Alan Ackmann

"Academic" vs. "Creative" Writing: Hidden Parallels

As I mentioned, I teach First Year Writing — a variation on your standard university course, emphasizing research, argumentation, audience awareness, etc — at DePaul University . The goal for the course is to write an 8-10 page term paper, and since most students major in things other than English there is a wide berth of skill level and interest. This term, however, I wound up with some students for whom writing—specifically creative writing—is an avowed interest. After a brief conversation with one student about what he learned, I began thinking about the things that composition classes, which feature so-called “academic” pursuits, might teach us about writing fiction. And I came to some interesting conclusions, which boil down to the following.

SITUATIONAL CONFLICT: When I present academic writing, I emphasize writing as participating in an existing conversation—a model proposed, I believe, by rhetoritician Kenneth Dowst. Based on this model, good academic papers originate within an existing conversation, their writing prompted by the desire to resolve something that, prior to the moment of creation, remained unresolved. Put another way, a good paper positions itself as an attempt to rectify, to some degree, a conflict within the world of its subject, an idea that seems conceptually akin to the notion that many successful stories begin with an unavoidable, central conflict (focusing on an irreconciled emotion, a relationship, a theme) and attempt to resolve the dischord. Conversely, many poor stories have nothing at their center that desires resolution; they end where they begin, with nothing having changed or grown or failed, which robs them of their narrative anima. I am not suggesting that a good story wraps up all its conflicts, leaving no room for interpretation or change; that would be as wrong as saying that any argumentative paper should present its claim so staunchly that it renders further discussion pointless. But good stories, like good papers, draw their momentum from the desire to understand something initially mysterious, and to then communicate that understanding.

CONTEXT AND STRUCTURE: The biggest challenge many students face is that of articulating a coherent claim. Their second biggest challenge is determining a structure—an order of events—that allows them to explore this claim. The advice I give them is as follows: think about what subtopics your paper needs (what scenes it will have, to use the language of fiction) and then consider (a) how the scenes might influence and tug at one another based on the various options for their arrangement, and (b) what sequence of scenes is required in order for your reader to readily accept your conclusion (or “resolution”). This advice also applies to fiction. Many novels begin with an unresolved, initial conflict foregrounding major themes, and many stories, after an attention getting “action” opening (the equivalent to a well concieved introduction) establish context by providing relevant backstory before moving the narrative forward. Furthermore, I believe it is just as possible to reverse engineer a fictional story as it is to rhetorically analyze an academic argument—a premise that seems especially true of plot driven fiction. A story like David Schickler’s “The Smoker” (spoiler alert!) builds towards the surprising conclusion of both characters accepting an arranged marriage in twenty-first century Manhattan. It seems far-fetched, but it works, and one of the reasons it works is because Schickler takes so much time setting up the conclusion. By the time it happens, we’ve been prepped so well through the character’s dialogue, interactions, flashbacks, etc (Schickler’s “evidence”, to use the language of academic writing) that it makes sense, and we find the premise (to use the language of both worlds) “convincing”.

For the record, Schickler’s story appears in his collection Kissing in Manhattan available through The Dial Press. I suggest you check it out.

THE POWER OF OBJECTIVITY: When I teach academic papers, one of the first things mentioned is the art of summarizing, with the rationale being that before you can respond to someone else’s point of view you need to present that point of view fairly and objectively. My classes spend a great deal of time focusing on keeping phrasing objective (analyzing connotations, and syntactic emphasis, among other things) and making sure their own opinions/ judgements about a position are obscured unless they wish otherwise. This skill, of vanishing into your own text, is something many fiction writers struggle with, dpending on their inclinations. I have always appreciated a Chekhovian model for fiction, wherein the author’s judgements on characters, situations, etc. are kept in check (so to speak) and tricky to decipher. Chekhov (and many since him) believed that an author’s job was not to laud or vilify a subject—it was merely to understand that subject. Such a thing is not easy; Josef Conrad, one of literature’s most devout realists, said that even the best writers reveal themselves every third sentence or so. Its not even always desirable; many great writers, after all—including Steinbeck, one of my favorites—have written great works out of the desire to articulate a response to a social trend, or communicate a philosophy, and make little attempt to hide which characters behave honorably, and which fall short. But a writer needs to be aware of when objectivity is being violated, and to understand the occassions that might motivate such a drift.

There are other things, I’m sure, but these are the primary parallels. The overall point is that the rift between academic and creative writing, and their respective skills, is not as insurmountable as common perceptions suggest. If you’d like to comment, just send me an email. I would love to hear your thoughts.

Posted by Alan Ackmann - Jun 9, 08:08 PM.
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