In “Some People Are Just Born Good Writers” Jill Parrott attempts to explain the prevalent myth that is the “genius writer.” I know that throughout my own history as both a student and aspiring writer, this was one of the more overwhelming societal assumptions: that, like all great writers before you, the gift of writing is divinely granted, and is a particular type of art form for a particular type of person. Though Parrott doesn’t delve too deeply into the associated characteristics, I’m sure you can fairly easily visualize the Great Genius Writer, internally haunted by the burden of his genius. Burdensome as it may be, it’s nevertheless a rare gift that culminates in the production of some heavenly opus. It’s a prevalent archetype and narrative, and it’s somehow seeped into writing classrooms everywhere. Even in my own, some students wrote to me in their first letters that they weren’t interested in writing because they had no intention of analyzing texts after college, let alone writing a book themselves. And this is what Parrott primarily investigates: how early teachings of writing focused similarly to the object produced in the process of writing, which has in turn created a teaching culture that has adopted the sentiment of writing as exclusively for those of a certain natural born order. You’re either a good writer, or you aren’t. She proposes, instead, to “emphasize the contextual aspects that shape writing,” and hone in on the process itself, which is a socially located activity, and to ultimately “reject it as idealized art object” (73). This is not to say that natural talent doesn’t exist, because of course it does. Rather, by treating writing as a process that is learned and cultivated, instead of focusing on inherent ability, students can better understand their strengths and weaknesses, and work on both through the process, not finished object.

Still, it’s difficult to shake off the associations of a writer. I’ve found that through positive and encouraging feedback to my students’ writing, a few of these associations are assuaged. They suddenly begin to see themselves capable of writing in modes they haven’t written in before, rather than have their grammar line-edited and actual content dismissed, and slowly but surely they (hopefully) see themselves as writers. Even those who are are steadfast in their belief that writing = grade, which = diploma, are opening up to the potential benefits of the process.

With “Leave Yourself Out of Your Writing,” Rodrigo Joseph Rodriguez offers in some ways a refutation to the death of the author, and instead suggests leaning into the “I” of writing. One of his reasonings is that “by being present in one’s writing as one writes, the writer is creating conditions for the reader to better understand a topic as well as the concepts that drive learning and understanding” (132). I particularly like this idea in relation to Parrott’s urging to involve oneself within the process of writing, and I find Rodriguez’s example a concrete way to do so. When I think about the faux objectivity that Rodriguez speaks about students being taught from an early age, I can see the sort of distance that this puts on writing. It’s a mentality more than anything else that eventually concludes (for many students) with a lifelong animosity towards the practice. Rodriguez concludes his piece with the reiteration that to write for oneself, while expressing oneself, is a more than effective way to change that exact mentality. I also see a lot of practicality to involving yourself and your experiences in your writing, the simplest being that it could potentially help you understand what exactly engages a reader. If it’s important to you, chances are it’ll be important to someone else. You lose this pretty essential tool if there’s a distance in your writing, especially if you’re a beginning student learning the importance of it all.