Negotiating the Paradox: Adjuncts & Writing

  • 16 Mar 2010 /  adjuncts, teaching

    Recently I dipped in to the January 11, 2010 edition of the world’s best magazine, I mean, The New Yorker. There I found “After the Blowup,” an essay by John Cassidy about how the various schools of laissez-faire economics are dealing with—or failing to deal with—recent economic crises. As author of How Markets Fail, Cassidy is well-positioned to write such an article. While the article is worthwhile in itself, I mention it primarily as a springboard.

    When Cassidy was talking with Richard Posner, Posner was criticizing academic economists for their lack of realism, and for their failure to learn from the recent events. Posner said,”…market correctives work very slowly in dealing with academic markets. Professors have tenure…They have techniques that they know and are comfortable with.”

    While part of this unintentionally ironic—Posner seems not realize just how many faculty don’t have tenure or the option of pursuing it—the core sentiment is strikingly valid and useful. As I’ve commented on in past posts, the ideal functions of tenure are well-known. They allow academics to follow their own visions, researching long term and/or unpopular projects.

    Posner, though, has articulated one down side to tenure, and to the model of the tenured academic. Once tenured, an academic can solve problems no one else cares about. He or she can continue to embrace theories that events have left behind, or fail to even notice the emergence of difficult counter-examples.

    This could offer an alternative model for the adjunct scholar. Rather than following the private vision, follow the public one. Rather than moving independently of the market, ride its momentum. This might mean writing about brand new books, using new media, and so on. Rather than publishing in academic journals— so long carefully insulated from the economics of publishing— publish…elsewhere. This might mean corporate publishing venues, it might mean artistic non-profits, it might mean community papers, self-publishing, etc. And rather than following one’s own vision and assuming (rather arrogantly and Platonically) that it is right, allow your vision to emerge through interaction, dialogue, and synthesis.

    After all, the current adjunct situation was created through market forces; why not turn them, at least somewhat, to our advantage?

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  • 09 Mar 2010 /  publishing, tenure, writing

    Let me start with a few minor updates:

    On the plus side, I’ve got some interesting interviews coming up. On the negative/absent side, I still haven’t heard back from many of the folks I’ve contacted about projects related to this blog. On the confusing side, I just joined Facebook, and so will be likely be delving in to this fascinating phenomenon a bit more soon, to see how it might be related to adjuncts and writing.

    Now, on to the core idea, which is a thought experiment grounded in reality. Consider the following: any goal is, among other things, a constraint. Setting tenure as your goal binds you to doing things that will achieve tenure. At most schools, this means focusing your writing on areas you were hired for. At even more schools, this means doing work which is recognized as scholarly.

    If that’s the sort of work you want to do, so far, so good. I have known many scholars who seem born to devote their lives to X (American literature, Latin poetry, etc.), and others who seem at great ease tracking down every last reference on a topic. I have long envied the first their certainty, and the second their sense of appropriate process. Completeness is a good thing.

    However, what if this is not the sort of work you want to do? What if you are exploratory? What if your values lead you outside of established forms and topics? What if you simply change? In those cases, the pursuit of tenure becomes a kind of constraint. Again, I’m not railing against constraint per se—Jane Austen would have my head—but simply put, there are times when it is better to pursue the new path than walk the one that no longer calls you. At that point, the tenure path becomes too much of a constraint…and being an adjunct who writes may emerge as a form of freedom.

    This is not a freedom born of abandon. I’m not suggesting that if you don’t pursue tenure, you will do slipshod work. I’m suggesting that releasing that goal may allow one to explore new media. It may allow one’s writing to appear immediately online and begin a multiplying influence that will come slowly, if ever, to those publishing in academic venues. Writing on new topics may allow one to be first, simply because the new media democratizing publishing allows one to share freely without the ponderous process of peer review.

    And it isn’t that tenured faculty can’t do these things. They can…but they are anchored into an existing system. They’ve been rewarded for working known fields. They are invested, even as they are protected.

    In some ways, writing without tenure allows the return of the intrinsic reward. One no longer has to seek conference presentations or journal acceptance. One can simply write.

    The flip side of reward is freedom. (Now, we still have to pay the bills…but that’s another question. Academic writing was never going to pay the bills anyway.)

