*Nina Varsava has a B.A. from the University of Alberta in Edmonton, where she studied English literature and creative writing. She currently resides in Prague where she is researching, writing, teaching, and learning Czech.
“Where there is a path it is someone else’s way.”
— Joseph Campbell (in Schneider, 2003:50)
I should have started a week ago, but the words wouldn’t come. The screen stared at me blankly for days and would only laugh as I typed, deleted, typed, deleted.
In this essay I’m my own case study. Reflecting on my own experiences—mainly from the perspective of my third year as an English undergrad—I’ll examine how academic writing is taught and practiced in the typical university English class. Ultimately, I want to explore how we might de—and re—construct the pedagogy revolving around academic essay-writing.
ENGLISH 101:
Our prof assumes that none of us has been taught to write a proper essay; fair enough, we probably haven’t. After all, I certainly don’t have a meticulous formula to follow—just the basic intro, body, conclusion; and that design leaves a lot of room for error. She warns us that the grading standards for university essays are much more demanding than high school standards: if we’re used to getting As, we should expect Bs and Cs; if we’re used to Cs and Ds, well, good luck passing.
Eager to raise my abilities to university standard—whatever that means—I buy the required text on essay-writing. Skimming through Essay Writing for Canadian Students with readings (2004) , I quickly see that it is the key to successful university writing: 538 pages of step-by-step instructions on how to produce the ultimate academic essay. In the “To the Student” section of the book’s preface, Stewart et al . tell me that they “present a systematic approach to writing essays” and that they “are convinced this method will work for most writers” (xvi). Brilliant. I’ll have this academic essay thing figured out in no time.
On page 9, Stewart et al. summarize the essay-writing process as follows:
STAGE 1: CLARIFYING ESSAY TOPICS
STAGE 2: GATHERING MATERIAL
STAGE 3: FORMULATING A THESIS STATEMENT
STAGE 4: DRAFTING
STAGE 5: REVISING THESIS STATEMENT AND ESSAY STRUCTURE
STAGE 6: REVISING INDIVIDUAL PARAGRAPHS
STAGE 7: FINAL EDITING
Okay, seems pretty straightforward so far. I read on. They tell me that the basic function of academic essays is analysis, and they go on to explicate this process in detail: “You begin by using systems, process, and causal analysis to generate material about your subject. For each type of analysis, you group your ideas into relevant subcategories” (28). An elaborate diagram accompanies the text to show how the analytic techniques are carried out. It looks like one of the scientific process diagrams from my bio textbook. Here it is:
(25).
As I continue working through Essay Writing , I read that paragraphs can be organized either deductively or inductively and that their organization should correspond to that of the essay as a whole (59). I’m not sure what this means, but I read on. The process gets more and more complex—steps within stages and substeps within steps.
Somewhere around chapter three, the essay process becomes utterly unmanageable, and I become entirely incapable. Every essay I’ve ever written has grossly evaded this scrupulous and imperative formula; in fact, I’ve never written a real essay at all. How can I ever internalize the process articulated in this book? I’ll forever be a prisoner between its pages. Even a short essay assignment will take me weeks, months, and even then I’ll fail because I screwed up the fifth stage of revision or put an inductive paragraph where I should have had a deductive one. My essay won’t hold: it will wobble the whole way through and ultimately collapse into its shoddy foundations.
THREE YEARS LATER:
Although I had to accept that my essays were never going to meet Stewart et al. ’s model of perfection, I did pick up many guidelines from their textbook that have stuck with me as well as other guidelines advanced by my English instructors. For example, I once used contractions in a high school writing assignment: big mistake. Apparently, my use of contractions showed that I wasn’t taking the subject seriously. I was told NEVER, EVER to use contractions in academic writing. My teacher would be pleased with the magnitude of her influence: I’ve written countless academic essays since then, and this one is the first where I’ve reverted to my naturally contracted writing. I’d forgotten how good it feels.
