Preferring to Fly

There is a lot to say. Dillard continues to stun me with her intricate and moving descriptions, seeing life where others passed by. Hancock’s advice, as per usual, is spot-on and ever practical. How do they fit together? I wonder. Synthesis in my blog posts not only seems appropriate, but also helpful. Seeking the resemblance between two seemingly unrelated pieces is an excellent task for the mind, finding pathways and trap doors that lead from one to another, previously unbeknownst to me. If Dillard’s book is the castle, Hancock’s writing is the many tunnels and hidden entrances that allow us to understand the schema beyond the appearance.

In that, I have learned something very useful. Dillard’s prose is empowered not only by her colloquial tone, occasional rabbit trails which reconnect with the main theme, and her acute sense of observation, but by her knowledge. Many authors could write beautifully on a small duck pond in the woods, noting the frogs leaping from algae, but Dillard does it as one informed. She knows to describe a scene that places one right there, and to include the names and behaviors of the many microscopic creatures. Protozoans, rhizopods, flagellates, byrozoans...we come to know these teeny beings through her research. She is informed—not only in senses, but also in mind. Dillard asks the question, “Why is it beautiful?” (pg. 107) We need knowledge to write the beautiful.

Which pushes my thoughts towards the final project of this class: the feature article. I am nervous, which is stressful. Not that I doubt my writing ability, but this time of semester my motivation and inspiration seem to run dry, not gushing rich and life-giving like Tinker Creek. With one assignment left, the most inopportune time to adopt apathy is now. So where do I seek inspiration and ideas, when I do not have woods to explore behind my house, or a blooming spring calling my name? Courage offers an answer.

Hancock writes, in her straightforward tone, “Take chances...Be slow to conclude your experiment was a failure” (pg. 98-99). Often times I re-read my blog posts while trying to draft a formal assignment, thinking, Damn! Where is that energy and spunk and wittiness now? I say courageousness is the answer, and not fearlessness, because formal assignments rarely lack danger. What if the professor does not appreciate it? What if it strays off subject, or fails to meet certain requirements? The structure of academics is based on performance, which implies evaluation, which rarely comes without apprehension. In the face of fear, courage is a necessary combatant. Whether my blog posts are boring as hell or beautiful enough to bring tears to Down’s eyes, a thorough reading + relevant blog post = met requirements. Low consequences for “failed experiments” allow me to write without fear, to take chances more willingly.

Dillard’s afterward surprised me. Twenty-five years later, she writes of her book, “I hope it seems bold” (pg. 281). Hancock says, “Naturally, we all prefer to fly. But flying, in my observation, is no more likely to produce excellent work than creeping” (pg. 109). That is how I approach this final assignment, and the remainder of the semester, for that matter: to creep boldly, moving courageously through thick terrain. To take chances without becoming wed to them; those crazy backward-spin-somersault-flying-leaps have a way of overcoming the roughest patches.

 

On Her Knowing

“…To discover where it is that we have been so startlingly set down, if we can’t learn why.”

On page fourteen, Dillard encapsulates her passion and mission quite perfectly.  In all our conversations thus far in class, all our tangential wanderings about that which “is” and why, what it means to know, and how we decide truth, we consistently confront a concrete reality: we just do not know.  Shall we?  Can we?  In Dillard’s mind, absolute knowledge of human purpose is beyond our reach—that is God’s ground.  The closest we may come to peeking through the crack, then, is by coming to know our place.

   I cannot write all I want about her, the woman who knows the natural world in such an intimate and concentrated way, in a single post.  I want to talk about her style, her curiosity, her fervor, the unrelenting and harmonic way in which she interweaves her thoughts on life and death, purpose and meaning, into insightful descriptions of nature, and so much more.  I want to write it all, and keep writing, because her words have an elusive freedom to them that moves and inspires me.  Instead, I will let “the muddy river flow unheeded in the dim channels of consciousness” (pg. 35) that are my thoughts, and stop, hopefully, before I have worn out my reader.

Perhaps the most beautiful aspect of Dillard’s prose, which is arguably poetry, is her child-like curiosity juxtaposed with deep empathy and thoughtfulness of an old soul.  She is dually an explorative child, noticing things long passed over by eyes trained otherwise, and a reflective intellectual unafraid to contemplate without end.  Initially, I appreciated how she allows writing to lead to places which frighten and sadden her—her nightmares, the lost foreign lover, the monstrified moth.  It is as if she releases control of the destination of her composition and thoughts, following them down dark passages, through tunnels of light, over bridges and through the roots of cedars.  Not a genre suited for every occasion, but a bravery, both in thought and word, than can surely be applied elsewhere.

