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ing logic of the market is intricately, if silently, bound to theories of autonomous creativity, the writer is surely caught in a bind. Considering the trials of Coleridge and Wordsworth is enough to drive one into the arms of Trollope, abjuring forever the cycle of hypomania and depression, inspiration and silence. If the market is inescapable, turn its discipline to good effect. Such is Trollope's response to Romanticism: There are those [...] who think that the man who works with his imagination should allow himself to wait till-inspiration moves him. When I have heard such a doctrine preached, I have hardly been able to repress my scorn. To me it would not be more absurd if the shoemaker were to wait for inspiration, or the tallow-chandler for the divine moment of melting (102). Trollope scorns those who wait for inspiration, and embraces the analogy of novel writing to shoe making, pointedly refusing the Romantic separation of Art from craft: A shoemaker when he has finished one pair of shoes does not sit down and contemplate his work in idle satisfaction [...]. The shoemaker who so indulged himself would be without wages half his time. It is the same with a professional writer of books [.. .]. I had now quite accustomed myself to begin a second pair as soon as the first was out of my hands (265). God is on the side not so much of the angels, as of the man who settles down to do his work here on earth, for idleness is a vice, industriousness a virtue. This content downloaded from 157.55.39.211 on Sat, 25 Jun 2016 05:12:48 UTC All use subject to http://about.jstor.org/terms Writer's Block, Merit, and the Market 637 Just do it. This familiar marketing slogan is applicable to all walks of life, it seems. Donald Murray, in The Craft of Revision, echoes Trollope and Boice, too, when he urges writers to [make] writing a habit [ . .]. The writing becomes expected in the way you are expected to wait on tables, show up for your job in the emergency room, deliver papers. Roger Simon of the Baltimore Sun explained, 'There's no such thing as writer's block. My father drove a truck for 40 years. And never once did he wake up in the morning and say: 'I have truck driver's block today. I am not going to work' (17). There's something bracing about this. Murray appeals to the complex network of social relations any worker must enter into, which carry obligations that must be honored. The market makes us all interdependent and we are all expected to work, indeed, required to work if we need to earn our incomes. So Murray, like Trollope, urges one to internalize these obligations, which are both ethical and economic, and thus take advantage of the support this network can provide. Replace the Romantic agonies of inspiration with an ethic of work and you will be rewarded. You will have your writing, your copyright, your income, and your peace of mind. Yet the work ethic is by no means our salvation, as Max Weber's magisterial study, The Protestant Ethic and the Spirit of Capitalism, makes clear. Weber argues that Protestants developed in the seventeenth century an ethic that he calls worldly asceticism (120). This ethic is motivated first by religious belief and later, in the late eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, by the force of capitalist accumulation. For Calvin, the purposeful organization and arrangement of the cosmos is evidence of a divine plan, even if the will of God is mysterious. Obvious in the order of the natural world, this organization extends to the order of society as well, in which every person has a calling, a job to do. Those who are in a state of grace glorify God by fulfilling his commandments, which providentially organize social relations. Each individual Christian must therefore work in his or her calling, regardless of his or her desires, and must work methodically, honestly, prudently, steadfastly, all for the glory of God. As Weber observes, Labor in a calling was [.. .] the ascetic activitypar excellence (133). Alone in an individual relation with God, quit of priestly mediation and Roman Catholic acts of penance, the Protestant went to work and prospered. Such labor is endless since it is not a goal in itself; done conscientiously, it will yield riches on earth that represent prospectively (given the grace of God) the Protestant's reward in heaven. I sketch the theological dimensions of the Protestant ethic to stress the fact that it is predicated on deeply felt belief, and to recall how inextricable this belief is from the discourse of political economy. Weber argues that the logic of utilitarian political economy is an effect of Protestant theology and religious belief. Calvinism holds that This content downloaded from 157.55.39.211 on Sat, 25 Jun 2016 05:12:48 UTC All use subject to http://about.jstor.org/terms

Considers how constructing a hopeful professional discourse requires substantial revision of current professional discursive practices. Notes that the search for local knowledge and a shared, more hopeful discourse has rekindled interest in the rhetorical as well as material authority of ideologies, in various forms of writing collected under the overdetermined rubric "the personal." (SG)

Aims to redefine what happens in the margins through a practice called “sideshadowing,” adapted from Bakhtinian theorist Gary Saul Morson’s examination of narrative technique. States that sideshadowing redirects the attention to the present moment, its multiple conflicts, and its multiple possibilities. Argues for sideshadowing’s potential to transform students’ (and teachers’) understandings of what a “good” essay is.

couple of years ago, very early in semester, one of my first-semester composition students wrote a personal narrative in which he confessed to murder. In Life on City Streets he described receiving instructions over phone and then proceeding to kill a nameless victim in cold blood. The paper disturbingly lacked remorse; student explained to me later that it was intended to show what he had had to do to survive on streets. It was way short of assigned length and very poorly written. Of course I had questions about authenticity of narrative. Also, I confess that in first, dismaying, how-do-Irespond-to-this moments after I read this paper, thought crossed my mind-as indeed it may be crossing your minds right now-that it is perfectly possible to go through an entire career without having to confront a paper such as this ... Some weeks later, when I shared this paper at a professional meeting with colleagues across my district, almost all of them thought that narrative was real, not fiction, though personally I have doubts to this day. Some advised various approaches one could take to get at the truth, while at least a couple pointed out that as an officer of college I was obligated to turn whole matter over to deans and to police. But, leaving aside that I had never thought of myself in quite that way, there was really not enough evidence to take such a step. Instead, I asked student to see me in conference, and when he finally kept his appointment, we discussed paper in more detail. He repeated several times that murder had really happened, and we negotiated a revision which would expand narrative, clarify thesis, define some terms, and provide indispensable details of context. Then we set up another conference where he would bring in a draft of revision. But, although he completed one other assignment in course, student continued to attend class only rarely, never came to a second

Suggests that Jane Smiley’s “A Thousand Acres” is a faithful and a “profoundly subversive” revision of Shakespeare’s “King Lear.” Argues that the terms in which the novel have been most frequently praised, no less than the case made for banning it, raise important questions about the relationship between the novel’s secret and the source of Smiley’s Shakespearean “production.”