Since I started university, I’ve been taught many more essay-writing absolutes: never end a paragraph with a quote; never use the second person; avoid the passive form; have at least three sentences in each paragraph; and never introduce new ideas in your conclusion. Of course, countless other rules pervade the domain of academic essay-writing; many I’ve likely been taught but since forgotten, and others must be so deeply internalized that I don’t even realize I’m following them. While many are valuable and even necessary—like citing sources according to a particular recognized style, for example—other rules and instructions only homogenize academic writing and detract from its potential.
When I first studied Essay Writing , I developed a strong aversion to academic writing. I lost confidence in my skills and was petrified to approach an essay assignment. Out of curiosity, I recently read Essay Writing again. I was reminded of it while studying another writing guide—Pat Schneider’s Writing Alone and with Others (2003). My second read of Essay Writing didn’t inflict me with the same overwhelming anxiety I experienced when I first read it, but it did make me sad and angry. Reading Essay Writing and Writing Alone back-to-back was extremely enlightening, and it motivated me to write this essay in an attempt to make better sense of my feelings on academic essay-writing.
Stewart et al. imply that there’s only one standard route to a good academic essay, and if you can’t grasp their formulas, you’re doomed to academic failure. However, after reading and writing more and particularly after reading Schneider’s book, I’ve come to realize that Stewart et al.’s essay-writing techniques aren’t only terrifying and possibly debilitating to the inexperienced writer, but they may also be detrimental to academic writing. Essay Writing leaves virtually no room for the writer’s voice, creativity, or imagination.
Some details from the text might give a better idea of Stewart et al.’s restrictive methodology. They tell us to organize our points according to ascending interest (91), to use at least six sources in a short research essay (164), to “[t]ry not to quote more than a sentence at a time” (175), and to “precede [our] thesis statement[s] either with something likely to appeal to all readers or with something that establishes neutral ground” (155). These instructions are restrictive but not paralyzing. However, many other rules leave hardly any room for personal choice. For example, they tell us that if we wish “[t]o express agreement or disagreement with another viewpoint, use a phrase such as ‘I think’ or ‘I believe,’ but “[m]ake such phrases inconspicuous by putting them inside the sentence”:
NOT I think Jones is right when she calls The Merchant of Venice a flawed play.
BUT Jones is right, I think, when she calls The Merchant of Venice a flawed play. (423)
I think , actually, the first example above—the one that Stewart et al. label as an absolute no-no—sounds better, but I’m willing to concede that this is only my own personal stylistic preference. Still, I hardly find it sensible to argue that the phrase “I think” should be situated in only one particular way within a sentence.
Stewart et al. also instruct us to “[m]ake ‘we’ references unobtrusive or revise the sentence to omit ‘we’”:
NOT We have seen that oil is a major factor in the politics of the Middle East.
BUT Oil, as we have seen, is a major factor in the politics in the Middle East. (433)
These petty and I think absurd writing “rules” exemplify the English discipline’s dominant, pseudo-scientific approach to academic essay-writing.
Stewart et al. state that “Formal essays on academic subjects . . . are written for specialized audiences familiar with the subject” (5). “Readers,” they aver, “appreciate essays that are well written according to the conventions of the discipline” (5). As an English student then, I should study the “conventions of the discipline” and adhere to them as strictly as possible. But what if I want my messages to extend beyond the English discipline? After all, much of the literature I study is widely read in the broader community; if I write about economic class in Salinger’s Catcher in the Rye, for example, I want my ideas to be widely accessible, and I want to reach individuals outside of the academy.
Often I have to read scholarly articles many times in order to grasp what they’re trying to say; the writing is so daunting, so remote, and if I weren’t attending university, I probably wouldn’t bother reading them at all. I don’t want to contribute to the already colossal walls separating the university from the broader community, but if I continue to listen to what I’m generally taught in my English classes, I’ll inevitably only heighten the academy’s exclusionist pedestal.
