At Inkshed 21 next week (next week?!) a Saturday morning session will entail three of us inviting conference participants to think together about what's going on when writers move from one world of discourse to another. We're inviting every participant in the conference to inkshed for a few minutes -- in advance of the session -- narrating some instance when that happened. We're also hereby inviting all the unfortunate Inkshedders who won't be able to be in Kamloops to participate, as well. If you'll send us an inkshed, we'll include it in the session. Like any inkshed, it doesn't have to be polished and edited, or lengthy: it'll be read for what it says. It should give us all some information about an incident where such a transition occurred. It might center on you, a student, a colleague, or anybody: all we're interested in is that offer give us enough that we can contemplate it as an instance of the sort of transition we want to think about. Here are four such narratives we've come up with, just to get you started. Have a look, and please take fifteen minutes or a half an hour and send us yours. Send it to [log in to unmask] We'll report, in the Inkshed Newsletter, on the patterns we find. We're calling them "Interplanetary Voyages," in an arch allusion to _Worlds Apart_. Here are the first four narratives. ===================== Interplanetary Voyage (I) In 1969 some friends and I (mostly the friends) started an independent magazine. Moved by the rise of the "alternative press" (we were reading The Village Voice, the East Village Other, the Georgia Strait, This Magazine is About Schools, etc.), and prompted by the utter lack of decent journalism in New Brunswick, we arrogantly thought we could offer the Atlantic Provinces an interesting alternative. My contribution was primarily theoretical. My qualifications were that I was a newly minted Ph.D. in English, had just finished 25-odd years of school, with all its attendant term papers and other writing tasks, had just completed writing a 250-page dissertation, and was an inveterate reader of The New Yorker -- with particular attention to what was then beginning to be called the New Journalism, writers like Richard Harris and John McPhee being central. My first piece of writing for the magazine -- and for real publication -- was a report on a trip we'd made the summer before to the Miramichi Folk Song Festival. I thought, being new to the Maritimes, there had been an interesting contrast between the conscious nostalgic traditionalism of the festival's attempt to preserve the ancient tradition of Miramichi song and the rural poverty and exploitive "industrialism" of the area. When I look back on it, 35 years later, I can see the imprint of all that New Yorker reading, and I can see the pretensions to cuteness that I thought appropriate to a "journalistic" article. But most of all I see the last sentence. When we'd come back from what was then Chatham, New Brunswick, we'd driven across the bridge there which spans the mouth of the Miramichi. I'd looked down and seen what I concluded the article with, describing it as the "long streamers of pollution" coming downstream from the pulp mill. Well, I now know what I saw wasn't pollution. It was windrows caused by the westerly gale sweeping across the current of the river. No one has ever brought that error to my attention. No one else on the staff at the time questioned it. As far as I am aware, no one's ever noticed the error. But I notice it, with acute, physical embarrassment, every time I look back at it. I notice it with a kind of embarrassment I never felt at an error in a term paper or dissertation, or any other writing I'd ever done. It's a different context. A different world. ===================== Interplanetary Voyage (II) Meaghan showed me the book she had just written. In my kindergarten classroom I provide blank paper folded and stapled as a small book of no more than 8 or 10 pages. The children enjoy writing, illustrating and then sharing their work with the class. When Meaghan opened her book to read there were strings of letters. I am used to phonetic representations of words. It happens in the early stages of writing. Often a text produced by 5 year olds is a collection of sounds they hear as they say the words they want to write. Often the letters are not even grouped into words because this is also a new concept for them. The text appears as strings of letters but if one were to reproduce the sounds of the letters suddenly the text begins to have meaning - DND (the end). However, when I tried to sound out what Meaghan wrote there was no meaning. There was no sound/symbol correspondence. Meaghan saw me struggling to make sense of what she had written. She listened for a couple of minutes and then said,”Oh!” and took up her pencil. In short order there were letters marching along in a string, but this time they made sense when I read them aloud. ===================== Interplanetary Voyage (III) In my fourth year as an undergraduate, I took a class in cognitive neuroscience. One of the assignments involved selecting a research article on an assigned topic and presenting it to the class. The article I selected had a pretty obvious flaw that made me skeptical of the conclusions. After my presentation, the professor mentioned that he had reviewed that particular paper and had similar misgivings about their data, and did I want to see the review? I wasn't sure what he meant, but I went to his lab after class. He handed me a file folder and invited me to sit down and look it over. Inside the folder was an early version of the article I had presented, but in manuscript format, covered with my professor's illegible scrawls, looking like some poor student's less-than-adequate term paper. In the folder there was also a letter from the editor of the journal, addressed to the authors of the