Position Paper, ‘Creative Writing and Professionalism’

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Creative Writing and English Studies:

Two Approaches to Literature

(Position Paper, ‘Creative Writing and Professionalism’

Sheffield Hallam University/English Subject Centre)

Lauri Ramey

Convenor of Creative Writing, Cardiff University

The relationship between English and Creative Writing is changing as more BA programmes in Creative Writing are established. How does this relationship operate and how is it presented to students, staff, institutions and external bodies?

I’ll begin with a story that I swear is true, and since it involves American higher education, most of you can feel properly smug since it didn’t happen here. In the US, faculty members are hired provisionally for their first seven years of teaching. In the seventh year, they apply for tenure, which is a nerve-wracking experience since it results in one of two definitive endings: you keep your post at that university permanently, or your employment is terminated.
When I was working on my Ph.D. it was the year of the tenure decision for my supervisor, Mark Turner. You may know his work as the author of The Literary Mind, Death is the Mother of Beauty, More Than Cool Reason, Cognitive Dimensions of Social Science, or Reading Minds: The Study of English in the Age of Cognitive Science, most of those titles published by Oxford University Press. Turner’s BA, MA and PhD degrees are all in English. His research is in creativity and linguistic approaches to literature. He more than exceeded customary expectations for publications, quality of teaching, and other relevant criteria for tenure. No need to dredge up all the gory details: it’s in some ways a typical tale of academic politics. In other ways, it explicitly reflects the peculiar tensions between the fields of Creative Writing and English. In short, Turner and the university in question parted ways. Why? Reportedly, it was felt that ‘His work deals with language and creativity. That has nothing to do with literature.’
This is an ironic departure considering that just over 100 years ago, it was arguable that there was such a field as literary study at all. Language was a proper field of study. But some late 19th century figures such as James Russell Lowell, Thomas H. Hunt and Calvin Thomas began to argue that if philology were to be practical, it would be a good thing to apply it to literature. The most frequent rationales for the academic study of literature were that poems, novels, essays and plays often showed the greatest skill in the use of language; their mastery was a valuable intellectual and moral exercise in putting one’s knowledge of languages to work; and properly chosen texts could exemplify the most admirable human traits and aspirations.
James Russell Lowell provided this metaphor in 1889: instead of teaching ‘purely the linguistic side of things,’ language study should lead to ‘something better. And that something better is Literature. The blossoms of language have certainly as much value as its roots, for if the roots secrete food and thereby transmit life to the plant, yet the joyous consummation of that life is in the blossoms, which alone bear the seeds that distribute and renew it in other growths. Exercise is good for the muscles of the mind and to keep it well in hand for work, but the true end of Culture is to give it play, a thing quite as needful.’ (Lowell: 1737).
And so they decided to play in the field of literature as a manifestation of Culture – culture with a capital C. But how, was the question. The dual metaphor of blossoms and roots was exemplified in the early bifurcation in the field of literature from its inception, a trend that was perceived to varying degrees internationally. As just one example, when Stanford University was founded in the 1890s, two pre-eminent scholars were hired for the newly formed department of English: Ewald Flugel, trained as a philologist in Leipzig in the scientific study of language; and Melville Best Anderson from Iowa, a poetry specialist, who viewed literature as a source of moral uplift. (Carnochan: 1958-9).
In the past century, views about the purposes and methods of studying literature have continued to change, often following these lines of demarcation – along with notions of what constitutes a literary work, and the canon of writing worth reading. But it has remained relatively inarguable for the past 100 years that studying ‘aesthetic uses of language’ – as linguist Roman Jakobson and others would call it – is worthwhile and interesting in itself. Now, literature and language typically are taught separately, but the twinned foundations remain an important pedagogical and philosophical feature of the development of English, with important repercussions for Creative Writing.
For the past several decades, critical theory has dominated the field of literary study, which has resulted in a high level of fragmentation and confusion over the nature of the discipline. From largely aesthetic approaches such as New Criticism in the mid-20th century – which viewed the literary work as a closed system - to the explosion of socio-historical approaches in the past 25 years – critical theory has become institutionalised within the field. English departments today are populated by critical theorists of multifarious stripes, many of whom engage in vehement internal disagreement about the identity of the field. Recent issues of major scholarly journals including PMLA and Profession have been devoted to the topic of ‘what is our subject and where are we going?’
