On Over-(and Under)Thinking

It's been a while, as the faux-metal emo among us might have it. The semester usually gets away from me, and this one in particular ended pretty powerfully and busily. But I'm still here, and I'm still writing. My summer projects are all dissertation-oriented - I'm not there yet, but I'm trying to think of the next phase as an integral part of it (which, in fact, it is, whether I think of it that way or not). I'll plan to write more focused and specific posts about that work over here, and save this space for less professional musings (for the four of you who read this primarily, I suspect, as people who love me).

I did want to get some thoughts down here on overthinking, though, since I'm good at it and I've been doing a fair bit of it as I embark on this next project. Some of my research interests as a comp-rhet person center on process, so my overthinking sometimes can morph into the framework for actual projects. I love to talk to my colleagues and my students, for example, about their processes as they write. Lately, the idea of what my Process Will Be on this Next Important Project has made it hard to get much Actual Writing done. Guilt comes along with that, and also Intransigence.

But I've made it through to the other side (where actual reading and writing live), and that in itself makes me think: we, as thinkers and doers and teachers, need breaks. But we also have a lot of thinking and doing and teaching that happen when we aren't looking. Every time I talk to a mentor or a friend or a loved one about my work, I'm adding to the thinking I'm doing. It's like a low-level buzz - never really off, for good or ill. It's underthinking: happening all the time, feeding into the actual work that happens. It's part of the reason I do what I do.

Happy summer to all!

Winterson and Silence

Consider Jeanette Winterson's essay "A Work of My Own," in which she writes:

 "My work is rooted in silence. It grows out of deep beds of contemplation, where words, which are living things, can form and re-form into new wholes. [...] It is sometimes necessary to be silent for months before the central image of a book can occur. I do not write every day, I read every day, think every day, work in the garden every day, and recognise in nature the same slow complicity. The same inevitability. The moment will arrive, always it does, it can be predicted but it cannot be demanded. I do not think of this as inspiration. I think of this as readiness. A writer lives in a constant state of readiness."

I often think of the unspoken (and the state of readiness) in specifically pedagogical contexts:
The frenzy (or lack) of participation
Wanting to get your comment in before someone else
Getting beaten to it (by students or professor)
Coming up with new things

 In this environment of intellectual rush, what does slow complicity mean to you?