I personally think (and have occasionally been told) that I am much better at proofreading and editing than writing; it seems I'm usually much more interested in, and able to evaluate, others' work than my own. This certainly doesn't keep me from trying, however, and I hope discouragement and rejection doesn't dampen other writers' spirits, either! :)
These are all excerpted from larger copyrighted pieces, as the citations show.
From "Such Gaudy Tulips" (award-winning academic article) - copyright Jennifer Kennedy, 2002:
Jonathan Swift's writing was considered controversial in the 18th century, and continues to come between contemporary critics. His prose, including such renowned works as Gulliver's Travels, was often full of allegory and allusion, and usually divided audiences along political and religious lines. To some, Swift's work was known for its "tricky" style that left many readers uncertain of his intended meaning (Johnston 4). Focusing on Swift's poetry with a Formalistic lens, it is apparent that he alternates between Latinate (or elevated) and "low" phraseology. In fact, many critics have pursuied a Latin-versus-Anglo-Saxon examination of some of his poems. (The Latinate defecate replaced the Anglo-Saxon shit, for example, in proper and polite English. Swift, however, does not hesitate to include the latter term in his poetry: a part of The Lady's Dressing Room reads, "Oh! Celia, Celia, Celia shits!" (118).) But regarding most of Swift's poetry, "The sense of the immediate, the acute responsiveness to concrete actuality, the energetic control exercised over elements of immediate sensory experience...these qualities characterize, in general, Swift's poetic achievements" (San Juan 21).
To one who is familiar only with Jonathan Swift's more canonical works, such as the aforementioned Gulliver's Travels and "A Modest Proposal," The Lady's Dressing Room can come as quite a surprise. W. A. Speck described literary criticism as "an activity for which we are all qualified," but did not specify who may be fit to receive, and who may be more prepared to give that criticism. Jonathan Swift managed to do both quite efficiently. It could be argued that, in the same vein as Swift's other work, this particular poem may be interpreted as allegorical -- that the prostitute, Celia, in the ironically titled The Lady's Dressing Room was in fact a representation of 18th century British society. While hawking her wares on the streets, Celia appeared quite charming. But when the curious Strephon sneaked into her room, he was horrified to find that her beauty was deceptive:
...Here petticoats in frowzy heaps;
Nor be the handkerchiefs forgot
All varnished o'er with snuff and snot.
The stockings why sould I expose,
Stained with the marks of stinking toes;
Or greasy coifs and pinners reeking,
Which Celia slept at least a week in? (lines 48-54)
As a woman paints her face and stuffs her dress to conceal her imperfections, so does the world; as an innkeeper might whitewash the facade of his inn to make it seem more appealing to potential patrons, so does the whole of society. Today, entire governments advertise t heir attractions and assets in an effort to charm tourists, but the alluring imagery they exhibit is not always accurate. Swift had been somewhat active in England's political scene, but when Queen Anne died and the Whigs rose to greater power, he probably became disillusioned with the entire process. Being an Irishman by birth, Swift was irritated by the Whigs' unfair policies regarding Ireland; adding to the motivation he might have had in writing The Lady's Dressing Room, biographical sources suggest Swift was apprehensive when it came to his few relationships with women (Henderson 1). It could be supposed, then, that Jonathan Swift also wrote from a much more personal point of view, inspired by his semi-romantic associations. [...]
Armed with a reasonable understanding of Swift's experiences, any reader may speculate that the combined forces of politics and women in his life complemented each other rather well. Swift wrote most often to speak his mind. Just before he returned to Ireland following Queen Anne's death, he turned from writing satire and allegory to writing political propaganda (Speck 16). It is possible that he wrote about politics to voice his opinions on women, and he wrote about women to protest political happenings. [...]
A deeper examination of Swift's poem, The Lady's Dressing Room, may produce a deeper understanding -- and especially a more accurate one. It is impossible to absolutely determine what a writer was thinking or feeling, or what motivated him, simply by reading his work and a handful of supplementary sources. Jonathan Swift's political escapades and his adventures with the opposite sex lend an interesting perspective, however. Regardless of the reactions of Swift's readers and critics, W. A. Speck would offer caution against attempting a conclusive analysis of Swift's work: "...nothing could be more fatal to an understanding of Swift than to take him at his face value" (6).
