I or We?
Over the past few months, I’ve noticed a trend in the way people speak. It’s a trend that, albeit harmless to some extent, is rather aggravating to me on many levels. Also, I’m well aware of the fact that I of all people should not be such a stickler for the way people speak. Lord knows my speech is riddled with all types of ungrammatical phrases, guffaws, “you knows,” and various other onerous tics that seem to proliferate our speaking patterns and serve as a means to betray our true capabilities when it comes to properly formed, grammatically correct speech. This trend, though, is different in nature, in that it is not, technically, ungrammatical in nature, but it serves a purpose, however subtle, to empower the speaker in ways not traditionally served by the spoken language. Simply put, what I’ve encountered, on a seemingly daily basis, is conversation littered with phrases that exclude the other person from situations that were attended by both parties or, in some instances, serve to ignore an obvious fact that is blatantly known by all. Pronoun usage, or lack thereof, is what I’m writing about.
How can someone speak in such a manner that obviously excludes the other person from the situation? It’s simple, actually. All these speakers do is refer to themselves: I, me, my, mine. It’s subtle in nature, but it obviously exists. How can someone be excluded from a situation they were a part of or will be a part of in the future? Strangely enough, it happens. Speakers, or at least the ones I’ve noticed, repeatedly refer to situations where “I, me, my or mine” becomes the pronoun of choice rather than the more appropriate “we or our.” Why does this happen and do the speakers realize they’re doing this constantly?
For example, I live in an apartment with a roommate, and I’ve lived here for ten plus months. Whenever speaking in public, though, it’s not “our” apartment, which it should be, but “my” apartment. Do I not exist? Don’t I live here? Don’t I pay half the rent, utilities, etc.? I do, so shouldn’t it be “our” apartment? Apparently not. Perhaps I’m not involved in situations where I could suffer the same consequences, hear the same things, obtain the same information, or what have you. It’s constantly referred to in the singular form, never plural. It’s a strange phenomenon because I don’t think it’s incredibly hard to utter these words. Others or can’t or won’t adjust their speech patterns for unknown reasons. I’m at a loss, but I do know that it’s “their” problem and not “mine.” A case where I’ll gladly allow them to have all the credit.
Tuesday, November 11, 2003
An Arrow Finds Its Mark
You Are Not He
Eagerly awaiting the response to a column is surely one of the main perks for writers who specialize in editorials and other forms of outwardly, blatant criticism. In this case, I've been waiting for the response to my last column that lambasted the blog form itself and, more specifically, my partner on my other venue See You Next Week. In that column, I strongly condemned this very type of forum because it panders to an audience that's rarely interested in a form of discourse that rises above that of the most flaccid and "narcissisistic" in nature. In fact, it seems to thrive on the notion that everyday, common occurrences are so mindblowingly interesting to readers that it's oftentimes necessary to chronicle these events on a repetitive, daily basis. Putting that aside, for now, let's address the response posted by Benedict on his site Heir to the Hornbook entitled "A Critical Primer for Critiquing the Critics".
At first glance, it seems as if Benedict is right on about most of my criticisms, but upon further review, it's abundantly clear that he's missing the point with regards to this type of forum and the more common forms of expression that seem to proliferate on them. One point, and this might help explain some of this, is that Benedict reads a lot of stuff that I'd never even consider opening up, pursuing, or even skimming over the first few pages of. There's a lot of stuff to read out there, and I'm of the opinion that it's important to concentrate on those forums that provide the best, most concise information in a way that not condescending in nature but, at the same time, not overly pretentious as well. Writing, in other words, is important enough for me to place a higher value upon that which I consume than most other aspects in my life. For instance, I don't read the local paper here in town, or even the campus news. Why? Because it's a waste of time. These papers are poorly written, hastily assembled mishmashes of detritus. Benedict, though, seems to find some sort of enjoyment out of pursuing, sometimes even reading entirely, the columns that appear in such low-brow forums as the campus news or the local event paper. It's just a waste of time.
Benedict's first claim: "He is also motivated by an eagerness get past a literary dry spell."