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A belief shared by teachers of writing, one that we fervently try to inculcate in our students, is that revision can improve writing. This notion, that revision generally results in better text, often pairs up with another assumption, that revision occurs as we work through separate drafts. Thus, hand in your working drafts tomorrow and the final ones next Friday is a common assignment, as is the following bit of textbook advice: the draft is completed, a good critical reading should help the writer re-envision the essay and could very well lead to substantial rewriting (Axelrod and Cooper 10). This textbook advice, hardly atypical, is based on the rationale that gaining distance from a piece of discourse helps the writer to judge it more critically. As evidence for this assumption, Richard Beach's 1976 study of the self-evaluation strategies of revisers and nonrevisers demonstrated that extensive revisers were more capable of detaching themselves and gaining aesthetic distance from their writing than were nonrevisers. Nancy Sommers' later theoretical work on revision also sensitized us to students' need to re-see their texts rather than to view revision as an editing process at the limited level of word changes. A logical conclusion, then, is to train student writers to re-see and then redraft a piece of discourse. There are other compelling reasons for helping students view first or working drafts as fluid and not yet molded into final form. The opportunities for outside intervention, through teacher critiques and suggestions or peer evaluation sessions, can be valuable. And it is equally important to help students move beyond their limited approaches and limiting tendency to settle for whatever rolls out on paper the first time around. The novice view of a first draft as written-in-stone (or fast-drying cement) can preclude engaging more fully with the ideas being expressed. On the other hand, we have to acknowledge that there are advantages in being able, where it is appropriate, to master the art of one-draft writing. When students write essay exams or placement essays and when they go on to on-the-job writing where time doesn't permit multiple drafts, they need to produce first drafts which are also coherent,

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Why is it that students seem to improve their texts so often, and desire to improve them more, when they're given nondirective feedback? Why do teacherless writing groups (where the writer gets conflicting responses from readers instead of teacherly direction) lead to more writing? How can Donald Murray (Writer 173) claim to get effective revision from writers in conferences lasting only five minutes? Stereotype of a Donald Murray conference:

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As those of us who are over twenty-five and teach writing know, revision pedagogy has changed since the days when we were in school. Thanks to the research of Donald Murray, Nancy Sommers, Lester Faigley and Stephen Witte, to name just a few, teachers no longer present revision simply as the mop-up operation that students must endure for not getting it right the first time. It is now rather conceived as a complex creative act that everyone must master, if, like the professionals, one wants to write really well. Yet in our newly-found enthusiasm for revision, we must deal with a few anomalies. First, although research shows that most good writers revise more extensively than poor writers, some revise little and still produce fine texts. Journalists, for example, frequently produce lucid first-draft articles, and even novelists occasionally write whole books with only minor revision. James Dickey may assume that the first fifty ways I try it are going to be wrong, but Zora Neale Hurston says she wrote Their Eyes Were Watching God, a 286-page novel, in seven weeks with few changes.' Second, there are no uniform patterns that constitute expert revision. As Faigley and Witte pointed out in their recent study (Analyzing Revision), professional writers, dealing with the same topic under similar conditions, all revised in their own way:

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THOSE OF US WHO FOLLOW a write-from-your-own-experience philosophy in teaching Freshman Composition consistently run into one problem: a batch of trivial narrative papers to read each week. Following the lead of Ken Macrorie, Donald M. Murray, and, more recently, Joseph Comprone, we take this approach to keep our students out of the depths of the library, where they would spend hours researching a boring subject to an artificial and boring paper, and at their desks engaged in the process of writing, where they belong. Freshman writers, we believe, are apprentices in a skilled trade-writing-and like carpenters' apprentices need material to practice their trade on. But novice carpenters are not sent to the lumber mill to pick up their own materials each day. They keep hammering and sawing and all the material they need is kept at their fingertips. Freshmen have all the material they need for writing at their fingertips, too: their own experiences. Too often, however, they fashion those experiences into a dull, firstperson narrative of What I Did. The genuine significance of what they did lies undiscovered and undeveloped. The challenge for writing teachers is to help the beginners examine their experiences critically and turn the corner from simple narration to wider meanings and truth in their writing. In my freshman English courses I shy away from relevant or significant assigned paper topics. In fact I make no assignments at all other than that writing teacher's cliche, write about what you know. When I do get a paper entitled Pollution or Inflation I ask the writer how much substantial information he has to pass along to his readers. Does he really know the ins and outs of economic theory, for example? The answer is invariably no. A budding John Maynard Keynes is rare these days. Then I have two options. I can send him to the library to research inflation, in short to pick up a quick course in economics. Then he can a research paper, that exercise in footnotes and boredom. Or I can tell him, Write about something you know more about, something you've had some experience with. the next week it's My First Day in College. After three weeks of revision it's a well-honed My First Day in College. Full of hard-hitting specific detail and crisp dialogue, it still makes me yawn. I find myself repeatedly asking, So what? Simple narration, I reasoned, is the mode for best presenting unique experiences