With the help of Dombrowski, I see ethics more as a way of life, a “burden,” as he calls it, than a set of guidelines to be taught. But, part of me says, “Our students need those guidelines for practice!” I believe that by proposing conflict-situations to students, and allowing them to view perhaps how others have handled certain ethical dilemmas, they can be “changed through the interaction,” as Dombrowski indicates (p. 336, 337). I have witnessed this in my own English 102 classroom when I have students debate. Those who take advantage of the opportunity come away from the discussion with a better handle on their own beliefs and what kind of ethical choices they must make by having beliefs. (This worked not-as-well in English 101 in which my students struggle to commit to any opinion strongly, or at least share such commitment.)

I also enjoyed this week’s readings because they advocate the idea that we have an obligation as fully self-aware beings, to accept and process the undercurrents of not just our professional lives but our personal lives in order to become, simply, fully realized people. This philosophy is similar to that of creative writing in which we are taught to become more engaged with the world by noticing and sensing things around us and to marry that way of interacting with a way of writing.

Perhaps this experience I’ve had in which “intuition” is admired as a pseudo-synonym for “dignity” or “sensibility” causes me to take issue with how Gough and Price use the word.* (Not to mention the awareness I have that “intuition” and “feelings” have, in the past, been considered feminine traits and therefore “fluffy” or dumb.) When Gough and Price insinuate that “intuition” and “feelings” are irrational tools of deciding, I think they are contradicting themselves. How can we be “knowledgeable, self-conscious or self-aware, self-reflective, and self-critical” people if we do not pay attention to feelings, “gut reactions,” and the intuitive sense that humans simply have (p. 322)? I see the danger in making decisions based on reactions or impulses, but I often think the “right” thing is decided upon through some process of thought that may not be articulateable but that many people agree upon because we have similar thoughts/feelings.

(Why are feelings and thoughts considered so different, anyway? I would be hard-pressed to give an example of a feeling vs. a thought.)

Smartly, our past friend Brumberger points out that “we have historically labeled as ‘intuitive’ or ‘talent’ those thinking abilities for which we do not have well-defined norms” (p. 379).  In other words, saying “intuition” is another way of saying “we don’t know how to teach this,” but I believe all authors this week offer a way to teach it: by focusing on specific situations students can be invested in. In such a method, we do use our internal sense of what’s right and wrong to guide us through our decision-making process. And we can only learn to be ethical through practice and through a certain level of awareness, philosophy, engagement, spirituality (however you want to say it). If we are truly empathetic people, we will be ethical people. (I think.)

*That being said, I greatly admire the definitions offered by Gough and Price! I was not taught ethics through a set of guidelines in a textbook, but within the context of certain ethical questions I was engaged in, either with literature (like in high school discussions about of Lord of the Flies, Of Mice and Men, and The Grapes of Wrath) or with day-to-day life questions. I do think I would have benefited from the distinctions of ethics vs. propriety vs. legality, etc. and from a rational system for reaching an ethical decision.

She says, “These writers seem to be explaining their actions to one another and more importantly to themselves so that those actions would square with their ideal notion of themselves and their work. They were [SIC], in other words, writing themselves as engineers” (p. 347). I never thought of engineer-writing (e.g. fact-gathering, data recording, data generation, lab reports, project templates) as vehicles for self-formation, but I see this possibility, now.

Winsor’s guiding principle that “knowledge of a document equals knowledge of a thing” implies that our writing of anything is a writing of ourselves (p. 345). And now this makes much sense to me, especially when reflecting on my own experiences with pre-formed documents I’m asked to fill out. Previously, I wouldn’t put that act under the same category as “essay writing” or “creative writing” because it doesn’t directly ask me to explore my beliefs. However, when filling out plans of study, medical documents, surveys, data sheets, etc. I do negotiate how best to represent myself.