True, I've written on many occasions about my inability to fill this forum with words. I've had a rough time coming up with columns that are both interesting to me to write and that I think will be interesting for anyone who might stumble upon this site to read, but within the problem lies a pointed observation about me as a writer. I won't force myself to write. I just won't. It's not a helpful or even remotely therapeutic venture to write about, well, stuff. Journaling, a pointless exercise in my view, is fine for people who want to generate ideas for a novel, or something much grander than a blog, but I refuse to use this or any other venue as a way to just write for the sake of writing. It's stilted, boring, and without any real redeeming value. Benedict, on the other hand, likes to write, journal, free-write, etc. Because of this perceived need to post on a semi-regular basis, it seems to lead Benedict to write about subjects, while interesting in his own mind, are rather tame in nature. I feel, personally, that his writing is forced, at times, and he would be better off by not writing on such a regular basis. His writing is consistently good, but it's the content that suffers. Don't force the writing. It only makes it that more intolerable.
He goes on to mention that I "upbraid" him for his "callousness and narcissism." This is hardly the case. I don't feel that he writes because he's proclaiming, "Look, I'm really interesting. Read my blog and see how interesting my life is." No, far from it. I feel, though, that the style of writing is, essentially, forcing upon the reader a desired effect. The effect is something really good, published writers strive for and do naturally. It can't be done in a blog on a daily basis. Why? Because not everyone is a good writer. Writing is just like comedy. There's this perceived notion that anyone can tell a story that's interesting and it's the same notion that deludes people into feeling that they can tell a joke. Everyone can't be a comedian, just like everyone can't be a writer. There are only a few people that can write like a David Sedaris, and there are even fewer people who can tell a joke like a Jerry Seinfeld.
"When we suffer ourselves to endlessly critique the critics, we resemble those portraits of mirrors reflecting infinite mirrors. As a result, we endlessly reflect an increasingly weak simulacrum of the original content, without creating any content of our own. "
Now, this is the paragraph with the most venom, the biggest sting. Taking a loss at creating original content is a welcome trade-off when it comes to critiquing a form that, although in its infant stages, seems to have lost all hope of gaining some sort of vague rules by which it operate by. Much like free-verse poetry, which precludes any sort of structure for the sake of chaos, the blog forum is now governed by no supreme ruler. There are no rules here. People write in a manner that flaunts all convention, and, for the most part, limit their content to the banal in nature. There are really only two extremes in which blog writing falls into: the outrageous and the banal. Now, this goes back to my previous point about forcing the writing. Blog writers, in some vague attempt at originality, seem to thrive on these posts. In other words, the blogs grow, force their content and page length to grow, and fail, at an alarming rate, to add anything of real substance. The "dear diary" format that blogs have adopted signals a change in the way in which private matters are now seen as having the importance of a national headline. Diaries were a form of closed, private expression, and it seems that the blog format has given creative, or lack thereof, license for the masses to post writings that were once kept under lock and key for all to see. Why? It's a question of self-evaluation, and it seems to me that it indicates a disturbing trend in that people who wouldn’t previously have shared any of their private moments with anyone other than the occasional imaginary friend, are now equipped with the semi-delusional notion that their inner-most thoughts and opinions are of real worth to others. What makes it worse is the notion that these writers actually operate under the guise that they're good at it, when it fact they aren't.
The final point: Mob struggles with the question of why we write, constantly asking “What’s the point of all this?”
My pithy answer: “When the only resources you put into it are your time, enjoyment, and few stray electrons, there doesn’t have to be one.”
I don't question the reason why or what's the point of all this. I think I know why people write these self-centered diatribes. Benedict's notion that the amount of effort is minimum with regards to the final output, which I won't disagree with, and, again, that's not the issue. It's not a matter of expending energy. It's a matter of self stylized importance. Attaching grandiose value to near valueless observations or meandering ruminations is a clear indication that this type of format is encouraging people to emulate others in a poor, oftentimes, unreadable style. The amount of effort isn't in question. The inconsistent blather that results from it is.
