Vol. 18, No. 1 2002 Fall - Software @ SFU Library

Transcription

Editors/Rédactrices en chef
Editors/Rédactrices en chef
Gloria Borrows
Fay Hyndman
Nadeane Trowse
Gloria Borrows
Fay Hyndman
Nadeane Trowse
Guest Editors/Direction de ce numéro
Guest Editors/Direction de ce numéro
Céline Beaudet
Céline Beaudet
Université de Sherbrooke
Graham Smart
Graham Smart
University of Wisconsin, Milwaukee
Editorial Committee/
Comité de rédaction
Céline Beaudet
Jacqueline Bossé-Andrieu
Université d’Ottawa
Aviva Freedman
Carleton University
Janet Giltrow
University of British Columbia
Amanda Goldrick-Jones
University of Winnipeg
Pamela Grant-Russell
Thomas Huckin
University of Utah
Michael Jordan
Review Editors/
Responsables des Section
Comptes rendus de lecture
Editorial Committee/
Comité de rédaction
Janet Giltrow
Shurli Makmillen
Translation/Traduction
Céline Beaudet
Jacqueline Bossé-Andrieu
Université d’Ottawa
Zelie Gueval
Aviva Freedman
Betty-Joan Traverse
Janet Giltrow
University College of the Fraser Valley
Production Executive/Éditique
William Glasgow
Graphic Designer/
Réalisation graphique
Alan Loo,
Douglas College
Carleton University
Amanda Goldrick-Jones
University of Winnipeg
Pamela Grant-Russell
Thomas Huckin
University of Utah
Michael Jordan
Review Editors/
Responsables des Section
Comptes rendus de lecture
Janet Giltrow
Shurli Makmillen
Translation/Traduction
Zelie Gueval
Betty-Joan Traverse
Production Executive/Éditique
William Glasgow
Graphic Designer/
Réalisation graphique
Alan Loo,
Douglas College
Queen’s University
Special Thank You/Remerciements
Queen’s University
Special Thank You/Remerciements
Lilita Rodman
Dr. H.A. Bassford
Lilita Rodman
Dr. H.A. Bassford
Catherine Schryer
University of Waterloo
Graham Smart
President,
Congress of the Social Sciences
and Humanities
University of Waterloo
for funding to Occasional Conferences
Catherine Schryer
Graham Smart
Michele Valiquette
Michele Valiquette
Simon Fraser University
Simon Fraser University
President,
Congress of the Social Sciences
and Humanities
for funding to Occasional Conferences
contient des articles et
contient des articles et
presents articles and
des comptes rendus
presents articles and
des comptes rendus
reviews of interest to
présentant un intérêt
reviews of interest to
présentant un intérêt
teachers, practitioners,
pour les professeurs,
teachers, practitioners,
pour les professeurs,
or researchers involved
praticiens ou chercheurs
or researchers involved
praticiens ou chercheurs
in technical, academic,
dont les activités touchent
in technical, academic,
dont les activités touchent
professional, scientific,
la communication
professional, scientific,
la communication
and governmental
communication.
commerciale, technique,
professionnelle, scientifique,
ou gouvernementale.
and governmental
communication.
commerciale, technique,
professionnelle, scientifique,
ou gouvernementale.
The Canadian Association of
Teachers of Technical Writing
The Canadian Association of
Teachers of Technical Writing
Association canadienne des professeurs de
rédaction technique et scientifique
Vol. 18, No. 1 2002 Fall
vol. 18, nº 1 Automne 2002
Vol. 18, No. 1 2002 Fall
vol. 18, nº 1 Automne 2002
Technostyle is published with the assistance of the Writing Centre, University
College of the Fraser Valley, Abbotsford, BC
Technostyle is published with the assistance of the Writing Centre, University
College of the Fraser Valley, Abbotsford, BC
Technostyle est publié grâce à l’appui du Centre d’écriture de University College
of the Fraser Valley, Abbotsford, BC
Technostyle est publié grâce à l’appui du Centre d’écriture de University College
of the Fraser Valley, Abbotsford, BC
CATTW/ACPRTS
CATTW/ACPRTS
ISSN: 0712-4627
ISSN: 0712-4627
© 2002 Canadian Association of Teachers of Technical Writing/
Association canadienne des professeurs de rédaction technique et scientifique
© 2002 Canadian Association of Teachers of Technical Writing/
Association canadienne des professeurs de rédaction technique et scientifique
Contents/
Sommaire
Contents/
Sommaire
vi
Contributors
vi
Contributors
1
Introduction
1
Introduction
Claire Harrison
5
Masters of Rhetorical
Knowledgeability
Claire Harrison
5
Masters of Rhetorical
Knowledgeability
Isabelle Clerc
Céline Beaudet
27
Pour un enseignement
de la rédaction
professionnelle ou de la
rédaction technique ?