Some critics, such as Murray Krieger (Krieger: 2009), believe that this interest in the scientific study of literature is part of the direct lineage of a field based in philology and a systematic approach to form and expression. Others, such as Barbara Lewalski (Lewalski: 41-2) view it as an expansion of the discipline with the positive result of drawing on the methods and scholarship of several other areas, including anthropology, psychology, philosophy and history, in a way that was not possible previously. Still others, such as George Levine, feel that this uncertainty of professional identify is troublesome in a variety of ways, including a qualitative unevenness of research and teaching, and a negative public and academic image with repercussions in employment (Levine: 43-5). A fourth perspective is represented by Gerald Graff, who views the changes within the field of literary study as a manifestation of what he terms ‘culture wars,’ a phenomenon of sociological redefinition that is fundamentally healthy and necessary for purposes of communication and inclusion across social boundaries. What binds these varying points of view, ultimately, is a belief that ‘literature’ refers to an identifiable category of existing texts that may be understood and appreciated through careful reading and direct application of analytical methods suited to those texts.
Now after that context and history, back to our story of Mark Turner to see what we may learn from this tale. After his employer failed to see how Turner’s interest in language and creativity might relate to English, he went on to be hired as a professor in a Department of Rhetoric. The following year he served as a visiting professor in a department of Linguistics. Now he is a professor in a department of Behavioral Sciences. This is a very telling story about the present indeterminacy – based upon past indeterminacies – of the nature of literary study, and the uneasy relationship between studying the creative production of literature and its analytical assessment. In the past twenty years, as Mark Turner has served as a professor of English, rhetoric, linguistics and behavioral science, it is significant to point out that his work has not changed direction at all, but has evolved logically and cohesively since his own doctoral training. He writes about the creative function of the human mind in producing literature, and there appears to be some confusion about how that ought to be categorised. If it weren’t a true story, it might almost read like the text of a cartoon in the New Yorker, or an apocryphal anecdote in the Times Literary Supplement. But it’s real, and it is illuminating.
Part of what it tells us relates to the line-drawing that we often find in academia surrounding the defining of disciplines and the territorial urge towards specialism. But it also tells us that critical and creative approaches to writing are more than strange bedfellows: historically, they have been fields of antagonism and miscommunication, each often misunderstanding the concerns, methods and values of the other.
Now here’s some autobiography: when it was time for me to attend university, I already knew that I wanted to be a writer. Interestingly and I think not coincidentally, Creative Writing spun off from philology – and for similar reasons - at about the same time as English. In the US, the first classes in Creative Writing were taught at Harvard University by Barrett Wendell in the 1880s. They stressed “practice, aesthetics, personal observation and creativity” in opposition to the “theory, history, tradition and literary conservation” (Fenza: 15) taken as the concerns of newly developing departments of literary study – and both of these, I would add, in opposition to the perceived fact-based rigidity of philology. By the 1940s, postgraduate degrees in Creative Writing were available at a number of universities, including Johns Hopkins, Stanford, University of Denver and the University of Iowa. In accounts such as those written by Elliott Coleman, Paul Engle, D.G. Meyers, Fenza and others, we acquire a retrospective vision of the field of Creative Writing that suggests a relatively straight shot from past to present. I can tell you that for me and for others, it didn’t feel that way, any more than English feels like a place where all agree on goals and methods.
Creative Writing, like English, is in a state of transition and some turmoil, though to a lesser extent. Some current dilemmas are whether or not it should be a separate and independent discipline, echoing the split from philology in the last century, and to what extent standardisation should be applied to the field (and if so, what would that consist of?). I will ask for your understanding as I offer some of my own observations – of necessity, abbreviated and partial - of some present directions in the field. Modules in Creative Writing are often offered as electives as part of another degree. These modules tend to be substantively different from those offered by Creative Writing departments or programmes that are self-contained and part of the specialist discipline. Creative Writing modules taught within other departments (typically English, humanities, general studies, or cultural studies) often have as their central philosophical assumption that there is a split between creative and critical ways of thinking and problem-solving. Therefore, these faculties are addressed as being different though complementary. The perspective is that when both are present in one’s thinking (though typically the creative faculties are in the subsidiary role) the result is a more complete and satisfying intellectual and professional foundation.
