, defining, demarcating, and categorizing philosophies. Even Berlin, who resists a positivistic, over-structured, goal-seeking pedagogy, breaks the field down into “discreet units” only to discuss them in hierarchical terms. It’s therefore strange (or maybe refreshing) to hear Elbow rebuke categorization.
Leigh and Elizabeth did a good job summarizing and pointing out the important parts of these articles, and like Angie, Marian, and Larkin, I think there's no question that when we (anyone) are developing a theory of composition we have to start with what's already been done to (a)define "good" composition and (b)theorize how to achieve that. I don't have much to add to this - I think together they've answered the question well (from my perspective, anyway).
ReplyDeleteSo instead of rehashing what they've already done, I'll speak to some specific points that were made by Elizabeth and Marian, because they both alluded to the Elbow article, which for my money was the most interesting (and also salient to the above question) article this week.
Elizabeth has already pointed to my favorite moment when she said, "Finally, in his review, Elbow wrote: 'I don’t see much hope of overcoming the tendency of literary scholars to condescend to the field of composition till composition scholars stop using canned intellectual history' (936)." This, as we know, is in the context of Elbow's understandable resistance to Harris's book on the basis of her using "oversimplifications hastily created" for the "central building blocks of her argument" (936).
I'll point here to Marian's observation that Elbow in his review is defending "what he sees as an attack on Expressionism and personal writing." While I think there's no valid argument against this (i.e., that expressionism often serves as a punching bag), doesn't it seem that Elbow cares more about how people critique expressionism than that expressionism serves as the object of critique? Meaning, isn't Elbow expressing greater concern for the health of rhet/comp as a field than for the status of his (for all intents and purposes) theoretical baby? Sure, we think of expressionism when we think of Elbow, and vice versa, but isn't that exactly the kind of oversimplification (which I've clearly already done) that he's talking about?
The problem Elbow sees is that Harris's work (with the implication that others do it as well) is that she relies on convenient generalizations instead of fulfilling her "obligation to understand it and to present it more accurately" (935).
My point (I think) is that, to be legit, a given composition theory has to be (as Gere's historical account was) inherently compensatory to the complexities of (a) what "composition" means, (b) who does it mean it to, and (c) why does it mean this (which here goes back to Berlin).
It's pretty clear what the advantage of such an approach would be (besides the fact that you wouldn't get called out publicly by in-field superstars) a clearer understanding of past practices and beliefs, the circumstances in which they became manifest, and the potential applications for present/future circumstances. In other words, why did it used to work this way (what were the real, practical motivations) and how have the changes since then determined what now should be done? For me, that is the exciting part.
Answering questions about what we do when we compose or what we do when we teach composition requires three things in particular: identifying ourselves as instructors within composition classes, identifying who our students are in these classes, and locating these two parties within a classroom. Our theories of composition, it seems, must do these three things to varying degrees and at different scales -- otherwise we’d risk claiming to know everything about everything -- totally not epistemologically cool within Composition studies. From the perspectives of the Compositionists that we read for today, the classroom becomes a locus of engagement across which a wide variety of conflicting, yet vested, interests in writing instruction converge. All of these interests have something to say in response to: Who sits in these classrooms? How are the courses labeled? Who teaches these courses? What do we teach? Where is this teaching occurring? Are these students in the “eleventh hour”of their academic careers? Are they Lynns? Tonys? Quentins? or Nates? (All famous students featured in the work of Compositionists)
ReplyDeleteOur imagining of these students comes across perhaps most clearly in a recent thread on the WPA listserve. Here, we see our field’s interest in the historically located and our special ability to romanticize these individual students -- students that have become representative of larger groupings of students. Students like Lynn from The Composing Practices of Twelfth Graders, have been critical in shaping pedagogy, theories of composition, and the teachers who put these theories into practice. As we (re)imagine ourselves as teacher, our students, and the locations of our pedagogical practices, we (re)align ourselves in relation to the vested interests that converge within writing classrooms. This alignment is, I think, what a theory of composition establishes.