Isabelle Clerc
Céline Beaudet
27
Pour un enseignement
de la rédaction
professionnelle ou de la
rédaction technique ?
Éric Kavanagh
45
Entre identité et lisibilité : le
cas embarrassant du Canada
Éric Kavanagh
45
Entre identité et lisibilité : le
cas embarrassant du Canada
Marjorie Rush Hovde
61
Negotiating Organizational
Constraints: Tactics for
Technical Communicators
Marjorie Rush Hovde
61
Negotiating Organizational
Constraints: Tactics for
Technical Communicators
Bertrand Labasse
95
Entre déficit
épistémologique et défi
procédural : une discipline
en souffrance d’expertise
Bertrand Labasse
95
Entre déficit
épistémologique et défi
procédural : une discipline
en souffrance d’expertise
Papers/Articles
iv
Papers/Articles
iv
Contents/
Sommaire
Graham Smart
Nicole Brown
117
Learning Transfer or
Transforming Learning?:
Student Interns Reinventing
Expert Writing Practices in
the Workplace
Russ Hunt
142
Worlds Apart Acting &
Writing in Academic &
Workplace Contexts by
Patrick Dias, Aviva
Freedman, Peter Medway,
Anthony Paré
147
152
Contents/
Sommaire
Graham Smart
Nicole Brown
117
Learning Transfer or
Transforming Learning?:
Student Interns Reinventing
Expert Writing Practices in
the Workplace
Russ Hunt
142
Worlds Apart Acting &
Writing in Academic &
Workplace Contexts by
Patrick Dias, Aviva
Freedman, Peter Medway,
Anthony Paré
Announcements/
Annonces
147
Announcements/
Annonces
Call for Papers/
Appel de communications
152
Call for Papers/
Appel de communications
Review/Compte Rendu
v
Review/Compte Rendu
v
CONTRIBUTORS
CONTRIBUTORS
Céline Beaudet
Céline Beaudet est professeure titulaire. Elle enseigne la communication écrite au
Département des lettres et communications de l’Université de Sherbrooke. Ses travaux
de recherche portent sur la lisibilité et l’intelligibilité des textes à visées utilitaires, en
particulier des textes d’orientation persuasive. Avec la collaboration d’Isabelle Clerc,
elle termine la rédaction d’un ouvrage intitulé Stratégies d’argumentation et impact
social : le cas des textes utilitaires (à paraître en 2003 aux Éditions Nota bene).
Céline Beaudet
Céline Beaudet est professeure titulaire. Elle enseigne la communication écrite au
Département des lettres et communications de l’Université de Sherbrooke. Ses travaux
de recherche portent sur la lisibilité et l’intelligibilité des textes à visées utilitaires, en
particulier des textes d’orientation persuasive. Avec la collaboration d’Isabelle Clerc,
elle termine la rédaction d’un ouvrage intitulé Stratégies d’argumentation et impact
social : le cas des textes utilitaires (à paraître en 2003 aux Éditions Nota bene).
Nicole Brown
Nicole Brown is an Instructor in the English Department at Western Washington
University where she teaches courses in rhetoric, digital theory, and technical writing.
Her research interests include workplace writing, service learning, and [cyber]cultural
studies.
Nicole Brown
Nicole Brown is an Instructor in the English Department at Western Washington
University where she teaches courses in rhetoric, digital theory, and technical writing.
Her research interests include workplace writing, service learning, and [cyber]cultural
studies.
Isabelle Clerc
Isabelle Clerc est prfesseure agrégée. Elle enseigne la communication écrite au
Département d’information et de communication de l’Université Laval à Québec,
Canada. Ses travaux portent sur la question de l’efficacité communicationnelle à l’écrit,
principalement dans un contexte d’écriture adaptée à de faibles lecteurs. Elle poursuit
actuellement des recherches sur la simplification des communications
gouvernementales pour le compte du ministère des Relations avec les citoyens et de
l’Immigration du Québec.
