By Kevin Mullen. Kevin Mullen is a dissertator in Literary Studies, with a minor in Composition and Rhetoric, at the University of Wisconsin-Madison. This is his third year working at the Writing Center.
There is a particular kind of shame that forms when you come face-to-face with the fact that you are not practicing what you preach. It usually surfaces when you are alone, probably at night, thinking back on all you did and said during the day. Suddenly, it’s there, looking back at you—the fact that the very thing you encourage in others is not something you yourself do.
The importance of collaboration in writing: it’s one of those core beliefs that I feel evangelical about, that I imagine at the heart of what I do, and of who I am, as a teacher. When I was a fellow in Turkey and had 180 students a semester I still managed to meet with each one individually in order to work on their writing; I think I broke the record for conferences in the Intermediate Writing course here at UW-Madison (every other week, all semester long); I convinced a very skeptical board of directors, as well as a group of reluctant teachers, at a local college to require two conferences a semester for their composition course; and, this last August, I led a workshop for almost 70 TA’s teaching writing-intensive courses all over campus that explored how, and why, to include conferences.
So why, why did it take me so long to actually come to the Writing Center as a student? Through all the years of course work, the dissertation proposal, conference proposals, fellowship applications, job applications, and now the dissertation, I have been wrestling alligators late into the night all by my lonesome—and with middling results. So if I have known better this whole time, why have I not taken part in a process that I believe in when it comes to my own work?
While I am sure that there are many anxieties at work here, the one that seems to be at the base of them all is a fear of visibility. One of the most fundamental (and, for some, painful) transitions that we work through in graduate school is making our own ideas more publically visible, even while we are in the midst of developing these ideas. We are here to practice, to stand in front of a group of people and read a paper even though we are still struggling to understand what a good paper sounds like. We are told that we are joining the academic community, yet it takes a long time to really believe that we belong.
Or, at least, it took me a long time. In those first couple years, I felt slightly like a fraud who had somehow snuck in through the back door and now could not let anyone discover how unqualified he was. So I toiled, silently in my apartment, and turned in papers that I couldn’t bear to look at for months, hoping that I would just slip by unnoticed. Invisible.
That feeling has long since faded, but the fact remained: for all my talk of collaboration, I had never brought my own work to the Writing Center and it was starting to bother me. So when the opportunity to write this post came up, it sounded like a great chance to both finally break the seal and explore how the process looks, and feels, from the other side. Plus, I had to write two single-spaced, single-page essays for a fellowship application. So I made two appointments—one for 30 minutes, which just so happened to be with an instructor who has been a close friend of mine since I first moved to Madison (Theresa Nguyen), and one for 60 minutes, with a new instructor I had just met once a couple weeks before (Anna Floch). They were not selected purposefully; they were just the next two availabilities.
Here’s what I learned:
- Reading the essay out loud, while initially uncomfortable, is incredibly important for setting up the balanced dynamic of collaboration. This dynamic starts out weighted heavily towards the instructor—after all, the student usually comes in seeking help from someone who is considered, to some extent, an expert. But when I read those essays out loud, I could feel what sentences needed to be adjusted, usually by a sudden blush; even if the meeting had ended there, I would have still left with a better understanding of what to do next. And I couldn’t have attained this same perspective by reading out loud to myself; I needed someone smart and engaged to sit next to me and listen. Then, suddenly, I could hear what needed to be changed.
- Though I knew the question was coming, I still balked (internally) when I was asked, just after I finished reading it out loud, what my own reaction was to my essay. It felt vaguely like being asked by a psychiatrist, after an especially sensitive admission, “And how did that make you feel?” I knew that it was just a necessary first step into the conversation, but this knee-jerk reaction showed me how frustrating that first question can feel to the student. Though this insight won’t change how I begin my conferences as an instructor, I will now be more aware of the fact that the student sitting next to me might bristle; if she or he does, I’ll quickly mention a few things that I really liked in order to ease into the conversation a bit more smoothly.
- One practice that made me feel the real potential of collaboration was when the instructor began to take notes as I was talking. Again, it helped to balance the conversation—I was no longer a writer with a flawed text who came to an expert for help, but instead one half of a team working to make the writing better. The focus was not on me, but on the text itself, and here I had a co-conspirator who was equally as engaged with the revision process as I was.
- I have always known this abstractly, but these two sessions really highlighted the fact that positive feedback is just as important as locating the parts that need to be changed. I left both sessions with a much better understanding of what was going well, which I could then use to shape the next draft around. This aspect emphasized how little I could actually see in my own writing, and how much I needed a responsive reader.
- These experiences also underlined the importance of quickly putting in a 10-15 minute writing session directly after the conference. The ideas that I had explored with my tutors disappeared with alarming speed, and those hastily scribbled notes would become indecipherable if I let a few days pass. This is something that I am now going to make sure I mention to my Writing Center students at the very end of the session, just after going over what we covered and their plans for revision.
Now, I know that none of this is really news to many Writing Center instructors, but what was so interesting to me was how this view from the other side of the conversation brought my own work into such sharp focus. I could see, and feel, what works—and it really did work. I completely revamped one introduction, split one paragraph into two, got rid of one paragraph entirely, re-framed the main idea of both essays, and changed pretty much every sentence. And these were essays I had thought were done and ready to submit.
So with a clearer view of my work, two polished essays, and having finally rid myself of that nagging sense of hypocrisy, I’ll now turn my own question back to all the Writing Center instructors out there who have yet to use their own resource: what’s taking you so long?