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  • 02 Mar 2010 /  adjuncts, tenure, writing

    In between these actual posts about writing and adjuncts, the subject is always simmering in the back of my mind. What is the relationship? What should the relationship be? How does one affect the other? What is the place of tenure in this equation?

    Some gloriously impractical ideas for posts bubble up, pop, and, thankfully (trust me on this one) evaporate, leaving only the faint scent of l’eau de brainstorm behind. However, some leave traces that might be useful; I’ll offer them up and we’ll see.

    The stated purpose of tenure is protection of academic freedom: professors who have proven their worth as scholars and/or teachers have shown earn job security. As a result, they are free to pursue their research wherever their training, conscience, and creativity may lead them. The image this ideal evokes is of the solitary thinker, standing up for what he or she thinks is right, speaking out and speaking up, despite the overt disapproval of the administration, whose hands are tied, and even of the surrounding community. This vision of tenure fits with the best elements of the ivory tower: protected and above it all, in order to see more clearly.

    Tenure can also be viewed as a form of cultural capital, a stamp of social approval that is given to some but not all. This imprimatur amplifies the individual’s voice, giving his or her positions greater weight, silencing some critics and making others at least listen to one’s positions. In this tenure enables your writing more efficacy. Finally, tenure gives stability. It requires a time investment from the faculty, and, once acquired, tends to anchor faculty in place. This is fraught with potential negatives, but it has the benefit of creating a fairly stable identity for the school.

    Adjuncts lack these (closely related) qualities. Not only are controversial opinions not protected, they are actively at risk. The most recent adjunct contract I signed indicated that the school in question “reserves the right to withdraw or cancel any course for any reason that it, at its sole discretion, deems appropriate.”

    So…instead of tenure, what options would protect academic freedom? What could be done to give adjuncts’ writing more weight and power? (We’ll leave aside the issue of a school’s stable identity for now. It interests me greatly, but isn’t really the subject of this blog.)

    One suggestion put forth for high school teachers is simply getting rid of tenure all together (and paying more money) This works to make the system less stable (in good ways—it can get rid of bad teachers), but to be frank, won’t help most adjuncts at all. It would ask schools to spontaneously pay them more…with no reason. We already work for cheap.

    Another option is writing under a pen name. The practice has a long history, and an honorable one. It’s already pretty common in academia, where folks like Thomas H. Benton write for publications as influential and mainstream as The Chronicle of Higher Education under pen names. Doing so takes care of protection and the academic freedom, and even adds the allure of being a secret rebel, but removes the power of the tenured pen.

    A third option is simply to ignore the administration/school. The people who might get mad about your writing are waaay too busy to keep tabs on you. Write whatever the heck you want. They won’t know unless someone brings it to their attention. And then you’re one screwed adjunct. This works for an unfortunately undefined time, which will be much longer if you’re working in non-controversial areas. It also works only for the academic freedom element of tenure, and does nothing to provide cultural capital.

    A fourth option requires political involvement/some negotiation. To be more specific, adjuncts can push for colleges to spell out the reasons they might be discharged (rather than making contracts at will), push for full year contracts, push for monetary compensation for all publications, and so on. Doing so may blow away the remnants of collegiality from the working relationships and expose it for the labor situation it is, but hey. It’s rarely comfortable to analyze things too close to home, but it is useful, and any gains won here would protect academic freedom for adjuncts far more than it is protected now.

    I find this avenue of thought useful, and I hope you do too; I’ll be returning to it in future posts, with more possibilities.

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  • 23 Feb 2010 /  adjuncts, publishing, writing

    A lot of us laboring in the academic salt mines of adjunctdom tend to just keep grinding on, either content with our lot or hoping things will improve on their own. The identity of teacher/professor can be almost hermetically sealed, or close enough that we forget there are options, even options that will allow us to a) stay intimately involved with higher education, b) write, and c) get paid better than we do now (and maybe even gain a bit more control).

    This week I’m talking with someone who has found one of those alternatives. John Soares was kind enough to answer a few questions for me on the topics of adjunct faculty and writing. John was an adjunct faculty member for several years, then left it for a career writing textbook supplements.

    GB: Do you still teach anywhere as an adjunct?

    John Soares: I last taught college in the summer of 1994—two sections of American government for Butte College in Chico, California.

    If not, may I ask why?

