Writing and the Writer

Frank Smith

• Editorial: Routledge
• Año: 2013
• ISBN:
  9781136690136
• Edición: 2
• Categoría: Sprachen & Linguistik
• Categoría: Kommunikationswissenschaften

Exploring the relationship between the writer and what he/she happens to be writing, this text by one of the foremost scholars in the field of literacy and cognition is a unique and original examination of writing--as a craft and as a cognitive activity. The book is concerned with the physical activity of writing, the way the nervous system recruits the muscles to move the pen or manipulate the typewriter. It considers the necessary disciplines of writing, such as knowledge of the conventions of grammar, spelling, and punctuation. In particular, there is a concern with how the skills underlying all these aspects of writing are learned and orchestrated. This second edition includes many new insights from the author's significant experience and from recent research, providing a framework for thinking about the act of writing in both theoretical and practical ways. A completely new chapter on computers and writing is included, as well as more about the role of reading in learning to write, about learning to write at all ages, and about such controversial issues as whether and how genre theory should be taught. Written in nontechnical language, this text will continue to be accessible and stimulating to a wide range of readers concerned with writing, literacy, thinking, and education. Furthermore, it has an educational orientation, therefore proving relevant and useful to anyone who teaches about writing or endeavors to teach writing.

1

Introduction

My intention with this book was to explore the interaction between the writer and text by making use of it. I wanted to write about writing in order to understand better the act of writing and how it is learned. This is an enormous power of writing, as I see it. Not only can a piece of writing communicate thought from writer to reader (an assertion I shall examine rather critically in due course), but also the act of writing can tell the author things that were not known (or not known to be known) before the writing began. Thus we might build a boat to learn more about how boats are built, or climb a hill without knowing in advance the view that will be attained or even the route that we will be able to take. Writing can extend both our imagination and our understanding.¹ (Superscript numbers refer to the Notes, which begin on page 241.)

ON WRITING ON WRITING

Part of the original intention was to make this book the record of its own odyssey, to write of what I might discover about writing as the discovery was made. In principle this was a misconception—no more possible than to make a film about the making of that particular film. Always an additional camera is required to film the camera filming the camera that is filming. . . . Telescopes, microscopes, and eyes themselves are limited in the extent to which they can examine their own processes, even with the supplementary use of pictures or mirrors. Another instrument is always required to observe the instrument observing the image.²

But the idea was also misconceived in practice. Something I had to realize about writing is that it covers its own traces. The record is erased of the false starts, the dead ends, the deletions, and the rearrangements. The seams do not (I hope) show. An enormous advantage of writing over speech is that ideas can easily be reorganized in both time and space. They do not have to remain in the order in which they are produced. Conclusions can appear to follow inevitably from prior arguments or evidence, although the arguments and evidence may in fact be produced only after the conclusions are decided. Authors of mysteries and of scientific articles alike take advantage of this possibility of rearranging the temporal sequence of events in what they write. Certainly the present book as it was written would be both unpublishable and incomprehensible.

Thus the story of any writing enterprise can only be related retrospectively, in another piece of writing, and for anyone who is interested that is what I have done. Now, obviously manipulating time and space, I am explaining at the beginning of the final draft of this book something that I decided upon when I was well past this point as I wrote the first draft. I am discussing something yet to appear in the book although I have already written it. At the end of the text (page 233) is a kind of case study of how the book developed during its writing, beyond my original intentions and expectations, and of how the book changed me or, as we might more conventionally say, what I learned from writing it. There are also some second thoughts about how the original text looked to me when I had the opportunity to rewrite it.

OUTLINE OF THE BOOK

One of the paradoxes of writing is that a text will erase its own history but can look into its own future. In the following paragraphs I outline briefly the course and contents of the remainder of this book.

The following two chapters are brief but basic. Chapter 2 (“Why Write?”) is concerned with both the motivation for writing and its consequences. I propose that writing is relevant to all human endeavors, and cannot be replaced by alternative technologies. Writing has many values, whether or not it is a requirement of our occupation or role in life to write. Chapter 3 (“Writing: Collaboration and Competition”) draws a distinction between what is said in writing, the composition, and what has to be done to say it, the conventions of transcription, such as spelling, punctuation, grammar, and neatness. These are literally two sides of writing, sometimes confused and often in opposition.

Chapter 4 (“The Thought Behind Language”) is the first of four relatively long chapters devoted to composition (to show where the emphasis in this book lies). The meaning of language ultimately lies beyond language, and this opening excursion ventures into those realms of thought that are quite literally speechless—and therefore frustratingly difficult to attempt to discern and describe. But to restrict the study of language to what can be seen or heard is to stay forever at the surface, in synonyms and paraphrases. The depths may be obscure, but they must be entered.