Another fascinating element of her chapters is the manner in which she does not shun the spiritual.  She makes no concerted effort to explain or define it, but instead allows its mention in her writings, even if unanswered.  Perhaps this is “the mystery of the continuous creation,” (pg. 5) of which she spoke.  An arrow shaft leaving a red trail. In the Phaedo dialogue Socrates said, of the scientists of his time, “Yet the power by which they’re now situated in the best way that they could be placed, they neither look for nor credit with supernatural strength.”  Socrates was killed by attempting to explain spirituality; Nietzsche, his counterpart, went mad doing the same.  Dillard may have recognized that she could never understand in full, only observe.  Both in the natural and spiritual, creeks and souls alike, she occupies her time with feeling it, rather than trying to know it.  Is one more important than the other, or more attainable?  It seems they are complimenting efforts; by doing one we inadvertently gain the other.  Dillard makes us constantly aware, if not informed.  “Make connections; let rip; and dance where you can,” she writes (pg. 97).

Lastly, she suggests her inherent darkness.  “The creek is my mediator,” she writes, “benevolent, impartial, subsuming my shabbiest evils and dissolving them…” (pg. 102).  That breathtaking writing flows from the mind of one aware of her shadows, is almost more beautiful as the writing itself.  “I never merited this grace” she says twice in the same paragraph, “I never merited this grace” (pg. 103).

Attempts at Accounting (my titles are so tacky)

            I propose a moment of silence in thanks to the powers that be (Atkins would credit chaotic energy) that insects have not “hit on a plan for driving air through their tissues instead of letting it soak in,” and “become as large as lobsters” (Haldane, 57).  Phew.  As if earwigs are not awful enough already.  Imagine a rabbit-sized earwig.  Oh, the shivers.  Additionally, I am consoled at learning the irrationality of beast-sized insects too often portrayed in science-fiction films.  Like, that’s not even realistic, guys.

            A favorite challenge of mine is to consider Downs’ thoughts behind the article assignments.  Probably, he opens our class books at random and decides the topic the way a spontaneous preacher feeling “led by the Spirit” would.  Nope, they are way too purposeful for that.  Then again, if we adhere to Atkins’ argument, that all “order” is truly randomized chaos, my hypothesis may not be too off mark.  In any case, I appreciated the simultaneous compatibility and confliction the three articles presented.

            All three explained natural phenomena using numbers.  I am tempted to leap into a discussion of the human need for reason and purpose, and the pervasiveness of this idea of “intelligent design.”  Atkins’ article seemed oddly ironic.  The content said, plainly: “what appears to us to be motive and purpose is in fact ultimately motiveless, purposeless decay” (Atkins, 13).  Yet the quality (dare I say purpose?) of his piece was, in fact, an explanation.  An explanation evoked by the truth that humans desire reason and purpose in life.  Why is it that humanity, compared to animals, has a need for a sense of purpose and order in life?  While Atkins may be able to argue that natural life is inherently chaotic and unorganized, he cannot go against the fact that his curiosity drove him to his research and writing.  One does not argue against something unless there is preexisting evidence or thought for it.  What precipitated or caused this desire?  Like I said before, I am tempted to explore these thoughts, but the length of a typical blog post falls short for the response needed to answer this question, if an answer can even be found.

Crichton and Socrates; never thought I'd put these two boys together.

            Instead, let’s discuss the quantitative nature of the pieces.  All three talk about vast ideas, nicely organized around the ideas of numbers.  Socrates argued that the human notion of numbers and quantities originated from the true number “forms:” perfect ideas or examples existing before humanity, and picked up by our souls as they traveled from the ethereal heavenly realms into our bodies.  While I cannot entirely agree with the great philosopher, I will not attempt to counteract his argument.  I have no idea why math is so inherent to the mind.  Michael Crichton, the great science-fiction writer, postulated in Sphere that were we to converse with intelligent life outside earth, math would likely be our common language, because it is found everywhere and is not dependent on ideologies or cultural mindsets.  It simply "is."  The forward to Atkins’ article contained a compelling quote: “When we have dealt with the values of the fundamental constants by seeing that they are unavoidably so, and have dismissed them as irrelevant, we shall have arrived at complete understanding” (Atkins, 12).  It seems careless to “dismiss” such vast concepts as “it’s just the way it is,” but it seems if research is to make any progress, it must do so.  Willful ignorance then, drives one of the greatest intellectual endeavors of mankind: science.  Puts an odd perspective on things.  My sister said this the other day: “Science describes reality, but it cannot define it.”  So perfectly put. 