At City College in New York, for instance, these are the goals for modules in Creative Writing offered as part of a degree in English: 1) To write with confidence in a specific literary mode. 2) To reflect upon writing as a process and be able to redraft work in response to group criticism. 3) Demonstrate an awareness of some literary conventions and stylistic devices. 4) Show some familiarity with the contemporary literary scene. (Holland: 62). You will note the absence of terms such as ‘creativity,’ ‘exploration,’ ‘experimentation,’ ‘discovery,’ ‘play,’ and ‘innovation,’ which are likely to appear as goals of programmes in Creative Writing as a separate field. In order to achieve such goals of Creative Writing classes which are part of another academic course, modules tend to be based on a two-part pedagogy: the provision of literary models, and workshops to discuss student writing, often with a significant literary critical perspective on achievement and mastery. With this approach, students are encouraged to emulate various literary forms and techniques, accompanied by open discussion of their writing to assess their success in mastery. This is quite a common approach, though very different from many separate departments in Creative Writing which have grown from the philological roots of the discipline in the late 19th century rather than splitting off from English departments in the mid twentieth century when offerings in Creative Writing began to proliferate.
Separate Creative Writing programmes tend to have one of three primary orientations, and often an eclectic combination of parts of one or more. One approach is linguistic, focusing on a subtle awareness of language as material, and often strongly influenced by post-structuralist assumptions. The philosophical – as opposed to ideological – heart is often based upon classical notions of ‘forma’ and ‘figura’ – words as the cloak of a mental process more than as mimetic representation. Processes of revision and shaping tend to use the organic models that have their roots in Dante, address in a subtle way operations of language such as ‘deep image’ and representation, and reflect the conceptual underpinnings of studies in creativity and cognition. Theory is sometimes addressed in this approach, particularly theory of language; but most Creative Writing programmes traditionally have been leery of critical theory as antithetical to the fundamental commitment of many writers to experimentation, diversity, play and change.
A second common approach is what I would consider to be ‘functional’ or ‘instrumental.’ One of the oldest and most successful examples of this type of ‘utilitarian’ programme is Teachers and Writers Collaborative, which views Creative Writing as a separate and valuable field, but which has benefits for those who are not writers. This approach often conveys a sense of social commitment, which is based – rather than on the model and workshop formula – on stimulus and opportunity. A structure or idea is presented, generally formulaic rather than formal, and usually reflective of conceptual rather than canonical constraints. There are catalogue poems, fill in the blanks, listings of items or ideas by category. Group work is a staple. Often, functional approaches assume no prior literary knowledge, or even literary ambition, so they are well suited to employ in community based activities working with children, the elderly, and prison populations, as a few examples. ‘You too can be a poet’ might be the maxim.
The third approach is committed to the ‘spirit of the age.’ Such programmes are those generally associated with a ‘workshop approach,’ University of Iowa as the classic example. Such programmes are committed to developing and reflecting a contemporary voice. They often present a particular ideology as to what that voice consists of, and tend not to be stylistically eclectic. Students are often drawn to such programmes who wish to work in the particular style for which the programme is known, which does change over time, but is oriented towards representing current modes. Such programmes often use the workshop as the central tool of editorial interaction, are characteristically ahistorical, and sometimes privilege particular literary forms within those workshops.
In all of these approaches – sometimes divergent, sometimes complementary – Creative Writing has been far less amenable than English to the development of its own body of theory. That is because it has a fundamentally different orientation, often compared to the practice of studio arts in contradistinction with the study of art history. The goal is to make new art rather than to quantify what already exists; for that purpose, theory can be perceived as a straitjacket.
Now that we’ve had a second detour for history and context, I’ll return to my own story. By the time I was applying to university in the 1970s, 24 American colleges and universities offered BA degrees in Creative Writing – not an enormous number in a large nation, but certainly a statement and a presence. I was accepted to a highly ranked B.A. course in Creative Writing in the vanguard of the field. I thought my life as a writer was set. The big day of starting university arrived, and I showed up bright and early to select my modules. Of course I wanted to take classes where I would write, that goes without saying. But it seemed perfectly obvious to me that a writer must know a great deal about literature, so I asked to enrol in the modules where I read and studied and discussed poetry, drama and fiction – that is, classes in English. The registrar looked at me blankly, checked my admissions packet and said – you can feel this coming after the Mark Turner tale – you are in Creative Writing. Literature doesn’t have anything to do with Creative Writing.