For instance, at an eye doctor’s office with pink eye, I might need to choose between several descriptions of the eye color and the level of discomfort to best represent what I’m feeling, or perhaps to best achieve the desired outcome (for instance, if I didn’t want to pay for an X-ray, I might not check the box that says “Pain is behind the eye”). So, I would have the choice of either answering the questions to most authentically reflect reality or of misrepresenting the “data” in order to achieve a desired outcome. I would also have to indicate my allergies, my emergency contact information, my past medical history, etc. In a certain way, this is a writing of the self in that very moment and a writing of the history of the self. We decide “I am this,” “This is that,” which are perceptions of reality and beliefs about what reality should be, expressed in writing.

(Hyperbolic example: Look at how the blogger of Hyperbole and a Half recreates the universal pain chart to better express her reality.)

This negotiation about a very “objective” situation demonstrates how data recording reflects an inherent view of reality and a belief of what should be happening. As long as we are humans, we are creating ourselves (and our research) through every decision put in writing.

Think, especially, of those who may not have a traditional family and cannot check the “Father” or “Friend” box for their “personal guardian” without going through a difficult negotiation about what their relationship is: “Well, he’s kind of like my dad, but we aren’t really related, but he’s not exactly my friend, either. He was first my teacher, then my stepdad, and now after the divorce, he’s technically nothing to me, but he still pays for my insurance, and I take him to baseball games.” Similarly indeed, when people of mixed ethnicity fill out census forms, they are confronted with impossible choices about how to define themselves. So how do they fit? Suddenly, a perceived “black or white,” categorical decision becomes very gray and subjective. And in the same way, checking “Caucasian” expresses a certain facet of our identity—of how we identify ourselves.

Relating these thoughts to professional communication and workplace studies, I suppose I am seeing how all work is a form of self-expression. I have previously believed that writing creatively is closer to an expression of the self than job-related writing (which I have expressed in a continuum, that you may see in my conference presentation). But after this week’s readings, I understand that, whether we are conscious of it or not, our work is an expression of ourselves, and we should never treat someone’s work lightly. What someone does, how they think, and what they write is who they are. And the categorical thinking that engineers practice is an ordering of reality through various choices, the very basic of which is to trust numbers. This decision to believe in numbers and the action of recording numbers are expressions of a personal belief.

This is not to say that all data is “subjective” and useless and rife with human flaw. I am, rather, attempting to demonstrate how any choice, whether working in science or math or the humanities, is an expression of a certain logic, or a certain belief. And if choices reflect beliefs, then categorizing data (categorizing, itself) is a form of self-expression.

Reference

Winsor, D. A. (2004). Engineering Writing/Writing Engineering. In Johndan Johnson-Eilola and Suart A. Selber (Eds.). Central Works in Technical Communication (341-350). New York: Oxford.

“[T]his book stresses one simple principle: you learn to write best by doing as much writing as possible” (Pfeiffer, 2003, p. v).

Introduction (viii-xiii)

What makes Pfeiffer’s (2003) Technical Writing: A Practical Guide unique is its emphasis on the real-world workplace and its awareness of international communication. Its core features include a focus on process and product in which students are taught “planning, drafting and editing” to “get the job done,” an ABC (Abstract, Body, Conclusion) format for all documents, and a fictional company called McDuff, Inc. as a realistic context for workplace discussion (p. viii).

The 5^th edition’s new features include “Collaboration at Work” exercises, international assignments in each chapter, and new (now dated) information about website design, e-mailing, research, and style/usage. The book also includes a writing handbook.

Writing Process (1.1)          

The general overview of the writing process is provided in the first section of the book, emphasizing a very common and straight-forward planning, drafting, and revising process. Pfeiffer uses familiar writing projects like English class essays and papers from general studies courses to get students to apply the concepts of purpose, prior knowledge, audience, evaluative criteria, and graphic support (p. 5). He then transitions into how those concepts apply to technical writing, outlining several types of documents from memos to feasibility studies to websites. The chapter examines in-depth how to analyze your readers, how to draft in several different formats, and how to work in groups.

Rhetoric and Persuasion (1.2, 3.14)

Though “rhetoric” is not a term used heavily, if at all, chapter 1.2 addresses the rhetorical situation by examining audience concerns, ethics, and globalism through the fictional McDuff, Inc. The chapter briefly outlines company culture, “the search for quality” (customer first, teamwork, freedom, long-term thought), and strategies for communicating internationally (p. 44).

