There’s a joke that’s been floating around some time now that you’ve likely already heard.* It goes something like the following:
Q: What do you get when you rewind a country song?
A: You get your wife back, your job back, your dog back . . .
Maybe this joke makes you laugh. Or groan. Or tilt your head to the side in confusion. Because it just so happens that in order to get this joke, you must know a little something about country music in general and in particular country music lyrics. You must, in other words, be familiar with the country music genre.
Let’s look into country music lyrics a bit more. Bear with me on this is if you’re not a fan. Assuming I want to write lyrics to a country song, how would I figure out what lyrics are acceptable in terms of country songs? Listening to any country station for a short period of time might leave one with the following conclusions about country songs:
• Country songs tend to tell stories. They often have characters who are developed throughout the song.
• Country songs often have choruses that are broad enough to apply to a variety of verses.
• Country songs are often depressing; people lose jobs, lovers, and friends.
• Country songs express pride for the country style and way of life.
• Country songs are often political, responding to wars and economic crises, for example.
Given these characteristics, I would feel prepared to write some new country lyrics. But what would happen if I wanted to write a country song that didn’t do any of the above things? Would it still be a country song?
You are probably already familiar with many genres, although you may not know them as such; perhaps your knowledge of genres is limited to types of books, whether mystery, horror, action, etc. Now I’m going to ask you to stick with me while I show you how knowledge of genres goes far beyond a simple discussion of types. My purposes are to expand your definition of genre (or to introduce you to a definition for the first time) and to help you start thinking about how genres might apply to your own writing endeavors. But above all, I hope to give you an awareness of how genres function by taking what is often quite theoretical in the field of rhetoric and composition and making it a bit more tangible. So why was I talking about country songs? I think that using such references can help you to see, in a quite concrete way, how genres function.
When I started writing this essay, I had some ideas of what I wanted to say. But first, I had to determine what this essay might look like. I’ve written a lot—letters, nonfiction pieces, scholarly articles, rants—but this was my first time writing an essay to you, a composition student. What features, I asked myself, should go into this essay? How personal could I get? What rhetorical moves might I use, effectively or ineffectively? I hoped that a similar type of essay already existed so that I would have something to guide my own writing. I knew I was looking for other essays written directly to students, and after finding many examples, I looked for common features. In particular, I noted the warm, personal style that was prevalent through every essay; the tone was primarily conversational. And more importantly, I noticed that the writer did not talk as an authoritative figure but as a coach. Some writers admitted that they did not know everything (we don’t), and others even went so far as to admit ignorance. I found myself doing what Mary Jo Reiff, a professor who studies rhetoric and composition, did when she was asked to write about her experience of writing an essay about teaching for those new to the field of composition. She writes, “I immediately called on my genre knowledge—my past experience with reading and writing similar texts in similar situations—to orient me to the expectations of this genre” (157).
I further acknowledged that it is quite rare that teachers of writing get to write so directly to students in such an informal manner. Although textbooks are directed at students, they are often more formal affairs meant to serve a different purpose than this essay. And because the genre of this essay is still developing, there are no formal expectations
for what this paper might look like. In my excitement, I realized that perhaps I had been granted more freedom in writing this essay than is typical of an already established, although never static, genre. As a result, I decided to make this essay a mix of personal anecdotes, examples, and voices from teachers of writing. Such an essay seems to
be the most fitting response to this situation, as I hope to come across as someone both informative and friendly. Why am I telling you this? Because it seems only appropriate that given the fact that I am talking about genre awareness, I should make you aware of my own struggles with writing in a new genre.