Isabelle Clerc
Isabelle Clerc est prfesseure agrégée. Elle enseigne la communication écrite au
Département d’information et de communication de l’Université Laval à Québec,
Canada. Ses travaux portent sur la question de l’efficacité communicationnelle à l’écrit,
principalement dans un contexte d’écriture adaptée à de faibles lecteurs. Elle poursuit
actuellement des recherches sur la simplification des communications
gouvernementales pour le compte du ministère des Relations avec les citoyens et de
l’Immigration du Québec.
Claire Harrison
Claire Harrison is a professional writer with 25 years experience working for government and corporate clients. She is also the co-author of Developing Online Content:
The Principles of Writing and Editing for the Web (John Wiley & Sons 2002) and is
currently co-editing a collection of papers on systemic functional linguistics and critical
discourse analysis.
Claire Harrison
Claire Harrison is a professional writer with 25 years experience working for government and corporate clients. She is also the co-author of Developing Online Content:
The Principles of Writing and Editing for the Web (John Wiley & Sons 2002) and is
currently co-editing a collection of papers on systemic functional linguistics and critical
discourse analysis.
vi
vi
Marjorie Rush Hovde
Marjorie Rush Hovde is an Assistant Professor of English and Technical Communications at Indiana University-Purdue University Indianapolis, USA. Her research interests include the integration of professional communication theory with workplace
practices and contexts.
Marjorie Rush Hovde
Marjorie Rush Hovde is an Assistant Professor of English and Technical Communications at Indiana University-Purdue University Indianapolis, USA. Her research interests include the integration of professional communication theory with workplace
practices and contexts.
Éric Kavanagh
Éric Kavanagh est à la fois étudiant au doctorat en linguistique et professeur de
multimédia à l’Université Laval. Il s’intéresse principalement à l’intelligibilité des sites
Web. Les questions de rédaction et de structuration de l’hypermédia sont l’objet de
ses recherches les plus récentes. En tant que rédacteur pigiste, il a eu de nombreux
contrats de rédaction et d’analyse communicationnelle pour les gouvernements fédéral
et provincial du Québec, tant en ce qui a trait à l’imprimé qu’à l’électronique.
Éric Kavanagh
Éric Kavanagh est à la fois étudiant au doctorat en linguistique et professeur de
multimédia à l’Université Laval. Il s’intéresse principalement à l’intelligibilité des sites
Web. Les questions de rédaction et de structuration de l’hypermédia sont l’objet de
ses recherches les plus récentes. En tant que rédacteur pigiste, il a eu de nombreux
contrats de rédaction et d’analyse communicationnelle pour les gouvernements fédéral
et provincial du Québec, tant en ce qui a trait à l’imprimé qu’à l’électronique.
Bertrand Labasse
Bertrand Labasse est coordonnateur du programme “Information et complexité” de
la Communauté urbaine de Lyon et dirige dans cette même ville le Centre d’études en
communication publique. Enseignant à l’Université Lyon 1 et à l’Ecole supérieure de
journalisme de Lille, professeur associé à l’Université Laval, il est l’auteur de “La Communication scientifique” (Editions Colbert) de “Une dynamique de l’insignifiance”
(à paraître aux Presses de l’ENSSIB).
Bertrand Labasse
Bertrand Labasse est coordonnateur du programme “Information et complexité” de
la Communauté urbaine de Lyon et dirige dans cette même ville le Centre d’études en
communication publique. Enseignant à l’Université Lyon 1 et à l’Ecole supérieure de
journalisme de Lille, professeur associé à l’Université Laval, il est l’auteur de “La Communication scientifique” (Editions Colbert) de “Une dynamique de l’insignifiance”
(à paraître aux Presses de l’ENSSIB).
Graham Smart
Graham Smart is an Assistant Professor of English in the Professional and Technical
Writing Program at the University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee. His research and teaching focus on workplace writing, qualitative research methods, and the discourses of
environmentalism, globalization, and public policy.