Here, students also receive a detailed history of McDuff, Inc., a very large company specializing in security systems, hotel management, and landscaping, run by former U.S. Army engineer Rob McDuff. Included is the layout of all company jobs and the degrees needed to earn them (p. 50-51). Finally, a “Communication Challenge” at McDuff, Inc. is used to implement the ethics guidelines of being honest, not harming, keeping commitments, and being independent (p. 62-63, 66).

Chapter 3.14 belongs in this category because breaks down persuasive techniques to entice employers in the resume and cover letter.

Style and Tone (3.15)

One slim, final chapter differentiates style and tone: style refers to the individuality of writer’s choices, and tone refers to the more specific attitude of the writer. Students also gain advice on how to write clear sentences, be concise, be accurate in wording, use active voice, and use nonsexist language (p. 593).

Document Design (1.3, 1.4)

These two chapters provide overviews of organization and page design. In 1.3, students learn three principles of organization (“write different parts for different readers”; “emphasize beginnings and endings”; “repeat key points”) and the Technical Writing trademark ABC format for all documents: Abstract (the “big picture” for decision makers), Body (details for all readers), and Conclusion (wrap-up leading to next step) (75, 77-80).

1.4 offers instruction on how to use computers in the writing process and major page design concepts like white space, headings, and lists, and choices like font and color. This chapter stresses primarily creating “clear, readable, and visually interesting documents” (102).

Document Genres and Types of Writing (2.5-2.10)

Part two is devoted entirely to outlining patterns of organization for 1) process descriptions and instructions, 2) letters, memos, and electronic communication, 3) informal reports, 4) formal reports, and 5) proposals and feasibility studies. Each primary genre is broken down into several parts to enrich the ABC format.

In 2.5, “Patterns of Organization,” several different structures are generally outlined: argument, definition, description, classification/division, and comparison/contrast. The following chapters detail the guidelines for the more specific document formats listed above. Pfeiffer provides multiple examples that from McDuff, Inc. and more generalized templates (p. 243-257). These samples and templates are the purple pages of the book. Here, the McDuff corporation takes a fuller shape, forming the audience and purpose for the genres of writing.

Other, smaller genres outlined include positive, neutral, and negative letters, problem analyses, progress reports, lab reports, title pages, table of contents, executive summary, illustrations, discussion sections, appendices, etc.

Visuals and Oral Communication (3.11, 3.12)

Here, Pfeiffer (2003) details the concepts of graphics (3.11) and oral communication (3.12). The former provides examples of every kind of chart imaginable and provides options and reasons for choosing specific fonts and color. Pfeiffer also explains how graphics can be misused and distorted while emphasizing that graphics are expected in the workplace. Again, every visual from pie chart to centric organization chart to cover page image are related to McDuff, Inc (p. 445). Learners are given countless options.

The oral communication chapter focuses on major guidelines for preparation and delivery, overcoming nervousness, graphics, running effective meetings. Included is McDuff, Inc. sample transparencies (p. 481).

Research and Writing Technologies (3.13, Appendix A and B)

3.13 details several modes of research and several methods of attaining information like online catalogs, the web, and the library. There are also convenient sections for plagiarism and varieties of source documentation, in which the author-date system and writing abstracts receive special attention.

Appendices A and B describe online technical documents (of which they list four: help files, web-based documents, online books, and computer-based training) and website design (p. 621).  We only get a broad overview of these issues through dated anecdotes about workers at McDuff, Inc. John has a feeling that “creating a Web page on our intranet site”  will be different than his college presentation on “Surfing the Internet” that he filled with “lots of animated surfer graphics” (p. 628).

Conclusions

This book, though outdated for the current professional writing classroom, offers a compelling, unique, and practical context for learning. The ABC format functions like “the rhetorical situation” applicable to many documents, and McDuff, Inc. gives students imaginative scenarios within which they can make creative choices. The most recent edition’s description no longer mentions McDuff, Inc., so perhaps the company has been nixed. However, I do think the rationale for this textbook could be carried over to an English 304 syllabus: letting a given company like Microsoft or Mylan provide the context within which the class functions. Such an imaginative framework would be a difficult undertaking, but I bet students would come to class with a developed frame-of-reference for the lessons and therefore the ability to delve deeper into the material, much like this text allows.

