Academic

I recently received the most scathing criticism I’ve ever heard of my writing—a professor told me I sounded too “academic.” The piece in question was a draft of a letter of inquiry that I dashed off just prior to the class. When I mentioned the criticism to my girlfriend, she said “isn’t that what we’re supposedly being trained to be?” And then it hit me—the wonderful equivalence between bad writing and academic writing.

I don’t recall which article it was, but I read something on the net a while ago about the way which universities transform otherwise talented writers into really bad writers. Could this be happening to me? I thought about the critique a lot, and justified the assessment by remembering that in my haste, I had failed to “translate” a mission statement written by one of the project’s founders (an academic) into real language. Perhaps that was it, I thought. I inquired further at the next class meeting.

No, what the professor thought sounded academic about the letter was the way that it took forever to get to the point. The main cause for this was I had followed the RFP to the letter, providing the information requested in the order designated in the foundation’s guidelines. They asked for the most significant data last. Following the form suggested by the institution was strongly suggested in the class. Was it my fault that they asked for it in an “academic” fashion?

I’ve been thinking about this for a week now. Am I becoming one of them? The situation was aggravated after reading Community Literacy Programs and the Politics of Change by Jeff Grabill. It’s a good book, but it’s academic. In the survey of literacy theory (an excellent one with lots of visual aids), Grabill is forced to declare up front that he will only survey the theories that originate in Rhet/Comp. It’s a matter of discipline.

It doesn’t matter how good theories are outside the field—if you introduce them you might fall prey to accusations of importing something from a more “prestigious” discipline to prop up half-baked ideas. Academic writing seems horribly bound to a sort of inbred discourse, where you can only consider things brought into play by the institutional figures with power. As a powerless junior academic, any attempt to refocus the topic is suspect unless it is supported by situated references within the discipline. Part of the price of admission seems to be strapping on a set of blinders. It’s just how the game is played—however, this can also be cast in a more positive light by suggesting that academic discourse is a conversation, and unless you know the participants within the discipline, you’re only talking to yourself.

But these issues are completely secondary my professor’s critique. I’ve always been known for my somewhat Shandyesque discursive style. I never thought of it as a feature of “academic” writing before. I suppose it is, given the necessity of endless qualifiers and tentative conclusions which make up academic discourse. In my case, however, I think it is more related to the nature of how writing works for me.

When I start writing, I don’t know I’m thinking. I sort of write myself into it. Thus, if you’re looking for the pithy thought or “soundbyte” I suppose the best place to look is in the last paragraph. Lectures and presentations are different, as are instrumental letters. I suspect it’s not that I’m being “academized” as much as it is my tendency to rely on writing to figure out what I think.

I never start out with a “great idea” but sometimes, if I’m lucky, I end up with one. But still, it’s the twists and turns along the way that make it fun for me. I like a good story; occasionally, I try to tell one. But it is seldom “academic.” I take things far more personally than that.