            Well, this was going to be a style critique.  So much for that.

Here, have some condensed knowledge; it tastes just like the real thing!

            Adam has yet to blog.  Vince has not posted anything.  Neither has Sadie, nor Liam.  My go-to guys for inspiration and orientation.  I cannot believe you did this to me! Alright, so we are considering three texts.  If these authors were Tweeting their articles, the posts may look something like this:

Gross: “The substance and sustenance of science is rhetorical persuasion.”

Mishra: “The meaning of graphics is highly contextual, referential, and paradoxical.”

Lakoff and Johnson: “Metaphor in language is culturally and physically based, and structures action.”

            The synopses hardly do justice in representing that from each of these ideas stem countless branches of thought.  After reading the texts, I feel I have taken a ginormous bite of some rich food, and am now struggling to chew and swallow.  And thus, a truth about knowledge: it is deep, wide, variable, and contextual, and the manner by which we strive to understand is by forming bite-size pieces, by quantifying.  All three pieces posed excellent and thorough arguments, but it is apparent to me that humankind puts ideas into boxes by way of defining and analyzing.  There is an intrinsic need to know, which drives scientific endeavors.  It is not enough to write about a new genetic discovery.  After papers are published comes the second wave of wave of research, which is analyzing those texts to discover more.  Belong to this field are researchers such as Gross, Mishra, and Lakoff & Johnson.  Rather than exploring further the science presented within a given research paper, these writers analyze the conduit, the language.  

            Epistemology, our topic, seems to exist solely around the idea of rationalization.  It asks, to what extent can we explain this?  Is it plausible?  Can we logically quantify this information?  After reading the articles, my brain is in hyper-analyzation mode.  I am listening to conversations, and picking out the metaphorical assumptions in each illocutionary act.  I am reading journal articles with a lesser focus on the content, and more on the persuasive techniques.  I see the graphic in my Sociology textbook, and wonder how it specifically aids me in understanding the content. 

So, my thought is: can we know without understanding?  Is all the analyzing that these texts represent actual knowing, or is it the attempt of humankind to rationalize, to find ways to explain what we see happening?  Knowledge is infinite and interconnected, and we constantly strive to quantify and position it.  By using metaphorical speech, we connect our discourse to other previously defined meanings, assumptions, and understandings.  We speak in relation to the bites of knowledge we have previously chewed and swallowed, forever in an endless race to quantify reality.   

So, we use language to communicate, and then we analyze that language for its flaws, assumptions, and methods.  Is this truly the best way of knowing?  Are there any other ways?   In science, we try to consider neat little boxes of information: genes, atomic positivity and negativity, temperature, and so forth.  In actuality, the natural world is spontaneous, indefinable, and we have hardly scratched the surface.  Therefore, it seems that language, which strives to quantify, is an ill-suited tool for representing the non-numerical and abstract character of the natural world.      

Grrrrr.  This is one outcome of not having a stable orientation point in writing my post: I end up ranting and questioning this whole endeavor.  Sorry for the pessimism, guys.  I really do appreciate language, hence the English-writing major.  However, the question of language dictating cognition cannot go unattended.  If we are to be innovative, we must ask the hard questions, no?

  

           

Appealing to the Masses: the Fidelity/Publicity Struggle

Influenza strains, particle physics, under-funded scientific ventures, contagious ferrets, and stasis theory crowd my mind, and I need to write something along the lines of science accommodation.  Okay, I can do this.  But really, what about that H5N1 virus locked away in a vault?  Is that the sort of science that should not be widely publicized, for the sake of keeping potentially dangerous knowledge from the bioweapon-extremists?  But I diverge….

          Considering science accommodation, my initial thought is: does the science writer accommodate the science, or the public?  If accommodating is “fitting in with the wishes or needs of” (thanks, Merriam W), then it seems by Fahnestock’s analysis that the crossover from original science texts to articles for public consumption prioritizes the wishes of the community audience to comprehend, greater than it keeps fidelity to the original text.  Is this a bad approach?  I don’t think so.

