Dr. S. Allen

Eng 319

October 19, 2008

Defining Voice

            What is voice? Is it style or is it content? I've been thinking hard about those two questions for a while now and let me tell you, I'm not much closer to an answer than I was a week ago. I guess if I had to decide I would have to go with style. I mean, think about it. Style is word choice, syntax, grammar, mechanics, etc. And content? Content is just substance, a topic, a subject to be written about, correct? If content was indeed voice, then wouldn't many of us have the same voice? This paper is an excellent example to prove my point. We all have to write about voice, the same topic for each and every one of us. So regardless whether each of us writes about voice being style or content, the substance of our papers is going to be extremely similar. And I don't believe for one second that all of us in this class have the same voice. Style is voice. Style dictates how our words and thoughts come across. That's why even though we all have to write about the same topic, we still maintain our own individual voices.

            It just wouldn't make sense to me if voice was content. You can't really express yourself through what you're talking about. I guess your perspective on things is in your content, but perspective and voice are different. I look at style being voice like I look at style in fashion as portraying who we are. Two people could both be wearing a t-shirt and jeans. Simple enough, right? So what they are wearing I look at as the content (the substance). But one person likes their t-shirt tight with their jeans loose, while the other likes the opposite. That's each person's individual style, that's the expression of who each person is. So likewise, two people can write about the same topic. They can both have the same content in each of their papers. But depending on their own individual style, their own word choice, their own grammar, their own syntax, etc., they can have two completely different voices. I'll demonstrate by imitating a section of Frankfurt's On Truth. I'll imitate his content but by changing the style I'll change the section into my own voice.

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If there's something that causes you joy, something you can point to and say "that makes me happy", then Spinoza believes you love that thing. That's what he thinks love is. He thinks it's how we respond to the things that cause us joy. So basically he's saying that we can't help loving the things that make us happy, the things that bring us joy. They therefore love what they think helps them be more themselves. I think Spinoza is probably right. I suppose people do tend to love the things that help them discover themselves and help them face life without compromising their beliefs.

Spinoza also seems to be correct when he states "One who loves necessarily strives to have present and preserve the things he loves" (Ethics, part III, proposition II, scholium). The things that a person loves are important to him. His life, along with the things that help him continue to enjoy his individuality, depend on them. So obviously he would want to take care of them and protect them and make sure they are easy to access.

______________________________________________________________________________

            Well I have to say, I don't think I changed my mind. After doing the imitation of Frankfurt, I still feel as though voice is style. The imitation was surprisingly easier to do than I initially thought it would be. It wasn't that hard for me to take the same content and just change up the style a little bit. But then again, I wouldn't say that the imitation was in my voice either. It was just in a different style than Frankfurt's. So I guess this is the point where I contradict myself. In the imitation exercise I changed the style as best I could to fit me better, but because the content wasn't necessarily my opinion or my views, it wasn't truly my voice. Therefore, I guess I would have to say that voice is neither style nor content, but rather a combination of both.

            Initially I thought that content was just perspective about a certain topic and that style was the way in which you expressed your voice. But after doing the imitation, I see that half the battle is expressing your own opinions. So through the content you can portray your beliefs and views and through the style you can dictate how you express your own opinions. And through both, you maintain your own individual voice.

            I also saw through doing the imitation that voice is not just a combination of content and style. It's not just this half is black and this half is white. There's a gray area in which the content and the style intertwine. I say this because word choice would be considered style. But word choice can also dictate content. If I use two words that are extremely similar and can, in most circumstances, be interchangeable, then most likely the content that I'm talking about with these two words is probably pretty similar as well. However if I choose to use the word melancholy versus the word depressed, the meaning behind these two words while similar can completely change the content of what I'm writing about. What I'm trying to say, is that sometimes style and content can overlap. Word choice can change the meaning of something and therefore change the content. But I suppose if voice is a combination of both, it doesn't matter too much.