    There are many reasons. The two most important are freedom and money. Once I stopped teaching college and became a full-time freelancer, I had a lot more freedom to set my schedule and go where I wanted. Teaching tied me to Chico most of the time.

    I also make much more money on an hourly basis writing college textbook supplements (instructor’s manuals, study guides, test questions, lecture outlines, etc) than I did teaching, especially when you factor in all the lecture prep, grading, and traveling to and from the college that teaching requires.

    I also like having my livelihood directly under my own control and determined by my own efforts and talents. While I personally had relatively few problems getting the classes I wanted at Butte College (and Shasta College in Redding), I saw that many other adjuncts had difficulties. Also, when I began teaching at the college level, my goal was a full-time community college teaching position. But the longer I taught, the more I realized that was unlikely to happen.

    If not, do you miss it?

    I definitely miss it. I truly enjoyed being in the classroom and helping young people understand the world better and hone their critical thinking skills. To me, teaching is an intellectual challenge that also requires strong interpersonal skills, and I miss that mix, that interaction.

    How long did it take you to build your career as a writer of college textbook supplements?

    In 1992 I got my first supplement assignment, a 1600-question test bank for a new American government textbook that paid $4000. (By comparison, I was getting $1500 to teach a three-unit poli-sci course.) I was already making some money from the first hiking guide I wrote, and also from some outdoors and travel pieces for magazines and newspapers.

    By 1994 I felt I could make more money if I focused all my energy on writing. I did make more money for the first couple of years, but I hit a couple of slow patches in the latter part of the 1990s after I moved to Kauai in Hawaii. Initially I only worked on political science projects, primarily American government, but also some international relations and comparative politics. Given the nature of college textbook publishing cycles, there are definitely times when there is little or no work.

    By 1997 I expanded into new academic disciplines, including history and geography and the sciences. I also improved my marketing and communication skills, which, along with the expansion of disciplines, brought me to a middle-class income by 1999.

    I know you do other writing, especially on hiking and outdoor activities. How does that fit with the supplement writing?

    Although I do some blogging and marketing to keep the modest royalties coming from my two hiking guides (and to keep them in print), my main focus now is creating information products. My first was the e-book Writing College Textbook Supplements: The Definitive Guide to Winning High-Paying Assignments in the College Textbook Publishing Market. And I just completed my second information product: Maximum Productivity for Freelance Writers: Manage Your Time, Make More Money, and Get More Enjoyment from Life. I’m currently working on an audio book for Maximum Productivity for Freelance Writers, and in the spring I’ll begin teaching workshops on the same topic. I also have several other information products I’ll be creating in the coming months, most centered around the launch of what will become my flagship website:

    I still do some textbook supplement projects. I’m currently working on test questions for study materials created by a nonprofit with a government grant, and I continue to do projects for Prentice Hall/Pearson Education and Cengage Learning.

    Any advice for adjuncts about writing?

    Freelance writing can be a very good way for an adjunct to pay the bills. As we all know, adjuncts typically don’t make much money, at least compared to what full-time instructors make.

    Writing textbook supplements and ancillaries is the easiest field for most adjuncts to enter since they already have the background knowledge for the work. The pay, however, can vary substantially. With one exception, I haven’t made less than $50 per hour since 2000, and I often make in the $100 per-hour range. However, I’m a fast and experienced writer, and I’m good at negotiating pay rates. Some textbook supplement projects will pay far less than that.

    Whether you write textbook supplements or enter another field, you must specialize if you want to be paid well. Look for companies or industries that need specific types of writing and approach them with your services.

    Some generalists do make decent money, but most don’t.

    John Soares has written over 200 college textbook supplements since 1992. He is the author of Writing College Textbook Supplements: The Definitive Guide to Winning High-Paying Assignments in the College Textbook Publishing Market and Intelligent Productivity for Freelance Writers: Manage Your Time, Make More Money, and Get More Enjoyment from Life. He also writes the “Writing College Textbook Supplements” blog and the “Intelligent Productivity For Freelance Writers” blog.

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  • 16 Feb 2010 /  plagiarism

    Jenny*,

    You asked the other day how you were supposed to know that the Week 6 paper was due by the end of the week. You seemed miffed when I answered that it said so in the syllabus and in the weekly reminder of the work due that I send to everyone, and that we talked about it in class. I think your exact words were “Jeez, don’t be so pissy about it.”