Finally, I wasn't aware that I didn't possess "minutiae" in my vocabulary. Having been informed by a footnote that the term was "given" to me by Benedict is quite interesting. What this little snide remark says about Benedict, I'll leave for you to surmise, but I promise you that I wasn't "given" a term, which is rather common in nature. As for Benedict's defintion of "hornbook," perhaps you might want to look at a dictionary. Your definition, Benedict, seems awful similar to that of a diary, but a glance at the dictionary states something quite different. Perhaps the usage has changed. Perhaps, but I doubt it.
You Are Not He
Eagerly awaiting the response to a column is surely one of the main perks for writers who specialize in editorials and other forms of outwardly, blatant criticism. In this case, I've been waiting for the response to my last column that lambasted the blog form itself and, more specifically, my partner on my other venue See You Next Week. In that column, I strongly condemned this very type of forum because it panders to an audience that's rarely interested in a form of discourse that rises above that of the most flaccid and "narcissisistic" in nature. In fact, it seems to thrive on the notion that everyday, common occurrences are so mindblowingly interesting to readers that it's oftentimes necessary to chronicle these events on a repetitive, daily basis. Putting that aside, for now, let's address the response posted by Benedict on his site Heir to the Hornbook entitled "A Critical Primer for Critiquing the Critics".
At first glance, it seems as if Benedict is right on about most of my criticisms, but upon further review, it's abundantly clear that he's missing the point with regards to this type of forum and the more common forms of expression that seem to proliferate on them. One point, and this might help explain some of this, is that Benedict reads a lot of stuff that I'd never even consider opening up, pursuing, or even skimming over the first few pages of. There's a lot of stuff to read out there, and I'm of the opinion that it's important to concentrate on those forums that provide the best, most concise information in a way that not condescending in nature but, at the same time, not overly pretentious as well. Writing, in other words, is important enough for me to place a higher value upon that which I consume than most other aspects in my life. For instance, I don't read the local paper here in town, or even the campus news. Why? Because it's a waste of time. These papers are poorly written, hastily assembled mishmashes of detritus. Benedict, though, seems to find some sort of enjoyment out of pursuing, sometimes even reading entirely, the columns that appear in such low-brow forums as the campus news or the local event paper. It's just a waste of time.
Benedict's first claim: "He is also motivated by an eagerness get past a literary dry spell."
True, I've written on many occasions about my inability to fill this forum with words. I've had a rough time coming up with columns that are both interesting to me to write and that I think will be interesting for anyone who might stumble upon this site to read, but within the problem lies a pointed observation about me as a writer. I won't force myself to write. I just won't. It's not a helpful or even remotely therapeutic venture to write about, well, stuff. Journaling, a pointless exercise in my view, is fine for people who want to generate ideas for a novel, or something much grander than a blog, but I refuse to use this or any other venue as a way to just write for the sake of writing. It's stilted, boring, and without any real redeeming value. Benedict, on the other hand, likes to write, journal, free-write, etc. Because of this perceived need to post on a semi-regular basis, it seems to lead Benedict to write about subjects, while interesting in his own mind, are rather tame in nature. I feel, personally, that his writing is forced, at times, and he would be better off by not writing on such a regular basis. His writing is consistently good, but it's the content that suffers. Don't force the writing. It only makes it that more intolerable.
He goes on to mention that I "upbraid" him for his "callousness and narcissism." This is hardly the case. I don't feel that he writes because he's proclaiming, "Look, I'm really interesting. Read my blog and see how interesting my life is." No, far from it. I feel, though, that the style of writing is, essentially, forcing upon the reader a desired effect. The effect is something really good, published writers strive for and do naturally. It can't be done in a blog on a daily basis. Why? Because not everyone is a good writer. Writing is just like comedy. There's this perceived notion that anyone can tell a story that's interesting and it's the same notion that deludes people into feeling that they can tell a joke. Everyone can't be a comedian, just like everyone can't be a writer. There are only a few people that can write like a David Sedaris, and there are even fewer people who can tell a joke like a Jerry Seinfeld.