From Untitled (novel in progress); Chapter 2 - copyright Jennifer Kennedy, 2002:
"Come with me, sweet!" Grainne called to Seaf, giggling like a pup. Without the weight of deception on her heart, her whole body felt lighter. Though she hadn't yet told him the truth, it felt as though her body was already purging the news through her mouth. She stretched her hand out toward her beloved, beckoning him to follow.
"Coming!" Seaf called, scrambling up the slope behind her, breathlessness making his voice husky. His playful grin made Grainne's heart skip a beat.
Grainne topped the lush hill. She crossed the last bit of dirt and grass, stepping onto the rocky, sun-streaked plateau. Wind whipped her sky-blue hair into her face; it caught in her blue eyelashes and stuck in her mouth. Seaf appeared at her side and tenderly pulled the strands away, tucking them behind Grainne's delicately pointed ears. Because she was so much taller, he had to stand on his toes to reach.
"Look." Grainne murmured the word without looking at Seaf, as if the Mirabile Plateau's beauty still mesmerized her after so many centuries. She barely lifted her arm to encompass the landscape.
"Beautiful," the man rasped, though he'd only spared a glance for the land before looking back to his lover's flawless face.
"I live there," she said, gesturing toward the great fissure that was visible in the distance. "The Canyon."
Seaf was silent as he gave the scene a second look. He'd never known where Grainne made her home, and was very interested to see it. He'd also never seen the Mirabile Canyon, but had heard many intimidating stories.
Grainne began walking toward the Canyon, the setting sun shining on her poreless white face and reflecting in her pale blue eyes. Her strides were short and slow to accomodate Seaf: he walked quickly at her side, drinking in the beauty of the place. He slipped his fingers into Grainne's hand, and she knew he appreciated the intimacy of the moment.
As they drew closer to the Canyon's lip, Seaf could see that it was easily large enough to swallow several of the World's biggest cities. He was half-expecting to find that an entire elven country was hidden at the bottom of that great rift, the place from which all of Grainne's people came. The stories were all true! How fitting that someone like Grainne should live in a place so glorious!
At last the Canyon lay before them. The sunset cast the bottom into shadow, but strikingly illuminated the red, gold, and purple striations in the Canyon's upper stones. A sound came from the depths like rustling waters or clever winds -- perhaps both. Indeed, great gusts galloped out of the Canyon and tousled their hair. It was breathtaking.
Grainne squeezed Seaf's hand and released it. She stepped forward and sat on the flat edge of the Canyon with her legs dangling over. Seaf's heart hammered, his mind suddenly filled with images of falling, falling for miles, to a certain death. Panic threatened to overcome him, but he managed to suppress it. He couldn't move. When Grainne patted the ground next to her, he could only swallow and stare at her hand.
"Come, sweet. It's perfectly safe," she assured him.
The musical tones of her voice soothed him, as if by magic. He sat and scooted forward until he was at her side, and reluctantly dangled his feet over the edge. Together they stared into the infinite darkness of the Canyon's bottom. Finally, Grainne's soft fingertips caressed his cheek and he turned to look into her lovely face. He couldn't seem to find the sadness that had always shimmered in her eyes.
"I love you," she breathed, and pressed her lips against his. They sat like that for some time, heads reeling, tongues tasting, hearts pounding, hands wandering.
Grainne felt as though she were dying blissfully.
Seaf moaned, sighed through his nose, and clutched at her. His lips became softer, gentler. She responded eagerly to his desire, but he pulled slowly away from her. She expected to see hunger in his exquisite hazel-green eyes, but instead found them widened as if he were surprised; his expression seemed pained. Suddenly, blood bubbled from his mouth and he choked. Now it was she who grabbed at him as he fell away from her onto his side, groaning through the blood flooding his mouth. His very life seeped from him into the golden dust on which he lay.
"Seaf!" Grainne cried, but her lover could only twitch and mewl. "Oh, please, no, no, no," she sobbed, and could only watch through her bluish tears, astonished, as he bled.
A large hand on her shoulder sent a stab of fear and fury through her. She sat rigidly and waited, her eyes squeezed shut, but there came no prick of pain. There was only a voice.