I had a huge realization a few months ago when an old friend from high school was over at my place. She picked up an essay that was lying on my bed and asked me what it was about. It was a feminist essay about women’s birth control that I had written for an English class on gender and sexuality. She was interested, so I told her to read it. She did, and after she had finished, she looked at me blankly. “Well, what do you think?” I asked her. “I don’t think anything,” she replied, “I have no idea what you’re trying to say.” She said that she felt stupid, that she would probably better understand my essay if she’d gone to university. I felt horrible and explained the paper to her using my natural voice and everyday vocabulary. She now easily grasped the concepts and engaged critically with my arguments. When I write my ideas, it’s because I want people to hear them, and the more people that hear them, the better. If reaching the broadest audience means not conforming to the conventions of my discipline (which is often what it does mean), then I simply can’t conform.
I think it’s important to distinguish nonconformity from outright defiance. As students, we’re given assignments, and we must, of course, do them—I’m not contesting that. We can rebel in how we do them. Essay assignments are often fairly open, but there are certain unstated expectations about how we’re to do them. We’re expected to use standard format and conventions. If we can defy these expectations, however, and transgress the conventional borders, while still meeting the explicit requirements of the assignment, then we can (de)constructively advance change in the English discipline from the bottom up.
As students, we can’t wait to be asked for creativity. We need to take the initiative; it might be frightening, and our grades might suffer, but if we’re not satisfied with current university pedagogy, then we can’t stick to our safe and reliable methods. If we’re willing to take risks, then we can show our profs how creativity, voice, and emotion can make academic essays more powerful, fruitful, and accessible. By taking risks with our academic writing, we call into question conventional pedagogy and destabilize its deep roots.
There’s a disturbing assumption running through the English discipline, which is advanced by English profs as well as essay-writing guides: serious writing = the formal essay, structured, worded, and presented according to the discipline’s conventions. The idea is that if we don’t conform to academic expectations, then we’re not treating our subject matter with the respect it deserves. In Writing Alone, Schneider discusses—and rejects—this assumption: “Anyone who cares enough to take a course or workshop is serious. . . . The desire to write is serious” (49). I whole-heartedly agree, and, furthermore, I think that when students invest personally in their essays and are willing to take stylistic as well as conceptual risks, it’s because they’re exceptionally serious about what they’re writing.
I also think that an essay’s potential increases exponentially when it speaks the author’s voice and expresses the author’s feelings. Such an essay produces a deeply engaged reader because its ideas are dynamic, filled with life. The English discipline, with its cognitive fixation, largely effaces the affectivity that can invigorate academic writing. We see this fixation in the way that academic essay-writing is typically taught in the English classroom and, not surprisingly, in the way that academic essays are generally written. In Essay Writing, Stewart et al. are careful to emphasize the incompatibility of personal sentiments with the academic essay: “In most college and university essays,” they assert, “you will want your reader to focus on your subject rather than your responses to your subject. To keep your focus on your subject, use first-person pronouns sparingly” (432). Stewart et al. imply that you shouldn’t draw attention to yourself in an academic essay; the I from whom the essay’s ideas come should be neatly hidden away. This I includes the author’s voice, emotions, and subjectivity.
Stewart et al. ’s writing process is so technically rigid that it leaves little room for creativity. Following their instructions produces a generic and sterile essay. I think that the dominant pedagogy around academic essay-writing is in desperate need of evolution—perhaps revolution. A new pedagogy should be developed, dedicated to producing positive and open attitudes toward writing. Of course, I can’t outline a pedagogical plan within the scope of this essay, but I can discuss a few approaches that I think could constructively contribute to a new model for teaching—and doing—academic essay-writing.
In Writing Alone and With Others , Schneider has helped me to think about alternative ways in which academic writing can be taught and performed. Although she deals mainly with nonacademic, creative writing, I think that many of her ideas can—and should—be adapted to the university English class. Her approach is nothing like that of Stewart et al , and her ideas evoke radically different attitudes. While Essay Writing filled me anxiety, fear, and dread, Writing Alone has left me invigorated and inspired as a writer. Schneider discusses the power of personal voice; and through her own writing, as well as samples from the workshops she leads, she exemplifies the unique and beautiful work that writers can create when they trust their own voices.
