The Words are too Much with Us

Last night, the kid in the room next to mine asked for help with a paper he was writing. We’ll call him Jim. I don’t claim to be particularly gifted, but I like writing, so I was happy to do it. He said he needed a hook, and I was coming up dry. What I came to was that he should use a quote—presently, however, someone else, who we’ll call John, from down the hall burst in, asking, “You still need a hook?”

John proceeded to provide Jim with creative and entertaining first and second sentences, talking all the while about how much he loved writing. It struck me, then, that I loved writing, too—and I’m certainly capable of a little creativity; I’ve used it before in papers. Why, then, did it not occur to me? Shortly after, I glanced over the draft of my rhetorical analysis and, with this new outlook, clicked my tongue in disappointment.

I’m not sure if it’s the scholarly essays I’ve been reading for various classes or just the Jane Schaffer Method, still stuck in my head from high school, but writing papers has become a chore, something I do mechanically (and, as a result, comparatively poorly). I have stopped applying my love for writing to the writing I do.

So, that’s a depressing revelation. I’m grateful for it, though, because it gives me the chance to denaturalize the way I write and consider it a bit more objectively. I do not for a moment wish to advocate turning a formal paper into a dog-and-pony show. I am disgusted with flamboyancy as much as I am with rigid formulaic-ism. It is quite possible, however, to achieve the ends of one’s paper and make the ride a pleasant experience for the reader. It just takes either a lot of skill or a sincere love for writing—both would be better, but an analysis of the comparative value of each, both separately and compositely is the subject of an extended investigation, which shall not now be imposed upon anyone.