Blue Projecticolor:A Six-Day Reflection (with footnotes)

Day 1:

Twenty-five empty chairs remain strewn about the room—some pushed in, others not.

The blue projection screen emits a light glow over the desks. Fluorescent lighting creates a

calculated ambiance built to sway young minds. The chalkboard is sweep-stained by recently

erased lectures, save for the corner with a list of “summer opportunities” a more experienced

instructor left in their wake.

I remember that I’m twenty-seven, and no one bothers chanting, “are you one? Are you

two? Are your three?” at my birthdays anymore. In fact, I didn’t celebrate my last birthday. I

woke up to find out David Bowie died, worked all day, came home, and had a beer. Today’s

going to be similar, except Prince died last night.

I remember my students.1 Some walked out as fast as they could. Others stuck around for

a moment, but eventually, they all walked out the door. Eventually, so did I, but only after I

turned off the overhead lights, and reflected in the empty, blue projecticolor.2

When I became a teacher of first-year writing, it was a big deal to me. Teaching college

writing was my goal since late in undergrad. I told my parents, “I want to be a writer, and teach

on the side.” My mom recently told me, “I think you have an affinity for teaching, based on how

you talk about it.” She said it with a tickle of motherly concern.3 Regardless, she could be right,

but as I looked around the empty classroom, I tried to picture my life in academia. Tried… but

failed. I packed my laptop and charger in my backpack, grabbed the stack of student portfolios,

1 The four major cliques: techies, band/art nerds, athletes, and the whatevers.2 Projector and color put together for synchronicity-sake. Yes, I’m using this blue light as a life-changing-moment-ambiance, and leaving it behind is like leaving academia behind. It’s because that’s what it felt like in the moment, sheesh!3 I’m still not sure if my parents want me to pursue a career in writing. I believe they are more comfortable with the idea of me as a teacher.

and walked toward the door. I exited, and turned to gaze at the blue projecticolor. Smiling, I

closed the door.

Day 5:

I wrote this reflection over the course of six days. While this seems of little consequence,

I assure you it isn’t. One word: authorship. Each of these days had different coincidences that all

tie together to create the whole shebang.4 Why have I chosen to add footnotes? Well, I recently

started reading the book, The Brief and Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao (there’s footnotes in it).

And that happened to be an idea I had on this day (day 5).

So, why is authorship important? Well, the study of writing involves studying invention

and the creative process. Writers take in their world: what they watch on television, what they

read, what they eat, what they dream, who their friends are, everything. Research is all about

authorship. No matter who you are, you are going to have to bring yourself into your research.

You must ask yourself questions about what you are doing. Not only that, but you have to ask

yourself serious life questions. You got to get down and dirty with it. F’real. Who are you,

really? What do you believe? This is your ontological question. What is your interpretation of

reality?5 It’s not a simple question, since we have been conditioned since birth to think, believe,

and breathe a certain way. So who am I?6

4 Weird word, right?

5 Kinda feels like someone keeps poking you in the chest with each of these questions, huh?

6 Jared is a dreamer. As a toddler, he flirted with waitresses to get free dessert. When he was six, he scaled the garage roof of his parents’ house to chill on roof shingles and gaze at the stars. The only question he received was, “Are you okay?” At nine, he corrected an aquarium tour guide who thought a known mollusk was a crustacean. In fifth grade, he invented a D&D-style Lego game (complete with a battle system and world lore) to play with the gang of friends who lived in his cul-de-sac. Jared began writing his first novel (ending in scribbles) at the age of twelve. In Ninth grade, he looked like a fifth-grader (5’1.” 105), yet was told he was mentally mature for

After you ask yourself who you are, you must wonder about truth: the epistemic question.

As researchers, we look for a gap in the research, and we want to fill that void with truth.

Truth be told, this is a difficult process, especially since truth depends on your own

ontological question, and morality. All the old, Greek dudes7 wanted to find out the truth. Not

only were they asking themselves what their interpretations of reality were, but they also wanted

to know how they could make a difference. They wondered (probably): “What truth can I find in

such a reality?