"You've broken the Rule." It was a deep, male voice, full of danger and revulsion. An elaborately etched dagger was dropped before her, Seaf's blood smeared along the blade.
Grainne suddenly realized what had happened, and it was entirely her fault. She'd been blinded by her love, overcome, willing to do anything to make it perfect, even if it meant endangering herself and the man she loved so deeply. Horrified sobs wracked her.
"You know what you must do." That voice again, come to proclaim her doom, yet sounding so compassionate. "I don't want to have to do it myself, Grainne."
"Please, Dharansric, leave me," she forced herself to say. She watched Seaf's chest rise and fall slowly, and waited for it to stop altogether. "Please."
She heard nothing, but knew Seaf's killer had retreated.
She wanted to die, certainly. She wanted to do it quickly so that Seaf would not have to make the journey alone; she wanted to be waiting for him so he wouldn't be frightened. But even more than death she wanted revenge; she wanted to kill the Rule; she wanted Seaf's death to be a time-mark against which the future would be measured.
It was so very hard to fling the dagger into the Canyon instead of plunging it into her breast.
She covered Seaf with her body and felt the warmth draining from him. Her glossy blue hair lay in his blood, soaking some of it up so that a few strands appeared purple. His breathing became slow and shallow. She whispered over and over into his ear, "I love you, sweet; I love you, sweet...." She didn't want Seaf to think she'd intended to hurt him, so she offered him no apologies. [...]
From "Fauna of the Elements" (short story) - copyright Jennifer Kennedy, 2003:
The coming of summer was like the realization of a life-long dream: it didn't happen all at once, but with the slow and sure toil of the earth's ambling pace. The remainder of spring told us that we could neither escape its early chill nor forget its late blooms; autumn and winter awaited us, and then another spring. But we know, also, that another summer would come to warm us by its frong songs and firefly lights.
I was sitting on the porch with my mother when, in the trees across the great green yard, we heard a bird calling into the night.
"Hear that? It's a whippoorwill," she whispered. The night was all astir with crickets, mosquitoes, and dreaming things.
I did not reply. I only listened. The name she'd given the trilling creature was magical. It was usually daddy who answered my childish questions about trees, about animals, about the hills. But I had asked nothing. Mommy had spoken a mere five words, and the last had enchanged me as if it had been the final word of a spell. In my mind, with an imagination only a child can possess and an adult can scarcely remember, I saw the whippoorwill: a fanciful bird with sweeping wings, wise eyes, a delicate beak, and with many-colored plumage. I soared with it above a sparkling indigo and scarlet sunrish, mist and wisps of cloud sweeping by my face like cool sighs.
I no longer wanted to sit on the porch and listen to its songs, and strictly forbade myself to look it up in our Encyclopedia Britannica. I didn't even want to say its name aloud. I was afraid it would grow too familiar and lose its charm. Instead, I kept close its name and wondered. [...]
From Untitled (short story) - copyright Jennifer Kennedy, 2004:
People say these ain't mountains; they're just hills. But they sure seem like mountains when you're right in between them where the creek flows, or when you're down in their bellies looking for the coal God fed them. There's a song that says, "You spend your life just thinkin' of how to get away." That's true. But once you get away, you spend even more time thinkin' of how to get back. The sign that says 'Welcome to Kentucky' is the most beautiful thing in the world -- exceptin' maybe these mountains. [...]
From "'Remediation': Like, Unlike, and the Individual" (award-nominated, conference-presented academic article) - copyright Jennifer Kennedy, 2004
As discussed in Mike Rose's "The Language of Exclusion: Writing Instruction at the University," and Maxine Hairston's "Diversity, Ideology, and Teaching Writing," "remediation" is a topic of debate among post-secondary institutions, from two-year colleges to Ivy League universities (Cross-Talk 547, 697). Most writing instructors seem to agree that "remediation" -- or, more precisely, the varied approaches to it from one institution to another -- presents at least two problems: the quality of student writing, and how to describe it. However, despite what the terminology suggests, there is no definitive "remedy" for "remedial" writers; there seem to be as many proposed solutions as there are methods of "remediation." Drawing from such authorities as Sondra Perl, Bruce Horner, and Min-Zhan Lu (in addition to Rose and Hairston), I will explore some of the reasons behind students' writing difficulties, describe how some instructors have addressed them, and explain why one approach may work best.