1) Focus on presenting relevant and well-researched content without relying on “smirky commercialism” or PP Phluff to make your material look like a product (4).

2) Avoid turning “information into a sales pitch and presenters into marketeers” by allowing for conversation (4).

3) Use paper handouts to give the power back to the audience, who can then choose how they take in information depending on their preferred thinking style: listening, watching, or reading (6).

4) Provide a context for the information you provide so that listeners have increased memorability. Our memories work best when we can place a piece of data or information into a larger story or picture, not when we were given a list of < 7 power points (6). (Context, I think, can be achieved by a number of tactics, my favorite through relating to the audience. When I teach, I always see students eyes and ears perk up when I say “When I was an undergraduate . . . ” I suppose another way to provide context is to ask listeners targeted questions or to present a problem. One could also use slides to show some images to get us oriented. All the same tactics for introducing a paper seem to apply here. Don’t argue in a vacuum. Be direct about what the issue is and share examples, so the listeners are on the same page.)

5) Be less self-aware and more audience-aware (7). Don’t go into a presentation thinking that you must demonstrate your dominance or authority (too much). Know that your job is to provide listeners with a distinct context that you happen to be an expert in (because you’ve been thinking about it more thoroughly and more recently than they) and to present the information as clearly and appropriately as possible. If you do this, you will likely gain credibility because you will believe you are an authority on the topic. You give yourself credit; you earn credit.

6) Use the “core ideas of teaching—explanation, reasoning, finding things out, questioning, content, evidence, credible authority” (7). Although not exactly a concrete suggestion, this idea of relying on your teaching persona seems useful and would calm nerves.

7) Allow room for discovery in the very room of presenting. Just like leading a discussion, allow the spontaneity of the moment to compliment your presentation, if possible.

8) Choose narrative over choppy and authenticity over hierarchy (12).

9) Formal documents are tried, true, and necessary (13). Don’t shy away from them because you think they’ll be boring or that your audience won’t grasp them. If too much data, give your audience “concisely written reports on paper” (14). Give your audience credit, too. Give your audience credit; they give you credit.

10) Use PP for full-screen images and videos. They are “necessary” (14).

11) Be skeptical of sentence fragments. There’s nothing wrong with the sentence (16). Sentences specify relationships and comparisons, the most sophisticated processes of thought.

12) Choose the appropriate graphs for you data to demonstrate relationships more clearly (23).

13) Allow your style and tone to enhance the presentation experience. Respond to the rhetoric of the situation and of your material to decide on proper and even innovative style (28). An interesting question to consider is, what does Tufte mean by style? He compares presentation style to historical art styles. I think style would vary widely depending on the rhetorical situation.

While I still feel somewhat of a lack of concrete places to start, these instructions can apply to many a presentation format we encounter daily. I know I will refer to it the next time I present! We also learn from Tufte that just like establishing teaching philosophies, it is important to establish a presentation philosophy, to give every aspect of your presentation style careful thought and decision.

Another take-away question: Is design a synonym for style?

First, George quotes Gerdiner, Kittredge, and Arnold: “what can a picture tell you about wind or heat, about sound or smell, about motion, about the feeling of roughness of moisture? Nothing directly; it can only suggest” (21). George implies that this statement privileges the verbal which contradicts the authors’ broader argument for the “primacy of the visual.” However, this idea that images merely suggest, I feel, demonstrates their strength at communicating to various audiences. Of course, we expect an artwork to suggest multiple meanings, and a set of instructions to provide clear directions, but how different are these modes of communication, really? No matter what the forum (as we are taught by presidential debates), multiple people will derive multiple meanings from both words and images. So, is there a benefit to images’ ability to suggest multiple meanings? Don’t words function in similar ways? At least, images, instructions, artworks, etc. can indeed reach across language boundaries, and because images are more open to interpretation than direct statements (though I wonder how true that really is), aren’t they able to reach more people because they are merely suggesting instead of telling? I’m still not sure.