    Donald*, you asked how you were supposed to know that the school’s rules about plagiarism applied to all assignments, not just long papers. You seemed outraged when I referred you to the school’s academic honor code. “It’s not fair,” you said. “How was I supposed to know about that.” When I said that it was in the syllabus, that we’d discussed it in class, that I’d mentioned it in my comments on your earlier paper, and that I’d begged the class to share any questions they had on the topic, you went all sullen and silent. For a while. Then you asked the same question on the phone. And via email. Emails.

    Jenny, if you want to know why I sounded pissy, see the note to Donald above. That’ll tell you about a quarter of the story: you asked me about that due date when I was in between questions from Donald. My bad, and I apologize.

    The other three quarters of the story are the parts you can’t see, and can’t know. The second quarter is that I had blocked out my own writing project to work on that afternoon, and answering Donald’s questions, phone calls, and emails. You don’t know adjunct from tenured, so you don’t know I’m more careful about CYA in those exchanges than my professors were when I was an undergraduate, because I’m always afraid of being let go. Too many student complaints: blip! No more Dr. Beatty, at least here.

    Jenny, unlike Donald, I love to write. I live to write. It is calling, and I skipped Monday’s writing to deal with his bull. I could feel the story slipping away, buried under irritation and simple distraction as I fielded questions.

    And a chunk of Tuesday’s writing time was spent documenting his plagiarism. Again, you don’t know adjunct from ad hominem (I know—I graded your quiz on fallacies), but that too is due to being an adjunct. I don’t want to be let go, and I don’t want to not be scheduled because I didn’t follow procedures…and I have a mortgage and no job security. That means I spend more time documenting Donald’s plagiarism than he spent “writing” the assignment—several times as much, in fact. That’s the third quarter.

    The fourth invisible quarter is that our school doesn’t care about my writing. This means I have to maintain my motivation in the absence of praise, support, or even acknowledgement. Jenny, remember how you smiled when you earned that B+ on the first paper? And how you were reassured when I told everyone I’d gotten their papers? Try writing without any of that. It’s possible, but it is harder.

    And that part isn’t your fault. It isn’t Donald’s, even, though he’s a mighty fine lightning rod for my irritation over the situation.

    But I thought you should know…

    I’ll be better on Thursday. The story’s just a pile of notes, not a story, but at least I’m not mad at you guys anymore. But seriously, read the syllabus and don’t cheat, or I may stick a pencil in my eye.

    Sincerely yours,
    Greg

    (* = Names have been changed to protect the guilty and clueless.)

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  • 27 Jan 2010 /  writing

    In his recent (2009) book Designing the Smart Organization author Roland Deiser primarily focuses on learning in the corporate environment. In fact, one of his starting points is the claim that traditional models of education (such as those that happen in classrooms) are too limited in both scope and definition. He overstates his case a bit—he seems to be working with a slightly aged straw man at times, and not looking at the numerous educational initiatives focusing on team work, new technologies, applications in the world, etc.—but his book is still quite useful in several ways.

    First, it looks at how education can be reconceived to address numerous arenas that are indeed too often shorted, such as ethical action and incorporating learning into corporate growth and strategies. These are useful, and the attempts made by institutions as different as the U. S. Army and Novartis to learn in more functional ways are exciting in themselves. For the most part, however, they aren’t directly applicable to the work of adjunct faculty (though they are to those who hire and manage them); we are too loosely connected to our institutions, too far from the strategic core, and work with a population who will by definition be moving on.

    However, Deiser made several points about the shifting nature of learning that do apply to adjuncts, and that will apply in an even more focused fashion as higher education becomes more corporate. First, he points out that businesses function less in isolation and more as part of a supply network that is often international. This applies to higher education on the literal level: more students are attending more than one institution than ever before. It can also apply to the adjunct writer. We can use this in our pedagogy and our politics: we can use students as sources of information about other institutions, which empowers them and teaches us. We can also use this in our scholarship. We have in our classrooms every day students new to college and well-versed, students new to online and cyber veterans, and students home grown in our institutions, transferring in, and just visiting. This provides raw material for any number of essays and studies, and could be extended to analyses of how different institutions use resources they share (such as Turnitin.com, which is used very differently by different schools).