Journalists know it’s poor practice to cite another journalist’s article.  Source material should be just that—from the original source.  Therefore, science writers’ reins are loosened and they are allowed more freedom for interpretation, on account of their work not being the pinnacle piece from which all others will stem.  Their purpose is to inform their audience, the general public, not to create a piece which the multitudes will cite.  In reading, we appreciate a balanced piece, compelling facts, and a semblance of closure.  The science writer has a difficult job then, to take a research paper which is highly-specialized, full of phrases such as , “our tests suggest” and “it is probable,” and without a clear-cut conclusion, and turn it into a well-balanced meal that the public can sit down and enjoy, all the while not greatly compromising truthfulness to the original text.  Now, onto stasis theory.  If we, as readers, look for these elements in a piece: “…to be convinced that a situation exists…what caused it…whether the situation is good or bad, and what should be done about it and by whom,” (Fahnestock, 290) then what is the journalist to do when the research does not lend itself to such clean argumentative rhetoric?  Poet’s license, it seems.  Perhaps the science writer sees the implicative questions, partial conclusions, and conjectures where the scientist’s caution and accountability to a higher audience (i.e., nature, rather than the public) prevented.  While I am not calling for gross misappropriations of research, I do believe that an element of accommodating the public is presenting a digestible article.   This includes, perhaps, the tangents of which the human mind is so fond.  Tangents and conjecture spur thought, which is the point of the article, no?  In the end, science writers create in a different genre than research writers, and are given license by that.

So, the challenge: how does one woo the public without cheating on the scientist?  Can faithfulness be maintained, as the science writer walks the fine line between providing intrigue for the masses without making enemies of scientists?  Saved by the bell; it’s the deadline to post.  We will talk more on this later, I’m sure.  

Rebellious Writing-- Creativity's Door

Oh man, I could write an entire dissertation on this.  Maybe.  In any case, the questions strike deep chords regarding opinion and feelings I have on the detriment of rules in creating good writing.  Here's toasting to 500 words (we'll see how this goes.)  Cheers!

I was taught few formal writing rules as a child.  My mother, a savvy woman with a knack for words, home-schooled my five siblings and me.  She was not a big proponent of one-size-fits-all curriculum; our writing education was practically and experientially based.  Thank-you letters were mandatory, and the opportunity was taken to teach the difference in voice, punctuation, spelling, etc.  My family wrote a yearly Christmas letter, and through that I learned the basis of outlines and narrative.  Occasionally I submitted pieces to our local newspaper, The Valley Journal, developing a sense of news writing as I strove to write mine similar to stories they ran.  As kids, the things we had yet to write were not pre-bound by any rigorous rules; it was only that which we had written that was critiqued, edited, and encouraged.  We also read—a lot.  I learned styles and voice from classic literature, and practiced it with my prolific journaling.  In high school my mother purchased me White and Strunk’s Elements of Style, the only rule book a writer needs, in my opinion.  I graduated high school a year early, and jumped into college at sweet seventeen.  

To me, rules were instrumental.  They represented the preservation of formality and etiquette, and to know them well was to present oneself well.  Structure and form did not dictate my writing process, but were friendly heuristics.  This unconscious mindset was cemented by my first “official” English teacher, freshman year of college.  Kamiah was her name, and she started each class period by having us free write.  She was incredibly encouraging of creativity, and stressed it first and foremost over rules.  The relationship between writing and following rules was once hardly existent in my mind, and is now intentional.  As I progressed through college, I found my obsessive and perfectionist habits damaging to my creativity.  Any strict adherence to a preset form nearly paralyzed me in writing.  I wrote on writer's block (link to my piece), and restricting curriculum, sometimes in unusual formats or nontraditional form.  It seems there are the rules we follow for coherence, (the progression of one thought to another, spelling words correctly, etc.), and the rules we follow because we are told (the three paragraph essay, always using third-person voice, etc.)  As writers, we walk a fine line--- rules are essential to understanding and coherence, but also can be debilitating to creativity.  Finding that sweet spot in the middle, knowing which structures aid and which hinder, is the quest of every writer.

On associations of rules and voice, the situation changes genre to genre.  I have found most English classes as supportive of creativity, but the business class I took last semester demanded succinctness and straightforwardness;"plain" writing, to me.  Less style, more “say it like it is.”  Ugh.  There are few feelings worse than being docked points for presenting something creatively.  Is there a point where creativity (by this I mean unorthodox methods, non-traditional form, etc.) detracts from effective communication?  I would dare to say no, when the creativity is done well.  What the word “well” means is another debate altogether.