"When we suffer ourselves to endlessly critique the critics, we resemble those portraits of mirrors reflecting infinite mirrors. As a result, we endlessly reflect an increasingly weak simulacrum of the original content, without creating any content of our own. "
Now, this is the paragraph with the most venom, the biggest sting. Taking a loss at creating original content is a welcome trade-off when it comes to critiquing a form that, although in its infant stages, seems to have lost all hope of gaining some sort of vague rules by which it operate by. Much like free-verse poetry, which precludes any sort of structure for the sake of chaos, the blog forum is now governed by no supreme ruler. There are no rules here. People write in a manner that flaunts all convention, and, for the most part, limit their content to the banal in nature. There are really only two extremes in which blog writing falls into: the outrageous and the banal. Now, this goes back to my previous point about forcing the writing. Blog writers, in some vague attempt at originality, seem to thrive on these posts. In other words, the blogs grow, force their content and page length to grow, and fail, at an alarming rate, to add anything of real substance. The "dear diary" format that blogs have adopted signals a change in the way in which private matters are now seen as having the importance of a national headline. Diaries were a form of closed, private expression, and it seems that the blog format has given creative, or lack thereof, license for the masses to post writings that were once kept under lock and key for all to see. Why? It's a question of self-evaluation, and it seems to me that it indicates a disturbing trend in that people who wouldn’t previously have shared any of their private moments with anyone other than the occasional imaginary friend, are now equipped with the semi-delusional notion that their inner-most thoughts and opinions are of real worth to others. What makes it worse is the notion that these writers actually operate under the guise that they're good at it, when it fact they aren't.
The final point: Mob struggles with the question of why we write, constantly asking “What’s the point of all this?”
My pithy answer: “When the only resources you put into it are your time, enjoyment, and few stray electrons, there doesn’t have to be one.”
I don't question the reason why or what's the point of all this. I think I know why people write these self-centered diatribes. Benedict's notion that the amount of effort is minimum with regards to the final output, which I won't disagree with, and, again, that's not the issue. It's not a matter of expending energy. It's a matter of self stylized importance. Attaching grandiose value to near valueless observations or meandering ruminations is a clear indication that this type of format is encouraging people to emulate others in a poor, oftentimes, unreadable style. The amount of effort isn't in question. The inconsistent blather that results from it is.
Finally, I wasn't aware that I didn't possess "minutiae" in my vocabulary. Having been informed by a footnote that the term was "given" to me by Benedict is quite interesting. What this little snide remark says about Benedict, I'll leave for you to surmise, but I promise you that I wasn't "given" a term, which is rather common in nature. As for Benedict's defintion of "hornbook," perhaps you might want to look at a dictionary. Your definition, Benedict, seems awful similar to that of a diary, but a glance at the dictionary states something quite different. Perhaps the usage has changed. Perhaps, but I doubt it.
Saturday, November 08, 2003
Blood on the Bus: A Prelude to a War of Words
I could be wrong in my instincts, but I highly doubt it in this instance. Benedict Monk, in a rather thoughtless and inane attempt at humorous writing, posted the following on his blog, Heir to the Hornbook(a namesake whose qualities I'll leave for another time and place), as a part of an entry entitled "To be this tired, I'd have to be blitzed," the following passage: Needless to say, I know my audience. You want me to talk about the blood that pooled at the front of the bus a few days ago? I won't. I don't pander to your violent tendencies, except to say that it's one of the few times passengers efficiently loaded via the back door.
The incident in question refers to a late night encounter with the vaunted 54C in which those desiring to board were greeted not with an open door and the prospect of entering the warm confines but with a rather disturbing scene, blood on the bus floor.
Now, anyone not totally desensitized to all the grim realities of life here in the big city, might think this is odd, disturbing, curious, gross, etc. Benedict, however, feels differently. Blood stains on a bus floor are, apparently from the passage above, beneath his talent for comment and word play. Pandering to the tendencies of the masses is beneath Benedict. What seems to be the more interesting topic in which the passage appears? Sleeping on the floor and trying to finish a paper for class. How pointless. It is truly a sad state of affairs and a real comment on the state of writing today when a truly bizarre event such as pools of blood on the floor of a bus fails to generate interest in the writer's perspective and takes second place to such mundane, trivial, boring events such as finishing a paper for class and succumbing to exhaustion.