            I guess I'm still a bit confused on what voice is. I think voice is both style and content, but when trying to explain why, I feel as though I'm just rambling about nothing and that I'm not making much sense. So perhaps I should go back and redo the imitation exercise and pay more attention or maybe the concept of voice is really just that complicated. Voice in writing is who we are, who we want to be portrayed as, it's our way of expressing our thoughts. Then again our thoughts contribute to our voice as well. It's just a big gray area to me, and maybe that's exactly what voice is? Voice is a big gray area somewhere between style and content.

Dr. S. Allen

Eng 319

October 19, 2008

Defining Voice

            What is voice? Is it style or is it content? I've been thinking hard about those two questions for a while now and let me tell you, I'm not much closer to an answer than I was a week ago. I guess if I had to decide I would have to go with style. I mean, think about it. Style is word choice, syntax, grammar, mechanics, etc. And content? Content is just substance, a topic, a subject to be written about, correct? If content was indeed voice, then wouldn't many of us have the same voice? This paper is an excellent example to prove my point. We all have to write about voice, the same topic for each and every one of us. So regardless whether each of us writes about voice being style or content, the substance of our papers is going to be extremely similar. And I don't believe for one second that all of us in this class have the same voice. Style is voice. Style dictates how our words and thoughts come across. That's why even though we all have to write about the same topic, we still maintain our own individual voices.

            It just wouldn't make sense to me if voice was content. You can't really express yourself through what you're talking about. I guess your perspective on things is in your content, but perspective and voice are different. I look at style being voice like I look at style in fashion as portraying who we are. Two people could both be wearing a t-shirt and jeans. Simple enough, right? So what they are wearing I look at as the content (the substance). But one person likes their t-shirt tight with their jeans loose, while the other likes the opposite. That's each person's individual style, that's the expression of who each person is. So likewise, two people can write about the same topic. They can both have the same content in each of their papers. But depending on their own individual style, their own word choice, their own grammar, their own syntax, etc., they can have two completely different voices. I'll demonstrate by imitating a section of Frankfurt's On Truth. I'll imitate his content but by changing the style I'll change the section into my own voice.

_____________________________________________________________________________ 

If there's something that causes you joy, something you can point to and say "that makes me happy", then Spinoza believes you love that thing. That's what he thinks love is. He thinks it's how we respond to the things that cause us joy. So basically he's saying that we can't help loving the things that make us happy, the things that bring us joy. They therefore love what they think helps them be more themselves. I think Spinoza is probably right. I suppose people do tend to love the things that help them discover themselves and help them face life without compromising their beliefs.

Spinoza also seems to be correct when he states "One who loves necessarily strives to have present and preserve the things he loves" (Ethics, part III, proposition II, scholium). The things that a person loves are important to him. His life, along with the things that help him continue to enjoy his individuality, depend on them. So obviously he would want to take care of them and protect them and make sure they are easy to access.

______________________________________________________________________________

            Well I have to say, I don't think I changed my mind. After doing the imitation of Frankfurt, I still feel as though voice is style. The imitation was surprisingly easier to do than I initially thought it would be. It wasn't that hard for me to take the same content and just change up the style a little bit. But then again, I wouldn't say that the imitation was in my voice either. It was just in a different style than Frankfurt's. So I guess this is the point where I contradict myself. In the imitation exercise I changed the style as best I could to fit me better, but because the content wasn't necessarily my opinion or my views, it wasn't truly my voice. Therefore, I guess I would have to say that voice is neither style nor content, but rather a combination of both.

            Initially I thought that content was just perspective about a certain topic and that style was the way in which you expressed your voice. But after doing the imitation, I see that half the battle is expressing your own opinions. So through the content you can portray your beliefs and views and through the style you can dictate how you express your own opinions. And through both, you maintain your own individual voice.