While Schneider wants to bring out the writer’s voice, Stewart et al. want to stifle it. They advocate a homogenized academic tone that allows no room for individual personality. The English discipline in general maintains that academic writing must be text-based and as cognitive and objective as possible; consequently, academic writing typically lacks the multidimensionality of writing imbued with personal reflections and feelings. I think that if we can make room for personality and affectivity in academic writing, then the English discipline will begin to produce more diverse, enthusiastic, and effective writers.
A fundamental block to deep thought and expression in academic essay-writing is fear. This fear is fueled when essay-writing pedagogy in university classrooms, largely based on textbooks like Essay Writing , presents academic writing as an inhospitable and intolerant domain. Stewart et al. assert: “Academic writing always assumes readers need to be convinced”; “the burden of proof is on you” (151, 149; my emphasis). I’m not trying to undermine the importance of articulating careful and convincing arguments in academic essays. However, I think it’s entirely counterproductive if students are made to view the “academic audience” for whom they’re supposedly writing as a bunch of vultures eager to tear into their arguments. If I’m trying to work on an essay while constantly worrying about how my readers are going to attack my ideas, then I probably won’t be able to write much at all. It’s important to make strong arguments, but the strongest, most interesting arguments arise from confidence and the courage to take risks.
Unfortunately, fears around academic writing and methods for overcoming them are not typically addressed in the English classroom. Students aren’t encouraged to discuss their essay ideas or progress with each other, and the prof is typically the only person who reads and acknowledges their finished work. As a result, students don’t feel as though they’re part of a community of student writers, and the essay-writing process can become lonely, even unmanageable. In Writing Alone and with Others , Schneider dedicates her first chapter to an exploration of the many fears that revolve around writing. She reassures us that we’re not alone in our writing fears and emphasizes the importance of acknowledging and working through them. Many of her suggested writing exercises effectively turn the once-daunting and judging blank page into an oasis of possibilities. In one exercise, for example, she tells us to go back in time to an early school experience (19). She tells us to “be aware of how [we] feel,” to “[s]tay there as long as [we] want,” to “let [things] happen” (20). Schneider doesn’t discuss any imperative results of this exercise—because there are none. Consequently, we can dive into the exercise free of expectations and demands and simply welcome the words that arise from our imaginative journey.
Schneider’s open and inspiring exercises can be adapted to the English classroom to help students overcome the fears that impede their writing. For example, open, experimental exercises involving texts that are being studied in class can be assigned for homework or in-class work; they can later be discussed but not graded. In this way, students will have an opportunity to entertain risky ideas in unconventional ways, and they’ll gain confidence when their writing is considered and valued by their classmates and their prof. If independent and communal exercises like this one are incorporated in the English classroom, then students will begin to feel less alone in their writing and more a part of a community of student writers.
Furthermore, I think that when it comes to working on academic essay assignments, students should be invited to discuss their ideas and progress in class. In Schneider’s workshops, writers are invited to share their work, if they like; the group may then discuss the work and offer positive feedback as well as constructive criticism. I think that this same type of design could foster enthusiasm and confidence in student writers. As the English discipline stands, p ersonal writing practices and problems aren’t typically discussed in classrooms because essay-writing instruction tends to follow the same paradigm as textbooks like Essay Writing, presenting the writing process as straightforward and basically invariable. The assumption underlying this paradigm is that if students properly follow the steps outlined in the guide and emphasized in class, then their practice will all be the same, and there shouldn’t be much to discuss.
The current English discipline’s writing pedagogy resists the development of a community of student writers and enforces the notion of writing as a solitary event. The essay-writing process is intensely personal, but that doesn’t mean it’s pointless for writers to share their own difficulties, fears, and habits with others. It can be comforting to know that not everybody—actually, probably not anybody—meticulously follows a step-by-step guide like the one outlined in Essay Writing. It’s comforting to know that memorable and effective essays can be created without adhering to a standardized essay-writing rubric.
