The Place from Which Words Come - A Philosophical Essay

Written by Benjamin Fouché

I have known it to be quite true that the mind is the loudest at night.  And I dare say many would agree that this sentiment is hauntingly accurate.  For when the cacophony of daily sounds finally subsides; and the bright radiance that is the sun sinks below the horizon; and the birds deaden within their nests; and the bustle from the streets dissipates; and the neighboring souls retire to their beds, sinking into the haziness of sleep—it seems that those of us who reluctantly remain awake are cognizant of many sounds.  Yet these sounds seem to be suppressed during the day.  However, when the world around us slumbers—and our eyes gaze upon the ceiling through the darkness of our rooms—we hear them.  What are they, you might ask?  They are many things.  Memories.  Fears.  Doubts.  Regrets.  Wishes.  And a thousand more of them. 

But to simply remain staring and pondering in the duskiness is possibly no different from subjecting oneself to perpetual torment.  Indeed, if nothing is done about these specters of the mind—especially the formidable ones—they will vanquish us one sliver of sanity at a time.  Then, after years and decades pass, our hearts and minds will be noticeably marred and eroded.  I say this not to be melodramatic, but because this is something I have lived with for far too long.  And I’m certain many writers may relate.  After all, writers are often observant creatures.  They scrutinize and interpret the world around them, and then reinterpret and illustrate what they know into something that only a reader’s imagination may observe.  It certainly makes the human experience far more intriguing. 

Yet the price one pays for noticing, discerning, and retaining even the seemingly insignificant details of life is absurdly high—sometimes even grave.  This means both enjoyable and dreadful memories reside within our minds, ever-present.  Yet despite pushing the bad ones away and endeavoring to forget them, we may not recognize that they merely linger on out of sight during the day.  But at night—especially when we are awake—they come out to remind us of their multiplying legions.  We then stare at the ceiling—seeing not the ceiling, but all of these thoughts.  And listening, we hear not the silence, but the sounds of our grim reveries.  We remember.  We are afraid.  We doubt others and ourselves.  We regret and wish.  We yearn.  And as this foreboding wave rises from the sea, we seem to stand all alone on a shore—awaiting the black waters and our inexorable drowning.

Even so, such a fate is not necessary.  Nor is it ‘inexorable.’  This is the moment when the lights should be turned on and we ought to throw ourselves out of bed.  This is the moment where we should remind ourselves that we are still alive and no such wave actually exists!  ‘Then,’ you might ask, ‘what are we to do at this time?’  The answer is to—whether penned or typed—WRITE.  It may be 9:00 pm.  It could be 11:00 pm.  Possibly even 12:00 or 3:00 am.  But regardless of the time, there is no reason to remain awake in our darkened rooms, tortured, tossing, and turning.  Sometimes, the remedy to such melancholies and anxieties is to sit down and travel to whatever distant realms our imagination leads us to.  From there, we may realize that these places, too, are inhabited by characters—characters who are surprisingly not so different from ourselves. 

Sometimes the predicaments in which these imaginary figures find themselves may be quite extraordinary or unbelievable.  And yet, is not life itself (or the entirety of the world for that matter) unbelievable?  For instance, here you now exist—breathing the very air around you, reading this sentence, and living in this precise moment.  Likewise, your characters dwell within their own worlds and exist within their own moments of every paragraph, sentence, word, and syllable.  From the stirrings of your mind, heart, and soul, they were born.  And now, through the symbols of language, you have opened a window into their own story.  Doubt not, for this phantasmagoric vista can illustrate conflicts, loves, sufferings, adventures, and victories beyond our own empirical senses.  And you—yes, you, reader; whomever you may be—possess the ability to open this window and create this world. 

As a writer, you can seize every specter residing in your mind.  The memories, regrets, yearnings, doubts, and fears—all can become the coals that fuel the fires of your creative furnace.  These great journeys that we call ‘fiction’ share with others an experience constructed from both fantasy and reality.  Through your words, doorways open.  And sometimes these doorways are paradoxically mirrors.  In them, we see different worlds, but sometimes we may even see our own.  What is the result?  It is a voyage to somewhere else, but also an examination of the real story we call ‘life.’  Conflicts, adversaries, and tragedies all transpire within our lives at some point or another.  For loss, struggle, and hardship are certainly no strangers to ourselves. 

Yet hope, joy, and affection are equally undeniable in their existence.  And knowing this, we take what we have known to be good and bad in this life and merge it with the fantastical.  The result is a realm to which we escape, but also a realm from which we discern meaning and collective experiences.  Sometimes, if the journey is quite exceptional, readers may never again be the same.  Such is the mystery and beauty of words and writing.  We can see, hear, smell, taste, and touch what they create—yet they are not tangibly present.  Like some distant apparition, they appear before us—only to dissolve once the experience has long-subsided.  But undoubtedly, we remember them always.  This is perhaps the greatest gift of fiction.  It is something that touches the spirit in ways that nothing else truly can.

In the end, it is up to us writers to make the choice as to how we handle the perturbing midnight thoughts that overwhelm us.  Either we allow these prowling anxieties to call to us and inflict a thousand tossing-and-turnings in bed or we seize the night and turn our millions of straying thoughts into something meaningful.  The choice is yours.  And it always has been.  Now the question is this: What windows shall you open?  What doorways will you unlock?  What unique journeys are you willing to take curious readers on?  Such stories already reside within your heart.  Bring forth your own worlds by peering into the place from which words come.