George also paraphrases Blair: “the visual is open to interpretation in a way words are not” and then comments, “Such an assertion can only be made if one believes that the verbal and visual both involve communication of meaning” (29). Is George simply saying that visuals can communicate meaning as well? I have trouble reading her analysis of Blair, but I see what Blair is saying quite clearly, though I’m still deciding if I agree with it.

Finally, George offers a helpful structure for analysis of visual designs: “comparison, juxtaposition, and, intertextuality” (29). In the midst of the Text Analysis assignment, I find these terms very useful. A music video, a political cartoon, a website, etc. exist within a context of other texts like it (comparison); they juxtapose words with drawing or shot with music or photos with hypertext; and they also exist within the history all literature that has come before, and how does one text manifest that cultural, political, social history? These terms help me form what visual argument is and also helps me reflect on my audience concerns above. Visuals are texts just like any other and they can be read with the same criteria. They actually have the ability to layer more information, and that’s what makes them reach more diverse audiences, not necessarily their suggestive quality (language can suggest just as well). Yes, what separates design is its efficient, layered, navigable, and succinct organization of information. Even if I can’t read Spanish, a picture can help me understand directions.

Questions presented in “The Politics of Interface” and in “Race, Rhetoric, and Technology” about the marginalization of minorities through computer use were ones I haven’t considered in depth. Early on in our teaching assistant careers, we are given a generally positive view of technology in the classrooms—that if computers are there, we should absolutely make use of them. And maybe until this week, I’ve agreed with that but am beginning to question the role of technology in the classroom and how it might limit us. A few things in the latter article stopped me in my tracks: “our work is saturated in white male culture” (284); whiteness is “the absence of culture. It is empty and therefore terrifying to attempt to build an identity based on what one isn’t and whom one can hold back” (Roediger qtd. in Haas 285).

In an undergraduate race and ethnicity class, I learned a bit about whiteness, and it is indeed strange and seemingly dangerous to me that each characteristic of being white is based on some sort of power. For instance, in a study by Karyn McKinney-Marvasti (who taught the course) in which she collected reflections from several students, it became apparent that white students are often jealous of the ethnic traditions that other races practice, and we often solve this problem by celebrating Irishness on St. Patrick’s day. Kind of sad, but the difference is that we can choose when we are Irish and when we aren’t. Asian Americans can’t choose when to “perform” their Asianness because they can’t escape their appearance and “blend in.” White people have the power to be different when they want and blend in when they want.
These ideas relate the use of computers and digital texts through Selfe’s and Selfe’s assertion that computer classrooms are not democratic (429). Of course, those minority populations that did not receive the best technology training because their schools couldn’t afford it are at a loss when teachers assign online discussions and even electronic versions of papers. I had one nontraditional student, for instance, whose papers seemed to be composed in notepad with no awareness of spellcheck, of margin alignment, etc. I don’t think he ever participated in computer activities, either. Can you imagine how embarrassing it would be to sit in a class pecking the keyboard while other students and a teacher who are all 20 years younger than you have all seemed to master typing skills?

But further, I wonder about online discussions, how when even I read an article I do tend to picture a white male as author, unless the name tells me otherwise. It never fails in class that when I assign Anne Lamott or Annie Dillard, some student refers to the author as “he.” Bigots may be speaking in an online forum with “others” without ever knowing it—and the trouble is that they don’t have to know it. The identity-lessness of the internet allows us to believe about others whatever we want, and that’s not helpful for the progress of acceptance.

The best way to get over discrimination is immersion, and the internet prevents us from knowing who we’re being immersed with. Nothing can replace the face-to-face interaction of group work and presentations, and it’s best to see technology as a tool to enhance the organization of our own thinking, not something that can think for us.

Selfe, Cynthia L. and Richard J. Selfe. “The Politics of Interface.” Central Works in Technical Communication. Eds. Johndan Johnson-Eilola and Suart A. Selber. New York: Oxford, 2004. 428-445. Print.

Wilson bases his definition of postmodernism by contrasting the modernist “epistemologies and pedagogies that . . . fate technical communicators as scribes and not as agents in the representation of technology [because they teach only] a limited set of skills” (75). This statement does reflect the move away from skills-based teaching to process-based teaching that we all see today in our classes. I believe that, by emphasizing a personal learning process of writing no matter the product, we would be teaching students the reflection and critical thinking skills necessary to maintain this agency to make oneself useful.