Finally, you’ve got to ask yourself: how am I going to conduct my research? This is your

methodology. Ask yourself: what is the best way to think of your topic, and what is the best way

to collect data for it? In a sense, it is taking your first two questions about reality and truth (and

you), and figuring out what will be the best way to find what you are looking for, and how to

display it. However, as a researcher, you won’t always find what you are looking for.8

his age. Eighteen year-old Jared was not mature for his age. Throughout college, Jared concerned himself with partying and meeting young women. He was not very good at either. As a result of favoring such pursuits, Jared lacked academic ambition. Jared thought grades were meaningless. He skipped class and did as little as he could in order to receive passing grades. Throughout the four years of college, Jared made many friends, some of which will last a lifetime. Jared purposely tried to care about something (as close to nothing, as he could), and somehow convinced himself that hardly caring was the only way to live freely. Until one day when Jared met his mentor—a teacher, named Sean Prentiss. Sean taught Jared that persistence is what creates one’s ideas. Twenty-year old Jared would like to think that everything changed in that moment—that Sean’s catalytic teaching spawned the inventor he was born to be. True, there was a spark, and Jared decided to declare his major in creative writing, but he couldn’t fool himself into thinking he was something other than what he was—a fool. It would take much more than a mentor and an idea to shake such a lifetime of foolish development. It took heartbreak, a trip to Alaska, and synchronistic swimming orca whales for Jared to finally grow up. And those are each stories for another time.7

Aristotle, Socrates, Plato. Ya know, those bros.8 Before coming to grad school, I didn’t know any of these things about research. For me, research has been digging in an unlit gold mine, constantly hoping not to emerge with Pyrite.

Day 2:

I came to graduate school with stars in my eyes. I thought: I’m going to have to work

harder for this than anything I’ve ever done. Then I’ll find out what I want to do with my life.

Instead, the exact opposite happened: I discovered what I don’t want to do. I don’t want to

become a professor of writing. Not because I don’t have what it takes, or because I don’t love

teaching, or all the work that tags along— but because I don’t love it as much the people around

me do.9 One thing I’ve learned from professors and fellow graduate students is how passionate

they all are about what they do. While I share a passion for standing in front of a class of twenty-

five students, and creating open discussions about topics that I love, I have not been captivated

by the scholarship of my field.

I love the idea of how invention occurs, and the idea of studying the creative process, but

what I’ve realized is that If I dedicate my life to the study of how the creative process occurs,

then I will ultimately limit my own time with my creative work.10 My dream of being a professor

and writer on the side seems more impossible than realistic. If I were to continue on my journey

through higher education and commit to a PHD program, it would most likely be the day I’d kiss

my creative writing ventures goodbye. Instead, I’d have to conduct research on how writing

works, how it happens, and why it’s important. While I enjoy thinking of these things, I know

that I enjoy my own creative process more when it’s put to task on a story. This is not to say that

writing a thesis, lesson plans, or research articles are not creative processes—rather, they are

ones that I don’t find with the same enthusiasm as writing screenplays, or my novel.

9 Seeing graduate assistants like Chris, Natasha, Brianne, Thomas, and Kelsey, whose work ethics for their research seem to be boundless, I know why my metaphorical gold mine is unlit.

10 Since my trip to Alaska, and the synchronistic swimming whales, I have been writing a book (Pod). The summer of 2012 was the summer I became a writer.

Day 3:

Finding a problem in a piece of writing is the first step to solving it. This is one of the

most important things I learned in graduate school. The process of writing is inherently

concerned with way-finding. By nature, writing is recursive, and the problem that you must solve

with your writing is never algorithmic, but heuristic.11

Before attending graduate school, I was already in love with writing, and invention, but I

had no idea why I related to it so much. For me, writing is about finding your own path (what

I’ve always wanted to do).