I will admit that the word genre used to have a bad reputation and may still make some people cringe. Genre used to refer primarily to form, which meant that writing in a particular genre was seen as simply a matter of filling in the blanks. Anne Freadman, a specialist in genre theory, points out that “it is this kind of genre theory with its failures that has caused the discredit of the very notion of genre, bringing about in turn its disuse and the disrepair many of us found it in” (46). But genre theory has come a long way since then. Perhaps the shift started when the rhetorician Lloyd Bitzer wrote the following:
Due to either the nature of things or convention, or
both, some situations recur. The courtroom is the
locus for several kinds of situations generating the
speech of accusation, the speech of defense, the charge
to the jury. From day to day, year to year, comparable
situations occur, prompting comparable responses;
hence rhetorical forms are born and a special vocabulary,
grammar, and style are established. (13)
In other words, Bitzer is saying that when something new happens that requires a response, someone must create that first response. Then when that situation happens again, another person uses the first response as a basis for the second, and eventually everyone who encounters this situation is basing his/her response on the previous ones,
resulting in the creation of a new genre. Think about George Washington giving the first State of the Union Address. Because this genre was completely new, he had complete freedom to pick its form and content. All presidents following him now have these former addresses to help guide their response because the situation is now a reoccurring
one. Amy Devitt, a professor who specializes in the study of genre theory, points out that “genres develop, then, because they respond appropriately to situations that writers encounter repeatedly” (“Generalizing” 576) and because “if each writing problem were to require a completely new assessment of how to respond, writing would be slowed considerably. But once we recognize a recurring situation, a situation that we or others have responded to in the past, our response to that situation can be guided by past responses” (“Generalizing” 576). As such, we can see how a genre like the State of the Union Address helps for more effective communication between the president and
citizens because the president already has a genre with which to work; he/she doesn’t have to create a new one, and citizens know what to expect from such an address.
The definition of genre has changed even more since Bitzer’s article was written; genres are now viewed as even more than repeating rhetorical situations. Carolyn Miller, a leading professor in the field of technical communication, argues that “a rhetorically sound definition of genre must be centered . . . on the action it is used to accomplish” (151). How might this look? These actions don’t have to be complex; many genres are a part of our daily lives. Think about genres as tools to help people to get things done. Devitt writes that:
genres have the power to help or hurt human interaction,
to ease communication or to deceive, to enable
someone to speak or to discourage someone from saying
something different. People learn how to do small
talk to ease the social discomfort of large group gatherings
and meeting new people, but advertisers learn
how to disguise sales letters as winning sweepstakes entries.
In other words, knowing what a genre is used for can help people to accomplish goals, whether that goal be getting a job by knowing how to write a stellar resume, winning a person’s heart by writing a romantic love letter, or getting into college by writing an effective personal statement.
By this point you might realize that you have been participating in many different genres—whether you are telling a joke, writing an email, or uploading a witty status on Facebook. Because you know how these genres function as social actions, you can quite accurately predict how they function rhetorically; your joke should generate a laugh, your email should elicit a response, and your updated Facebook status should generate comments from your online friends. But you have done more than simply filled in the blanks. Possibly without even thinking about it, you were recognizing the rhetorical situation of your action and choosing to act in a manner that would result in the outcome you desired. I imagine that you would probably not share a risqué joke with your mom, send a “Hey Buddy” email to your professor, or update your Facebook status as “X has a huge wart on his foot.” We can see that more than form matters here, as knowing what is appropriate in these situations obviously requires more rhetorical knowledge than does filling out a credit card form. Devitt argues that “people do not label a particular story as a joke solely because of formal features but rather because of their perception of the rhetorical action that is occurring” (Writing 11). True, genres often have formulaic features, but these features can change even as the nature of the genre remains (Devitt, Writing, 48). What is important to consider here is that if mastering a form were simply a matter of plugging in content, we would all be capable of successfully writing anything when we are given a formula. By now you likely know that writing is not that easy.
Fortunately, even if you have been taught to write in a formulaic way, you probably don’t treat texts in such a manner. When approaching a genre for a the first time, you likely view it as more than a simple form: “Picking up a text, readers not only classify it and expect a certain form, but also make assumptions about the text’s purposes, its
subject matter, its writer, and its expected reader” (Devitt, Writing 12). We treat texts that we encounter as rhetorical objects; we choose between horror movies and chick flicks not only because we are familiar with their forms but because we know what response they will elicit from us (nail-biting fear and dreamy sighs, respectively). Why am I
picking popular genres to discuss? I think I agree with Miller when she argues the following:
To consider as potential genres such homely discourse
as the letter of recommendation, the user manual, the
progress report, the ransom note, the lecture, and the
white paper, as well as the eulogy, the apologia, the
inaugural, the public proceeding, and the sermon, is
not to trivialize the study of genres; it is to take seriously
the rhetoric in which we are immersed and the
situations in which we find ourselves. (155)
In other words, Miller is saying that all genres matter because they shape our everyday lives. And by studying the genres that we find familiar, we can start to see how specific choices that writers make result in specific actions on the part of readers; it only follows that our own writing must too be purposefully written.
