Wednesday’s presentations were so cool.

The creative theory camp stuff was awesome in itself, but I was surprised by how much I dug the tech tools. I’m think I’m what you’d call a “Late Adopter” who needs to be more or less forced into trying new technology (examples: still using a paper planner/agenda for everything in my life, still having an iPhone 4–which I was forced to get because the flip phones required Pay-as-You-Go, etc.), but after our class I’m out to try several of those. I’d tried Evernote before and written it off, but realized on Weds. how clutch it is for getting all my recipes in one place (something I’ve NEVER been able to figure out, since so many are online.) The only thing that scares me about all this tech is accessibility of my info–isn’t all of this totally browsable and analyze-able by these people? Is that bad? I have this deep, perpetual fear of putting too much stuff on the Internet, so that’s partly why I haven’t used a lot of this stuff. Probably unrealistic? Curious how other people feel about this.

Another thing I kept mulling over was the whole DragonDictate concept in relation to rhetoric and writing. It was a weird revelation to find that I bet I would write SO differently if I was talking out loud. My written self is so much more thought-out and personal in many ways… I often feel like I’m stuck at surface-level stuff when I talk out loud, and I wonder if that would translate to my writing if I used Dragon. Probably going to test that out. Also, I’m way funnier in writing (seriously, I confirmed this with several close friends.) The little humor skill I possess would probably go down the tubes if I was orating my jokes. Goodbye witty and social emails.

Also, what happens if you laugh when you’re using Dragon? Does it write LOL or hahaha or ROFLcopter? Thousands of people would be exposed for fake laughing if you could only write “haha”s when you were truly “haha”ing.

Thanks for the sweet prezzos, guys!

After class last week on Post-Process theory, I have to admit I am still completely lost as to what Post-Process really means, or what it would look like in the classroom. In my opinion, it seems like a terrible idea for composition scholars to propose a theory that effectively eliminates the need for their careers. But hey, what do I know? Perhaps, if someone provided a literal and descriptive explanation of what post-process pedagogy would look like in the classroom, it could gain more ground. Matthew Heard emphasizes the need for experimentation with post-process pedagogies, and I would agree…so why doesn’t he take the lead?

Beyond my initial complaints of the lack of uniformity and practical application of this theory, it seems that there is an overall concern or emphasis on dialogue as the primary process of writing. Breuch brought up Irene Ward, who emphasize the functionality of dialogue between different mediums, including the teacher, the self, the classmates, and the audience of the paper. In addition, Heard claims that post-process involves a turn toward the social and cites Kent’s claims that writing is public, interpretive, and situated within a context. I see some of these ideas showing up within the writing program and course offerings here at FAU. In particular, there is an emphasis towards social contexts, readings that can be discussed in class, group communication and group activities, and the philosophy that writing can only be learned through writing. In addition, there have been classes offered in the past (that I have heard about) and some potential upcoming classes that involve writing for the community and writing within social contexts. These seem like indications of the ideas of post-process, which is interesting because it suggests that there may in fact be a potential for pedagogical application.

Dobrin’s ideas cast the separation of writing and composition in a beneficial light; he speaks of writing as something that goes somehow further then composition ever could. Yet at the same time, he seems to be arguing that composition should remain synonymous with writing, should take on a definition greater than itself in order to start to mean something more than it already does: that is, to be closer to “writing”. One way I can see a benefit in separating writing from composition lies in the potential usefulness of repurposing of those words. When I speak to my students in class, I do not tell them we are “composing.” I tell them we are writing. They think they are writing. They are writing. Composition is, in many ways, an antiquated term that needs rejuvenation in order to be pertinent again. To the students, the real stakeholders in this discussion, composition is not what they are attempting to do. They are attempting to get enough words out on paper to complete an assigned task. For most of them, this is writing; and who is to say that they are wrong? I might go further for some of them, and say that a few are attempting to write so that their ideas will be deemed convincing, or even “worthy”. Are they composing an argument, though? Not in their own minds. Creating one, perhaps. Writing one? Certainly—at least as far as they are concerned.

That is not to say that composition should not have its place as a term. If we could find a way to use composition in ways that go beyond the conventional, that certainly go beyond freshman classes, it would go a long way to redefining the word in student’s minds. However, in terms of drawbacks, it is perhaps easy to see this redefining of a word as unnecessary muddying. Why not leave composition and writing as interchangeable concepts? I don’t believe they truly are interchangeable though, and haven’t been for awhile. Practically speaking, they don’t have the same meaning to the students that they do to the teachers. How very post-process. As was pointed out in class, the term “composition” rarely survives as a label beyond freshman-level courses. Is it only in our beginning stages of learning that we are “composing”? Are we no longer composing once we take on a thesis, or tackle a major academic project? When does composing become less relevant as a metaphor for our writing experience and (dare I say it) process?

John Bean conceives the purpose of writing as a process of discovery. When sitting down to write, thoughts are jumbled and sloppy, like trying to keep in between two
palms a handful of water; everything we wanted to say, or thought we had to say, slips between the cracks, and when we do actually hammer out some of the original ideas we were
able to maintain they only seem like a pale shadow to what was originally in our heads.

A student often fails to see their ideas as holding any weight of importance, they see themselves as responding to an assignment, an assignment that is little more than a
pain in the ass. This is what often causes for a carelessness in recording, editing, and most importantly discovering. The structure of the program that the GTA’s are forced to
follow is asking us to train our students how to write lengthy drivel bombs. Somehow, someway, it is our job in between the mountain of grading to create assignments, stimulate
discussion that will help our students to think. Over the course of the semester my students have went from “my students” to “my kids.” I care more for them now, and I want
them to succeed, not in my class but beyond. So it becomes important for me to plant the right seeds, and relate to them in the right ways, so when they leave my class they will
be somewhat equipped for the professors out there who are old and out of touch, and they will be ready to bullshit their way through, just as I have. Hopefully.

I found Professor Mitchell’s poem, and it is most definitely worth a read. Enjoy! : )

https://www.theatlantic.com/past/docs/unbound/poetry/antholog/mitchell/bough.htm