The whole debate of author intention versus what’s on the page is so interesting that it merits its own post. My first thoughts are that the writer’s intention comes into play at certain points in the process. But once the writing is in a form far enough along to submit to a workshop, I do think the words should speak for themselves, more because of the possibilities the words offer than the obvious fact that the writer can’t accompany the writing everywhere to explain what he or she meant.

In September at our most recent writing group workshop, I became convinced of the usefulness of not letting the writer speak. There is often so much more on the page than the writer is aware of. Letting the writer speak would limit the discussion to intention rather than open it up to possibility. Afterward, intention can come back into play. The writer can take what she or he learned is on the page and change, add to, or delete.

Great comment. Thanks, Annie.

It’s fascinating to me that you say you were putting both the reader’s and the writer’s voices on the page. My class called Approaches to Teaching Writing is focusing on ways that literary studies, composition, and creative writing intersect. We just read a chapter from _The Workshop_ by Tom Grimes that addresses this very issue. He writes about the Iowa Writer’s Workshop and the influence of the theorists who ignore authorial desire. Essentially, the workshop model insists that writer’s intentions don’t matter – it’s about just the words on the page. I think this is so interesting, particularly in relation to your thoughtful piece, because as writer’s we *know* the feeling we want our readers to experience, but it’s so hard to get there indirectly. Of course, that’s also what makes reading so great – that there’s beauty and the possibility of interpretation! In any case, I so enjoyed reading about your journey to becoming a writer. (If you were in my class, we would have called it your “literacy narrative.” Oh, school!)

Annie

“When I write, I’ve been putting both voices—the reader’s and the writer’s—on the page, which then left the reader nothing to do.”

Now, of course, I’m wondering if I do the same thing. You mentioned “apparently” as a red flag for you. Are there other typical words that signal crossing over into reader mode?

Here’s the example where it was first clear to me what was going on:

“Don’t go,” I said, surprising myself. How many times in my dreams had I wanted him to leave? [Apparently real life was another thing.] I took a step toward him.