Graham Smart
Graham Smart is an Assistant Professor of English in the Professional and Technical
Writing Program at the University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee. His research and teaching focus on workplace writing, qualitative research methods, and the discourses of
environmentalism, globalization, and public policy.
vii
vii
Céline Beaudet and Graham Smart
1
1
Introduction
Introduction
In this special issue of Technostyle we are pleased to present six articles-three in
French and three in English-on a topic we believe to be central to our field: the expertise of professional writers and its development. The aim of the issue is twofold:
to examine the expert practices of “career writers” (Couture & Rymer, 1993)-technical communicators, journalists, editors, web-content designers, grant writers and
other individuals who, professionally, are identified primarily by writing; and to consider how, as educators, we can best prepare our students for engagement in such
expert practices when they leave our classrooms to enter the workplace.
This special issue appears against a backdrop of recent research arguing that
much professional writing is thoroughly enmeshed in the particularities of local contexts, and that therefore certain aspects of the expertise needed to function effectively in a given work environment can only be honed through experience in that
environment (Dias, Freedman, Medway, & Paré, 1999; Henry, 2000). While we recognize the contribution and important implications of this research, we continue to
believe that students in our classrooms can be guided in developing expert writing
practices that will later serve them well in a range of different worksites. The six articles in this issue address, in different ways and from a variety of scholarly perspectives, such theoretical and pedagogical concerns.
In this special issue of Technostyle we are pleased to present six articles-three in
French and three in English-on a topic we believe to be central to our field: the expertise of professional writers and its development. The aim of the issue is twofold:
to examine the expert practices of “career writers” (Couture & Rymer, 1993)-technical communicators, journalists, editors, web-content designers, grant writers and
other individuals who, professionally, are identified primarily by writing; and to consider how, as educators, we can best prepare our students for engagement in such
expert practices when they leave our classrooms to enter the workplace.
This special issue appears against a backdrop of recent research arguing that
much professional writing is thoroughly enmeshed in the particularities of local contexts, and that therefore certain aspects of the expertise needed to function effectively in a given work environment can only be honed through experience in that
environment (Dias, Freedman, Medway, & Paré, 1999; Henry, 2000). While we recognize the contribution and important implications of this research, we continue to
believe that students in our classrooms can be guided in developing expert writing
practices that will later serve them well in a range of different worksites. The six articles in this issue address, in different ways and from a variety of scholarly perspectives, such theoretical and pedagogical concerns.
Bertrand Labasse s’intéresse aux fondements épistémologiques d’une nouvelle
discipline qu’il nomme la rédactique. Examinant tour à tour les connaissances déclaratives et procédurales qui fondent l’expertise langagière et communicationnelle
du rédacteur professionnel par rapport au novice, il souligne la part importante que
les experts concèdent à la planification et à la structuration de l’écrit. À cette base
base disciplinaire constituée des sciences du langage et de la communication s’ajoute
la psychologie cognitive, fondement de la compréhension du lecteur, faisant de la
rédactique la rencontre entre trois disciplines. Pour conclure, Labasse met en garde
contre la tentation de transformer des notions scientifiques en prescriptions pseudoscientifiques et appelle à la collecte de données expérimentales pour faire émerger
une nouvelle discipline scientifique, la rédactique.
Éric Kavanagh examine les motivations derière la décision du gouvernement
canadien d’ajouter le segment « du Canada » aux appellations de ses parcs et lieux
historiques nationaux. Ainsi, plutôt que Lieu historique national de la Bataille-dela-Chateauguay, nous lisons sur les affiches : Lieu historique national du Canada de
la Bataille-de-la-Châteauguay. Kavanagh examine plusieurs raisons d’ordres linguis-
Bertrand Labasse s’intéresse aux fondements épistémologiques d’une nouvelle
discipline qu’il nomme la rédactique. Examinant tour à tour les connaissances déclaratives et procédurales qui fondent l’expertise langagière et communicationnelle
du rédacteur professionnel par rapport au novice, il souligne la part importante que
les experts concèdent à la planification et à la structuration de l’écrit. À cette base
base disciplinaire constituée des sciences du langage et de la communication s’ajoute
la psychologie cognitive, fondement de la compréhension du lecteur, faisant de la
rédactique la rencontre entre trois disciplines. Pour conclure, Labasse met en garde
contre la tentation de transformer des notions scientifiques en prescriptions pseudoscientifiques et appelle à la collecte de données expérimentales pour faire émerger
une nouvelle discipline scientifique, la rédactique.
