The Importance of Writing Badly
The Importance of Writing Badly
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By Bruce Ballenger
I WAS grading papers in the waiting room of my doctor's office the other day, and
he said, ``It must be pretty eye-opening reading, that stuff. Can you believe those
students had four years high school and still can't write?'' I've heard that before. I
hear it almost every time I tell a stranger that I teach writing at a university.
I also hear it from colleagues brandishing red pens who hover over their students'
papers like Huey helicopters waiting to flush the enemy from the tall grass, waiting
for a comma splice or a vague pronoun reference or a misspelled word to break
cover.
And I heard it this morning from the commentator on my public radio station who
publishes snickering books about how students' abuse the sacred language.
Most of us have lurking in our past some high priest of good grammar whose angry
scribbling occupied the margins of our papers. Mine was Mrs. O'Neill, an eighth
grade teacher with a good heart but no patience for the bad sentence. Her favorite
comment on my writing was ``awk,'' which now sounds to me like the grunt of a
large bird, but back then meant ``awkward.'' She didn't think much of my
sentences.
I find some people who reminisce fondly about their own Mrs. O'Neill, usually an
English teacher who terrorized them into worshiping the error-free sentence. In
some cases that terror paid off when it was finally transformed into an appreciation
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2/8/22, 3:08 PM The Importance of Writing Badly - CSMonitor.com
But it didn't work that way with me. I was driven into silence, losing faith that I
could ever pick up the pen without breaking the rules or drawing another ``awk''
from a doubting reader. For years I wrote only when forced to, and when I did it
was never good enough.
The night before the essay is due they pace their rooms like expectant fathers,
waiting to deliver that perfect beginning. They wait and they wait and they wait. It's
no wonder the waiting often turns to hating what they have written when they
finally get it down. Many pledge to steer clear of English classes, or any class that
demands much writing.
My doctor would say my students' failure to make words march down the page with
military precision is another dreary example of a failed educational system. The
criticism sometimes takes on political overtones. On my campus, for example, the
right-wing student newspaper demanded an entire semester of Freshman English
be devoted to teaching students the rules of punctuation.
There is, I think, a hint of elitism among those who are so quick to decry the sorry
state of the sentence in the hands of student writers. A colleague of mine, an Ivy
League graduate, is among the self-appointed grammar police, complaining often
about the dumb mistakes his students make in their papers. I don't remember him
ever talking about what his students are trying to say in those papers. I have a
feeling he's really not all that interested.
It's harder to write badly than you might think. Haunted by their own Mrs. O'Neill,
some students can't overlook the sloppiness of their sentences or their lack of
eloquence, and quickly stall out and stop writing. When the writing stops, so does
the thinking.
The greatest reward in allowing students to write badly is that they learn that
language can lead them to meaning, that words can be a means for finding out
what they didn't know they knew. It usually happens when the words rush to the
page, however awkwardly.
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