These theories of composition are developed not from the outside looking in, but from the inside looking out. They are developed as a means by which we can locate ourselves, our students, and our classrooms both in terms of practice and theory -- or as Fulkerson puts it “goals and procedure.”As Leigh points out, this often takes the form of “a response to a problem” or “an effort to understand a phenomenon.”For example, Rohman and Wlecke identify both a “general” and a “specific” problem that ultimately boils down to the fact that “most of the concepts that people hold they have inherited rather than formed for themselves.” In their definition of writing as “a person’s transformation of the events of his life into experienced conceptual structures revealed in language for the sake of his own self-actualization and for communication with other persons through commonly shared patterns of meaning,” Rohman and Wlecke are careful to keep the writing instructor and the student within the classroom -- the “groping” that they look at is all school-sponsored-groping.
Here, I am not saying that this is a bad thing by any means. I am working towards the observation that these authors claim to have special knowledge through through the theories of writing that they put forth. These theories, however, are careful to align themselves within the weft of power structures and vested interests that intersect across writing classrooms. In doing so, teacher, student, and classroom as location or writing activity are all clearly articulated . . . imagined. The advantages of these approaches to developing a theory of composition are many. In particular, however, they save these authors from needing to claim access to some kind of universal truth. Although, many seem to be making blanket statements about all writing, at the end of the day they can really only be taken to task for that which occurs within the classroom, in front of the student, and under the tutelage of the writing instructors that they articulate across these texts.
As Stephen suggested, the consensus of the group appears to be that a theory of composing is developed in response to whatever the field deems to be the “problem” with how composition is currently treated pedagogically, and as Marian states, the first step to solving the problem is determining the purpose of writing and what kind(s) of writing should be valued in a composition classroom. Marian also does an excellent job of summarizing the various research methods employed by the various authors we read for this week. I was struck by how remarkably different these methods were (empirical, theoretical, and anecdotal). We’ve been discussing this is our Research Methods course, but it’s pretty clear that a theory of composing is heavily reliant on the kinds of research the given theorist values. The more empirical articles, like Emig’s, emphasized practical methods that would improve the process students utilize to produce writing, while the more theoretical pieces, like Fulkerson’s and Berlin’s, promote that the composing instructor and the composer understand how both are situated within a greater context in the hopes of producing texts that are more capable of altering that context.
ReplyDeleteThe advantages to adopting and practicing a theory of composing, as Stephen and Larkin indicate, is a more textured (to steal a term from Elizabeth) understanding of what ought to be expected from our students and the texts that they produce. As Berlin illustrates, no pedagogy is innocent; we purport and reinscribe ideologies with our instruction techniques, the papers we assign, and our methods of evaluation. However, I also believe it is necessary for our students to understand 1) what our particular composing theory/theories is/are (after all, academic success is their primary goal and to achieve that they should know how we define or value writing) and 2) that there are indeed multiple theories and perspectives of how “good writing” is defined, within our own discipline and across fields. From this, they will (hopefully) be better prepared to adapt their composing techniques to whatever the exigence might be, and isn’t that our ultimate goal as instructors: to teach them to produce the most effective texts in response to a given assignment or situation?
(1/2)
ReplyDeleteI agree with Elizabeth that theories of composition begin with epistemology. Beliefs about where knowledge comes from and how it is made are rooted in two key terms from our readings for today, ideology and assumption. I want to agree generally with Berlin’s beginning claim that “rhetoric is … always already ideological” (667), which is to say, there is no objective position outside of ideology where we can stand and examine ideologies rhetorically. I don’t think much more needs to be said on that here in light of our discussions last week about composition being always culturally situated.
What I want to examine more closely is the idea of assumptions. Assumptions are, of course, also ideological, but they are a more specific kind of thing that simply broad ideologies. All of the readings for this week addressed the idea of assumptions as the basis for any theory of composition, some more explicitly than others. Building on Elizabeth’s discussion of epistemology, assumptions about composition and writing stem from how we think of knowledge and knowledge making.
Rohman and Wlecke elucidate the idea of assumptions and their connection to theories of composition most clearly. Specifically they identify the importance of being clear about one’s own assumptions about what composition is, what it should be, how it should be taught, etc. “The most that can be done, it seems to us, is frankly to state your philosophy of writing, and within those frontiers establish whatever methodological and pedagogical laws seems appropriate … We have tried to be more conscious of what we were assuming, and more careful to state that our methods followed from our assumptions” (221).