Éric Kavanagh examine les motivations derière la décision du gouvernement
canadien d’ajouter le segment « du Canada » aux appellations de ses parcs et lieux
historiques nationaux. Ainsi, plutôt que Lieu historique national de la Bataille-dela-Chateauguay, nous lisons sur les affiches : Lieu historique national du Canada de
la Bataille-de-la-Châteauguay. Kavanagh examine plusieurs raisons d’ordres linguis-
Technostyle Vol. 18, No. 1 2002 Fall
2
Présentation/Introduction
2
Présentation/Introduction
tique et communicationnel qui justifieraient d’autres approches dans la politique
d’appellation de Parcs Canada, à qui Parcs Québec a emboîté le pas en nommant
chacune de ses réserves environnementales Parc national Québec. L’auteur met en
évidence la nécessité pour le rédacteur professionnel de comprendre la culture organisationnelle de son mandant, à défaut de quoi il sera confronté à l’échec.
Isabelle Clerc et Céline Beaudet se sont penchées sur les distinctions à établir
entre les compétences des rédacteurs professionnels et des rédacteurs techniques. Il
y a un déficit de rédacteurs techniques au Québec et dans les pays francophones d’Europe, d’où la question motivant cette recherche. Les auteures soutiennent que cette
pénurie est le résultat d’un malentendu plutôt que d’un manque réel de candidats.
Examinant les compétences d’un rédacteur professionnel non spécialisé et d’un rédacteur professionnel spécialisé (comme le rédacteur technique), Clerc et Beaudet
soutiennent que les deux sont des experts en communication écrite et que, dès lors,
ils doivent être formés, à la base, en sciences du langage et de la communication.
« Tant que les employeurs chercheront les communicateurs parmi les experts en contenu, tels les ingénieurs, ils perpétueront d’eux-mêmes la pénurie de rédacteurs techniques », concluent-elles.
tique et communicationnel qui justifieraient d’autres approches dans la politique
d’appellation de Parcs Canada, à qui Parcs Québec a emboîté le pas en nommant
chacune de ses réserves environnementales Parc national Québec. L’auteur met en
évidence la nécessité pour le rédacteur professionnel de comprendre la culture organisationnelle de son mandant, à défaut de quoi il sera confronté à l’échec.
Isabelle Clerc et Céline Beaudet se sont penchées sur les distinctions à établir
entre les compétences des rédacteurs professionnels et des rédacteurs techniques. Il
y a un déficit de rédacteurs techniques au Québec et dans les pays francophones d’Europe, d’où la question motivant cette recherche. Les auteures soutiennent que cette
pénurie est le résultat d’un malentendu plutôt que d’un manque réel de candidats.
Examinant les compétences d’un rédacteur professionnel non spécialisé et d’un rédacteur professionnel spécialisé (comme le rédacteur technique), Clerc et Beaudet
soutiennent que les deux sont des experts en communication écrite et que, dès lors,
ils doivent être formés, à la base, en sciences du langage et de la communication.
« Tant que les employeurs chercheront les communicateurs parmi les experts en contenu, tels les ingénieurs, ils perpétueront d’eux-mêmes la pénurie de rédacteurs techniques », concluent-elles.
Marjorie Rush-Hovde describes how four technical writers, in two different
worksites, employed a variety of socio-interactional tactics in dealing with constraints
within their organizations. These tactics were used to maintain organizational practices, to resist them, or to shape the practices pro-actively. Rush-Hovde shows how
certain tactics allowed the technical writers to negotiate effectively with co-workers
in their organizations, especially by providing arguments congruent with their organization’s goals and culture, while other tactics were largely ineffectual. She suggests that the ability to deploy socio-interactional tactics successfully is a key area of
expertise for technical writers.
Claire Harrison looks at another facet of the expertise enacted by professional
writers. Drawing on data gathered from four freelance writers and on her own experience as a freelancer, Harrison identifies six roles that writers play in their relationships with clients and texts in attempting to gain mastery of an organization’s discourse genres. According to Harrison, these roles enable writers to develop “rhetorical knowledgeability”: through “reading” on organization’s ideological landscape and
gaining a sense of how the ideology shapes discourse, freelance writers are able to
reproduce, enhance, or alter the organization’s genres with great dexterity.
