When my American Literature professor assigned us our final paper, her advice was to make our argument as specific as possible. For an 8-page paper. I thought this woman was completely out of touch of the undergraduate reality because there was no way a narrow argument would fill up that many pages.
Not that what I thought mattered because this paper had to be written come hell or high water, and as the deadline loomed, the water was rising up around my shoulders. So, okay. Let’s try the out of touch professor’s advice. For grins and giggles. Picture me then, a college student delirious with panic because this 8-page paper had to magically appear by the next morning.
In a fit of indignant pique, I made the following argument (in the spirit of being as specific as it was possible for me to be in my panic-fueled state):
Despite the criticisms that this novel is disorganized and meaningless, the analysis of the episode of the mutiny onboard the Grampus leads to an interpretation that suggests that the seeming madness of the story can actually be understood as a repressed fear of slave rebellions in the American South, and this interpretation leads to a unification of the piece as a whole.
(I was writing about The Narrative of Arthur Gordon Pym of Nantucket by Edgar Allan Poe, if you were wondering. It’s an extremely weird and chaotic book that I had to argue was actually a work of genius.)
Okay, now what? The 8-page quota loomed ever larger, like a demon growing stronger the more it feeds on my panic.
What happened still amazes me to this day.
The thesis is essentially three claims, each of which I had to set up and defend: 1) criticisms of disorganization and lack of meaning, 2) the interpretation of the mutiny, 3) how the interpretation fits the novel as a whole.
Having actually read the book (God help me), I started to realize how long it would take to set up and defend these points. Suddenly 8 pages had shrunk to maybe not being enough?
Who’d have thought specificity would strengthen my argument? Not I, that’s for damn sure. After five hours in the library, my 7-page long paper was concise and well-structured. And I got that paper back with a beautiful red “A” on it.
Okay, confession: I sprawl. I’m a sprawler. I lounge languorously from page 1 until I run out of steam and collapse, exhausted, around halfway through the manuscript because my arms just can’t juggle that many subplots and extraneous “character building” scenes anymore.
I wasn’t pleased with my external plot of my current manuscript because of this reason. It lacked cohesiveness. I was throwing spaghetti at the wall to see if it was done and it all ended up at my feet in a soupy, gloopy mess.
Enter specificity in the form of a mentor from my MFA program.
Explaining my problem to him, he nodded, his mouth scrunched, disappearing into his beard as he thought a moment. Then, “Why don’t you do [insert very simplistic but brilliant idea for external plot here]?” he says, very nonchalantly, as if he hadn’t just possibly fixed a problem I’ve been having with this book for years.
WHY DON’T I JUST, SIR? WHY DON’T I JUST.
In the space of, oh, two seconds, I had a single cohesive line of thought that I could hook into my internal plot and instead of my characters wandering around like lost little lambs whose shepherd was directionally challenged, they were charging like Braveheart warriors in a straight line right towards an end goal that actually made sense.
Specificity, my friends. Specificity is where it’s at.