Chapter 5 (“Putting Meaning into Words”) attempts the impossible task of constructing a one-sided bridge between the unobservable, preverbal processes of thought and the explicit, self-evident elements of language, whether spoken or written. Although the connection cannot be described, the gulf is crossed every time an individual produces or understands a meaningful utterance. How are the noises or marks of language made meaningful?

Chapter 6 (“Language: Spoken and Written”) acknowledges that for all their similarities, spoken and written language are not the same, and considers possible reasons for the differences. There are some reflections on how and why differences in language come about, and on an issue very close to many writers on writing (though considered more peripheral by this one), the role of an audience.

Chapter 7 (“The Writer-Reader Contract”) shows that the effort to be meaningful is not just a responsibility of the writer. If written language is to be intelligible in any way, writers and readers must implicitly agree on how it is to be interpreted. Communication involves getting into the other person’s mind, and this can only be done if a number of conventions are observed and respected. The particular conventions may be arbitrary, but the fact of conventions is essential, for it is shared expectations that make communication and comprehensibility possible.

Chapter 8 (“The Act of Writing”) attempts to draw the preceding chapters together, interrelating the demands of transcription and the problems of composition, both theoretically and in the mind of a writer actually trying to put ideas that make sense on paper.

Chapter 9 (“Starting and Stopping”) recognizes that the act of writing is not so easily disposed of, either in this book or in practice. The previous chapter summed up writing as if it could be done without a hitch; what we are doing when we do it. This chapter, perhaps more realistically, considers problems of getting started, and of keeping going at times when one does not want to come to a standstill.

Chapter 10 (“The Tapestry of Transcription”) examines in more detail some conventions of transcription. The concern is not with setting out the “rules” of such conventions as spelling or punctuation, certainly not with whether particular forms are right, wrong, or even desirable. Instead they are examined for their purpose and utility, including the extent to which any convention helps a writer or a reader and the price that each might pay in the compromise that is inevitably reached.

Chapter 11 (“The Tools of the Trade”) begins with pens and pencils and ends with a substantial section on the differences that computers and word processors might make to writing, teaching, and written language. Cataloging the varied items of equipment and support that writers may call upon also helps to underline the frequently idiosyncratic individuality of those who write.

Chapter 12 (“Learning to be a Writer”) looks at learning to write as an aspect of learning in general, and especially at the enormous (and usually unsuspected) amounts of learning all of us accomplish if we learn to use spoken and written language with any degree of fluency. The necessary conditions of learning are explored.

Chapter 13 (“Learning the Technicalities”) takes the major aspects of composition and transcription and examines what is involved in their learning, both from reading and from writing. Beginners can and must be trusted to be able to learn to write.

Chapter 14 (“The Writing Teacher”) contrasts what teachers reasonably might do, and almost certainly cannot do, to help students of any age learn to write. The way schools are organized might inhibit writing even by people who know very well how to do it, so that teaching to write is often much more complicated than it need be. The dilemma is examined.

An aim throughout the book is to avoid technicalities, unnecessary detail, and the frequent citation of related work, which for the writer is supposed to reflect scholarship but for the reader often constitutes little more than obstacles to comprehension. Notes for every chapter are presented together, in somewhat smaller type, beginning on page 241. In these Notes are references for particular topics discussed in the main text, some additional detail or elaborations into new areas that would constitute digressions in the main text, and occasional suggestions for further reading.

WRITING AND THE WRITER

My preview has perhaps already indicated that I have not found it possible to write a book about writing without going very far afield. There is a great deal in this book about language in general and about the thought that underlies language, much of it without specific reference to writing. But writing should not be isolated from other aspects of language and certainly cannot be separated from thought. Writing is a reflection of the mind, and to understand writing the mind in all its power and mystery has to be approached. For a similar reason the chapters on learning to write include discussions on learning in general, because we learn to write in the same ways that we learn anything else.