In their study, Graham Smart and Nicole Brown observed 24 student interns
from an undergraduate Professional Writing major as they moved from the classroom into the workplace. As the interns accomplished writing tasks in a variety of
Marjorie Rush-Hovde describes how four technical writers, in two different
worksites, employed a variety of socio-interactional tactics in dealing with constraints
within their organizations. These tactics were used to maintain organizational practices, to resist them, or to shape the practices pro-actively. Rush-Hovde shows how
certain tactics allowed the technical writers to negotiate effectively with co-workers
in their organizations, especially by providing arguments congruent with their organization’s goals and culture, while other tactics were largely ineffectual. She suggests that the ability to deploy socio-interactional tactics successfully is a key area of
expertise for technical writers.
Claire Harrison looks at another facet of the expertise enacted by professional
writers. Drawing on data gathered from four freelance writers and on her own experience as a freelancer, Harrison identifies six roles that writers play in their relationships with clients and texts in attempting to gain mastery of an organization’s discourse genres. According to Harrison, these roles enable writers to develop “rhetorical knowledgeability”: through “reading” on organization’s ideological landscape and
gaining a sense of how the ideology shapes discourse, freelance writers are able to
reproduce, enhance, or alter the organization’s genres with great dexterity.
In their study, Graham Smart and Nicole Brown observed 24 student interns
from an undergraduate Professional Writing major as they moved from the classroom into the workplace. As the interns accomplished writing tasks in a variety of
Technostyle vol. 18, nº 1 Automne 2002
3
genres within their respective worksites, their interactions with co-workers and culturally constructed artifacts enabled them to perform and further develop expert
writing practices. Smart and Brown challenge the cognitivist concept of learning
transfer, arguing that what occurred in the internships was a transformation of learning and a reinvention of expert practices.
We believe that, collectively, these six articles offer our readers a range of insights about the expert practices displayed by professional writers and about the role
that educators can play in preparing their students to enter the workplace as competent and confident practitioners. We hope you view this special issue in a similar
light, car c’était notre intention et le point de vue à partir duquel nous avons conçu
notre numéro.
3
genres within their respective worksites, their interactions with co-workers and culturally constructed artifacts enabled them to perform and further develop expert
writing practices. Smart and Brown challenge the cognitivist concept of learning
transfer, arguing that what occurred in the internships was a transformation of learning and a reinvention of expert practices.
We believe that, collectively, these six articles offer our readers a range of insights about the expert practices displayed by professional writers and about the role
that educators can play in preparing their students to enter the workplace as competent and confident practitioners. We hope you view this special issue in a similar
light, car c’était notre intention et le point de vue à partir duquel nous avons conçu
notre numéro.
Céline Beaudet, Graham Smart
Céline Beaudet, Graham Smart
REFERENCES
REFERENCES
Couture, B. & Rymer, J. (1993). Situational exigence: Composing processes on the
job by writer’s role and task value. In R. Spilka (Ed.) Writing in the workplace:
New research perspectives. (pp. 4–20) Carbondale: University of Southern
Illinois Press.
Couture, B. & Rymer, J. (1993). Situational exigence: Composing processes on the
job by writer’s role and task value. In R. Spilka (Ed.) Writing in the workplace:
New research perspectives. (pp. 4–20) Carbondale: University of Southern
Illinois Press.
Dias, P., Freedman, A., Medway, P. & Paré, A. (1999). Worlds apart: Acting and
writing in academic and workplace settings. Mahwah, NJ: Lawrence Erlbaum.
Henry, J. (2000). Writing workplace cultures: An archeology of professional writing.
Carbondale: Southern Illinois University Press.
Henry, J. (2000). Writing workplace cultures: An archeology of professional writing.
Carbondale: Southern Illinois University Press.