            I also saw through doing the imitation that voice is not just a combination of content and style. It's not just this half is black and this half is white. There's a gray area in which the content and the style intertwine. I say this because word choice would be considered style. But word choice can also dictate content. If I use two words that are extremely similar and can, in most circumstances, be interchangeable, then most likely the content that I'm talking about with these two words is probably pretty similar as well. However if I choose to use the word melancholy versus the word depressed, the meaning behind these two words while similar can completely change the content of what I'm writing about. What I'm trying to say, is that sometimes style and content can overlap. Word choice can change the meaning of something and therefore change the content. But I suppose if voice is a combination of both, it doesn't matter too much.

            I guess I'm still a bit confused on what voice is. I think voice is both style and content, but when trying to explain why, I feel as though I'm just rambling about nothing and that I'm not making much sense. So perhaps I should go back and redo the imitation exercise and pay more attention or maybe the concept of voice is really just that complicated.

Dr. S. Allen

Eng 319

November 20, 2008

WC: 1521

My Grandfather

            I am twelve-years-old. I'm riding on the back of a golf cart facing backwards, while my grandfather drives and my fifteen-year-old brother rides shotgun with two fishing poles tightly grasped in his right hand. We're on our way to a small lake that sits close by the trailer my grandparents own. Although my grandparents live in a small town called Niles in Ohio, their trailer is in Pennsylvania close to the state border. My brother and I have spent many summer days at the trailer with my grandparents, but today is different. Today, my grandfather is taking my brother and me to go fishing - I love fishing. The air is thick with humidity as we follow the narrow path through the woods in search of the lake my grandfather claims is full of fish. I'm anxious. We take a slight turn, and then there it is.

            The lake is calm, and everything is quiet. I can tell that it's going to be perfect for fishing. The three of us quickly run up to a small wooden dock suffering from age and set down our supplies, two fishing poles and a loaf of bread (we don't use worms). Both my brother and I excitedly pick up a fishing pole and cast out our lines to the middle of the lake. An hour later, my excitement has died down. I have not caught any fish, and neither has my brother. Due to our lack of success my grandfather turns to my brother and asks for his fishing pole. He's going to catch a fish. I know it. My brother hands the fishing pole to my grandfather: a man with a thick head of salt and pepper hair, dark tan skin, a mustache of Mario, and a big round belly - a true Italian. As my grandfather takes the fishing pole from my brother's hands I keep my eyes on my own line, hoping desperately something will bite. Nothing does.

            When I turn to see how my grandfather is doing, I am greeted by a humorous scene. Sometime between him asking my brother to hand him the fishing pole and him trying to cast out the line, my grandfather had gotten the fishing wire tangled completely around him. I watch my grandfather struggle to get free, and while the sight of the old man trying so desperately to free himself is somewhat pitiful, it brings a smile to my face. My brother, who hadn't noticed what my grandfather was doing either, turns and to my delight blurts out a "What the...?" My grandfather asks my brother to help him, but after one attempt to detangle the fishing line, with a puzzled look on his face my brother tells my grandfather that he can't figure it out. I burst out laughing. I can't help myself. I laugh so hard that warm tears come streaming from my eyes.

            Now when I think of my grandfather my eyes still swell up with tears. The only difference is that today they are no longer joyous tears made up of happy childhood memories. Instead, these tears are tears of sadness and disappointment. Not disappointment in my grandfather, but rather disappointment in how things have turned out, disappointment in God for letting things happen the way they have. My grandfather once was the man in my memories, a man as jolly and as round as Santa Claus; however, in recent years my grandfather has essentially deteriorated. His friendly round frame has become a skeleton with wrinkled, weathered skin drooping off of it. And while my grandfather once stood tall and proud, he now bends over hunch-backed from lack of strength, barely able to stand more than a few minutes. His eyes that used to sparkle have become dwindling flames and his laugh that used to be loud and vivacious has become no more than a deathly cough.