And, I hit 515 words.  Adhering to the rule of word length has never been my forte.  To touch on the last questions, regarding personal opinion in writing, their respective scenes, and that which distinguishes them, no piece is devoid of personal opinion.  True objectivity is a myth.  Some genres, like news writing, ask for the author to create the appearance of non-bias interpretation, but the truth is that the author makes judgment calls each time she writes a sentence.  The distinguishing factor in these genres, the amount to which the writer is allowed to incorporate more personality, it seems, is measured against the extent to which the public wants to decide for themselves.  Society is allowed (and expected) to have an opinion on news; therefore we want it presented opinion-less, so we are free to formulate our own response without bias.  Perhaps we believe when pursuing knowledge, opinion must be absent so as to not infringe on our own thought development.  But knowledge is, and always will be, a collective which incorporates both opinion and fact.   

One last thing that has changed pre- and post- college. I learned the traditional “he” as a third-person pronoun.  With the current push for gender equality, that has been demonized as a formal rule.   It never bothered me.  I’m a female writer who kicks ass; masculine pronouns or not.  

Breathe easy; it's shorter than usual.

            Kamoya and Uncle Tungsten: two fantastically weird men.  One has an affinity for ancient bone fragments and the other lusts over metal.  In any other situation these infatuations are neurotic—a prescription for the crazy-house.  Yet, the genre of science allows for these peculiar people to exist, and even thrive, unstigmatized (I love the “add word” function of spellcheck).  The field of science allows the unusual to find their niche, to turn their quirky obsessions into a discipline of discovery.  At the end of both profiles, we find ourselves attracted to these scientists.  We appreciate the fanaticism, the odd perspectives, the passionate perseverance, and a fervent devotion to, well, really old bones.  The epitome of the science profile, it seems, is showing "strange" as beautiful.  Sacks and Leakey/Lewin did a fantastic job of this.  I see a few especially effective techniques:

1.      

      Use an engaging cohesive device.  Beginning all your sentences with “the” may unify a piece of writing, but does it draw the reader in? Unlikely.  Excerpts from field journals, however, do.  This ingenious narration allows us to experience the raw, unfiltered nature of field work.  We are minute by minute engaged with the scientists, feeling their reactions to Kamoya’s apparent weirdness.  It makes the discovery much more powerful, because we were aligned with the other researchers—we doubted Kamoya.  Had Leakey/Lewin set it up as a story about a researcher’s big discovery, imagine the anticlimactic moment upon reading it’s just a tiny ancient bone.  Sacks does this as well, placing us in the mindset of childhood wonder, as he describes his uncle, the metal-worker.    

Anthropomorphization at its finest.

 Anthropomorphize—use human characterizations to describe non-human things, like elements.  Sacks describes wolfram, “like a hungry animal, it ‘stole’ the tin…its sharp, animal quality, its evocation of a ravening, mystical wolf… (pg. 218).”  This is especially smart, because it also uses that childlike tone employed throughout his article, acting as a cohesive device.  Like our initial reading of Levi’s recounting of the atom’s journey, relating as a human to non-human things creates familiarity in dealing with the unfamiliar.

     Lastly, remembering a profile is namely about the subject.  The image of Uncle Tungsten’s blackened hands, and his office full of odds and ends of mismatched pieces of metal did wonders for allowing me to know the man. Although the scientists made incredible discoveries, these were presented in light of their personalities.  We came to know the research, which could potentially be bland, through their fascinating characters.  They were placed in their respective environments; I saw Kamoya sitting alone on the rocky gully with his sieve and field notebook, filtering handful after handful of sand and stones.  In doing so, his bone discoveries weren’t simply bones—they represented the fruit of devotion, sweat, and painted a beautiful allegory of piecing together humanity.

Am I the only one who now wants a piece of tungsten metal?

Theorem and Tight Dresses

            Dew drops collected on spider webs, untouched powder weighing down tree boughs, Bozeman sunsets which glow like boiling liquid gold—none can argue against the beauty in these scientific occurrences.  Yet the Pythagorean Theorem, which to a scientist wears a fitted black dress, pearls, nude heels, and dark curly hair, appears to general society as a² + b² = c².  If we investigate the theory, we may arrive in awe at its simplicity and infallibility, but will it be beautiful?  My answer is: it can be.