Benedict's skills as a writer are not in question here. In fact, I like his writing a lot, and I think his writing flows in a natural manner that conveys to the reader the facts necessary and in a tone that's poetic in nature and rhythmic in it's patterns. In other words, he's a good writer. However, and as anyone who deigns it necessary to follow these pages, I have a problem with frivolity. I find most of the subjects that Benedict writes about to be less than interesting in prose form. Mundane, daily events are not interesting. They just aren't, but a plethora of people, Benedict included, find some sort of inspiration from these quasi-freakish occurrences that happen each and every day to most of the public at large. The thing is, though, no one, not even the most talented writer in the world, can make these events seem more than the sum of their parts.
My theory about this is that I believe that there are incidents that are more suited to being spoken aloud in the course of a natural conversation and aren't worthy of mentioning in a prose piece. Reading takes time, and I can't think of a larger waste of time than when I'm reading something and realize at some point, most often too late to stop, that the effort it takes to read this print isn't compensated by the rewards garnered after finishing the piece. I don't glean much from reading about the daily minutiae of life. Life's too short waste precious moments wading through writing that's borderline pretentious and without any redeeming value. I just don't care.
I could be wrong in my instincts, but I highly doubt it in this instance. Benedict Monk, in a rather thoughtless and inane attempt at humorous writing, posted the following on his blog, Heir to the Hornbook(a namesake whose qualities I'll leave for another time and place), as a part of an entry entitled "To be this tired, I'd have to be blitzed," the following passage: Needless to say, I know my audience. You want me to talk about the blood that pooled at the front of the bus a few days ago? I won't. I don't pander to your violent tendencies, except to say that it's one of the few times passengers efficiently loaded via the back door.
The incident in question refers to a late night encounter with the vaunted 54C in which those desiring to board were greeted not with an open door and the prospect of entering the warm confines but with a rather disturbing scene, blood on the bus floor.
Now, anyone not totally desensitized to all the grim realities of life here in the big city, might think this is odd, disturbing, curious, gross, etc. Benedict, however, feels differently. Blood stains on a bus floor are, apparently from the passage above, beneath his talent for comment and word play. Pandering to the tendencies of the masses is beneath Benedict. What seems to be the more interesting topic in which the passage appears? Sleeping on the floor and trying to finish a paper for class. How pointless. It is truly a sad state of affairs and a real comment on the state of writing today when a truly bizarre event such as pools of blood on the floor of a bus fails to generate interest in the writer's perspective and takes second place to such mundane, trivial, boring events such as finishing a paper for class and succumbing to exhaustion.
Benedict's skills as a writer are not in question here. In fact, I like his writing a lot, and I think his writing flows in a natural manner that conveys to the reader the facts necessary and in a tone that's poetic in nature and rhythmic in it's patterns. In other words, he's a good writer. However, and as anyone who deigns it necessary to follow these pages, I have a problem with frivolity. I find most of the subjects that Benedict writes about to be less than interesting in prose form. Mundane, daily events are not interesting. They just aren't, but a plethora of people, Benedict included, find some sort of inspiration from these quasi-freakish occurrences that happen each and every day to most of the public at large. The thing is, though, no one, not even the most talented writer in the world, can make these events seem more than the sum of their parts.
My theory about this is that I believe that there are incidents that are more suited to being spoken aloud in the course of a natural conversation and aren't worthy of mentioning in a prose piece. Reading takes time, and I can't think of a larger waste of time than when I'm reading something and realize at some point, most often too late to stop, that the effort it takes to read this print isn't compensated by the rewards garnered after finishing the piece. I don't glean much from reading about the daily minutiae of life. Life's too short waste precious moments wading through writing that's borderline pretentious and without any redeeming value. I just don't care.
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