Going Old School
The boundaries of “academic discourse” are extremely blurry. Not all “school” work counts. In fact, as a student, I have never really considered my work as a part of the conversations taking place in academia. My term papers were written for grades. Often they simply supported some other argument I found in an article on the topic I had chosen. Until now, with the assignment of joining in on the scholarly fun, it did not even seem like my works were a part of academia, but rather a part of my academic career, aside from all the real scholars and their journal articles.
As I reconsider what is considered as academic discourse (since I doubt my work is) I wonder what does count. Who gets to join the conversation and what are they saying? I think I need to break this down. Let’s start with “what is a discourse community?” (since academia is one). Luckily, Patricia Bizzell has written an article answering that very question. In her article “What Is a Discourse Community,” Bizzell points out that there have been no clear definitions of what constitutes a discourse community. Her “tentative definition” calls discourse community “a group of people who share certain language-using practices (Bizzell, 222).” That phrasing brings me back to last semester’s Introduction to Sociolinguistics where I looked at and studied speech communities (even before Bizzell mentions the connection).
That is a good start, but I sense that academic discourse has more to it. It is true that the members of a discourse community must share common language practices, of course, but what do they talk about? Bizzell refers to John Swales and seems to answer this question as well. Swales’ definition of discourse community, as paraphrased by Bizzell, is “a social group using language to accomplish work in the world (Bizzell, 225)” (my emphasis). Whether this is true of all discourse communities, I am unsure, but what becomes clear is that it rings true of academic discourse. Academic discourse is not only a style of writing shared among scholars, but is a conversation among scholars who are all striving to find the best, truest, or most effective theories in their fields.
In the case of Bizzell, Swales, and Peter Elbow (who I will get to soon), the theories apply to composition. The scholars in the field of composition studies converse about discourse. They strive to find the best, truest, and most effective ways to write both outside of and within academic discourse. This is obviously problematic. Remember in high school and certain college courses when papers were down-graded for using non-Standard English, not “developing” your argument or using enough supporting details? The composition scholars argue whether or not those constraints are vital to “good” writing in the ways English teachers claim they are. The views of what constitutes “good” writing are being challenged and new ideas about how and what to write are being placed on the table. People are eating it up, too.
While these scholars argue about the ways in which writing should be taught, I am being introduced to both ends of the spectrum. My entire academic career through my junior year in college consisted of being presented with the various ways to build an effective persuasive paper. In the past two semesters, however, I have been exposed to these composition scholars who have turned my thoughts in all directions. Now I have received my first formal invitation into the conversation; in fact, I am being forced to by an assignment. The question is, how can someone like me, not even a part of the academic discourse community, now confused about what counts as “good” writing, even begin to join in? After some reviewing of the material I have to work with, I made a decision that even surprised myself. I am going to work against my recent instincts, against much of what I have read from the conversation, and argue for making clear and concise arguments the “it” factor for writing well.
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It has always been my understanding that academic discourse is one in which authors write with purpose; the goal is to make a point or opinion to sway the audience (other scholars and the general society). While I must admit I was fascinated by the composition scholars and their deviant theories, I still hold that a well designed argument is what will persuade the masses. In reading the various opinions on what should be taught in writing classes I found that the more “alternative” a discourse or style was, the more I wondered how credible the author was. It was the fanciful language, outrageous ideas and vigor with which they wrote that drew me in, but those same qualities left me with the sense that I had not learned anything from their pieces. I was unable to take meaning and understanding from the essays. There are negative consequences that come with experimentation, pushing the boundaries, and being innovative, the most glaring of which is not being able to connect with your audience and make the point you are striving for.
As this realizations surfaced, I immediately thought of Peter Elbow’s “Writing With Power,” especially the chapter titled Power in Writing. His theory of voice seems to eliminate all the rules and opens the floor to all possible variation, which I am cautioning against. Voice is “words that capture the sounds of the individual on the page (Elbow, 287).” Essentially, it is the written form of what would otherwise be spoken. Voice theory invites you to integrate all other discourse communities to which you belong, even including speech communities, into your writing, be it academic or otherwise. There is a peculiarity to the voice Elbow describes in that it sparks something in the reader, but is a product of the relationship between the words and their author. I struggle with this concept not because I do not understand it - as an English major I have read many excellent works chock full of voice - but I do not believe that voice holds the value Elbow places on it in all contexts.
