Fragmented thought

Posted by admin on Jan 19, 2010 in Academy | 2 comments

I. The academic paper: a fundamental tool of measurement in a liberal arts university. The standard formula: introduction, thesis statement, supporting evidence, commentary, conclusion. Apply to all papers for optimal results.

II. The academic paper could use a stiff drink. Starchy phrases and polished paragraphs have produced an uptight, aloof form of writing that is about as exciting as a piece of dry toast. Oh sure, the ideas might
be interesting, but their meanings are often clouded by a fog of pretension that alienates the reader from a writer’s
humanity.

III. Such sentiments were borne of my tired, third-year brain. After six semesters of university and a sizeable archive of essays under my belt, the once-savoured challenge of adapting thoughts to scholarly prescriptions has lost its novelty. Even exotic words and intriguing content could not deliver me from scholastic rituals.

IV. Academic orthodoxy: a strait jacket for the creative mind.

V. Enter: emancipation in the genre of creative nonfiction. It is an
elusive field of writing with fluid characteristics and boundaries. While it’s hard to define such an enigmatic creature, I imagine that if writing was grade three, creative nonfiction would be recess.

VI. I became familiar with creative nonfiction in last semester’s Nonfiction Writing Seminar, a class whose sterile title disguises its true identity as a transformative journey of imagination and soul. It is a class where experimentation is welcomed
and lines are meant to be crossed. It is a class where writing is human again.

VII . Within this literary playground, I discovered the truth: there is more than one way to write an essay. While this notion borders on blasphemy in a 100-level English class, I don’t think a small group of senior students should be the only ones privy to this liberating knowledge.

VIII. Case in point: the fragmented essay, a paper made up of chunks or “fragments” of writing, potentially numbered (with Roman numerals, for example) and all related to a topic. One fragment may discuss a personal memory about the topic. Another might report related facts. A third might pose a question. When organized well, these fragments create a unified, literary mosaic that engages the reader.

IX. Another truth: essays can be about anything. No really, anything. G.K. Chesterton wrote a charming essay about a piece of chalk. Phillip Lopate wrote on his physical body (less charming). What would you write about if you let your mind
wander?

X. Of course, it is all well and good to loosen our ties and roll up our sleeves when writing memoirs or personal essays, but the average professor probably won’t appreciate a fragmented essay on the benefits of globalization or the causes of apartheid. And let’s be honest, most of us write some papers just to pass our classes.

XI. I propose minor reforms: if your papers sound like an address to the Queen, lighten up. Find a more genuine voice. If your thesaurus just makes your writing ostentatious, burn it. If you always use the same phrases and outline, try something different. Even your professor might appreciate the new rhythm.

XII. While we slowly bring the sexy back to the academic paper with these small measures, let’s aspire to an even higher form of communication – one that fuses coherence and soul – that reaches an audience outside of scholastic circles. The ideas we learn in school are worth sharing. Let’s make them shareable. Here’s to creative communication that bends the rules so effectively that the rules themselves must be redefined.