How and why do certain writers create a relationship with a reader that involves trust and believability? I’ve often pondered this question, especially while reading composition scholars (Fiction writers have to do this. It’s the Comp. scholars that don’t have to, but I believe they miss out on truly connecting with us when they don’t develop a rapport with the reader). The question resurfaces while reading Irit Rogoff’s Studying Visual Culture (1998). Rather than concentrate on the media focus of her essay, at the moment this question attracts me more (I write three other blogs per week, I think I can afford to wonder off once in a while). I feel the answer lies in Rogoff’s voice and tone. Rogoff does not take an authoritarian stance, in other words, her word choices and syntax are set up in such a way that we do not feel like are being talked down to—she has brought us into her world through her humility. The essay’s first line creates the mood, “How can we characterize the emergent field of “visual culture”? (381). The line’s “we” is the key that opens the door. I went back and peered at some of the other essays in this anthology, and most begin with an authoritative statement as if the writer has a need to declare “This is what I think, and it is right!” However, Rogoff’s humility through the use of “we” and the question itself shows she is confident enough that she doesn’t need to convince us—she believes her thesis, she trusts its efficacy, and she is confident in her ability to share it. Further, and we know this from psychology, humility actually contains the elements of strength, not arrogance or hubris, as Rogoff and her essay demonstrate.

Breaking off, this concludes this short foray into the reader/writer relationship (no scrolling if possible). Also, in the end, I do think this topic pertains to class. Aren’t we always seeking to create a good rapport with someone who is generous and kind enough to actually take the time to read our work?…

Cynthia Selfe, in her essay Students Who Teach Us (2004), asserts that in this quickly changing and paradigm shifting world, teachers need to be humble enough at times to allow our students to teach us about the new and exciting uses of technology. Selfe supports this thesis through her example of a student, David Damon, who although smart and talented with computer technology, lacks in regards to transferring his talent to traditional Standard English. Selfe’s intention is to argue that even though a student may lack proficiency with Standard English skills, we (teachers) need to shift and open our perspective in order to be more open and aware to talents that students possess which do not fall into traditional paradigms. Selfe creates a relationship with her audience of graduate students and scholars who are interested in the possibilities and challenges of bringing new media into their classrooms.

Concerning Leah. S. Marcus’ essay, Textual Scholarship, Aristotle’s topoi focusing on witnesses feasibly applies. Marcus describes textual scholars as those entrusted with keeping the integrity of literary documents. Marcus lists numerous examples of texts changed by editors, who, although well meaning, changed the thrust of the authors writing through their corrections. In this digital age, we have all witnessed something similar. Wikipedia articles, for example, although they may not be original and canonical literature, have the ability to be altered and edited by any registered user (witness).

Moving on, this article fascinated me as it gave insight into a librarian’s head. Although Marcus may be a textual scholar, she has strong elements of a librarian’s mindset. Hence, she allows us to witness the inner workings of texts and their somewhat changing landscape. In addition, Marcus adds to Mann’s concept that copyrights are the drive behind how a text is altered from one “material presentation to another” (153). In other words, copyrights—the money protectors, decide how we, the witnesses to these books, ingest the material inside them.

Where to begin…? Where to begin…

Catherine Gallagher’s essay Historical Scholarship sweeps across the eras of written and oral history to introduce students and scholars to look at literature through a new historicist lens—one in which the author is placed into equal parts along with his/her piece, the era it is written, and the culture which spawned the authors intent. Aristotle’s topoi of Whole/ Parts then seems a likely focus as Gallagher breaks literature down into parts—author, text, reader, literature, and finally, nation, race, and empire. Her intent succeeds, but at the price of making the reader sweep themselves back together after the lolling joyride. The author segment made frustrated—from my perspective, new historicist do not take into account the sweat, toil, and heart necessary to bring a piece of literature to the world. The text segment too did not sit well with me—Gallagher writes, “The cause of textual plurality and indeterminacy was ultimately advanced leas by the theoretical attack on the author than by the intensely scholarly work of a new breed of textual historians” (179). The quote sounds a lot like Gallagher is saying, “I’m jealous of these damn successful authors, so my cohorts and me are going to create our own niche so we can be important, too.” I may have misinterpreted, but if I didn’t, then doesn’t Gallagher’s thinking fall along the lines of the old adage, “Those who can’t write teach.”

Sadly, this view seems to pervade much theoretical work with scholars bashing each other and authors in order to credit their won work. They must not realize long-lasting success can never come from this tactic.

Where Gallagher does shine is in the Reader section. She writes, “Like the history of authorship, the history of reading has a twist at the end, when the reader, like the author, after centuries, of getting consolidated, suddenly comes apart into fragments or altogether disperses into a digital vapor” (184). Indeed, technology has affected us in numerous and significant ways, and at the moment, we’re probably only scratching the surface. The last segments on literature and nation, race, and empire round the piece out and bring the parts back to a whole. Gallagher raises questions and offers some answers, and from a student perspective, she offers a highly in-depth view of history literature, and new historicism.

…Another shot at Rhetorical Precis.