At this point, my idea of process becomes shaky—by “process,” how much do I mean rhetoric? How much do I mean agency? How much do I mean flexibility? A lot, I suppose. “Process,” for me, is a word to demonstrate the idea that good work is measured by the ability to think in the moment, to be present enough with oneself and ones surroundings (one’s context—whether writing a feasibility report or a lab report or a translation, etc.) and aware enough of one’s strengths and weaknesses to determine where and how they can be useful to filling a specific gap at their workplace. Emphasis should not, in my mind, be so much placed on the product because if students have the essential knowledge and experience to adapt, they will be able to apply those essentials to a variety of tasks that involve problem-solving, collaboration, systems thinking etc. This is kind of like the idea of holistic grading: if students practice a good process, the product will be glowing (or at least B-worthy), like a self-fulfilling prophesy, but if students procrastinate and have ill-formed conceptions about how to read, think, and write, their final product will definitely reflect that instability.

Wilson offers what he believes are those essential facets of knowledge and experience in today’s technical communication field: systems thinking, collaboration, abstraction, and experimentation, mostly internal processes that involve a lot of goal-oriented, discovery-oriented, and intuitive thought processes. In other words, they involve a lot of visualization, organization, and relationship-oriented analysis. Here, I feel that our visual/technological culture (and I guess we have always been visual thinkers—we are sensory beings) is training us all to think more in terms of what works when we see it. Visualizations can both help the thought process and help show, clearly, how a system works. I believe visual rhetoric is the key to many of these issues of professional communication, both in the psychological sense and in the practical sense. Visual thinking, organizational webs to demonstrate work processes,  and subsequent products-with-vision demonstrate the technical communicator’s important place in industry.

Work Cited

Wilson, Greg. “Technical Communication and Late Capitalism: Considering a Postmodern Technical Communication Pedagogy.” Journal of Business and Technical Communication. 15.1 (2001): 72-99. SAGEPub. PDF File.

Perhaps, then, the teacher’s job is to inspire the goal of discovery, the goal of self-development and engagement with the long history and culture of writing—but how? As much as I love to read studies of the cognitive processes, I have trouble applying them because you can’t be in anyone’s head but your own. I may talk about “goals-for-self-improvement” or “goals-to-thinking-critically,” but students may hear “another-assignment-where-I-have-to-make-up-goals” or “another-fake-me-has-to-write-this-memo.” Indeed, this “define your goals for this class” assignment is one I detested, too. I detested it because I had no idea what my goals were, but I still was always open to discovering—I was perhaps so open to new experiences that I had no idea what I was supposed to want from a geography course, just that I wanted to learn something new. But for some reason, I didn’t feel it would fulfill the assignment for me to say “to discover something new” or “to find a connection between this class and my internal idea of truth.” And maybe that’s what our students are facing, too: we are trying to force them to choose a writing identity when they 1) already have a preconception that their major won’t require them to write or 2) are so open to learning new things that they can’t define why writing is important.

I am also skeptical of goals assignments because goals impose an end—they naturally contradict the idea that writing is a process.

So, maybe the idea is not to force goal definition but to inspire it through example, much like Kent’s notion of reaching agreement in the moment of communication rather than trying to alter students’ thought processes by making them write about abstractions like “values.” We can allow the act of conversing in conference and class discussions to demonstrate discovery. Even if students can’t define what happened in that process of insight, they may have the inkling of learning, and they may choose to seek out similar relationships with other classmates and teachers; they may naturally seek to discover instead of produce.

For instance, we all can tell when a student seeks to produce a paper (“how long is this assignment?”) vs. one who wants to engage in a personal learning process (“how might I write about religion without sounding controversial”)? Just Friday, I conferenced with a student who hates writing, and I was trying to help him see how he could write about his religious club for his feature article if he interviewed each of the members for their stories about how they found the club helpful to their self-formation. Somewhere in the conversation, butterflies were mentioned, as a joke, but just the idea allowed the student to compare the uniqueness of butterflies to the uniqueness of the members of his club. Especially for this student, who has the critical thinking skills but also extreme apprehension to write, we were able to discover something, anything that could make writing a little easier for him—a concrete image that could help him frame his paper and also an easy-to-remember visual that can get him started. If we both weren’t open to discovery, engaging in the guesswork of communication, the conversation would not have led to such an insight for this student.

