Over the last two or so decades, research in composition and rhetoric has challenged a number of traditional, “common sense” ideas about writing pedagogy. The emphasis on process over product is one example. Another, quite familiar one is the shift away from the tired old structure of the academic expository essay with its requisite introduction (which contains the thesis statement), body and conclusion. The thinking here is that this form with its three rigidly defined constituent parts is 1) not necessarily conducive to original, critical thinking and is therefore counterproductive to effective arguing, and 2) scarcely found anywhere else other than introductory writing courses.
Some folks find this idea to be radical and exciting enough to claim a bit of what Michel Foucault termed the “speakers’ benefit” in advocating that we move away from the traditional intro, body, conclusion structure. If, for example, we approach the traditional essay structure in terms of how it adversely affects students’ ability to treat their subjects critically and keeps them locked into old, tired ways of thinking, then we can conceive of ourselves as writing pedagogy iconoclasts, liberating our students’ thought from the shackles of outdated, rigid and repressive structures.
Well, we’re not that radical or iconoclastic: To wit, Robert W. Neal, writing in 1912 in The English Journal:
The Deadly Grip of Tradition
Perhaps our pupils are still taught a fixed form for compositions — introduction, body, and conclusion-because, unsuspecting old Aristotle tried to illustrate what he had in mind about dramatic composition by employing the terms that we translate “beginning,” “middle,” and “end.” Or perhaps this mechanical makeshift for analysis is still given them because formal rhetoric in modern guise came to us largely from clerical teachers, used to the cut-and-dry methods of sermon composition as practiced almost universally until outside influences reacted on the pulpit and forced a more vital presentation of thought.
In either case, we have textbooks in use and teachers in service in which and by whom pupils are taught with fatal insistence that a composition- which should mean any piece of writing intended to serve a worth-while purpose-consists of “an introduction, a body, and a conclusion.”
For ease of teaching I wish it were true. But it is not. It falls so far short of being the truth that it often is an indefensible untruth. Modern writing outside of academic walls has largely dropped the introduction. It has dropped the introduction because it does not need it. For the same reason, it has largely dropped the conclusion.Our generation is a generation of skilled writers. But it is not a generation addicted to introductions and conclusions. The teacher who hammers away on the introduction-body-conclusion method shows that he is not familiar with the writings of his own day, or else that he is not capable of learning new things. He is like the farmers, who, in this era of scientific cultivation, farm as grandpap farmed. Some of grandpap’s methods have not been improved upon yet, and some of them ruined the soil they were used on.
A study of the effective writing of our own day will show how largely the introduction-conclusion plan of structure has passed away. From news report to editorial article, from descriptive or expository article to argument, from short story to essay, modern writing-which is probably the most effective the world has known-shuns the formalities of structure except, when it needs them. And when it needs them, they are no longer formal divisions, but essential parts of the thought itself.
When it needs them: for like every other element of successful writing, they exist to serve an extremely definite purpose, and for nothing else. Often indeed they have no function in a particular piece of writing, and therefore, so far as that piece of writing is concerned, no excuse for being. Especially is this so of the introduction; and the conclusion more often than not is already present merely in the logical close of the article itself.My protest therefore is not directed against introductions and conclusions in themselves, but to the teaching that makes them appear as necessary parts of every piece of writing. Every editor knows that he can waste-basket from one sheet to three sheets at the beginning of the “stuff” the tyro turns in, and lose nothing. Every instructor of college Freshmen knows the paper that consists of a long introduction and little else-the necessary number of words having been written, with a line or two of “body” and a formal “conclusion” tacked on. No small part of Freshman teaching consists in demonstrating to the students that they have not in the least outlined a paper when they have set down “Introduction-Body-Conclusion.” Thought is not to be analyzed in any such mechanical way, and we do pupils a wrong in making them think that it can be.
I’d put a conclusion here, but, well, you know . . .
The reason that the prof. can toss the introductions from student papers is because they represent the process rather than the product. Writing introductions is, for many of us, how we learn what we need to know. Skilled writers can and do dispense with them. (I’m aware of a Chopin dissertation the first draft of which began with 70 pages on the history of Poland. The writer was advised to remove them and did — but what he learned by writing those 70 pages informed everything that followed.)More to the point, would many of us who teach at Baruch echo Mr. Neal’s “Our generation is a generation of skilled writers” without qualification? Although there is nothing sacred about “beginning, middle, end” (actually I believe we are hard wired to relate very well to such structures — that’s why they have lasted since well before Aristotle (think of the bedrock narratives of our cultures — hero born, goes on journey, returns home changed — from Gilgamesh on), so in that sense to an atheist like me they are as close to sacred as we come), they represent models that do work. Personally, I resent the elitism of those who have mastered such forms denying the same opportunity to those who have not. After they’ve done so, they can abandon them with abandon.