While in graduate school, I had to solve many complex problems. The following three

artifacts are representative of my time at Eastern Michigan University. Not because they are my

best works, but because they accurately represent a complex problem I had to solve.

1. Memo: Introducing Jared Bentley: In Dr. Benninghoff’s Writing 424 Advanced Technical

Writing course that I took for graduate credit, I first encountered this idea of how problematic

writing can be. When writers ask themselves about a problem, their first idea is probably not

going to be the right one. For this assignment, I wrote six full drafts.12 However, none of

them were a waste of time. Instead of seeing revision as minor alterations to an essay, I saw it

as Dr. Benninghoff explained it: “Re-vision.” I was able to throw away my old drafts and

start anew, and with each draft, I re-evaluated the problem. At first, I thought the problem

was, “How do I accurately portray myself?” but as I wrote, and re-wrote, I discovered that

11 In mathematics, you must solve problems that only have one answer. While you must find your way to that answer, if it’s wrong, it’s wrong. With writing, there are multiple answers to a problem, making it a complex system. In order to find the answer to the problem, you must invent the answer.12 This is by far the largest amount of unique drafts I have written for an assignment in my academic career.

the problem was much more complicated than that. Instead of accurately portraying

ourselves, each of us had to introduce ourselves to a community, and as a part of that

community, we had to find common ground. This assignment was my second time

encountering the idea of discourse communities and why they shape the language used by

their members. Obviously, a conversation you have with your friends in a bar is going to be

different than a conversation you have in church. It was with this assignment and this class

where I began to fall down the rhetorical rabbit hole.

2. Poetic Inevitability poster: In Writing 540 (Visual Rhetoric) I took with Dr. Mueller in the

Winter of 2015, we had to create our own designs for a project we were working on. The

project could be adding to a professional website we were building, a graphic resume, or any

professional development venture. This semester, I was also a first-year writing graduate

assistant, where I had several important tasks in assistance to the FYWP. One of which was

creating a poster for an upcoming visitor, Geoffrey Sirc,13 who was scheduled to give a

workshop and lecture. The problem with this assignment was much more complicated to me,

since I had little to no experience with designing in a visual medium. The only information I

had when creating this poster was the name of the talk: Poetic Inevitability, and its abstract. I

decided to skim a few of his articles, and get some background information on Sirc. I

discovered that he was quite eccentric, and had a lot of unpopular teaching beliefs. However,

many teachers in the field highly respect his work. From the abstract, one word really stuck

out to me: “Hallucinogenic,” which he used to describe the act of composing. From this

word, I had the basic idea for my poster. Using only black and white, I traced spilled ink

13 Once labeled as the most dangerous man in composition, and the writer of a well-known academic articles and books including Box Logic.

bottles with ink dripping down the page to form a Rorschach in the center. I also chose to

make the font decrease from its original size to create an illusion with the text. Obviously, the

poster could have been designed a number of ways in order to accurately portray the

substance of Sirc’s talk. However, I am very happy with my final product and the process in

which I discovered the answer to this problem.

3. 503 Proposal: In Writing 503 with Dr. Arrington, I learned a few things about the history of

rhetoric. I learned more about where it began and how it evolved into what it is today.14 For

this class, I had to write a proposal for my Master’s project. This artifact is the first draft of

this project’s proposal. Although they are completely different in style, tone, and source

material, this project proposal was my first exposure to finding gaps in research in order to

create a draw toward further inquiry. The problem with this draft (and partly this class), it

seems, is the proposal format, which was more akin to how it was done a long time ago.15

Regardless, this artifact represents my first attempts at drawing up a project proposal.

Without this as an outline, or a throwaway first draft, I would have had a more difficult time

finding the problem with my actual proposal when I wrote it the following semester.

Overall, during graduate school I had ninety-nine problems,16 but I am glad I encountered

each of them, because not only did they help me to see the multiple paths writing creates, but

they helped me to understand that a good writer never ever takes the same path. Instead, a good

writer takes risks, and ventures down a non-linear road in order to invent their own answers.