I think this is a good starting point, but I’m not at all convinced that it is “[t]he most that can be done.” The discussion of process pedagogy that dominated a good portion of our readings for today would seem to support the idea that this is a good idea as a starting point, but there is more that needs to be done to develop a conscientious and useful composition theory. Once your assumptions are stated as clearly and honestly as possible, the next step should be to examine and test these assumptions for some kind of correctness or usability. Although, of course, we come back to ideology in terms of determining any such thing. Ideally, we should be open to letting go of any of our assumptions that prove faulty, but realistically, I think everyone has assumptions so deeply ingrained that abandoning them isn’t even seen as an option.
(2/2)
ReplyDeleteThis brings me to the next idea about assumptions that seems to predominate the readings. Here, I’m specifically referring to the Emig/Shreiner/Belanoff/Pradl sequence. In reading the responses and responses to responses, it seemed clear to me that it is far easier to point out and critique someone else’s assumptions than to successfully identify and grapple with our own. This point is, I think, both obvious and incredibly frustrating.
In order to grapple with this, I want to propose a metaphor drawn from quantum mechanics, a subject in which my knowledge is statistically equivalent to zero. I think I sometimes choose scientific metaphors exactly because I know so little about the vagaries and complexities of the subject that the basic ideas seem fairly simple. In this case, I want to abuse Heisenberg’s Uncertainty Principle for my own ends. Simply put, the uncertainty principle refers to the idea that for certain pairs of phenomena (e.g. momentum and position) it is impossible to measure them both accurately at the same time, and further, the more accurately you measure one, the less accurately it is possible to measure the other.
What I see in the readings on process pedagogy is a sort of uncertainty principle of assumptions. The more painstakingly and precisely you examine and deconstruct one assumption, the less you will be aware of one or more other assumptions upon which your whole examination is based. So, inevitably, another reader will be able to identify those assumptions that you have missed and proceed to deconstruct them. In turn, someone else will be able to point out this reader’s assumptions. Repeat ad nauseum.
So, to return to Rohman and Wlecke, I think the best we can do is try to identify and examine our assumptions, examine and test them, and then be ready and willing to consider the feedback we receive that will inevitably bring to light other assumptions we had not originally considered.
This is getting quite long, and I realize I haven’t really addressed the question of advantages or how theories of composition relate to pedagogy, or even the specific ideas of writing and composition. Briefly, I see the most advantage in a theory that actively considers application in the classroom, its assumptions about the nature and goals of composition, and who our students are as writers. I think Katie said what I’m trying to get at much better in her first paragraph, though, so I’ll end by gesturing at her excellent triangulation of teacher, student, and classroom.
In addition to addressing “the current problem/crisis” as those before me mentioned, I also think that theories of composing are developed in an attempt to make sense out of what exactly happens when our students write (or compose). For me, this process is hard to explain and often difficult to articulate clearly. Have you ever had a student ask you how you write? It’s an interesting question to address right on the spot. What happens between brain and pencil/laptop/iPad? Can you articulate your own composing process? I think this is a tricky, yet necessary, task. And I think it’s an imperative one, especially if we are teaching students how to compose. I believe these theories of composition facilitate this task. They are developed 1) to inform and shape our practice (theory practice), and 2) to explain why we do what we do (practice theory).
ReplyDeleteFor me, I see these scholars’ theories as an opportunity for them to articulate their explanation of the phenomenon, which echoes what Leigh said in her post. Our students’ composing processes are individual, and we can’t necessarily “see” what happens in their processes (and sometimes it’s difficult for them to articulate their own processes), so it’s often difficult for teachers to understand what’s going on and to help address the issues. These theories are an attempt to aid us in understanding how students—or anyone for that matter—compose.
I find that most students, when they walk into my class, are looking for a step-by-step plan for writing. They are often disheartened, and extremely frustrated, when I explain to them that it’s not simple, and unfortunately, there is no formulaic solution.
These theories attempt to help us understand what our students’ experience when they compose. They are rationalizations of phenomenon that most of us encounter as teachers. I think of one of my current students, my “Lynn,” who refuses to talk about anything personal because she’s not comfortable writing about herself. Rohman and Wlecke also express my concerns about my own students’ motivation. I often question myself, what are the “techniques that will make that desire to write more”? (217) And then these concerns often lead to me questioning my own pedagogical processes…is it the students or is it me?