    Second, Deiser details ways in which standardized learning is falling short. Adjuncts could build on this in to ways: by documenting how increasing standardized curriculum falls fails to serve higher education’s corporate masters (ahem), and by writing pedagogical articles on the dubious challenge of working with standardized curriculums.

    Third, Deiser points out that, “Learning requires irritation, so the major task is to provide the right irritation…” and that in the contemporary environment, institutional growth and innovation is most likely to happen at the periphery. This is where adjuncts live: on the irritated edge of higher education. On a visceral level, we know what changes are pushing up against higher education. Long before our administrators do, we know about new sources of plagiarism, new trends in student-student communication, new writing habits born of video games and chat rooms. We know about the inappropriate irritations, in which students can’t register for this or can’t get an answer for that because of the institution’s rules. We know what new sources need to be evaluated as credible or not.

    We already respond to these trends as teachers. We need to do so as writers as well. Write for Wikipedia. (I’ve got a great short lesson I use in my composition classes about how the Wikipedia entry on me is flawed and shouldn’t be used as a source that I use in composition classes.) Write for students, to legislatures. Design research assignments writing proposals to change the things that irritate them, have them submit those proposals, and document the changes. Help them analyze how Microsoft’s grammar checker works—and write articles about it. Work with a content mill, write academic articles about the process, and so on.

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  • 19 Jan 2010 /  publishing, time management, writing

    If you’re an adjunct, scrambling to make ends meet, how do you find time to write? Well, if you look Jill Carroll’s advice on time management for adjuncts in The Chronicle from 2001 , you’ll see all kinds of solid tips…and no mention of writing. Well, that’s not quite true: the word “writing” shows up in the biographical note on Carroll at the bottom. Since Carroll is an adjunct who manages to publish, this suggests that time management tips may free up time to write.

    This is no surprise. In fact, that’s old news…to writers, anyway. Anyone who wants to freelance, or to write creatively, must either let the grass go uncut, get good at time management, or both, in order to find time. For many of us, though, the time isn’t enough. Unlike, say, someone working in an office or with a set schedule, adjuncts find their schedules shifting around. I know one of my biggest frustrations is with the X factors in grading. I’m thinking in particular here of the student or project that blows up: plagiarism, combined with grade appeals, pleas over X (visas, illness, etc.), that leads to more time spent on one problem student than the entire rest of the class. It’s easy enough to plan what to do, but some institutions have requirements that fight time management. As one easy example, the institutions for which I teach require that all student emails be answered within 24 hours. One student sent 96 lengthy emails over grades, plagiarism, and emotional distress. I could group some of my answers, but that’s still quite a number, and hard to schedule.

    Again, this too is no surprise, either in academia or outside of it. In Born Digital, their recent study of the recent generation who grew up online, John Palfrey and Urs Gasser note that one of the defining characteristics of our age is “information overload.” They argue that previous generations suffered from an information deficit, and were continually seeking more information to enable them to make better decisions. We, on the other hand, need new skills: we must learn to sort, or even triage, the flood of data washing over us every day. This is producing new techniques for time management. David Allen touts his Getting Things Done system as designed for these new challenges.

    Some people are generating alternatives. I’ve tried workshops by life coaches (with limited success), and others are now doing online writing coaching specifically for academics. What’s striking about this pitch for the Academic Writing Club is how it blends the tone of an infomercial with extreme rationalization: The cost per day is spelled out.

    If hiring someone to keep you writing and help you get the tools you need to do so seems too strange, consider the tactics suggested by Palfrey and Gasser—use filters, as often as possible—or by Dan Poynter, an longtime freelance writing teacher: use a clock or timer. Break your project into component parts, estimate how long each will take, set the clock and force yourself to work. Other freelance writers I know take more severe versions of these steps, such as blocking themselves from addictive websites until a writing project is done.

    Though the focus was different, this discussion reminds me of a book by one of my professors when I was an undergraduate, Evan Watkins’ Work Time. I’m also struck again by how much things have changed related to writing, even in my brief time in academia. Throughout graduate school, the message was strongly communicated that taking one’s time on writing was a good thing—acceptable, even desirable. There was a sense that good scholarship took time.