            Scientists have a knack for seeing the gorgeousness in their practice, not unlike a musician hears melodies in busy city streets or a poet is inspired by a child’s simple conversation.  Kepler called mathematics the “…archetype of the beautiful.” As science writers, we fill the invaluable role of the go-between.  It is given that the researcher is fascinated by their topic and finds exquisiteness in their discovery; our job is to translate that to the public. 

“Thanks Anjeli, that was extraordinarily helpful” (said no one.)  

Okay, so what does this look like in practice?  After reading three badass (in the most beautiful badass way) articles by Sagan, Chandrasekhar, and Wolpert, that described complex scientific ideas in gorgeous ways that held my attention like a friend sharing an amazing experience, I look at my science news brief, and say: 

“I’ve got bad news, kid.  I’m about to destroy you.”

Me sneaking up on my draft.
(A friend drew this of me today, referencing my dark humor.  It seemed applicable.)

            The strongest impression left on me by the pieces read, represented both in their manner and material, was the beauty in simplicity.  If “the simple is the seal of the true,” then our writing will be best understood and most attractive when we combat using complicated words, smarty-pants lingo, or extraneous explanation; when we assume the role of a writer first, scientist second.  Not that we should lack knowledge in our subjects, but that we remember for whom we write: the public.  Or, in Deborah Blum’s mind, “…an elderly woman with curlers in hair, half-dozing over the paper.”  Which is why my news brief needs a hard scrubbing—it’s too fancily written for my liking.  The vocabulary used is heavily Latinate (ones that describe big ideas and concepts) rather than Germanic (words which are sensual and talk about the concrete.)  My piece needs to speak to the senses more, to the cosmos within us that long to be explored—to the space-traveler, alien-hunter in all of us.

        

These were my favorite tidbits from the Field Guide reading:

• Use the AB/BC/CD method of connecting sentences.  Seriously, try it out.  It’s a fantastic way to start the flow of writing when sentences seem to be coming from your mind and fingers at the speed of your Grandmother driving through a school zone.
•  Eliminate clutter.  Find and destroy those deletable phrases and words that operate as excess decorations on a mantle.  Too much, and the brain’s ready to be done reading.  If you can’t delete an extraneous word without losing understandability, re-write the sentence.
• Lastly, each paragraph should be one idea.  My paragraphs have an appetite for taking on two or three ideas—why they need the knife about now.  Develop one clear idea, with the most important sentence at the end.

Sagan said this: “I know personally, both from having science explained to me and from my attempts to explain it to others, how gratifying it is when we get it, when obscure terms suddenly take on meaning, when we grasp what all the fuss is about, when deep wonders are revealed.”  This is our job, friends. 

As Understood through Creativity

            Like a novice musician joining a rehearsal for the New York Philharmonic, I feel privilege in writing these posts.  I am joining a conversation held by some of the brightest minds in the fields of rhetoric and science, and being read. Quite exciting.

My feelings on writing alongside Fisher, Graves, and Thomas.  Hope I'm not too badly outta' key.  

             I begin with Fisher, because I feel the other two authours integrate well into his discussion.  Having read this piece before, I was excited to garnersomething new from it: “Recounting and accounting for are, in addition, the bases for all advisory discourse. Regardless of the form they may assume, recounting and accounting for a stories we tell ourselves and each other to establish a meaningful life-world.  The character of narrator(s), the conflicts, the resolutions, and the style will vary, but each mode of recounting and accounting for is but a way of relating “truth” about the human condition (Fisher, 381).”  My thought is this—does the flexible, changing, unpredictable, and continually-being-discovered character of the natural world benefit from, if not demand, a more flexible approach in its discussion?  That is, does the narrative approach afford a more creative and open-ended look at science, which is in fact, a continual process of discovery?  Fisher suggests that the manner in which one writes is an argument in itself, alongside the material presented.  In this case, it’s exciting to look at science as one large story unfolding to which we are privy, and write about it in a reflecting manner.  As the man wrote, “…the narrative paradigm…does not so much deny what has gone before as it subsumes it (Fisher, 376).”   He touches on this idea that the nature of narrative is descriptive, compared to the "rational world paradigm's" interpretive nature.  Science writing as narration falls under criticism for bias, in that it presents emotional or subjective facts.  However, considering the fact that narrative is based on description, where “rational writing” is based on interpretation, the opposite case could be made.  If the reader is free to infer their own meaning, as they are from narrative rather than concrete “rational” writing, is that not less “bias?” Hmmm.  One more thought.  We discuss the fact that science writing can push those who are not elite in the subject to the margins, and exclude many from entering the conversation.  However, Fisher notes that “Narration…does not presume intellectual contact only.”  Narration has a welcoming nature. 