In terms of the advantages of a given approach, I think Fulkerson answers this clearly: to avoid being labeled a “mindless” teacher. He explains that “in many cases composition teachers either fail to have a consistent value theory or fail to let that philosophy shape pedagogy” (434). If teachers have a theory of composition that supports their practice, then there will be some kind justification for their pedagogical decisions. I think Larkin explained this well: “If we know exactly what we want a student to be able to do, we have a better idea of what we should teach. The advantage of having a certain perspective is that your goals are very clear and your framework is very clear.”
I appreciate Fulkerson’s term “modal confusion.” He says, “[T]here is something seriously wrong with classroom methodology which implies one variety of value judgment when another will actually be employed” (434-35). I think this happens more than we’d like to admit. Therefore, having these theories and being aware of some of the theoretical explanations of why/how our students compose is important for us to consider in depth.
I'm certainly in agreement with Jen in that as teachers we often neglect a thoughtful analysis of how our students think, and how they formulate their written ideas. I' m also in agreement with Logan, because as our Research Methods class shows, inherent in our research questions should be our research methods. The authors who did a lot of the empirical research would probably fall under Fulkerson's theory of a mimetic philosophy. Emig's article, as well as Rohman and Wlecke's article, seems to outline how our understanding of how a student begins the writing process is just as important as our need to drill specific writing practices into them. The idea of discovery almost seems ludicrous in the formalist theories many of us have been subjected to in our writing classroom. When that happened, as Rohman and Wlecke pointed out, a student forms ideas effectively enough, but the ideas them selves don't have substance and aren't fully realized. There is no transference of values or ideals or opinions in the work. Peter Elbow's wonderful review of Jeanette Harris' "Expressive Discourse" seems to reinforce a number of these ideas. Harris' views about the dangers of expressive philosophies in the writing classroom illustrates a marked disinterest in the personal contributions a student can make in a writing classroom. As Elbow points out, Harris' feelings that he world "expressive" is tossed around too frequently, I'm glad he does not agree with her view that a student must never write as an exercise, mustn't explore or freewrite or anything along those lines. These skills are incredibly important when it comes to the process of discovery and invention. One of the many questions our class came up with last term in the Invention workshop was how to encourage our students to do more of it, not less. Invention techniques carry a myriad of benefits, but the very fact that it imbibes our students with agency over their writing, and therefore agency over their own thoughts and opinions, should not be ignored because of the careless approach some members in the writing world have towards those types of expressive discourse.
ReplyDeleteBased on the reading, I'd have to say that I agree with the previous statements that a theory of composition usually arises from a problem or an obstacle in the composition world, but I also think that the only way to identify those problems is to put more attention into the minds of the students were are trying to teach. How do we encourage concept transferences, or to help the student discover their personal pattern for many of the things they write about? How do we create a classroom with enough theoretical backbone to not fall into Fulkerson's "modal confusion", but also to make a "puzzle form" as Rohman and Wlecke call it, that will allow us to create teaching philosophies clear enough to dictate pedagogical appropriateness that also inspires effective problem-solving techniques in our student's writing? I find it rather tempting to say that we can pick and choose a little from each available theory until we've molded one that can conform to each different student need, but I think the propensity to confuse our students with overly complex teaching methods or writing activities leads to nothing but counter-productivity.
I'd like to add a sincere, "Hear, hear!" to Jen's appreciation of Fulkerson's concept of "modal confusion." I think that every teacher of writing has a theory of composing/ composition, inchoate or fully conscious, that shapes and determines her pedagogical and evaluative methods, and I agree that all too often what we say we believe about writing is not what we actually enact in the classroom. For me, it is the need to understand the ways and means of writing—how it actually happens, how the words get where they do the way they do, how the thoughts are shaped into language—and the desire to help my students learn how to do some of those ways and means for themselves that provides the impetus to create a theory of composing. At the base of most of the ideas expressed in the readings are the notions that writing is related to thinking, that ideas somehow make their way out of the brain and into language on the page, and that, somehow, teachers can help students to do a better job of getting their thoughts into written words. Basically, as Berlin suggests, the conception of rhetoric shapes the ideology enacted in the classroom even as the rhetoric espoused is a function of the ideology within it.