article, telling them that their paper needed extensive revisions before it could be published in the journal. At the end of the letter were reviews of the paper written by three "experts," including the review my professor wrote. In it, he articulated the major flaw that I had described that day in my presentation, and he gently suggested that the article might not be suitable for publication. There were two other reviews as well. I can't remember what they said but from what I know now, they must have been pretty positive about the article or it wouldn't have ultimately been published. And that was it -- there was nothing else in the folder but a photocopy of the published article, looking very official and important. It wasn't that nobody told me that journal articles were evaluated by "experts"; I just never thought explicitly about what that meant. But if I could go back and sample the contents of my subconscious before I opened that file folder, I would probably find a group of old wizard-like figures in lab coats seated around a big mahogany table passing judgment on nervous researchers waiting outside the door. Reading the reviews made me realize what "peer-reviewed" really means. This is not intended to be a cynical story, though. Realizing there are no wizards waiting to evaluate you makes putting your own mortal opinion on record a little less intimidating, and a lot more important. ===================== Interplanetary Voyage (IV) In our first year course one of the things the students do is reflect on their learning -- essentially, this is a substitute for a term paper or final examination. As part of her last reflection this year, Katie wrote the paragraphs below. To follow them you need to know that "Bork" is Robert Bork, and that we'd spent some time first term talking about a piece of his opposing affirmative action, and specifically on the way in which Bork's rhetoric was designed to forestall objections. "Danielle" is another student -- Katie was apparently exchanging learning reflections with her. During her work on the sociology portion of the course, she had been asked to read and recommend articles for consideration by the rest of the class. ============ And then it happened. I saw Bork. His name sat there on the page staring up at me blankly, waiting. I quickly gathered my thoughts and then dove in. The name Bork would have meant nothing to me were it not for the work we did with him first term, so I attribute this thought-gathering and mental preparation to that. And frankly, it was needed. He was making similar arguments as the author of the first article I had found, so were it not for my past knowledge of him, I probably wouldn’t have given more than two seconds’ thought to why he was saying what he was saying. But, I had and I did. And I noticed that Bork was contradicting himself left and right. He was waffling all over the place, couldn’t make up his mind. I thought I had him cornered. I thought I had him beat. “Looks like we’re about to witness the ruination of Bork” I told myself. But you (do I say “Russ” here, or “you”? I’m having such confusion about my audience. It’s throwing me off. I'm settling on "you", because you're the only one I'm sure is going to read this -- except you, Danielle.) weren’t going to let me get away that easily. You had to burst my bubble by pointing out that contradiction in Bork’s arguments meant contradiction in opposing arguments -- including my own. This wasn’t the reply I was looking for. But it was an eye-opener. Freakin’ Bork beat me again. You said it wasn’t necessary for us to point out that we’ve gotten better at writing over the course of the year. So, I won’t say so. But, I think there’s a part of my writing that has changed that might not necessarily be categorized as “better”, so might be overlooked, but which I definitely consider a good thing. I used to write quite a bit differently than I spoke. Reading an essay I had written, I could probably be convinced that it had been written by someone else. There was nothing even almost unique about my writing. Reading over the Lourdes report, and most of the work I’ve done so far for this (these) class(es), I realized that I could hear myself. I never used to be able to hear myself in writing; it was so dry and formal. For some reason, I equated the written word with formality. This class knocked that equation out of my head, and I think that that's a very good thing. And then, of course, there is the tedious re-wording we found ourselves doing in the Lourdes group. That devil was a spawn of English-class. Once we’d decided to write our introduction in words that all sides would agree on, we had to figure out how the heck to do that. -“The Virgin Mary appeared to…” -“Or did she?” -“How about ‘apparently…?” -“No! That implies that it was apparent!” -“Bernadette claims…” -“Nope. It feels like you’re saying she was lying.” And on and on and on. Since when do words matter so much? . . . This year made me realize that there’s more to learning language than knowing the definitions of words, and grammar rules, and whatnot. There are subtleties to language, and the subtleties are where the good stuff is. I’m still learning stuff about English, a language I’ve been speaking my whole life -- good luck every other language I want to learn. ================= There are ours: we'd love to take yours to Kamloops with us. -- Amelia, Anne, and Russ Hunt St. Thomas University http://www.StThomasU.ca/~hunt/ -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- To leave the list, send a SIGNOFF CASLL command to [log in to unmask] or, if you experience difficulties, write to Russ Hunt at [log in to unmask] For the list archives and information about the organization, its newsletter, and the annual conference, go to http://www.stu.ca/inkshed/ -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-