In fact, from an institutional and disciplinary perspective, it didn’t. She explained with patient pity for my ignorance that in the creative writing modules, I would be given what I needed, which primarily consisted of three things: first, the absolutely essential and luxurious opportunity to write, and to write a lot. That made sense – within an academic context, and this is still true, students rarely are given sufficient time and opportunity to simply be left alone to produce. One’s ‘academic’ classes always seem like the serious work, while making new literary objects is akin to messing about in the sandbox of the academy. Second, I would be taught by professional writers. That also made sense. Third, I would read lots of literary magazines and books by contemporary writers so that I could ‘absorb the voice of the time and place in which I was living.’ Now that sounded like a problem. Of course I wanted to know what my contemporaries sounded like, and gain exposure to publishers and journals where I might start sending my own writing for consideration. But, I asked, didn’t writers of the present read writers of the past? Didn’t I need to know about literary history, how to analyse a work of literature, learn the tools and concepts of critical production and reception while reading primary and secondary texts? Oh, she sniffed. In that case, you want to be in English. There I could take one module in Creative Writing taught by an English professor, not a writer.
Catch-22. The reality was just as it appeared: these two fields were ideologically, administratively and practically absolutely separate and distinct. Separate faculty members, separate buildings – as far apart as they could be on the campus while remaining in the same county. The Creative Writing department believed that it could teach me as a writer all that I needed to know about literature. The English department believed that as a serious student of literature, it could teach me all that I needed to know about how writing gets produced. My idea of ‘all that I needed to know’ didn’t match either one. Neither was concerned with my desire: how to understand the literature of the past for the goal of producing new writing.
What I had to do was study in two separate departments, a pattern that repeated itself when I went for an MA, and for the same reason. At that point, I decided to earn a PhD because as a writer, I still didn’t feel that I knew enough – but enough what? I had read many novels and poems and plays and short stories. I had learned proper literary terminology to refer to operations of structure and effect. I knew the conventions of the genres. I had written quite a bit. But the existing doctoral programmes in Creative Writing offered little more than the opportunity to keep writing, which I didn’t feel was enough: in essence, I was seeking the apparatus of critical theory applied to the goals of Creative Writing. This would enable me to understand points of view which might not be my own, allow me to see the literary work refracted into angles that illuminated its depth and richness, to understand more fully what I believed literature was for, and to figure out why I wanted to be a writer. This struck me as a very sensible desire, but I felt quite isolated in thinking that it made sense.
With no small amount of irritation, I decided that the only way I could learn what I needed to know as a writer would be to spend five more years earning a PhD in English. I did it, sowing seeds of subversive creativity where I could, and keeping my writerly soul intact under my weighty supplements of Derrida, my female phallus courtesy of Judith Butler, my liminal spaces chez Homi Bhabha, my discipline and punishment delivered by Foucault. Finally, I found a lecturer who accepted that it was an unambiguous and inarguable reality that the creation of literature and its theoretical frame were inextricably bound together. His name was Mark Turner. You know the rest of the story.
The purpose of Creative Writing is to guide, nurture, educate and support developing writers for the purpose of producing fine new literature. Creative Writing professionals do not always agree on this point: some feel that there are other forms of self-knowledge and academic skill that result from the study of Creative Writing. I can tell you that in twenty-plus years of teaching in this field, I have yet to encounter a Creative Writing student who did not in his or her dreams wish to be a writer. The role of the critical theorist is to decipher what those works of literature might mean in a broader social, cognitive and cultural context. It all sounds so simple. Literature is the focal point of both of these disciplines. One specialism makes it, the other explains it. We even have writer-theorists, which should make the symbiosis even neater. But these disciplines have historically been in tension with one another, to the mutual benefit of neither. I would like to briefly offer some observations that seem curious, and propose some solutions.