Catherine L. Hobbs, in Learning from the Past: Verbal and Visual Literacy in Early Modern Rhetoric and Writing Pedagogy (2002), shows that instructors of the language arts have always utilized visual aids and theories while teaching. Hobbs supports her theory by offering numerous examples of teachers of antiquity, beginning with Plato and Aristotle, who included visual elements in their pedagogies. Her purpose is to make her readers aware that utilizing visual elements—for example, computers in the classroom, is not new to language arts instruction nor has it ever left the practice; thus, we should embrace technology as it integrates with our classes. She develops a trusting rapport with her audience, namely graduate students and scholars, through her impressive, concise, and encyclopedic knowledge of the history of the language arts.

On a commentory note, Hobbs’ convinced me with her detailed knowledge of language arts history that she knows her stuff. Further, I felt enlightened after her essay, as if I had learned some foundational facts about our shared human history. Hobbs’ ending with Da Vinci’s quote masterfully utilized Quintilian’s theory that we must bring emotions to our audience and we must ourselves be moved by our themes (58).

This is my second attempt using Woodworth’s Rhetorical Precis... her invention is definitely a handy tool.

Craig Stoupe, in Visualizing English: Recognizing the Hybrid Literacy of Visual and Verbal Authorship (2000), asserts that composition will flourish from incorporating technology rather than being debilitated by it. Baker supports his thesis by offering contrasting examples of visual rhetoric and print that show the two modes can co-exist and prosper when used together. His intent is to persuade compositionists that to embrace digital technology and not fear it will enhance all composition pursuits. He creates a connection with his audience of graduate students and scholars who are interested in understanding the uses, positivity, and negativity of adding visual rhetoric into the composition classrooms.

Charles Bernstein is clearly an authority (topoi) on poetics, composition, and style. As for his essay Poetics, it doesn’t utilize the scientific mode and style associated with composition scholars, and for that reason his argument proved salient for me. This idea piggybacks on one of his quotes in regard to undergraduate, graduate, and scholarly essays, “…an unorganized (or differently organized) essay that suggests active thinking is often more useful in response to a literary work than a paper of impeccable logic that has little to say” (127). Because Bernstein places this observation out in the open, I’d like to follow his lead. So many times we read essays where the author has a sound grasp on composition’s scientific reasoning, in other words, the author can make a logical argument, yet there is little “meat.” Indeed, these authors can speak in the collegiate discourse, yet deep and active thinking has not occurred. A while back when I was in the Master’s application process, I spoke with a friend in this very graduate program and asked her if I could look at one of her papers. She gave me one—I read it and then responded, “It’s written well, you’ve used elevated diction and collegiate discourse, but it doesn’t really say much.” She answered, “I know.” (She got an “A” on the paper). So when does how we say something become more important than what we say? And in the end, does it help the university to reward mediocre thinking that spews forth proficient collegiate language with no substance?

Susan C. Jarrat, in her essay “Rhetoric” (2007), shows the lineage of rhetoric—its beginnings in ancient Greece, its flourishing over the next two thousand years, its subsequent demise in the 19^th century due to advances in science, and finally that it has been reborn due to the growth of contemporary composition. Jarrat masterfully supports her notions by unearthing the auspicious beginning of rhetoric in Greece; it was needed by citizens to argue their cases in the newly democratized Greece, and then she illustrates her point with prominent world figures such as Freud and Marx who clearly utilized rhetorical thinking and writing. Jarrat makes these connections in order to educate undergraduate, graduate, and academics to the importance of rhetoric not only as a field of study but as a means to show the need for rhetoric in our tumultuous and quickly-changing world. Further, she establishes an informal relationship with her audience who are interested in gaining a deeper understanding of rhetoric and its applications in today’s world.

Wysocki’s position reminds me of many “composers,” she is open-minded and realizes there is no universal pedagogy that will suffice for all composition classes or situations. Where her writing begins to shine is the activities section. So many times as instructors, we are thrown into a teaching situation and just told “go for it.” Wysocki gives us tools to draw the students out so we can build a bridge between composition and the world they live in. Further, I see these tools as a way to show non-English majors the value of seeing the world with a different perspective. For example, if I can use Wysocki’s example of someone interrupting the class in order to pique an economics major’s interest in composition (24), I feel I have won half the battle. I can utilize that initial excitement to show them there is value in many things they may not know about—namely at this point that learning composition skills will help them navigate later classes and work situations.

The introduction to VRDW piqued my curiosity. It asks, “Why do some writing curricula’s continue to focus only on words when today’s documents are increasingly hybrids of words, images, and design” (9). Like many Comp. majors, I have an extreme fondness for pieces of paper. As the professor mentioned last week, the texture and smell of a book are one of the joys of life. So where does the line get drawn as to when too much digital is too much? Unfortunately (or fortunately depending on one’s opinion), I don’t think anyone has the answer. As teachers and researchers, this is where theory has a boundary and practical application will hold the answer for instructors. This is one of those times when we are exploring new territory—how about the analogy of exploring the bottom of the ocean or outer space? Truly, digital media and the effect it will have as a teaching aid and later as a replacement for paper are as yet unknown. As for me, I used to be more close-minded about the “intrusion” of digital media into literature, but now I’ve opened myself to the benefits. But if I die today, please bury me with my paper book—and don’t let anybody pry that tome from my rigid hand!