 Trips to go see my grandparents have become more frequent as well as more painful. Just looking at my grandfather has become a challenge, the challenge of not bursting into tears in front of my entire family. I don't know why, but I would prefer that my family doesn't know how hard this is on me. I want to be strong for my mother because I know this must be killing her, I know that she must be torn apart on the inside, and I know she's sad that her father is dying. I know because when we have to leave to come back to Colorado my mother cries as she hugs my grandfather goodbye. She cries because we all know this may be the last time any of us see him. When I hug my grandfather goodbye I hold back my tears, even though I want to cry. I want to cry and cry and cry. But if I let go and let my emotions take over, then I am admitting to the world that my grandfather is dying. I do not want to admit this. I cannot admit this. I know that my grandfather is sick, and I can admit that. But that is it. I can admit that he is sick because sick people can be nursed back to health. He'll get better. He has to. He has to because he needs to be there for me. I want him to be at my wedding. He needs to come see me get married, he's already missed out on too much.  

I am seventeen-years-old. I am sitting at a large round table with my mother, my grandparents on my father's side, and my grandmother on my mother's side. I was nominated as a finalist for a scholarship, and so we're all at a banquet anxiously awaiting the announcement of the winner. The scholarship is through an organization called the Sons of Italy and is granted to young people with Italian heritage. It is the day after my high school graduation and the day before my eighteenth birthday. My grandfather is not here, and will not be here. He is too sick to travel.

Before they announce the winner, they have someone from each nominee's family come up and speak about them. My mother's kind and gracious words about me make me cry. The tears run down my cheeks as my mother explains to the crowd my past achievements and my future goals and ambitions. I am embarrassed. I don't like crying in front of people, let alone people I don't know. Soon enough I hear my name announced as the winner of the scholarship. As the crowd applauds, I go up on stage to receive my award. I shake the hand of the president and thank him, but out of shyness I decline the offer to say a few words. I do not want to say anything.

Finally, after pictures have been taken, congratulations have been said, and handshakes have been exchanged, it is time to go home. On the car ride back my grandparents all tell me how proud they are of me and what a great achievement this scholarship is. While I am grateful and happy that I won the award, I'm disappointed my grandfather couldn't be there.

The fact that my grandfather, who to me embodies every aspect of being Italian, was not able to be there made the moment bittersweet. It didn't mean as much to me as it should have because the person I wanted to be there the most, wasn't. It saddens me that today my grandfather no longer can make it to important events in my life and that most likely, in the near future, won't even be around to hear about them. With each absence his situation becomes more and more real, and the fact that he is dying becomes more and more solidified.

My grandfather is constantly on my mind and constantly in my prayers, but I do not talk about it. I do not tell my family, and I do not tell my friends. I don't want them to worry about me, especially my mother. I want to be strong for her so that she doesn't have to worry about both me and my grandfather. While I pretend to be strong and unaffected on the outside, I am crumbling on the inside. Occasionally I lock myself in my room and cry out all the tears that I have held back while in front of my family. I lie on my bed and soak my pillowcase with mascara stains. I lie there until there is no emotion left in me, until there are no more tears to cry, and until all the thoughts of my dying grandfather have escaped me. In this dysfunctional way, I burry my vulnerability and lock up my depression. I'm dreading the moment when I no longer can be strong enough to withhold my emotions, the moment when it will all come flooding out. I dread the moment when my mother has to hold me and be my stability, when really I should be hers.

Dr. S. Allen

Eng 319

November 20, 2008

WC: 1514

My Grandfather

            I am twelve-years-old. I'm riding on the back of a golf cart facing backwards, while my grandfather drives and my fifteen-year-old brother rides shotgun with two fishing poles tightly grasped in his right hand. We're on our way down to a small lake that sits close by to the trailer my grandparents own. Although my grandparents live in a small town called Niles, in Ohio, their trailer is in Pennsylvania close to the state border. My brother and I have spent many summer days at the trailer with my grandparents, but today is different. Today, my grandfather is taking my brother and me to go fishing - I love fishing. The air is thick with humidity as we follow the narrow path through the woods in search of the lake my grandfather claims is full of fish. I'm anxious. We take a slight turn and then there it is. My grandfather parks the golf cart and my brother and I hop out.

