Musings on "the premature expiration of a pig"

Williams offered much wisdom in his text, but I think one of the most, dare I say it, profound examples is the following:

“In short, if we read any text the way we read freshman essays, we will find many of the same kind of errors we routinely expect to find and therefore do find. But if we could read those student essays unreflexively, if we could make the ordinary kind of contract with those texts that we make with other kinds of texts, then we could find many fewer errors” (p. 159).

There’s almost an inherent assumption when one does a peer response or other “revision” activity: I’m looking for errors and that is the importance of this activity. What Williams is arguing, is more akin to the following: We should read student essays with as much curiosity, enthusiasm, and openness as we do a published work. I found one “error” in Williams’ text: This sentence on p. 160: “The most obviousest set of rules be those whose violation we instantly notes, but whose observation we entirely ignore.” When he began to discuss the deliberate errors in the text, (“There are, incidentally, about 100 errors”), I was somewhat surprised and rather amused (p. 165).

His evil plan worked on me: I definitely did not notice many “errors” besides those in the above sentence. It goes to show, that when I read a piece of scholarly writing, I’m reading for content, for context, for meaning, and definitely not to find all surface errors possible. That’s not my reading style. I want to learn something, not find surface errors in a text’s structure. Likewise, that’s probably Williams’ reading style as well: “It is the difference between reading for typographical errors and reading for content. When we read for typos, letters constitute the field of attention; content becomes virtually inaccessible. When we read for content, semantic structures constitute the field of attention; letters - for the most part - recede from our consciousness” (p. 154).

The way in which we read student texts and the ways we read published texts (or other pieces of writing deemed “good”) seem to be drastically different. Perhaps this is because our role as the teacher leaves us feeling required to edit rather than actually imparting useful knowledge. Maybe we simply assume our students’ texts will be wrought with errors that must be corrected. Or, as Williams notes, “For all of us, obviously enough, error is in the essay, on the page, because that is where it physically exists. But of course, to be in the essay, it first has to be in the student. But before that, it has to be listed in a book somewhere” (p. 155). And his list goes on.

Last week, when we discussed issues of structure, grammar, style, etc., it was made clear that above all, we must be able to teach the importance of the context of language. One style of writing, of grammar, of language, is appropriate in one rhetorical situation, but not in another. Knowledge of how to navigate a myriad of rhetorical situations is key to writing and other forms of meaning-making.  

What I’m saying, in a rather convoluted way, is that grammar, style, etc. are important things to consider because they give information about our language practices.

But...

They are not the most important aspect of a piece of writing. If they were, we’d be reading Strunk and White along with each scholarly essay required for class. I don’t want my students to sweat so much over grammar, style, and structure that they can’t even begin to construct a text that important to them as writers.

Williams’ text in a nutshell? There is awareness and then there is obsession. The following sentence encompasses the latter:
“Some who have read this far are undoubtedly ready to call up the underground grammarians to do one more battle against those who would rip out the Mother Tongue and tear down Civilized Western Values” (p. 164).