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| Real and Imaginary Readers |
| Of course, on the way to my office in the humanities building I wonder, too, about the readers. Not only my intended reader, the dean, but the people with whom he will discuss the issue of a competency exam, and then those others I would want to reach: people I know or know of, people I will never meet, people who don't agree with me, people who or may not be capable of persuasion. These are such black and white times, with a craving for simple answers to enormous questions, that I wonder if I could convince the parents of our own students, or even the students themselves. My position paper acknowledges some of the possible uses of competency testing rather than avoiding them; won't that lessen its appeal? Still, I know what I'm talking about; I've thought it through in writing the paper, and had my say. It's up to the reader to sort out his or her own view. When I was in college, it was fashionable to say, about one student or another, "He won't ever write, he feels Dostoevsky looking over his shoulder"; or, "Who cares about her mountain people? She should be writing about Cambridge love affairs." Those comments, from teachers and students, always struck me as bizarre, mixing ignorance with envy and perhaps cruelty as well. People trying to write are particularly vulnerable to readers' pronouncements. But one need only listen to the comments at a public reading or the questions in a writing class to know how foolish this can be. Readers' comments are revealing more often for what they say about the reader. I try hard in my writing classes to make sure this is clear to everyone. Feedback is invaluable to a writer, but readers often adopt those criteria which were applied to them in school, and they often act as if they were now the teachers who put them off writing in the first place. Some writers, too, aren't comfortable unless they get the "tough," pre-manufactured comments they were used to in school, the comments which are the easiest for readers to make and, in the long run, the least constructive for the writer. If the reader hopes to sound profound, then the comment will probably push for some ideal the writer clearly has failed to reach. The reader may have good examples of that ideal, and sound advice for the writer about the "correct" way. If, on the other hand, the reader decides that the writing is a pale reflection of what the writer "wanted" to say, then the reader may back down, to spare the writer's feelings ("That's nice, dear, but I think you must have a lot more to say"). There is a familiar repertoire of such double messages, based on the relationship between writer and reader. But, as I've indicated in discussing feedback, such comments are less useful to a writer than the plain, energetic explanation of what works and does not work. Such readings are hard to come by. Good editors are as rare as good writers, and far less appreciated. Yet, over time, it's extremely healthy for a writer to replace anxiety over possible failings in the finished piece of writing, or misinterpretations by readers, with a sense that he or she has a large measure of control over the writing process, including a reasonably good sense of how readers will respond. The writer delivers the product and moves on, learning something new each time. Developing your own skill is a private matter. You take pleasure and some pride in it, and these feelings are mainly private as well. The completion of a painting or a musical composition or a piece of writing is not usually cause for widespread celebration. I first understood that when a professor came into the office of my freshman advisor to announce that he had just finished a book he had been working on for five years. My advisor looked up with a faint smile: "Well, now you can begin the next one," and looked down again at my study card. It's like that more often than not. Writers need to build in their own rewards, and not get caught up in longing or perfecting themselves for acceptance, gratitude, or honor. The writing that you do is, finally, your own, however clear you are about your reader's needs. Moreover, talking about or responding to writing is extremely difficult to do well. First responses can be quite different from more mature ones. The insights that matter to writers are often time-locked. They come privately to the writer during a later rereading, or long after the project is done, when he or she is working on another. Such insights (the real point of an essay, the more appropriate structure) seem to be a product of persevering, wrestling with the problems intrinsic to writing over and over again. Real readers may or may not help; imaginary readers may or may not hinder. But I would feel more confident of my position paper if I had gotten some useful feedback. However pressed for time, I will definitely include feedback in my next project. The reassuring thing is that the fear of being read loses its power to block or stifle, or to give you a bad case of the writing blues. Writing becomes, instead, a realistic possibility for expression, for connection, and for communication. |
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