Day 4:

14 Rhetoric is no longer just for liars!15 Most likely in a galaxy far, far away.16 Like this is a reference…

It’s interesting that I haven’t yet discussed the problem with this reflection. While there is

no assignment sheet to follow the guidelines, I assure you, there is a problem. This problem has

to do with the genre of a reflection. Genres are concerned with boxes. We see horror tropes, and

we throw that movie in a horror box. The genre of a reflection is quite loosely defined.17 I like to

think that this reflection is perched on the top corner of the reflection box.

I got my first taste of Rhetorical Genre Studies (RGS) in Writing 517 with Dr. Pantelides

(my hardest graduate class). Although I was lost most of the semester, the information from this

class proved paramount to understanding how genres function, and how to teach such a

complicated subject. In fact, my genre unit that I taught in writing 120 (fall 2015) was my

favorite unit of teaching for both semesters.

So genres are concerned with rhetorically evaluating what something is. It’s also

interesting to point out that genres could be anything from menus to hurricanes.18

Genres are also concerned with a spectrum of obvious and new. Inside any genre, one can

analyze where a piece of writing sits on this genre spectrum. If a text (or technology) is

obviously something, then it is immediately put into that generic box. However, if your text (or

technology) challenges the tropes or defining features of a genre, then it might be something

new, possibly redefining the genre. When cellular phones were invented, we knew they were

phones, but they were mobile, so they were something different. The question is, did this create a

new genre? Or did it complicate a previously existing genre? If a text (or technology) shows

super obvious signs of being in a specific genre box, then that’s where it’s gonna go. However,

17 Show and tell what you learned. But is there a proper format for such a genre? Must one put everything in a proper order? Must you tell stories? Must you put it in a reflection box?18 In Writing 517, we read Bitzer’s Rhetorical Situation, where he argues that natural disasters cannot be rhetorical. However, I argued that a tropical storm has wind speeds of less than 75 MPH. Wind speeds higher than 75 MPH make the storm a hurricane—the higher the wind speed, the higher degree of hurricane. So, you can put natural disasters in boxes, Bitzer!

oftentimes, there are texts that challenge the nature of a genre. Technologies constantly shift the

basis of genres, and in some cases create new ones.

For most composition-related tasks, the spectrum below has helped me define my writing

in whichever genre I enter. When taking up any genre, it is best to go somewhere in the middle

of this spectrum.

A perfect example of aiming for the middle of this spectrum is the genre of a cover letter or

personal statement. With this genre, one must conform to the basic, logical assumptions the

audience will make when encountering the text. They expect the writer to address the position

they seek, why they are qualified, and why they want it. However, the linchpin of this equation

lies in how the applicant is different.19 In genres like these, the audience wants the writer to

challenge the genre in order to make it their own.

Day 6:

So once again, what is the problem with this reflection?20 I have to talk about what I’ve

learned, and tell stories from my graduate experience. Ultimately, I have to come to a conclusion

of how I have changed, or how things are different now that I graduated. I chose to challenge the

idea of this genre. Regardless of how many days it takes people to write reflections, they don’t

typically write those days as headings. Typically, reflections are written in an orderly fashion,

and there’s a story with a beginning, middle, and end. But writing doesn’t work like that. Writing

19 Yeah, so you volunteer a lot. So does my grandmother. What makes you special? And why should we care a lick about what you’ve done? Tell me a story, and show me who you are, but juuuuust a little bit. Then I might be intrigued… 20 In this essay I have made for educational purposes-

Obvious New

is nonlinear, and when I found myself going back to the beginning of my reflection on day five, I

wanted to display this idea of how I wrote this reflection.