ReplyDeleteAnother element of the discussion seems to center around the identity of the writer. Is she a privileged product of our society and its educational system? Is he lying dormant, seedlike, in every student who enters every classroom? Is she some pie-in-the-sky, literary ideal, amalgamated out of bits and pieces of the great authors who populate high school anthologies? Is he the lock-step follower of a tried-and-true linear process that invariably, inevitably leads to good writing? Is she the beneficiary of the opportunity to express her innermost thoughts as she sees fit? It seems that within a particular theory of composition, we must not only determine how writing happens, but we must also decide to whom it happens. Further, we must decide whether it's happening equitably and in alignment with our own, requisitely socially appropriate, ideologies.
I was a bit dismayed by the Schreiner-Belanoff-Pradl discussion of Emig's work, not because it was a little contentious but because it seemed to denigrate some ideas and privilege others. While I certainly appreciate some perspectives and theories more than others, I don't understand the need to dismantle one theory to shore up another. Why can't we all get along? It seems that many of these theories say similar things in different words. Rhoman and Wlecke use the plant analogy to explain a linear, pedagogically accessible, course of mental steps in writing, while Elbow considers the "complexity and mysteriousness" (941) of invention, but both theories address the idea of prewriting. Emig uses the ideas of literary authors and literary analogies to inform her explanations of her observations and conclusions, while Fulkerson bases his discussion of the philosophies of composition on Adams's concept of four theories of literature and literary criticism. Sometimes it seems like a case of "to-may-to" and "to-mah-to."
As a teacher, my primary goal in trying to define my understanding of composition as a thing that can be taught and practiced and, perhaps, improved, is to enable me to help my students become better writers. Not perfect, not literary, not molded in the eye of the elite; just better. I want to enable them to engage in the discourses they choose, in the situations they select, in the ways they desire, as full participants in the discussions they seek out and join of their own accord. I want them to think clearly and communicate those thoughts clearly and with power. I want them to write whatever they want to write—I don't say "need to write" because I want them to select the occasions of their writing for themselves—fluently, effectively, passionately, and well. I want them to be good writers, and to help them become so.
Blog: Jan. 31st
ReplyDelete“A bewildering field” (430) as Fulkerson aptly called in his response to a colleague’s lunch time discussion. how his essay entitled “Four Philosophies of Composition” explicates … To me it is bewildering to those who wish to compartmentalize composition studies and it cannot be so. Each theory or concept presented within this week’s selections focuses again and again on these aspects: the writer, the process, the situation, and the audience. Fulkerson comes the closest to reflecting my views that these areas are chiefly inherent in any composition class anywhere. The writer expresses his prior experiences in his present assignment which focuses on a situation he must explain or theorize; then, in creating his writing sample, he must follow some form of a process which we accept to be recursive and in producing his writing sample, do so for a certain audience. What is so perplexing is that no one theorists seems to want to accept a certain way of thinking. Well, there should be nothing perplexing about that given that composition theory develops as a study or field in relation to what is stressed within the educational forum presently and what is spotlighted in society – you might say, the going fad. It does not live in a vacuum. Its philosophical nature will always germinate debate and discourse. It is the very nature of discourse that sets composition studies apart from literature because it typically does not respond to a literary work but rather responds to ideas or concepts that demand discussion and risk debate because students generally formulate the writing topic.
When we teach writing in our classes, we do so by valuing a particular theory and employing that theory into our discussions and into our writing assignments. Many of us follow only one theory, i.e., expressionist, process, or social constructionism. All four of Fulkerson’s philosophies encompass many of our current readings including formalism. Emig in “The Composing Process of Twelfth Graders” counters the formalist movement which centers on “correct writing” (431) that meets all grammar, mechanics, and punctuation rules. In other words, the writing is correctly executed. There is truth to having a correctly written composition as one replete with errors will distract the reader from gathering the composition’s message. So, there has to be some formalist mentality existent in a composition class. But, Emig’s viewpoint that writing is a process which demonstrates cognitive development and thus, this is what teachers need to focus on: how does the student produce a writing sample? What does the student think the writing process is? How do schools teach the writing process? If Hirsch’s concept of “relative readability” (qtd. in Fulkerson 431) is all we educators should seek in our students writing, we fail them for we are not getting them to explore their voice and creative modes in expressing that voice. The Expressionists like Elbow create a free space for all to explore safely an student’s idea: no teacher or a hands-off approach or even no evaluation of the student’s writing seems acceptable and inherent in the Expressionist movement. Self-discovery with a base in prior experience is the goal in this camp. Journals and free writing are necessary components to the recursive writing process. So, you might say both Emig and Elbow can co-exist. I think they can in practice but not in theory.