            The lake is calm and everything is quiet. I can tell that it's going to be perfect for fishing. The three of us slowly walk up to a small wooden dock suffering from age and set down our supplies, two fishing poles and a loaf of bread (we don't use worms). Both my brother and I excitedly pick up a fishing pole and cast out our lines to the middle of the lake. An hour later, my excitement has died down. I have not caught any fish and neither has my brother. Due to our lack of success my grandfather turns to my brother and asks for his fishing pole. He's going to catch a fish, I know it. My brother hands the fishing pole to my grandfather; a man with a thick head of salt and pepper hair, dark tan skin, a mustache of Mario, and a big round belly - a true Italian. As my grandfather takes the fishing pole from my brother's hands I keep my eyes on my own line, hoping desperately something will bite. Nothing does.

            When I turn to see how my grandfather is doing, I am greeted by a humorous scene. Sometime between him asking my brother to hand him the fishing pole and him trying to cast out the line, my grandfather had gotten the fishing wire tangled completely around him. I watch my grandfather struggle to get free, and while the sight of the old man trying so desperately to free himself is somewhat pitiful, it brings a smile to my face. My brother, who hadn't noticed what my grandfather was doing either, turns and to my delight blurts out a "What the...?" My grandfather asks my brother to help him, but after one attempt to detangle the fishing line, with a puzzled look on his face my brother tells my grandfather that he can't figure it out. I burst out laughing. I can't help myself. I laugh so hard that warm tears come streaming from my eyes.

            Now when I think of my grandfather my eyes still swell up with tears. The only difference is that today they are no longer joyous tears made up of happy childhood memories. Instead, these tears are tears of sadness and disappointment. Not disappointment in my grandfather, but rather disappointment in how things have turned out, disappointment in God for letting things happen the way they have. My grandfather once was the man in my memories, a man as jolly and as round as Santa Claus; however in recent years my grandfather has essentially deteriorated. His friendly round frame has become a skeleton with wrinkled, weathered skin drooping off of it. And while my grandfather once stood tall and proud, he now bends over hunch-backed from lack of strength, barely able to stand more than a few minutes. His eyes that used to be full of life have become full of sorrow and his laugh that used to be loud and vivacious has become no more than a deathly cough.

Trips to go see my grandparents have become more frequent as well as more painful. Just looking at my grandfather has become a challenge, the challenge of not bursting into tears in front of my entire family. I don't know why, but I would prefer that my family doesn't know how hard this is on me. I want to be strong for my mother because I know this must be killing her, I know that she must be torn apart on the inside, and I know she's sad that her father is dying. I know because when we have to leave to come back to Colorado my mother cries as she hugs my grandfather goodbye. She cries because we all know this may be the last time any of us see him. When I hug my grandfather goodbye I hold back my tears, even though I want to cry. I want to cry and cry and cry. But if I let go and let tears stream down my face, then I am admitting to the world that my grandfather is dying. I do not want to admit this. I cannot admit this. I know that my grandfather is sick and I can admit that, but that is it. I can admit that he is sick because sick people can be nursed back to health. He'll get better, he has to. He has to because he needs to be there for me. I want him to be at my wedding. He needs to come see me get married, he's already missed out on too much.  

I am seventeen years old. I am sitting at a large round table with my mother, my grandparents on my father's side, and my grandmother on my mother's side. I was nominated as a finalist for a scholarship and so we're all at a banquet anxiously awaiting the announcement of the winner. The scholarship is through an organization called the Sons of Italy and is granted to young people with Italian heritage. It is the day after my high school graduation and the day before my eighteenth birthday. My grandfather was not here, is not here, and will not be here. He is too sick to travel.

Before they announce the winner, they have someone from each nominee's family come up and speak about them. My mother's kind and gracious words about me make me cry. The tears run down my cheeks as my mother explains to the crowd my past achievements and my future goals and ambitions. I am embarrassed. I don't like crying in front of people, let alone people I don't know. Soon enough I hear my name announced as the winner of the scholarship. As the crowd applauds, I go up on stage to receive my award. I shake the hand of the president and thank him, but out of shyness I decline the offer to say a few words. I do not want to say anything.