In Writing Alone and with Others, Schneider doesn’t tell us exactly how we should go about writing, but she does tell us to develop and to respect our own habits. She advises us to find and to construct our own writing environments—places where we feel comfortable and safe. For her, this means “a cup of something hot, a chair big enough to curl [her] leg under [her], and a window nearby” (19). My writing haven includes silence (save my buzzing computer), a clear desk, and a caffeine source at hand. The point of sharing personal habits built around writing is not so we can imitate each other, but so we can relate to each other, and come to accept and respect our own and each others’ personal writing practices.
By discussing habits and fears connected to writing, Schneider makes the process less lonely. For me, essay-writing has always been a solitary event: I write alone; I rarely discuss my ideas with other students; and when I encounter a problem, I normally work through it by myself. However, after reading Schneider’s book and starting to discuss it in class, I feel for the first time that even though I write alone, I’m part of a writing community: I don’t have to write physically alongside the other members to know that they too go through all kinds of distress and joy when they write. I don’t have to write alongside them to know that, in some sense, I’m still writing with them.
If books that evoke positive attitudes toward writing, like Writing Alone, are worked into academic essay-writing pedagogy, and if books like Essay Writing, which only nurture writers’ dread, are worked out, then English classrooms can become inviting communities that fuel and support open, diverse, and exciting writing.
After studying Essay Writing in English 101 and being taught how to write an academic essay, I tried desperately to adhere to the proper writing formula. Inevitably, I’ve developed my own personal writing practices that evolve as I become more aware of my own strengths and weaknesses as a writer. My high school art teacher once told me that it’s normal for a painter to go through a stage when she absolutely hates the painting she’s working on. She wants to give up: to start again or to ditch the project. When I encountered this stage of crisis, my teacher would persuade me to keep painting: “Let’s see where it can take us,” he would say and assure me that it was going to be someplace beautiful. Now, when I paint alone, I hear his voice, and I paint on; I let my painting evolve out of its deficiencies, and I’m always glad that I did.
I typically have at least one major crisis when I’m writing an essay, and I’m beginning to realize that it’s like the painter’s crisis that my art teacher helped me to overcome. Usually, after I’ve written the first few pages of an essay, I read it over, and find myself wincing at my awkward sentences and wondering if anyone will be able to find my point, buried in all the nonsense. Occasionally, if I have a lot of time, I might actually start all over. If not, I usually cry, walk away from it, go for a run, or call a friend to talk about what an utterly incompetent writer I am. Ultimately, though, I have to return to the computer and face my debacle of an essay alone.
I don’t know if other writers experience this type of writing crisis. I’ve often heard people say that the blank page—or screen—is the hardest thing for the writer to conquer; after that, it’s smooth sailing. But for me, confronting my own work when I already see “bad word choice,” “awkward,” and “unclear” written all over it, is harder than starting fresh.
If English students have a chance to share their writing experiences in the classroom, then they can help each other find ways to overcome their obstacles. Rather than presenting the act of writing as some idealized, invariable process, English pedagogy should embrace it for what it is: a complex, inconsistent, terrifying, and magical experience. University students in the English discipline are currently being guided down a path that is carefully set out for them in “a series of integrated stages” (Stewart et al., 2004:back cover). If students passively follow it, then their writing will never reach its full potential. New and insightful ideas can’t flourish in old and rigid structures. Therefore, profs and students must work together—and if need be against each other—to explode the boundaries of the conventional academic essay.
Gibaldi, Joseph. (2003). MLA Handbook for Writers of Research Papers. 6 th ed. New York: MLA.
Rodrigues, Dawn, and Myron C. Tuman. (1996). Writing Essentials: A Norton Pocket Guide . New York: Norton.
Scheider, Pat. (2003). Writing Alone and with Others. New York: Oxford.
Stewart, Kay L., Chris J. Bullock, and Marian E. Allen. (2004). Essay Writing for Canadian Students with readings . Toronto: Pearson.
Other writing textbooks include Writing Essentials: A Norton Pocket Guide (1996) and MLA Handbook for Writers of Research Papers (2003). These books offer guidelines that largely correspond to those offered in Essay Writing. However, within the scope of this paper, I decided to focus on only one.