    Now, I not only find myself pressing in the opposite direction—what can I get done as fast as possible—but also continually calculate the expense of an action. In that I am no different from the folks at the Academic Writing Club (I sound like I’m about to say, in the best infomercial fashion, “I’m not only the president, I’m also a client!”). In that I must state the obvious: being an adjunct has taken all the liberal arts out of being an English teacher. It’s made it rational, goal oriented, and time bound. The core idea there—that liberal arts are freeing—seems to have been reversed. As an adjunct, time is my master, and my writing its…victim? Monster?

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  • 12 Jan 2010 /  publishing, time management, writing

    Recently I had two experiences that made me realize how much I’d changed, and how much things have changed. (Stay with me—this really is about adjuncts and writing.)

    Both of these experiences came when interacting with one of the schools for whom I’m an adjunct.

    Experience #1 came when working on a course design for the school, which provides standardized course materials for its online courses. I agreed to revise a literature course for them, only to learn that I had to work with their newly established Course Development Process, which included required two hour “teleconferences” (phone calls).

    I was baffled as to exactly what these conferences were for. It turned out to be a multi-person reviewing process, in which everyone had to follow along as the person running the meeting reviewed my course materials, made a few minor comments, and then signed off on them. Let me be clear: a few small areas of the course were improved. Let me be clearer still: that was not the primary purpose of the call, which was CYA, as everyone ritually agreed to the work. And let me clearest yet: we had different agendas. All of the other people on the call were on salary, and so if the phone call took an hour (which it did, thankfully), or two, they were paid the same. As an adjunct, though, and a freelancer, an extra hour spent farting around in a meeting was an hour I wasn’t getting paid for work somewhere else.

    When I first started writing academic works, I did so to learn, and for the joy of it. Now, after so long as an adjunct and freelancer, those seem…insufficient. As does that word.

    Experience #2 came from the same school. I was invited to write articles on my area of expertise that would be shared with the whole school. These articles were intended both to build community and to help raise the level of professional discourse. I did such things when I was first working as an adjunct. I wrote up handouts, contributed to lists, etc. Now, though, I felt vaguely like I was being scammed.

    I don’t think that traditional academics in tenured positions feel this, though I’ve known any number who felt too busy, or like it wasn’t the best use of their time. However, it wasn’t the unpaid nature of the writing they objected to, it was the specific focus: they thought their time was better spent writing formal articles in their discipline than articles for the general community.

    I did not set out to change my attitude toward writing and the academic community. I set out to pay the rent. But change happened, all the same…

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  • 04 Jan 2010 /  adjuncts, research, teaching

    One of the things that struck me when I started working on this blog was how little research had been done into the great sea change of academic labor that is using adjuncts instead of tenure-track faculty. However, little research is not no research, and this week I went looking for studies related to adjuncts and writing.

    I was fortunate enough to locate papers by Jeffrey Klausman, who has been Writing Program Administrator at Whatcom Community College  since 2007. Klausman had presented a paper on the role of adjunct faculty in writing programs at the 2009 TYCA-PNW and another on the same topic at CCCCs. An article on the subject is scheduled for publication in the journal Teaching English in the Two-Year College, and Klausman and was gracious enough to both share a copy of the paper with me and to answer a few questions about his research.

    As is often the case with discussions of pedagogy, Klausman starts his study with a brief contextualizing narrative. Interestingly, this account includes a mention that when he began his research, Klausman found “almost nothing” on how depending on adjunct faculty affects writing programs.

    To address this, and to give himself tools for his new position as administrator of a writing program (at a community college depending heavily on adjuncts), Klausman began his own research on the subject. He developed a survey (using Survey Monkey) to review adjunct attitudes on their relationship to writing programs. The survey covered a fairly wide range of factors, such as how much voice adjuncts should have on curriculum and if the administrator of their writing program valued adjuncts.

    When I asked him why he started with the attitudes, rather than other places (such as, for example, affects on student learning, Klausman indicated it was to deal with specific issues he’d faced, namely difficulty implementing changes in his own program due to resistance from the adjuncts. (This resonates well with my experience as an adjunct.)

    His initial findings were useful but not overly surprising: adjuncts wanted an equal voice in developing programs, wanted to be respected, and enjoyed their work, but found the conditions under which they worked to be the main obstacles to improving that work. More interesting were the results of the follow up interviews Klausman did to address seemingly contradictory responses to one area of the initial survey: that adjuncts reported feeling respected but undervalued at the same time. These interviews exposed that adjuncts often have little or no say in the writing programs they teach for, and little or no loyalty as a result—but that those who do feel loyal and respected.

