In my ENC 1101 classes on Wednesday, I played a clip of the Monty Python Flying Circus “Argument Clinic” sketch for my students. In this clip, a man (Michael Palin) pays to take part in a really good argument from another man (John Cleese). Cleese spends the entire argument simply contradicting whatever Palin says, and Palin gets annoyed. “This isn’t an argument” he claims huffily. “An argument’s not the same as contradiction,” he continues, insisting instead that “an argument’s a collective series of statements to establish a definite proposition.” Finally, he claims that “argument’s an intellectual process.” I was reminded of this sketch as I read Don Murray’s article.

“Writing is a demanding, intellectual process,” Murray says, by way of countering the more established view that writing is a product. Whereas Cleese’s character wants the “five-minute argument” to remain merely contradictory, a product that in its simplest terms covers all the bases for disagreement, Palin’s character wants something meatier. He wants a considered, reasoned, and intellectual argument. Murray goes on to say that the way to obtain better work from our own students (the good argument that Palin so desires) is to shut up and let them write. Merely “giving an assignment [that] tells him [sic] what to say and how to say it” robs the student of the opportunity to think critically about her work (3).

I think this seems at first to be a more balanced view on how to approach writing. This view doesn’t rely on discussion, or lecturing, but instead says that only by doing will the students grow. What Palin really wants is for Cleese to listen to what he’s saying and respond in a thoughtful manner. Simply saying “No it isn’t” won’t further the conversation. Of course, this view also expects something of the teacher. She can’t simply say “write” and trust that the students will do so in a truly engaged way. We must, Murray says, learn to be “quiet, to listen, and to respond” (3). In this view, only through this respectful treatment of the student’s abilities, with attention to where the student is and where she could go, will we be able to receive stronger writing.

I found the concept of “felt sense” does a nice job of giving a name to the chaotic way I prewrite. My prewriting process typically involves several sheets of lined paper with random notes written haphazardly all over them – things crossed out, ideas rephrased, arrows to make connections, and absolutely no semblance of process or strategy. I simply write down the beginnings of my thought processes and move through the ideas until I feel as though I have landed upon one arguable topic. This works for me, so I have never bothered to change my process. I think the process of felt sense has less to do with inspiration and more to do with an organization of thoughts.

I often bring up the idea of “word vomit” to my students in class, and the importance of avoiding chaotic writing that has no organization. I think that the need to experience a moment of “felt sense” allows students to avoid word vomit. The goal of prewriting is to work through your ideas ahead of time, whereas papers with word vomit work through the thought process while simultaneously working through the writing process. This often leads to the thesis not becoming entirely clear until the conclusion paragraph. In order to encourage felt sense and avoid word vomit, I think students need to be encouraged to view writing as research. The goal isn’t to answer a prompt, but to first pose a question for inquiry, work through the answer to that question, develop an argument, and THEN write. These steps allow students to experience felt sense and understand why it can strengthen their papers.

“But I believe that in most every intellectual endeavor, the extremes of its work come from an unteachable dark.” -Galchen

In an attempt to explain how writing can/cannot be taught, Galchen introduces this idea of the “unteachable dark” in reference to what we might consider natural talent. The idea intrigues me because the suggestion is that in order to reach “the extremes” (i.e. success/fame) one must tap into this unknown realm of greatness.

It seems that the conversation is always driven to the extremes. As if a simple understanding of how to write will never be sufficient through the eyes of the successful. As writers, we hold ourselves in such high regard. We talk about “the craft” and “the art of writing” like our shit doesn’t stink. But it does. It smells like shit.

I guess what I’m getting at is that the idea of teaching writing and the idea of teaching greatness are often blurred. Students who HAVE to learn to write are completely uninterested in “the unteachable dark”. We (teachers of writing and creative writers) look at writing under a microscope and often forget to take our eyes off the lens and adjust back to the world around us. I think that often we become part of the problem in allowing students of writing to tap into their own “darkness.”

INFORMATION OVERLOAD!!! Focus on your thesis! What’s with all the comma splices? Did you address the prompt? Dude, this isn’t 5-6 pages…

What I’m getting at is I don’t think we allow ourselves, at times, to step back and observe “the process.” Part of me (perhaps the cynical man I’ve become over the years) feels that the quality of writing will inevitably improve/diminish regardless of how much attention/feedback I give to the individual student. The other part of me (perhaps the writer that holds “the craft” in such high regard) wants to coddle each student and show them the intricacies of what they are doing right/wrong. But, either way, it is not within my power to access the “darkness” within them, if it exists at all.

Still not sure I’m doing this right…

The “felt sense” as something that is somehow tied into the physical sensation of a writer, a “bodily awareness” of some kind, doesn’t make intelligible sense to me.  In short, I can’t feel it in the way that it’s described in the Perl piece.  I can, however, reason with the ideas that drive the “felt sense” concept when they are contextualized as part of the vision and revision aspect of composition—something akin to intention.

“What is ‘right’ or ‘wrong’ corresponds to our sense of our intention. We intend to write something, words come, and now we assess if those words adequately capture our intended meaning.”

Beyond who we are as writers, we should be able to relate to this sentiment because of who we are as conscious beings.  Intention—not a formulated plan, but an inborn drive or motive—feels like a pivotal and unavoidable step in the process of consciously, perhaps even unconsciously, communicating ideas.

If this is as close as I can get to the “felt sense” concept, I’ll take it, and I’ll run with the idea that intention is a vital aspect of the composition process for any writer.

Can intention, in this sense, be taught?  In simplest terms, no, I don’t think so.  But, I also don’t think it exists in such abstract terms as “body and mind before they are split apart.”

If we can experience intention and communication, then revisit the latter to “adequately capture” the former, are we not fundamentally moving toward sensational composition?