I like examples, so here is one more. Many of you may be familiar with The Onion, a fictitious newspaper that uses real world examples to create humorous situations. Perhaps the most notable genre of The Onion is its headlines. The purpose of these headlines is simple: to make the reader respond by laughing. While many of the articles are also entertaining, the majority of the humor is produced through the headlines. In fact, the headlines are so important to the success of the newspaper that they are tested on volunteers to see the readers’ immediate responses. There are no formal features of these headlines besides the fact that they are all quite brief; they share no specific style. But they are a rhetorical action meant to bring about a specific response, which is why I see them as being their own genre. A few examples for those of you unfamiliar with this newspaper would help to explain what I’m saying. Here are a few of my personal favorites (politically charged or other possibly offensive headlines purposefully avoided):
• “Archaeological Dig Uncovers Ancient Race of Skeleton People”
• “Don’t Run Away, I’m Not the Flesh-Eating Kind of Zombie”
• “Time Traveler: Everyone In The Future Eats Dippin’ Dots”
• “‘I Am Under 18’ Button Clicked For First Time In History Of Internet”
• “Commas, Turning Up, Everywhere”
• “Myspace Outage Leaves Millions Friendless.”
• “Amazon.com Recommendations Understand Area Woman Better Than Husband”
• “Study: Dolphins Not So Intelligent On Land”
• “Beaver Overthinking Dam”
• “Study: Alligators Dangerous No Matter How Drunk You Are”
• “Child In Corner To Exact Revenge As Soon As He Gets Out” (The Onion)
I would surmise with near certainty that at least one of these headlines made you laugh. Why? I think the success lies in the fact that the writers of these headlines are rhetorically aware of whom these headlines are directed toward—college students like you, and more specifically, educated college students who know enough about politics,
culture, and U.S. and world events to “get” these headlines.
And now for some bad news: figuring out a genre is tricky already, but this process is further complicated by the fact that two texts that might fit into the same genre might also look extremely different. But let’s think about why this might be the case. Devitt points out, “different grocery stores make for different grocery lists. Different law courts
make for different legal briefs. And different college classes make for different research papers. Location may not be the first, second, and third most important qualities of writing, as it is for real estate, but location is surely among the situational elements that lead to expected genres and to adaptations of those genres in particular situations”
(“Transferability” 218). Think about a time when you were asked to write a research paper. You probably had an idea of what that paper should look like, but you also needed to consider the location of the assignment. In other words, you needed to consider how your particular teacher’s expectations would help to shape your assignment. This makes knowing a genre about much more than simply knowing its form. You also need to consider the context in which it is being used. As such, it’s important to be aware that the research paper you might be required to write in freshman composition might be completely different than the research paper you might be asked to write for an introductory psychology class. Your goal is to recognize these shifts in location and to be aware of how such shifts might affect your writing.
Let’s consider a genre with which you are surely familiar: the thesis statement. Stop for a moment and consider what this term means to you. Ask your classmates. It’s likely that you each have your own definition of what a thesis statement should and should not look like. You may have heard never to start a thesis statement with a phrase like
“In this essay.” Or you might have been taught that a thesis statement should have three parts, each of which will be discussed in one paragraph of the essay. I learned that many good thesis statements follow the formula “X because Y,” where “X” refers to a specific stance, and “Y” refers to a specific reason for taking that stance. For example, I
could argue “School uniforms should be required because they will help students to focus more on academics and less on fashion.” Now, whether or not this is a good thesis statement is irrelevant, but you can see how following the “X because Y” formula would produce a nicely structured statement. Take this a step further and research “thesis
statements” on the Internet, and you’ll find that there are endless suggestions. And despite their vast differences, they all fit under the genre of thesis statement. How is this possible? Because it comes back to the particular situation in which that thesis statement is being used. Again, location is everything.
I think it’s time to try our hand at approaching a genre with which I hope all of you are only vaguely familiar and completely unpracticed: the ransom note.