Reply to Dennis Slavin
A couple points, Dennis:
I agree with you regarding the potential usefulness of the introduction but I don’t think that is necessarily at issue here. My aim was simply to highlight the fact that, as is sometimes the case, we writing instructors feel that we are doing something new and somehow transgressive when we eschew some of the more steadfast conventions of academic writing. If we look far back enough, however, someone has often already beaten us to the punch — by many years. That is in part a function of the fact that writing instruction is seldom historicized — sure there are a number of very interesting and comprehensive historical takes comp/rhet out there (by Sharon Crowley, James Berlin, Susan Miller, Richard Ohmann, Robert Connors and a number of prominent others) but the history of the field is rarely on the mind of most teachers of composition.
And, if I may play devil’s advocate, our having mastered a particular genre, doesn’t necessarily mandate that our students do the same. I see nothing elitist in thinking less in terms of proficiency in idiosyncratic genres than in terms of the sorts of writing our students will encounter beyond the academy.
Reply to Mikhail
(This was prefaced by a class discussion that began: ‘Where should we begin? Not at the beginning, that’s too structured…”)
1) “We start with the introduction.” As freshman writers it’s what we know; we may be victims of the “deadly grip,” but the introduction helps us. Especially the thesis.
2) Introductory Writing Courses should include formal structure for grading purposes. It’s necessary. Some think it constricts creativity; some do not.
3) Ultimately, our consensus is that writing is inherently structured and most often that structure involves beginning, middle and end.
We await your response…
Reply to 2100H JM24A (Honors Freshman English Class at Baruch, Prof. J. Lang)
The psychologist Erik Erikson once wrote that (approximate quote) “an introduction is a writer’s way of putting his conclusion first.” This approach to the intro sees it as a product of the writing process rather than the beginning. Of course… this assumes that one drafts and redrafts (and redrafts squared) and is able to produce an introduction that sets up what follows in a way that prepares the reader to better deal with the text, without excessive redundancy.
A response to 2100H JM24A:
1) I think first-year students sell themselves short if they think that starting with the introduction is the only thing they know. They are exposed to all sorts of narrative and methods of analysis in their lives that could form the basis for a writing assignment. As an example of one approach that doesn’t necessarily start with an introduction:historians often start writing about a piece of evidence, and only through pulling back (always writing, writing, writing as they pull) are they able to see where the story begins. Sometimes that evidence lands in a third chapter; often it’s discarded altogether. This is not an argument against introductions and certainly not against theses or “tradition,” but rather a reiteration of Mikhail’s fundamental point… there are many ways to compose. If we choose how we teach writing because of…
2) grading purposes, then maybe we’re missing some opportunities. I happen to think that grading often interferes with pedagogy. Lots of rubrics are available for assessment… adherence to a formal structure is one of them, a valuable one, but I also think that some of the most productive writing is…
3) inherently unstructured, or at least isn’t about beginnings, middles, and ends. Free-writing, for instance. Writing regularly and dialogically on a weblog can be a valuable tool for thinking through course material or scaffolding more formal writing assignments. Role-playing writing assignments that imagines an audience (produce a business report; write an ad campaign; write your own obituary) shows the multiplicity of structures out there.
I guess all of this is a way to say: I agree with Neal!
Reply to Luke
It seems to me that regardless of our individual teaching philosophies, I think it is only fair to our largely international student body to signal, that in the English language classroom they need to be familiar with the prevailing style, considered to be “correct“. Writing is taught differently across the world, and many ESL students would be at a disadvantage, not knowing the conventions, if they were not explained to them.
Also, who in their right mind would NOT want to read seventy pages on the history of Poland. Shame on you, Chopin!
Reply to Agnieszka Kajrukszto
Dennis and I, as historians of musical style, have often argued about the relevance of partitioning the oeuvre of composers (artists) into early, middle, and late styles. While I usually disagree with my colleague about the reality of an artistic life being clearly divisible into three periods, I certainly agree that such a division is instructive. It allows for gross comparisons. It enables us to indicate change along a continuum without getting into a kind of dy/dx argument and without trying to see a logical progression from a composition or painting completed during August 2008 having moved infinitesimally “forward” to a work completed in October 2008. My gut feeling is that we might be hardwired for experiencing beginnings, middles, and ends. Perhaps I mean to say “soft(ware)wired.” At least in terms of Indo-European verbal structure, we generally classify our temporal space according to an array of past, present and future tenses. When we think, we assess what we already know; we survey what has been said previously. We then perform the research, building arguments and showing proof. And finally we see out own research now in the past, re-assess our own work, and we draw conclusions. An introduction and conclusion seem an inevitable way to frame an argument. With the grip of Latin instruction far removed from our education, we can let go of the ablative absolute and Ciceronian, tri-colonic phrasing ; we can feel free to haphazardly split an infinitive, if we like. But good rhetoric is based on good thinking, and good thinking is tied to language. Whether or not one writes the introduction to a book at the end of the process or not, the fact remains that introductory material as historical prologue needs to be knocked about in the mind and sketched out in writing before one can procede. And at the undergraduate level, this is what we need to teach.RE: history of Poland: Perhaps I’m referring to a different study, Dennis, but Charlie B’s dissertation on the music of 14th-century Poland did in fact contain a 70-page introduction on Polish political history. Charlie told me he had done all that work and couldn’t bring himself to discard it. As I recall, that first chapter was more like an elaborate hat placed on the head of a donkey rather than a well-thought-out introduction.
Reply to Tomasello