And I keep thinking back to my idea for the blue projecticolor. When I shut the door to

my classroom, I thought about how I got there. When I found EMU’s Written Communication

graduate program online, in the fall of 2014, I spoke to Dr. Krause (over the phone), who

discouraged my application. He said, “You can apply, but the field is very competitive, and after

you’re done, if you don’t have any teaching experience, then you probably will have a hard time

finding a job.”

I asked, “Well, what if I apply for the graduate assistantship to teach first-year writing?”

“Yeah, you could, but you won’t get it,” he said, “It’s highly competitive, and your

undergraduate GPA is too low.”

I looked down at my feet, regretting each year of my college experience. “Thanks for all

the information.” We said our goodbyes, and I hung up the phone. I chose to apply, knowing that

it was an uphill battle.

I learned more in my first two semesters at graduate school than I have in any year of my

life. After that, I applied for a graduate assistantship, and received a half-time scholarship. It was

with this assistantship in the winter of 2015, where I began collecting my data for the first-year

writing program’s Assessment Initiative, which eventually became my Master’s Project. I could

hardly contain my excitement at the beginning of the semester.21

The applications for graduate assistantships were due at the end of January last year.

When I applied, I was certain I was going to get a position. So certain, in fact, that I went into the

21 But it was the same for my ego. After receiving the part-time assistantship, I felt like I had proved Dr. Krause wrong. Nothing was going to get in my way, and I was going to get the teaching assistantship in the fall without a problem. Or so I thought.

interview without even thinking about preparation. I didn’t consider what questions they would

ask, or what I was going to say. It was the worst interview of my life.22

As I walked out, I knew I didn’t do well. I did not receive an offer. I was bitter about it,

but I knew it was my own fault. A few weeks later, I received an email regarding a half-time

assistantship offer, where I’d be teaching, but I would not be working in the writing center.23 I

took it and left my bitterness behind.

The time I spent teaching was my most memorable part of graduate school. I believe the

strongest aspect of my teaching was creating a community. I believe I accomplished this by

having students pass out each other’s name tags and fast-writes. This way students were able to

get to know one another with ease. My own classroom is where I thrived. I was able to create

conversations in topics I cared about. Although I had a 20% fail rate my first semester,24 my class

was mostly agreeable and fun, and teaching felt quite natural to me.

My second semester teaching was more difficult. I modeled my Writing 121 class around

the theme of “success,” based on writing self-help books, and intrinsic motivation articles.25 My

idea was to have students trouble their thoughts on what success means to them. Some students

thought success is money and fame, some thought it’s reaching a goal, others believed it’s

happiness, and some thought it’s about leaving a legacy behind. I’m sure at least some of them

viewed me as successful, but I’m not—at least, not by my definition, which my students never

asked me.26

22 Sweat drenched my armpits as I sat in the conference room for twenty minutes answering question after question like a fool. I am too embarrassed to even write my responses. 23 Good enough for me.24 Plagiarism is a bitch. 25 After my stint in Alaska, I became obsessed with improving my writing and my human-ness. I was hoping my students would share this passion, but many did not. 26 Having my voice heard by a broad audience—I want more than just 25 people listening.

It’s significantly ironic that I chose success as the topic for my class.27 Although I crossed

off a major milestone of teaching writing off of my list, I am still searching for the life that I

want to live. I’m not sure if I’ll ever find it, but regardless, my time at EMU will become the

foundation of whatever I end up achieving. The relationships I made here, the strides my writing

has taken, and the people I have affected will forever be in my memory.

Although working in higher education is not in my future, I don’t regret applying to

graduate school after Dr. Krause Dissuaded me. I don’t regret slacking off in undergrad. I don’t

even regret my bad interview for the assistantship position. All of these events and coincidences

have lead me to where I am now, in the basement of Halle Library, writing the final words of this

reflection. Here, I am hopeful for the future, whatever it may hold.28 Here, without the blue

projecticolor.

27 Since I don’t meet my definition.28 Whether I become a teacher, an author, or a screenwriter, I know I’ll be happy with my life, and maybe that’s close enough to my definition of success.