            Sorry, Thomas and Graves.  I promise to get you some airtime, too.  “7 Wonders” provides an apt example of narration communicating both in method and in material.  His essay details not only seven fascinating subjects in contemporary science, but also through the manner of the story itself, presents how evolving science continually adds to that which is “wonderful.”  Fisher would be proud. 

            Okay, Graves.  You put forth the idea that language is as much an element of discovery and learning, as it is an element of communicating.  I’m going to skirt your discussion on reality as construed by rhetoric and therefore bound to human interpretation (namely, because I have too few words left to discuss that behemoth of an idea), and instead appreciate an insight you offered—we cannot believe everything we think we know.  Counterintuitive as it may seem, our understandings (particularly of science) are often based off of a rhetorical understanding through the interpretation of another scientist or researcher.  But, to bounce back to what Hancock said, we needn't be afraid to create new words.  We need to boldly charge into science writing, not afraid to develop new ways of communication.  It would seem, the surprising, fascinating, past-defying, and groundbreaking nature of science demands no less.

I'm allowed to write extra posts, right?

What made us so upset in class today?

At some point in the discussion, each of us felt annoyed, irritated, perplexed, or upset.  As English majors, we have developed egos.  We see ourselves as elite, the learned, the enlighteners and illuminatis of our generation.  We stay in tune with the times, we look below the surface level, we analyze, and we engage in conversations beyond our years.  So, when a question comes up such as (ultimately) “what is truth?” we are confounded.   And we hate it. Our fragile egos are brought down by a simple scribble on the white board, and we’re stumped—no longer having the upper hand.

Here’s what I think about science.  We pursue it, not as a destination or a final singular answer, but for everything beautiful and fragmented we'll discover along the way.  For every partial answer, and every incomplete realization that (we hope) points to something bigger.  We hate our limitation and the fact that we will never know it all, but if we are to pursue science without going mad, we must accept our finiteness.  And enjoy the process for the richness and self-discovery it offers.  We chase the unattainable, knowing that our continual journey into the unknowable will profit us.  It will answer questions, ask hundreds more, discover the incredible and unthinkable, and allow us to simultaneously seek ourselves. 

“Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I am fully known.” 
 —the Apostle Paul

Brevity, Beta Decay, and the Inseperability of Emotion and Science

Good call, Professor Downs, in both the selection of texts and the encouragement to keep posts around 500 words.  Hancock is inspirational, exuberantly curious, fun, and encouraging.  Polanyi is sober, disciplined, slightly ominous, and writes with intellectual depth.  Both tap deep veins in the practices of science and writing, but do so with nearly opposite tones.  It’s as if Hancock is saying, “Science writing is great!  You ready?!”  Meanwhile Polanyi mutters, quite discernibly, “Necessarily you will encounter some conflict—look closely at it and be prepared.”  Fantastic.

We stand at the doorfront of a semester-long conversation; one I cannot wait to begin.  We are (mostly) English majors, so we impulsively comment on the writing style, how the authors presented their material, and so forth.  But!  We are entering a new mindset as science writers.  Many of the same values and attributes in writing will carry over, but we must also adapt some new ones.  This post follows Hancock’s advice to explore that which seems out of place—advice I did not expect to receive.  It’s my favourite tidbits savoured in the meaty readings.

“We learn at all times, not only when we plan to.  Therefore, hold your junk reading to a minimum—junk meaning anything you do not want your own thinking and writing to echo, because it will (Hancock, pg. 6).”

So, pursue not only scientific areas of interest, but also scientific writing styles.  Find the authors who write in a way that turns your interest on, propelling you through the pages.  Study their methods—what forces are used here to engage?  What route did their research follow?  I believe it is not so much in one empirically “best” way to write scientifically (Polanyi would surely agree), but in finding the style that sends a tingle through your fingers, and fires off those connecting neurons.  Maybe you’re a storyteller, maybe you’re a poet.  Maybe you are a big-picture artist, or perhaps you dwell in the beauty of details.  As Hancock says, “Tthe reader is smart (pg.12).”  Didn’t her excerpts of Feynman excite you?  Although I know next to nothing about beta decay (okay, I know absolutely nothing), his irrepressible tone was clear through his words.  It’s a freeing idea to not invest time researching a matter unless it provokes you to do so, unless it sparks a fire of curiosity in your mind.