Finally, after pictures have been taken, congratulations have been said, and handshakes have been exchanged, it is time to go home. On the car ride back my grandparents all tell me how proud they are of me and what a great achievement this scholarship is. While I am grateful and happy that I won the award, I'm disappointed my grandfather couldn't be there.

The fact that my grandfather, who to me embodies every aspect of being Italian, was not able to be there made the moment bittersweet. It didn't mean as much to me as it should have because the person I wanted to be there the most, wasn't. It saddens me that today my grandfather no longer can make it to important events in my life and that most likely, in the near future, won't even be around to hear about them. With each absence his situation becomes more and more real and the fact that he is dying becomes more and more solidified.

My grandfather is constantly on my mind and constantly in my prayers, but I do not talk about it. I do not tell my family and I do not tell my friends. I don't want them to worry about me, especially my mother. I want to be strong for her so that she doesn't have to worry about both me and my grandfather. While I pretend to be strong and unaffected on the outside, I am crumbling on the inside. Occasionally I lock myself in my room and cry out all the tears that I have held back while in front of my family. I lie on my bed and soak my pillowcase with mascara stains. I lie there until there is no emotion left in me, until there are no more tears to cry, and until all the thoughts of my dying grandfather have escaped me. In this dysfunctional way, I burry my vulnerability and lock up my depression. I'm dreading the moment when I no longer can be strong enough to withhold my emotions, the moment when it will all come flooding out. I dread the moment when my mother has to hold me and be my stability, when really I should be hers.

Miller explains that in memoirs "truth" is more of an understanding rather than a set fact. When a person writes a memoir they usually write it as factual as possible but their "truth" about the events is the truth concieved through their own eyes or memory. Because it is their "truth," their work will most likely have some bias or a few things may be explained differently than how they truly happened. As long as ther reader understands this then the events in their memoirs can be considered "truth."

To the contrary Frankfurt argues that "truth" is fact. He argues that when you try to put your own spin on things that "truth" becomes BS. So most likely Frankfurt would feel that all memoirs are BS soley because each author is talking about events through their own memories and from their own perspectives. They are putting their own spin on the facts.

1. Model Sentence: If one must worship a bully, it is better that he should be a policeman than a gangster.

Imitation: When debating with someone, it would be more beneficial to really listen than to pretend to listen.

2. Model Sentence: The gallows stood in a small yard, separate from the main grounds of the prison and overgrown with tall prickly weeds.

Imitation: The old man sat in the rickety chair, tired from age and aching from painful arthritis.

3. Model Sentence: The real art that dealt with life directly was that of the first men who told their stories round the savage camp-fire.

Imitation: The woman with the softest lips is the woman who speaks the kindest words.

Variation and Expression:

1. Model Sentence: He went through the narrow alley of Temple Bar quickly, muttering to himself that they could all go to hell because he was going to have a good night of it.

Variation of the Pattern: Because he was going to have a good night of it, muttering to himself that they could all go to hell he went through the narrow alley of Temple Bar quickly.

Alternate Expressions:  Quickly walking through the narrow alley of Temple Bar, he told them they could all go to hell because he was going to have a good night of it.

           When I was a junior in high school my English teacher asked the class to write a creation story, seeing as we had just read one. And for the first time during my high school career there were no structural requirements, just to simply write a creation story. Our story had to include a creation of a people with elements that explained how people came about, but there were no length requirements, no format requirements, no structural rules at all. Years before I would have been overjoyed at the opportunity to use creativity and imagination in my writing. Unfortunately by the time I was a junior in high school, I hadn't done unstructured creative writing in so long that I seldom even knew what it was anymore.

          I don't remember exactly when the creative writing stopped, but I'm estimating that it was sometime during middle school. From then on out it was five-paragraph-essay, after five-paragraph-essay, after five-paragraph-essay. There were a few research papers in high school that were structured a little differently due to length, but even then there had to be an introduction, a thesis statement, the main points, the examples to back them up, and a conclusion. By the time I reached my freshmen year of college I realized that I no longer knew how to write creatively. All the creativity had been suppressed and replaced by structure. I literally didn't know how to just write any more. When I sat down to express myself in writing, there it was, the instinct to get a good thesis, to get a good introduction, to map out my main points. Why couldn't I just write to write without worrying about the structure of my writing?