A common perception among those involved in literature is that Creative Writers and Creative Writing programmes are flighty. Insubstantial. Non-pragmatic. Navel-gazing. Engaged in useless play that should have been set aside in childhood. That Creative Writing encourages romantic visionaries to escape into flights of fancy irrelevant to anything connected to the real world. Out-of-touch vigilante social critics who are nothing more than social freeloaders. Beneath worthiness of monetary reward, which is of course our cultural measure of significance. Creative Writing is a haven for impractical starry-eyed infantile dreamers.
Many within English believe that they are alert to a broader range of areas of human endeavour than ‘literature’ as an object of concentration unto itself: that their work brings readers into contact with the worlds of sociology, psychology, history, cultural, feminist, queer and race studies – and that, therefore, they have more direct purchase on the big picture issues than the mere wordsmiths.
David Radavich, from the perspective of English, wrote that Creative Writing programmes have come to be ‘vilified and rendered in some respects obsolete’ in part because ‘There is no profession for which an MFA or PhD in creative writing provides direct training.’ (Fenza: 13) Radavich objects that unlike literature students, who are studying texts ‘only as a means for personal growth and exploration,’ students in Creative Writing are only concerned with ‘publishing glory.’ Creative Writing educators, according to Radavich, are often unreliable troublemakers when working within departments of English. From the perspective of many theorists, literature is not most effectively addressed by the writers who produce it. If you think that I am presenting an extreme exaggeration, consider another true story: ‘When Harvard University was about to appoint the novelist Vladimir Nabokov to a chair in literature, the linguist Roman Jakobson remarked, “What’s next? Shall we appoint elephants to teach zoology?”’ (Fenza: 17)
Flip the coin: critical theory is widely perceived by those in Creative Writing as scientific, systematic, logical, pragmatic, dry. It is seen to use the tools of the social sciences, privilege narrative logic, focus on control and organisational strategies, maintain the mantle of impersonality, and employ specialised professional jargon to the exclusion of a wider audience for literature.
Paul Munden reported on the Associated Writing Programs 2000 convention where the perspective was commonly expressed among those in Creative Writing that ‘literature departments are outmoded, formulaic and unresponsive to cultural variety,’ in the context of an ‘ongoing clash between “literature” and “writing studies”’ in the US and UK (Munden: 5). David Fenza, as a Creative Writing educator, contrasts fields where practitioners are the experts - in the case of literary study, that would be working writers – with the tenets of English: ‘Only in departments of English does there remain this peculiar insistence that the only specialists who study, anatomize, deconstruct or systematically humiliate their subject should be allowed to teach it.’ (Fenza: 13) As Fenza concludes, ‘those who make literature actually know something about it.’ (Fenza: 13-14).
Speaking of the UK, Poet Laureate and Creative Writing programme director Andrew Motion also discusses the fundamental nature of programmes in both English and Creative Writing, as well as the antagonism that exists between them: ‘Ever since English literature first became a degree course, arguments have raged about its principles and practice – and quite right too. Sometimes these have emerged in more or less purely theoretical terms (for example, to be or not to be a poststructuralist); sometimes they have taken the form of conversations about assessment and quality control. Many of us involved in the teaching of Creative Writing feel we are tuned into an amplified version of these things. When the University of East Anglia and the University of Lancaster pioneered the original British CW MA courses some thirty years ago, they triggered a storm of controversy that has never completely died down. Isn’t writing done alone (and probably in a garret) or not at all? How can anyone evaluate students; fiction and poetry without compromising existing university methods?’ (Motion: 17).
In my own experience as a participant in DUET in Creative Writing, a policy-suggesting discussion group partially funded by HEFCE, one of the primary topics at a meeting in January was the relationship between Creative Writing and English. As one of my colleagues Richard Kerridge reported: ‘On many campuses creative writing is a new presence. Often it has branched out from English departments, but its aims, values and teaching methods differ significantly from those of English. Increasingly, those values are being asserted against those of English. {…} Some people hoped that creative writing courses would bring about a resurgence of values associated with “English” before the advent of theory. One dream was that creative writing would “eat up all the pretences of meta-language” and lay bare the procedures of “seminars full of puzzled silence.”’ (Kerridge: 4).
But I would like to share with you some observations regarding recent professional journals in both fields, which offer a surprising corrective to the broad-stroke portraits that I’ve just painted: that Creative Writers are self-indulgent dreamers with no practicality or real sense of the meaning of literature; and that literary theorists are clear-eyed pragmatists who understand literature as it really is, as an expression of culture.