In his essay on process, Lester Faigley calls for a synthesis of competing writing theories by emphasizing an awareness of the history of writing, which is quite inspiring. He says, “the process movement . . . must take a broader conception of writing, one that understands writing processes are historically dynamic—not psychic states, cognitive routines, or neutral social relationships [like communities]” (537). If teaching writing should be a discipline, we need to “look beyond who is writing to whom to the texts and social systems that stand in relation to the act of writing” (539).

I feel that if Faigley gave some practical examples, or if I could fully grasp the idea of intertextuality in the process discussion, I would gain answers to my questions about how to break down students’ preconceptions about writing and perhaps to more pressing questions: what is communication once it becomes a product, when it’s marked “done”? Is product-oriented communication “professional communication”? Is process-oriented? What is professional communication if the message forms in the subtext? How does the process of writing naturally contradict the product? (How does the product kill the process?) How can we teach something that can only be heard by students open to discovery?

That’s a lot to chew on.

Works Cited

Faigley, Lester. “Competing Theories of Process.” College English  48.6 (1986): 527-542. PDF file.

Flower, Linda, and John R. Hayes. “A Cognitive Process Theory of Writing.” College Composition and Communication 32:4 (1981): 365-387. JSTOR. Web. 20 Sept. 2012. PDF file.

With an obvious chip on her shoulder, Charney writes “Insisting that any result short of Universal Truth and Certainty is a failure on science’s terms, the critics conclude that objective methods are a sham and that scientific knowledge cannot grow” (286). I often feel that statistics are presented to the public as “Universal Truth and Certainty [of our Overlord Science],” so the problem to me is not in the methodology itself but the way it’s presented. Very often (as consumers of news research), we are fed facts and numbers and graphs that show significant phenomena without the help of a detailed, honest (or remotely entertaining) account of why certain methods were chosen and what possible misinterpretations could occur. The only reason I think I am drawn more frequently to qualitative studies is because they are 1) refreshingly transparent about their methods and 2) entertaining because of this credibility, relateability, and admission to the fact that people make errors. I think quantitative studies could have the same qualities, but for whatever reason, they are at times dry.

In the study of cocaine users I mentioned in class, Patricia A. Adler directly states, “The methods I used to study this group were direct and personal. With my husband as a research partner . . . I participated in many of their activities, partying with them, attending social gatherings, traveling with them, and watching them plan and execute their business activities” (46). I don’t think Adler admits to doing cocaine, but it also isn’t denied, either. Admitting so may have been a problem to the much looser guidelines for study in 1993. In any case, I appreciate the honesty, and I believe her because of that. And, doesn’t her honesty make you want to discover her research with her?

I believe, also, that Sullivan and Porter call to “cut the BS” and be more authentic by calling for praxis instead of the theory/practice binary that “requires a fine, balancing judgment” and allows methodology to be called what it truly is, a heuristic (305). Acknowledging these truths about methodology, that it is indeed theory, we can use it as we see fit in each specific research circumstance, and we are free to discuss the reasons for our choices, whether using qualitative research because we simply prefer it or using convenient locations and samples. After all, what is truth and authenticity if not responding to the exact limitations and opportunities of a specific situation or question? What is it if not choosing to be aware of an audience that might not grasp what passing the t-test really means? What is it if not ethical?

Works Cited

Adler’s Study, Wheeling and Dealing.

Charney, Davida. “Empiricism is not a Four-Letter Word.” Central Works in Technical Communication. Eds. Johndan Johnson-Eilola and Suart A. Selber. New York: Oxford, 2004. 281-299. Print.

Porter, James E., and Patricia Sullivan. On Theory, Practice, and Method: Toward a Heuristic Research Methodology for Professional Writing. Central Works in Technical Communication. Eds. Johndan Johnson-Eilola and Suart A. Selber. New York: Oxford, 2004. 300-313. Print.