(Opinion) Working With Difficult Students

 Written by Benjamin Fouché

I’ve had the pleasure of working as a writing consultant for the Athens State University Writing Center for 1 ½ years.  Although I am by no means a veteran, I’m surprised by how much I’ve learned in a relatively brief period of time.  Students from many different walks of life will come to us for help.  Sometimes their predicaments are rather simple.  But other times their problems can prove to be exceedingly challenging.  The most important lesson I have learned from all of this is that not all students should be approached the same.  Of course, you might be wondering what I mean by this.  After all, aren’t we supposed to treat all students equally?

While it goes without saying that we are expected to treat all students with the utmost respect, there are many observations I have made while working with various students.  Furthermore, I believe that my observations (and evaluations thereof) are worth sharing—especially with newer writing consultants who have only recently started working in a writing center.  Through examining them, I hope to shed light on a much deeper issue.

To begin, I strongly believe that the way in which students are approached ought to be different—with specialized attention and careful scrutiny for each one.  Therefore, in order to effectively work with students, writing consultants must approach them adaptively and delicately.

Many students whom I have worked with in the past have shared similar behavioral patterns—and three specific ones seem to most commonly transpire.  I have consequently divided these into three distinct categories: 1) defensive, 2) apologetic, and 3) shy.  Sometimes there is overlap between these traits, but a great deal of the time I am able to detect which one is most prevalent in a student.  In order to understand them, I will explain each one.

As the name implies, defensive students can be sensitive when it comes to their work.  They may even come across as aggressive or rude to some writing consultants.  Quite often, anything said that may be even remotely construed as critical will quickly be shunned or explained away by the student.  These are not always the easiest students to work with—especially since even pointing out something as minor as a typographical error can set them off.

On the opposite end of the spectrum is what I call the apologetic student.  Rather than incessantly lashing out, they are almost always apologizing and talking negatively about themselves whenever a mistake comes up in their work.  Sometimes before you can even say or read anything further, they will evaluate and criticize their own writing—constantly interrupting the flow of the session.

But the most tragic and indecipherable of these three categories is the shy student.  Unlike the two previous students with these traits, this one is almost always silent.  He or she enters the session saying very little—unless prompted to do otherwise.  Their responses to your feedback will typically be minimal or merely nods to acknowledge anything you say.  It isn’t always clear if these kinds of students are understanding anything you explain to them—for even their facial expressions and body language can be obstinate and uncertain. 

Nevertheless, there are two common elements behind all three of these traits: insecurity and self-doubt.  This should really come as no surprise, for if we are working with other human beings, we must anticipate them sometimes bringing their own dread and anxiety.  Thus, the concern should be how we as writing consultants work with these types of students, as well as how we can lessen their fears.

The first step to helping the defensive, apologetic, and shy students is the conscious management of our own disposition.  That is to say, how do we speak to them?  And how does our body language appear when they approach us?  Because contrary to popular belief, first impressions are of great importance.  If we remind these students of the professors they find disagreeable or unpleasant, they are likely to assume we are the same and put up a barrier.  However, if we can demonstrate that we are relaxed, friendly, and unassuming, they may become easier to work with.

The second step is to show that any mistake—no matter how significant—is not unique or a symptom of a deficiency.  Assure the students that you have made such errors in the past—and perhaps even bring up stories through which you may relate and laugh.  By doing this, the tension reduces substantially and the students becomes more comfortable.  Furthermore, this allows you to gradually show them how to overcome the mistake and avoid similar ones in the future. 

The third step is to reinforce the notion that you are only there to help the students.  When writing consultants establish that they are not formidable authorities who secretly report back to the student’s professor, they again help take down the barrier and begin building a more positive relationship.

Through these practices, writing consultants can progressively determine the type of student with whom they are dealing.  I say ‘progressively’ because sometimes the process may take much longer.  While there certainly exist students who will make known their temperament within the first few minutes, it may not be immediately apparent with others.  That is why it is imperative to deliberately evaluate the student within your mind throughout the session.  As it becomes clearer, you will realize the specific needs of the student.

In addition to this, one of the most invaluable abilities you will need as a writing consultant is sympathy and the aptitude to read between the lines.  As I mentioned earlier, students come from all walks of life and there is no way to know for certain what hardships and struggles they are currently battling.  And because this is something that may not be visible on the surface, we must make sympathetic inferences from their insecurities and shortcomings.

For example, it is possible that some defensive students act the way they do because—from an early age—they had parents or teachers who always scolded them; as they grew older, they felt like their choices had to always be explained and defended, for there was always someone out there to be critical of them. 

Likewise, apologetic students may have had similar experiences growing up, or they could have had experiences where someone was always blaming everything negative on them.  As a result, they became passive and fearful—believing everything bad must be their fault. 

Shy students could have endured verbal abuse from family or teachers, or perhaps had difficulties with bullies.  Hence, they are afraid everyone seeks to belittle and destroy them—or they are even fearful of saying anything, lest someone retaliates viciously.

Keep in mind, I am not advocating writing consultants to become psychoanalysts; instead, I am encouraging them to give others the benefit of the doubt.  Patience and stoicism can go a long way when working with uncooperative or disruptive students.  Sometimes it may simply be a matter of demonstrating that you are also a student and have experienced the same hardships and challenges.

Subsequently, the student (if they continue making appointments) will become more trusting and relaxed.  Once your professional relationship with the student has developed, they will become far easier to talk to and possibly far more honest about their concerns.  Once the communication is straightforward and natural, you will beyond the shadow of a doubt see positive change.