In Creative Writing, some prominent journals are Writing in Education, Writers’ Chronicle, Poets and Writers and the Teachers and Writers Collaborative Newsletter. Opening to recent issues of these at random, here are titles of sample articles: ‘Publishing on the World Wide Web’; ‘The Secret to Getting Published’; ‘Are Poetry Sales Up?’; ‘Case Studies of Collaboration’; ‘Chip Shop Writing Residency’; ‘Websites for Teaching Creative Writing’; ‘Special Section on Grants and Awards.’ Not exactly head in the clouds concerns: in fact, perhaps pragmatic to an extreme.
Some prominent journals that I read regularly which focus on theoretical approaches to literature include Textual Practice, The Harvard Review, PMLA, and African Studies. Here are titles of articles in recent issues: ‘The Macroclitoride, the tribade and the woman: configuring gender and sexuality in English anatomical discourse’; ‘Spacing and Timing: contract and mise-en-scene in fiction by Balzac, Sacher-Masoch and Lu Xun’; ‘Presumptive Sodomy and its Exclusions’; and ‘Carceral Topography: spatiality, liminality and corporality in the literary prison.’
My intention is to not to engage in intelligentsia bashing which has already become so prevalent - the New York Times runs an annual parody of topics of papers presented at the annual meeting of the Modern Language Association, the world’s largest professional body for academics in literature. Nor is it to depict writers as cynical opportunists looking to sell their words by the penny like Dickens. Rather I intended to offer some instantiations of practical correctives to the generalised image of both disciplines. In contrast with the impression of pragmatism often associated with the academic and theoretical study of literature – and the impression that those in Creative Writing are detached wool-gatherers – we see that the focus of English is often highly abstract and apparently non-pragmatic, while publications in Creative Writing, perhaps converse to our expectations, tend to be practical nuts-and-bolts manuals of hands-on advice.
Wishing to reflect a theoretical and pragmatic détente in addressing this topic, I would like to propose that the analytical study of literature by means of critical theory provides historical background, philosophical rigour, a sociological framework and formalist knowledge that would enhance any Creative Writing course. Many whose role it is to interpret literature have little or no direct understanding of the creative process faced by practising writers, and the methods and goals of Creative Writing would be a beneficial component of the education of anyone in English.
Creative writers think and literary critics are often very creative: we only need look as far as Wittgenstein and countless other philosophers of language to be reminded that the linguistic operations of creative genres appear in other forms of discourse. The opposition between these disciplines is not useful: the goals, frame of mind and practical functioning of these endeavours can be mutually enriching, in spite of some fundamentally different constraints, procedures and assumptions.
Mark Turner’s most recent area of inquiry involves the concept of creative blends, which are conceptual mappings of target and source domains which are assymetrical, unlike conventional metaphors where correspondence between the domains activates the image. As he writes in The Literary Mind, ‘One of the great cognitive advantages of a blended space is its freedom to deal in all the vivid specifics … of both its input spaces. By means of these specifics from both input spaces, the blended space can powerfully activate both spaces and keep them easily active while we do cognitive work over them to construct meaning. Upon that circus of lively information, the mind can dwell and work to develop a projection.’ (Turner: 61).
Ideally, literature may be viewed as a totality that can be effectively represented by the image of the blended space itself. By allowing ourselves to freely imagine the critical and creative acts mapped over one another, we can perform some powerful acts of cognitive creativity and whole new worlds – circuses, even - can evolve.
Works Cited
Carnochan, W.B. The English Curriculum: Past and Present. PMLA 115:7 (December

2000), 1958-1960.

Fenza, David. Creative Writing and Its Discontents. Writing in Education 22 (Spring

2000), 8-18.

Holland, Andrea. Creative Writing and the English and Humanities Curriculum, Class

& Context: Teaching Creative Writing in Different Fields. Sheffield Hallam University Creative Writing Conference 1999 Proceedings, 59-65.

Kerridge, Richard. DUET Workshop at UEA. Writing in Education 22 (Spring 2001),

Krieger, Murray. Letter. PMLA 115:7 (December 2000), 2008-2009.

Levine, George. The Real Trouble. Profession: 93 (Modern Language Association of

America, 1993), 43-45.

Lewalski, Barbara. Critical Issues in Literary Studies. Profession: 93 (Modern

Language Association of America, 1993), 41-42.

Lowell, James Russell. 1889: Presidential Address. PMLA 115:7 (December 2000),


Motion, Andrew. Creative Writing. English Subject Centre Newsletter 1

(February 2001), 17-18.

Munden, Paul. Associated Writing Programs Annual Conference. Writing in

Education 20 (Summer 2000), 4-7.
Turner, Mark. The Literary Mind (New York and Oxford: Oxford U P, 1996).

October 2001

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