As with many of the composition scholars I have been studying, I quickly fell in love with Elbow’s voice theory. I wanted my writing to be powerful; I wanted people to recognize my writing as mine. So I free-wrote and I tried to be myself as much as possible. Not sure of how well I had done, I looked over my returned and graded paper and was mortified to find the phrase “run-on” scribbled on the page. Only a few semesters ago I taught a lesson to a group of sixth graders on how to avoid run-on sentences. Now I am writing them in college papers. Something went wrong here.
While I think there is more to voice theory than “writing the way you talk,” this common conception of Elbow’s work causes problems. My “voice” when speaking is quick-paced, jumps from topic to topic easily and is often not well thought out. This is not what I like to portray in my writing, though. I am fully capable of thinking before producing language and filling in the gaps of my half-baked thoughts with outside support and I show this through academic writing. In trying to find my voice (which I hoped would increase the quality with which I wrote) I ended up losing several of the writing skills that I have prided myself on for years. Having a run-on sentence in a formal paper is not my voice.
Despite my personal experiences with voice, I find that there are other ways in which the theory hinders a writer’s ability to give a clear argument. There is a fine line between putting your voice on the page in order to make a valid point and putting your voice on the page and calling it a valid point. Entitlement is something that all published authors no doubt feel from time to time, however, voice theory tells us that every person who writes is entitled to get their thoughts into the discussion. Not all opinions are useful in a conversation, no matter how real they are to the speaker. Likewise, not all voices are convincing, no matter how true or logical the points they make may be. In academic discourse, one that strives to build arguments for betterment, personal voices are not necessary and can prove to be detrimental to building a solid argument.
The power that Elbow feels when reading a work composed with voice is one of fascination, similar to my fascination when reading Elbow and his colleagues. He is drawn in by the linguistic elements (which he cannot even describe). While reading language that is used masterfully, the reader is left with a sense of awe that is engaging, interesting, even fun; it is also distracting. Fanciful language can draw attention away from the meaning, the point. Think of the classic novels you have read and consider whether you found the underlying meanings on the first time through. If you are anything like me, it takes a couple readings (or a skilled literature professor) to pull the non-literal points from the text. Voice can be distracting in the same way. You read and appreciate the language without even realizing that you have missed the bigger picture, the statement the author was making.
Voice does have a place in writing, even within academic discourse. However, it should not be on the top of the “what to do to be a ‘good’ writer” totem pole. A well laid-out argument can absolutely be enhanced with a splash of voice, and, as I noted above, great literature cannot be found without it. But it is important to realize that enjoyment is not the point of reading academic discourse and it is not persuasive. When writing within an academic conversation you want people to side with you, meaning they must believe in what you write. Believing does not step from enjoyment. I personally enjoy murder/mystery novels. The stories draw me in and I can read for hours without even realizing it. Nevertheless, I am never disappointed when the story does not make the front-page news. No matter how entrenched in a book I get, I do not believe in what the author has written. When reading the scholarly works on composition theory, despite the fact that I was often sucked in, it was hard to apply what I had read because I either simply could not remember what the point was or I was unconvinced of the practicality when I actually attempted to follow the theories.
The power necessary to engage in the scholarly conversations of academia lies in the construction of text, not the fanciful use of language. By layering and converging bits of an argument, opinions, textual references, and new ideas, a clear and concise point can be displayed. Persuasive writing works in making the reader understand first, then believe. A good argument does both, but not every argument is good. There is a level of skill required to convince a challenging audience. The scholars of composition theory could argue about how to build the best argument until the end of time and never converge on one single answer. Still, when discussing academic discourse, I stick by traditional argument building as the best form of communication. Everyone will hear you clearly, whether they agree with you or not.