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| For my students who, like me, find writing an illusive and
difficult task, what follows is a paper I wrote for a Writing
Intensive Seminar during my early years here at Mary Washington
College. The assignment was to write about a memorable writing
experience. The experience I wrote about was how I learned
to write. Somehow, I had avoided learning to write throughout
my undergraduate years. As an undergraduate I had focused
primarily on the sciences and mathematics, where, in those
days, communicating in words wasn't considered critical. As
one of my professors put it "math is the purest of the
languages, with it you can communicate with scientists anywhere
in the world." Most of the courses I took that did involve
writing, did not focus on the way things were written as much
as whether or not the thoughts and ideas covered in the course
were reiterated in my paper. When term papers were included
in the course they were typically laboratory reports where
a very specific form of writing was used. Once you learned
that style they were easy. In other words I didn't face a
real writing task until I was in graduate school. I still
don't write easily, but I have managed to get a number of
things published over the years and I have learned a few tricks
that I have shared elsewhere (see my web page on term
papers). I hope you find my experience useful, and come
to know that I share your pain. |
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A very memorable
writing experience:
Or how I learned to write
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| Big red arrows, large and small red circles, even red boxes
of various sizes, with and without arrows, defaced my masterpiece.
Red question marks were scattered across the pages; many of
the obnoxious marks were attached to strange three letter
words, like "Huh," "Ref," and "OOB."
There were red exclamation points as well, but they occurred
after other three-letter words, like "NAS" and "NAW,"
or they amassed at the end of the terse red scribbles that
seemed to fill the margins. I stood, stunned, turning the
pages hoping to find a page that had not been defiled by the
graffiti. |
| Faintly, at the edge of my dazed consciousness, I heard
a voice asking, "Do you have the time to discuss it?"
Torn between fear and fury, I looked over at the gray-haired
old man, and he began to laugh. "You are either very
sure of yourself or very trusting. I would never trust anyone
with my 'stream-of-consciousness'. I have to edit a paper
two or three times before I let anyone see it," he said.
I sat down. |
| How could I have chosen this crazy old man to chair my Master's
thesis committee? During my search for a chair and a committee,
I had interviewed most of the Psychology Department faculty.
Among them, he seemed the classic gray-bearded sage. He knew
his field. And though he never mentioned it, I later discovered
that he had been awarded the University's Teacher of the Year
award, years ago. But most importantly, he was the one of
the few faculty members I spoke with who never spoke badly
of other faculty or, for that matter, of students. He always
highlighted the admirable facets of others and consistently
interpreted people's behavior in ways that let me see each
of them as someone struggling to do the best s/he could given
the circumstance, not unlike myself. Yet, having already "trashed"
my first attempt at a proposal, here he sat, laughing at me!
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| He suggested that I take a few minutes to read over his
comments before we discussed them. As I read the scribbles
carefully, I discovered that among the menacing three-letter
words were other terse comments, like "good idea"
and "I like it, say more." As we reviewed the document,
he read sentences and sentence fragments aloud. He'd stop
and ask, "What did you want that sentence to say?"
I'd tell him. He'd laugh. He'd tell me what the sentence said
to him, and we'd both laugh. In time, we got through the first
draft. |
| The second draft brought less laughter, but just as many
red marks. He began explaining structure and the use of the
transitions "first," "second," and "third."
He introduced me to Strunk and White. As we talked, I explained
that I seldom thought in words; most of my ideas were pictures.
He didn't flinch; he just smiled and said, "That's great
. . . so, draw me a picture." He then spoke of tables
and figures and the particular difficulties of turning correlated
and concurrent concepts into a series of words. "Writing,"
he emphasized, "is a serial process, which is exactly
why a picture is worth at least a thousand words." He
noted that if I really thought in pictures, my Master's Thesis
wasn't going to be a short document. |
| For my third draft, I drew some of the pictures and began
putting words to them. Writing was, as he had noted, a lot
of work. Most disturbing in the third round of editing were
the huge red X's, annotated with "NN" for "Not
Necessary." Like a child during potty training, I was
attached to my product. I had labored hard to bring words
to my ideas. Every word felt important, each idea insightful;
to flush away entire paragraphs with the stroke of a red pen
was excruciating. |
| By the fourth draft we were working on introductions, transitions,
and the use of headings and subheadings. The red ink still
flowed, but I had come to trust it. I still cringed at "NNs,"
but I now laughed at "OOB's" (Out Of the Blue) and
seldom saw "NAS" (not-a-sentence) or "NAW"
(not-a-word). |
| Over the year and a half required to get from the first
draft to my oral defense, I actually came to enjoy our weekly
sessions. At the party after my defense, with wine glass in
hand, the crazy sage, laughing heartily, pointed out that
my successive drafts qualified as the clearest evidence he'd
ever encountered that "learning" existed. I owe
him |
|
Many thanks to Dr. Len Lansky. I owe you,
my students owe you.
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