Perhaps the most immediately noticeable problem that arises from this issue of "remediating" students is that of labeling. In her 1979 essay, "The Composing Process of Unskilled Writers," more recently anthologized in Cross-Talk in Composition Theory, Sondra Perl points out how the term "remedial" "implies that teaching ought to remedy what is 'wrong'" with the students and/or their writing (38). Perl rejects the labels "remedial" and "beginner," instead favoring "unskilled," as indicated by the title of her essay (38). Yet describing some writers as "unskilled" implies any failure to acquire a writing skill is in some way the writer's fault, as if they chose not to learn how to write Standard English, which surely does not apply to all so-called "unskilled" writers. What's more, this label establishes some writers as opposites, "un-" normal, "un-" standard, "un-" correct, and generally "un-" acceptable.
Similarly, in his own Cross-Talk essay, Mike Rose criticizes labels like "remediation," "illiterate," "developmental," and "compensatory," while stressing t he importance of "definitional accuracy" (548-559, 562). Terms like these, Rose goes on to say, can be misleading and aggravate existing problems. For example, a literate student labeled illiterate -- a student who is misjudged and will probably then be misinstructed -- may never be able to find his place within the academy. (In this 1985 article, Mike Rose does not commit to a particular terminology; he seems to prefer the more encompassing title of "student." It is interesting to note, however, that Rose does use language like "remedial," "developmental," and "poor writer" in his 1988 essay, "Narrowing the Mind and Page: Remedial Writers and Cognitive Reductionism" (374-75).)
In their 1999 text Representing the 'Other': Basic Writers and the Teaching of Basic Writing, Bruce Horner and Min-Zhan Lu discuss the tendency of some teachers and institutions to engage in "the politics of representing students...and their writing in particular ways, e.g., as 'literate' or 'illiterate,' 'college material' or 'remedial,' 'skilled' or 'unskilled'" (3). In contrast with these labels, Horner and Lu prefer "basic," a term that seems to be the agreed-upon word for describing "remedial" writers and writing, and a term that I will use hereafter -- not because I endorse it, but because it's part of the existing discourse community, and because inventing new terminology would defeat my purpose: to return to students their own voices and their own identities, and to provide the opportunity to develop both while learning to effectively apply Standard English. A terminological trap has already been set, and I hope to avoid enlarging it.
It seems to me that even the most well-intentioned approach to basic writers and basic writing -- including Mina Shaughnessy's patient analyses, ofoten cited by Horner and Lu -- cannot avoid patronizing those very students they strive to help. No matter what terminology is used or which labels ("remedial," "unskilled," "basic," and so on) are favored at a given stage in composition studies, the fact that such terms are used at all to describe writers of a particular level proves a tendency to view students as a standardized whole. When someone deviates from that standard -- even when "someone" refers to a vast number of people -- we feel we must label them as substandard. This, of course, establishes a superior-inferior dichotomy among students. By labeling a student "basic," we suggest he is intellectually and academically inferior to his "advanced" peers. Interestingly, in my experience, these "advanced" students are seldom labeled in the same way that basic writers are labeled; they are simply referred to as "writers" or "students," or perhaps categorized by level -- sophomore, junior, et cetera. Because "advanced" writers are viewed as normal (another questionable label), they are the standard by which other students are measured; so they are not "advanced" at all, but "average," and the term "advanced" serves only to emphasize and widen the assumed chasm between them and their so-called "basic" peers. (This is not to mention the phenomenon of "advanced" writers sometimes finding it difficult to live up to their label, while "basic" writers find it only too easy to remain basic!) It is a mistake to evaluate students according to the supposed accomplishments or failures of their classmates. Each student is, after all, an individual with unique strengths, weaknesses, and experiences.
I do recognize a need for labels if we are to address the various issues surrounding basic writers and writing within discourse. If we are to truly grant them a right to their own language, however, why not at least ask them if and how they would label themselves? I am convinced that all basic writers know they are basic, even without the pedagogical labels and categorization, and that they can, with guidance, identify the non-Standard components of their writing. Having students evaluate their own writing, rather than continuing to subject them to institutional standards and assumptions, may help defeat the stigma of being "remedial" or basic at the college level. I expect they would respond positively to being afforded such autonomy. [...]
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