Advantages of a given approach do not exist to me. Numerous advantages exist, not just one theory and that is that. Rather, we need to encapsulate a few in our classes, discuss the relevance of them to our students (the why we have chosen them), and then show the application of each to each assignment and to the assigned readings. But, that last point brings up another problem: not all writers will follow, say, my two or three theoretical stances: rhetorical, process, and expressionist. They might not even follow any known composition theory!
ReplyDeleteBerlin’s essay “Rhetoric and Ideology in the Writing Classroom” along with Fulkerson’s has become a favorite of mine. Why? Berlin gets his readers to realize that rhetoric is an ideology and subject to the whims of the decades thinking and cultural milieu. If I gather his ideas correctly, rhetoric cannot be looked at through one lens; we need to see how rhetoric is viewed under the broad umbrella of ideology and in its relation to social science, politics, and culture. Therborn cited in Berlin’s article, “insists that ideology is transmitted through language practices that are always the center for conflict and contest” (668). So, we make meaningful meanings within a structured environment only to undo the meaning by debating its existence in relation to another idea or concept. We are constantly reflecting. Hence, composition theory will constantly fluctuate in ideology because of external and internal contests. Through language we define ourselves to ourselves, others, and the world. We, in essence, create our voices to project these to an audience. As Bitzer states, we need a rhetorical situation to make our voices heard and an audience in which to hear them. How we construct our ideas is through the very semantics and syntactical patterns of our English language. “Ideology always carries with it strong social endorsement … seems inevitable” (669). Ideology will always be pluralistic and so, too, composition theory. Emig’s empirical study of 12th graders as she tries to pinpoint what composing is to them and what it should be to us, and even Rohman and Wlecke’s work on the inherent problems with teaching writing and pre-writing, all bear out the desire to name what composing is and what it is not. Both process and product are needed – we need a goal in mind, but how we get there is our process. Typically, our process follows a well-concenived avenue paved with three intersections: planning, drafting, and reviewing stages (or what I call pre-wiritng, drafting, revising, editing, and proofreading - thus, more intersections and lights). Most commentaries that we read implicitly or explicitly like Berlin’s work and the writers cited within, agree that the composing process is recursive. It will always be so. How we discover our ideas and develop them will always be discursive (cognitive rhetoric). But, warning! As Rohman and Wlecke uncovered, our students seem to lack a comfortable grasp of our language and inductive or deductive reasoning. Perhaps, not enough reading and writing is accomplished at the middle and high school level. But, I digress. What we seem to all agree on is that our voice matters and that voice is ours alone and not the teacher’s: the writer chooses his words to fit the situation and his feelings about the situation. How he puts this together is uniquely his own and his process to the product does not follow a linear pattern. It cannot because he is constantly thinking and re-working his ideas. Wait! I stand corrected. Unless the student in high school is shown and given the tools to see that much time is needed in composing, he will not adequately share his voice with us and his reasoning will be flat and uninspiring as it is bogged down in weak syntax. Lastly, Berlin’s comment after a discussion on social-epistemic rhetoric, language usage, and Bhaktin hits the mark. In studying rhetoric, “we are studying the ways in which knowledge comes into existence” (678). I know that I have aligned myself with opposing camps in embracing Berlin and Elbow, but there is a point here too in the seeming contradiction: in their war of ideas we have the mirror that we can hold up and look at ourselves as we debate what is composition and where is it going. These ideas and new ones like activity theory or race theory will come and go on the composing stage. We have just to get used to it. I guess I threw in the towel with that comment! For now.
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