    This seems to arise not from agreement or disagreement with the program’s actual decisions or from clashes with individual administrators, but rather from institutional structures and attitudes: adjuncts who were invited to play full roles in programs often did so, while adjuncts who were treated as disposable labor…felt like it.

    While the survey and interviews focused on adjunct writing faculty, and on their relations to writing programs, in this case, I have to suspect the results would apply to other disciplines as well. Is there, I have to ask, anything specific about adjuncts teaching writing—or do working conditions trump all? I’ll keep looking.

    In the meantime, thank you, Dr. Klausman. I’ll be looking for your future work.

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  • Part of what I’ve been doing in this blog is noodling around the questions of how adjunct writers’ circumstances affect their writing (and writing teaching), and, by implication, to what extend adjuncts are working in special circumstances.

    Well, here’s one answer to that last question: Bedford /St. Martin’s thinks that adjuncts work in different circumstances. At least, that’s the implication in their online publication Lore. Interestingly, Lore is “a journal for adjunct and graduate student teachers of writing” but it is “edited by TAs, adjuncts, and assistant professors.” I’m tempted to hare off down the “What, no senior faculty need help teaching writing?” trail, but truth be told, comparatively few of them teach writing courses that this is probably simple realism on Bedford St. Martin’s part. So, start with what this dedication implies: graduate students and adjuncts are classed together. It suggests they may also need the most help, and perhaps that they’re the ones doing the composition instruction. (It’s certainly the case at all schools I’ve been associated with.)

    What, then, is Lore, why does it exist, and what does it do? The history of Lore can be found in A Journal Built Around Lore” by Nick Carbone. There Carbone reviewed Lore’s initial history in 2001-2004, as well as a 2009 special issue. Since then, Lorehas become part of Bedford St. Martin’s Bits, a multi-author blog providing advice on teaching composition. (That this new blog still acknowledges the role of the adjunct in composition can be seen in the fact that the blog includes Adjunct Advice from Gregory Zobel.)

    The idea behind Lore—creating a “journal built around lore”— is an intriguing one. On one hand, it represents a kind of theoretical and perhaps political breakthrough: scholarship focusing on pedagogy is undervalued, and so emphasizing it challenges that. The day-to-day elements of teaching that show up in lore is highly situated, and valorized personal experience: both of these depend on relatively recent theoretical structures to be considered worthy of academic writing. On the other hand, my cynical side suggests that Lore may simply have not been necessary until now—that it is a product of the fragmenting academic workplace. (It is definitely a sign of a changing academic workplace, both in the fact it is electronic and in being associated with a publisher.)

    My speculations aside, Lore is highly useful. Victoria Sandbrook, who is blog manager at Bedford St. Martin’s, indicated that the site’s getting a lot of traffic, and that folks are staying long enough to indicate that they’re reading, not just bouncing in and away. The publication’s being cited, and people are linking/referring to it.

    I’m going to take a simpler approach and claim that Lore and Bitsare both useful as personal testimony. I set out to simply sample the various blogs of Bits—and found myself taking notes for assignments and handouts. Some of the blogs won’t be useful for me, but others, including those I initially dismissed, will be. The best example is Barclay Barrios and his tips on teaching composition. I’ve been teaching writing for around 20 years now, and was highly skeptical that I’d learn anything.

    I was very wrong. The post from 11/6, on guiding students through paragraph organization through a formula, was immediately useful. I’ll tinker with it, but I’ll be applying it…within the week. What’s more, the idea behind the tip led me to consider if I could create similar heuristics for any other areas where students regularly face challenges.

    Some of the tips are pretty pedestrian, but they’d all be useful for the graduate student portion of the audience: new teachers need tips on even the basics. As to what might make this applicable to adjunct instructors primarily, or especially, it would have to be the brief tip format. These pedagogical nuggets can be read in a few minutes and applied immediately, anywhere in any course. You don’t have to have a lot of time to introduce a theoretical frame—you don’t even have to have control of your own course design. In that, Bitsis even more useful than Lore itself. Lore’sarticles and forums provide considerable useful perspective on being an adjunct, but they aren’t as immediately applicable as Bits. Taken together, though, very useful. Thanks, Bedford St. Martin’s.

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