            It's because in our education system today, unstructured creative writing is almost non-existent. Students are continuously taught structure, which most often is not a bad thing. But when the five paragraph essay becomes what is expected and is consistently pounded into students' minds, it leaves little room for creativity or variety in style and structure. Throughout the middle school years, students are taught the five paragraph essay as the only acceptable structure of writing, and by the time they reach high school the only difference in what is expected, is the length of their essays. So when the students reach the college and university level, all creativity as far as writing is concerned has gone out the window.

            Not to be misconstrued, structure is incredibly important and should be taught in the classroom. My concern is that structured writing is the only thing taught in the classroom due to the fact that the focus of education today is on measuring student achievement through standardized testing, which leaves little time or opportunity for creative writing. When I originally decided to become an English teacher it was because I wanted to change the way things were done and reintroduce creativity back into the subject. I don't want to get rid of critical thinking or analysis and I believe that students' success on standardized tests is important, but at what costs?

            My junior and senior years of high school English were devoted to answering prompts correctly so that I would do well when the Advanced Placement test rolled around in May. But when asked to create my own prompt and write on it, I was completely lost. That wasn't what I had been taught to do. I had been taught to answer prompts, not create them. The constant focus on preparing students for standardized tests and placement tests cripples students' abilities because it doesn't allow them to think outside the box. Students are learning how to sufficiently answer prompts and how to abide by guidelines, but not how to generate new ideas.

            Even Peter Elbow's so called "free" writing exercises have structure. There are rules to exactly how a person should freewrite. It's recommended to write for at least ten minutes possibly later increasing the time. Along with that, the writing can never stop even if the writer has essentially nothing to say and nothing can be crossed out. Yes the rules contribute to the point of the freewriting exercise, which according to Elbow is to free the writer of the constant editing and reviewing during the writing that is instinct to our thought process. But maybe if there was more unstructured creative writing in our education system, editing while we wrote wouldn't get in the way as much.

            As I stated before, structured writing is incredibly important in the academics, however due to this there is a complete lack of unstructured creative writing. More creative writing needs to be implemented in the classroom along side of structured writing. Unfortunately this itself creates another problem, what's the right balance between structured and unstructured writing? In general, it would appear that the majority of emphasis should be put on structured writing, but still with adequate emphasis on creative writing as well. Then again, many times it could be situational with the environment of the students.

             For example, look at the Freedom Writers. Here were kids that were not expected to do well academically and therefore were not taught the traditional structured writing or any kind of writing for that matter, at all. But when one teacher decided to ask the students to just write with no structure imposed on them, the students blossomed into writers with incredible stories. If their teacher had asked them to write about a certain topic every day with a certain structure, yes maybe some of the students would have written something decently acceptable. But it can also be assumed within reason that many of the students would have written some thing "unacceptable" and then probably would have given up writing all together. Because there were no boundaries for the students, they ended up becoming not only interested in writing but also fairly decent writers. Hence in this case, more emphasis on unstructured writing proved to be beneficial. Why? Because structure often equals limitation. And while limitation can be a good thing and is necessary at times, it hinders creativity. These students weren't focused on doing well on tests or answering prompts correctly, they were just focused on getting their ideas down on paper. They had nothing to lose, but plenty to gain. And by not being limited to answering prompts or following guidelines, the Freedom Writers were given the opportunity to create; create whatever they wanted in writing.

            So it's important for educators to include in the curriculum unstructured writing, at least occasionally. Because while I'm grateful for being taught and having the knowledge of how to write a good solid research paper and a good solid five-paragraph-essay, I'm disappointed that creative writing now comes as a struggle for me. I'd like to think that if unstructured creative writing was implemented more while I was a student in high school, my writing skills today would be much better and quite possibly I would be able to think more creatively and be able to be more inventive when it came to my writing.