Two other favourite encouragements she offered: “…never eat lunch alone (pg. 18) and “describe the mundane moments (pg. 10).”  I wonder what details would surface if, during my people-watching sessions (which are actually procrastination of the homework at hand), I wrote not about that which stood out from the crowd, but that which was ordinary?  If I peeked at normality and practiced describing it extraordinarily?  It seems, this would be a good skill to acquire as a science writer.  Much of science writing revolves around creating a context.  “This is the situation in which this discovery took place.”  So, we must practice not losing the writer along the road of setting the scene, before they have reached the destination.

Ack!  520 words already!  Professor Downs said brevity would be a challenge in this class, and here it is, showing its annoying face already.  I cannot finish without commenting on Polanyi’s compelling piece.  He wrote of the inseparability of emotion and science.   That profession is driven by passion, and what do we do when our passion, our framework of understanding, contradicts with another.  Polanyi touches on the balance between morality (which essentially is spirituality, faith), and science.  A debate certainly unanswered, and certainly prominent in science writing.  I took this from him: when we discover something new, it’s likely because we took a believing, hoping, leap of faith to bridge some crevice for which science had no answer.  So, now we have this new found thing—but the others are stuck on our bridge of faith, and its validity.  Our passion is both our strength and the thing they will call out as “subjective reasoning.”  We must be prepared to defend and persuade, to notice our structure of thinking, our process of learning, and defend that as inquisitively and adamantly as our discovery.  Science writing is certainly not without voice or heart.  We research, experiment with, and test not only a topic, but our own nature. 

Well, hello there.

Hey.

I'm Anjeli.  My name, the beginning by which you know me, is a hybrid of the names Ann, Jessica, and Elizabeth (thank you, Mom.)  I repeat it a lot, and often go by Anjie.  Either works; call me what you will.....within reason.

Regarding me.  I cannot be alone in finding it extraordinarily difficult to condense the experiences, relationships, circumstances, lessons, challenges, passions, losses and gains which have shaped me, into a blog post.  I'll take my best shot at abbreviation, but if you ever want to know more, chase me down and I'll buy you coffee.  I love coffee.  And conversations.  (But especially together.)

Okay, in we go.

I am second, out of six children. This is my family:

We're all mostly the same height, save that little dude in the middle.  He's eight years old, almost died as a toddler, and one of my favourite friends.

I was raised on a small family farm, in the Flathead Valley of Montana.  My father was an arborist, my mother a teacher, and together they home-schooled us crazy bunch.

I had a black Labrador ages two through fourteen, when she died while I was away volunteering at a summer camp.  Three years later, I got this ecstatic spaz-attack of a pup:

Her name is Charlotte, but she goes by Charlie.  She thinks she's a backseat driver. I'm kinda in love with her.

I'm an English-Writing major, I work for the University Newspaper, and I think I'll add a Sociology or Physiology minor.  People, society, trends, emotions, behaviour, it all fascinates me.  I've been writing since I was a young child.  It's a way to counteract and release the swirl of chaotic thoughts, ideas, and tangents which continually occupy my mind.  Writing consoles me through trauma, strengthens me through depression, sparks me through mind-blanks, and allows me to express and organize myself like none other.  Writing turns my ADHD into short stories, poems, and essays with purpose and meaning.   Here's the link to my personal blog, if you ever want a peek into this spastic mind: <www.acaseforcourage.blogspot.com>

Also, I space at 1.5 when I write.  It's the perfect amount of distance between lines to think, without deceiving myself that I've written more than I actually have.  That's not actually important, but you get to know anyway.  Also, I own more shoes than I should.

I'm a musician.  I've played the piano since a child, the guitar through my teens, sing incessantly, and just picked up the cello.  It takes courage to learn a new instrument, even as a musician.  But it's so, so good.

Oh hey!  There's me again.

Lastly, I need to mention my friend Aaron.  He and I were students in Professor Down's WRIT 205 class last year.  Aaron was an incredibly talented, deep, cut-to-the-core, eloquent, fantastic writer.  I have emulated his style ever since I had the privilege to read and respond to it.  Then one day, during spring break, I received this email that said he had been in an accident during a senior trip in London.  The world was touched for a very brief time by a very bright light, and is dimmer because of his absence.

We all miss you, Aaron.  You wrote with guts, and always encouraged me to do the same.  This one's for you.