All this is to say that any inquiry into writing is by necessity fundamentally psychological; in particular, it must always be concerned with the perceptions and intentions of the writer, even when that writer is learning to write. I am not saying that it is necessary to inquire into the psychology of the writer in order to understand a book. Such an inquiry may help to explain the book, but as I have asserted, a book exists independently of its author and from many points of view must be dealt with on its own merits. Linguists, literary critics, and readers much of the time rightly ignore the history of how what they are reading was written, and even why it was written. But to understand the act of writing, the writer’s perspective cannot be ignored, because it affects the act itself. Writing is always personal (even though what is written may not be personal). Writers’ intentions cannot be explained away or ignored by the use of such vague expressions as “trying to communicate” or “getting thoughts on paper.” A specific question must always be borne in mind: What was the purpose of the writing in the first place? And this will prove very complex. But I consider this question of “Why write?” so fundamental that it is the first to be explored in this book.

My final point enlarges upon one aspect of the personal nature of writing; it is that there is a tremendous range of differences among individuals. For some people writing often comes easily, although others find it a continual struggle (including many professional writers). Some find writing a strain, others a release. Some need absolute silence and freedom from distraction, while others are able to write in any circumstances. A few seem incapable of writing an ungrammatical sentence; others must concentrate on ideas first and attend to matters of grammar and style later. Some cannot bear to have their writing revised; others are reluctant to let it go without multiple revisions. Some flourish under deadlines, but many find it impossible to write to order. All this is apart from such obvious individual differences as ability to spell (certainly not a reliable indicator of the fluency or creativity of a writer), to punctuate, or to write grammatically or neatly.

In other words, there are many dimensions to writing, and individuals can be found at widely separated points on each dimension. One moral is that we should never assume that the way we ourselves write is the way everyone writes. Teachers must not assume that their own idiosyncrasies are the only or even the best way to write. And the author of a book on writing must take care not to make it autobiographical.

(Notes to Chapter 1 begin on page 241.)

2

Why Write?

To write about writing in all its aspects would be to write about every facet of our private and social lives, about the functions of the written word in religion, law, government, politics, industry, commerce, education, art, and entertainment, in all formal and informal relationships among people, all mechanisms for organizing, informing, instructing, persuading, exciting, amusing, tranquilizing, and otherwise controlling or influencing individuals. Writing touches every part of our lives, and not even the illiterate escape its consequences. Indeed, not being able to write is often regarded as an affront to literate society, a societal and an individual inadequacy. For decades, ability to read and to write has been a central issue in the politics of education and in educational research.

The question “Why write?” can be interpreted as an inquiry into the utility of written language to a culture or in our everyday interactions. It can also mean “What is the use of writing to an individual?” I attend to the more general cultural issue first because I do not intend to explore it in depth. I propose to take the general utility of writing to be axiomatic; it has earned its place in any culture in which it is found.

THE CULTURAL UTILITY OF WRITTEN LANGUAGE

Many cultures have developed writing systems of their own, or have adopted the writing systems of other cultures, but there is no record of any culture having given up writing or having allowed it to fall into disuse. Obviously, writing has been generally considered useful, and at least three broad reasons can be found for this.

The first reason for the persistence of writing is its evident utility as a tool for communication; it conveys information over time and space in a way not open to speech. You are probably reading these words many months after I wrote them and probably many miles from where I wrote them. It would be far less convenient for both of us if you had to listen to me talking about writing. The second general utility of writing is to provide a more or less permanent record, ranging from the accounts in a bookkeeper’s ledger to histories and laws whose purpose is not so much to communicate as to institutionalize. All that some cultures have left of their existence is some written records and a few other artifacts. And the third cultural value of writing is as art, the product of creativity: novels, poems, plays. The fact that writing, wherever it has existed, seems to have participated in these three general roles demonstrates its broad utility to cultures.

I do not agree with the view that writing will become redundant in our own culture because other technologies are taking its place. I cannot imagine any technology making writing obsolete, in the sense of providing a complete alternative to writing. Technologies may sometimes offer acceptable substitutes—they may occasionally be more efficient than writing, occasionally less—but they are not the same; they do not do what writing does in the way writing does it. Therefore they cannot wholly take the place of writing, any more than photography can take the place of the painter’s art (though photography introduces new possibilities for art). Consider the technological alternatives that are commonly proposed for writing, the telephone or radio and television, and their more permanent forms, recording and film.

Apart from the fact that the telephone (or radio) can overcome barriers of space, the telephone has the same disadvantages as spoken language; its utility is restricted to the moment it is uttered. A telephone call cannot take the place of a book or even a letter as a means of communication across time, as a record, or as a work of art. Recordings can only overcome constraints of time in a limited way, taking a spoken language event out of one particular moment of time, the moment it is produced, so that it can be heard and repeated at other times. But listeners to a recording do not have the power to manipulate time that readers have; they cannot skip, hurry ahead, or go back and review, at least not with the facility of a reader. You could not ask me to repe...