          I don't remember exactly when the creative writing stopped, but I'm estimating that it was sometime during middle school. From then on out it was five paragraph essay, after five paragraph essay, after five paragraph essay. There were a few research papers in high school that were structured a little differently due to length, but even then there had to be an introduction, a thesis statement, the main points, the examples to back them up, and a conclusion. By the time I reached my freshmen year of college I realized that I no longer knew how to write creatively. All the creativity had been suppressed and replaced by structure. I literally didn't know how to just write any more. When I sat down to express myself in writing, there it was, the instinct to get a good thesis, to get a good introduction, to map out my main points. Why couldn't I just write to write without worrying about the structure of my writing?

          It's because in our education system today, unstructured creative writing is almost non-existent. Students are continuously taught structure, which most often is not a bad thing. But when the five paragraph essay becomes what is expected and is consistently pounded into students' minds, it leaves little room for creativity. Throughout the middle school years, students are taught the five paragraph essay as the only acceptable structure of writing, and by the time they reach high school the only difference in what is expected, is the length of their essays. So when the students reach the college and university level, all creativity as far as writing is concerned has gone out the window.

          Not to be misconstrued, structure is incredibly important and should be taught in the classroom. My concern is that structured writing is the only thing taught in the classroom due to the fact that the focus of education today is on measuring student achievement through standardized testing, which leaves little time or opportunity for creative writing. When I originally decided to become an English teacher it was because I wanted to change the way things were done and reintroduce creativity back into the subject. I don't want to get rid of critical thinking or analysis and I believe that students' success on standardized tests are important, but at what costs?

          Even Peter Elbow's so called "free" writing exercises have structure. There are rules to exactly how a person should freewrite. It's recommended to write for at least ten minutes possibly later increasing the time. Along with that, the writing can never stop even if the writer has essentially nothing to say and nothing can be crossed out. Yes the rules contribute to the point of the freewriting exercise, which according to Elbow is to free the writer of the constant editing and reviewing during the writing that is instinct to our thought process. But maybe if there was more unstructured creative writing in our education system, editing while we wrote wouldn't get in the way as much.

          And once again as I stated before, structured writing is incredibly important in the academics, however due to this there is a complete lack of unstructured creative writing. More creative writing needs to be implemented in the classroom along side of structured writing. Unfortunately this itself creates another problem, what's the right balance between structured and unstructured writing? In general, it would appear that the majority of emphasis should be put on structured writing, but still with adequate emphasis on creative writing as well. Then again, many times it could be situational with the environment of the students. For example, look at the Freedom Writers. Here were kids that were not expected to do well academically and therefore were not taught the traditional structured writing or any kind of writing for that matter, at all. But when one teacher decided to ask the students to just write with no structure imposed on them, the students blossomed into writers with incredible stories. If their teacher had asked them to write about a certain topic every day with a certain structure, yes maybe some of the students would have written something decently acceptable. But it can also be assumed within reason that many of the students would have written some thing "unacceptable" and then probably would have given up writing all together. Because there were no boundaries for the students, they ended up becoming not only interested in writing but also fairly decent writers. Hence in this case, more emphasis on unstructured writing proved to be beneficial. Why? Because structure often equals limitation. And while limitation can be a good thing and is necessary at times, it hinders creativity.

          So it's important for educators to include in the curriculum unstructured writing, at least occasionally. Because while I'm grateful for being taught and having the knowledge of how to write a good solid research paper and a good solid five paragraph essay, I'm disappointed that creative writing now comes as a struggle for me. So the question becomes how much creative and unstructured writing should be allowed in the classroom? Many would argue that none whatsoever should be implemented and that how things are in our education system today are perfectly fine. While others may agree with me that while there should definitely be more emphasis on creativity, it probably shouldn't be a huge emphasis. And then there's probably those who think the emphasis on creative writing should be at least comparable to that of structured writing.