As a year-old grad student, I often fluctuate between the social constructionist and the paralogic hermeneutic ways of thinking. In my social constructionist self, I feel strongly that knowledge is a “consensual . . . socially justified belief” (128)—I often take each piece of information about a certain field, say digital humanities or professional communication, and build upon my overall definition of the norms, values, and beliefs of that field. I’ve already gathered from the emphasis on the Challenger disaster in class and from the emphasis on staying true to the original text in my digital humanities internship that the current field of professional communication does not render practicality and humanity mutually exclusive—ethics are important to academically-trained professional communicators. A truth I feel is pretty static.

As a student, I also arrive at knowledge in paralogic ways in which truth changes depending on the “agreement reached with other communicants through the process of interacting” (137). For instance, while forming a definition of good poetry, my conceptions often change depending upon who I am conversing with. Jim and Mary Ann will often say divergent things about a certain poem, and I agree with them both in that moment of communication. Multiple definitions of poetry, of the publishing industry, of rhetoric co-exist depending on the conversation/the context.

My ideologic self tries to stay in check because it is easy to become bitter about the “unequal, exclusionary social order embedded in hierarchical relations of power” (133). But I do have an example: in a sociology independent study with a male research partner, I completed a discourse analysis of how the godless are portrayed in the media. While presenting our findings at an undergraduate research fair, browsers would often listen to me intently as I explained the overall project, then direct questions only to my male counterpart. After my initial spiel, I was nearly ignored for the rest of the presentation, unless I piped up, which then might have been construed as a negative quality in a woman. I was forced into the identity of “female” (or maybe “short”; my partner was indeed tall . . .), and I recognized how people unconsciously see men as leaders, even though I took the lead in the presentation. In my professional pursuits, I must negotiate how much I want to appear feminine, whatever that means, and then try not to do that, or to do that, in order to appear powerful . . . It’s all very confusing.

To summarize, my mind categorizes the social theories like this: social constructionist=assertive meaning-making; paralogic=passive meaning-making; ideologic=aggressive meaning-making.

What do these connections mean to the field of professional communication? I think we must prepare to reach broad audiences with our research and our “symbolic-analytic” tasks that require more decisions on the part of the communicator (Johnson-Eilola 182). Comprehension processes fluctuate depending on many factors: we may target a particular audience one day, but that audience may shift meaning-making strategies the next, and a miscommunication occurs.  The answer, then, is to try to strive for that ethnographic text that Mary M. Lay calls for—to expose as much of the truth so that readers can make up their minds by objectively examining subjectivity (153).

Or, another method of appealing to broad audience is practicing visual rhetoric. Johnson-Eilola calls for this when he shifts the emphasis from simple user-manuals to multi-part guides that not only provide instructions for use but also for “broader tasks” for which the user might emply (180). Visual art provides a very specific, concrete view that opens up a world of pleasing abstraction for the viewer to bring to their interpretations of the world. And Johnson-Eilola echoes this sentiment: “everyday instances of technical communication such as interface design . . . and cartography . . . contribute in fundamental ways to how a user thinks, communicates, and acts in the world” (179). The piece of communication, then, is not overly-tailored to a specific user but instead inspires a certain thought process the professional wants the user to practice. By achieving versatility through visual design, the user is taught how to use, and innovation can occur.

Works Cited

Johnson-Eilola, Jonathon. “Relocating the Value of Work.” Central Works in Technical Communication. Eds. Johndan Johnson-Eilola and Suart A. Selber. New York: Oxford, 2004. 175-190. Print.

Lay, Mary M. “Feminist Theory and the Redefinition of Technical Communication.” Central Works in Technical Communication. Eds. Johndan Johnson-Eilola and Suart A. Selber. New York: Oxford, 2004. 146-159. Print.

Roundy Blyler, Nancy, and Charlotte Thralls. “The Social Perspective and Professional Communication.” Central Works in Technical Communication. Eds. Johndan Johnson-Eilola and Suart A. Selber. New York: Oxford, 2004. 124-145. Print.