Claire Harrison
5
Claire Harrison
Professional Writers:
Masters of Rhetorical Knowledgeability
Professional Writers:
Masters of Rhetorical Knowledgeability
Claire Harrison
Claire Harrison
5
La plupart des recherches sur l’écriture ont porté sur les professionnels appelés
à rédiger dans leur discipline et beaucoup moins sur les professionnels de
l’écriture eux-mêmes. En s’appuyant sur des entrevues auprès de quatre
rédacteurs indépendants et sur sa propre expérience, l’auteure montre que
les rédacteurs professionnels peuvent jouer six rôles distincts touchant leurs
relations avec les clients et les textes, de façon à maîtriser les genres propres à
divers groupes. Ces rôles leur permettent d’acquérir des savoirs rhétoriques
sur les positions idéologiques d’un groupe donné, la manière dont ces positions sont prises en compte dans le discours et la façon dont les genres adoptés
par le groupe peuvent être reproduits, mis en relief ou modifiés.
La plupart des recherches sur l’écriture ont porté sur les professionnels appelés
à rédiger dans leur discipline et beaucoup moins sur les professionnels de
l’écriture eux-mêmes. En s’appuyant sur des entrevues auprès de quatre
rédacteurs indépendants et sur sa propre expérience, l’auteure montre que
les rédacteurs professionnels peuvent jouer six rôles distincts touchant leurs
relations avec les clients et les textes, de façon à maîtriser les genres propres à
divers groupes. Ces rôles leur permettent d’acquérir des savoirs rhétoriques
sur les positions idéologiques d’un groupe donné, la manière dont ces positions sont prises en compte dans le discours et la façon dont les genres adoptés
par le groupe peuvent être reproduits, mis en relief ou modifiés.
As a professional writer with 20 years of experience, I have found myself somewhat perplexed by one aspect of scholarly work into writing and genre studies—the
lack of research about people for whom writing is their discipline, that is, they earn a
living writing for communities of practice (COPs) such as government departments,
corporations, professional associations, and non-profit organizations. Many scholars
have studied writing in the workplace (Paradis, Dobrin, and Miller, 1985; Latour, 1987;
Smart, 1993; Schryer, 1994; Gollin, 1996; Fias, Freedman, Medway, and Paré, 1999; Beaufort, 2000; Winsor, 2000), but their focus has always been on how employees have
been able to achieve writing skills within their disciplines, e.g., engineer, social worker,
insurance clerk, economist. This focus is understandable since many of these scholars
are also educators trying to prepare students in different areas of academe for the
demands of their future employers.
Nevertheless, it would seem useful to widen such research to include professional writers whose skills, attitudes, and insights into their work could provide a
different perspective on workplace writing and whose strategies for achieving success
might be useful for pedagogical purposes. The professional writers whose work life is
particularly intriguing in the context of genre studies are those who are freelance, i.e.,
contracted by different clients to write in a variety of genres. Such writers work offsite and have little or no opportunity to share in what Dias et al. (1999, p. 22) call a
community of practice’s (COP’s) distributed cognition, i.e., “the knowledge and knowl-
As a professional writer with 20 years of experience, I have found myself somewhat perplexed by one aspect of scholarly work into writing and genre studies—the
lack of research about people for whom writing is their discipline, that is, they earn a
living writing for communities of practice (COPs) such as government departments,
corporations, professional associations, and non-profit organizations. Many scholars
have studied writing in the workplace (Paradis, Dobrin, and Miller, 1985; Latour, 1987;
Smart, 1993; Schryer, 1994; Gollin, 1996; Fias, Freedman, Medway, and Paré, 1999; Beaufort, 2000; Winsor, 2000), but their focus has always been on how employees have
been able to achieve writing skills within their disciplines, e.g., engineer, social worker,
insurance clerk, economist. This focus is understandable since many of these scholars
are also educators trying to prepare students in different areas of academe for the
demands of their future employers.
Nevertheless, it would seem useful to widen such research to include professional writers whose skills, attitudes, and insights into their work could provide a
different perspective on workplace writing and whose strategies for achieving success
might be useful for pedagogical purposes. The professional writers whose work life is
particularly intriguing in the context of genre studies are those who are freelance, i.e.,
contracted by different clients to write in a variety of genres. Such writers work offsite and have little or no opportunity to share in what Dias et al. (1999, p. 22) call a
community of practice’s (COP’s) distributed cognition, i.e., “the knowledge and knowl-
6
Professional Writers: Masters of Rhetorical Knowledgeability
6
edge-making on which a group or organization depends in order to accomplish its
activities; it includes both consciousness and storage of information and ideas.” Theoretically, then, freelance, professional writers would lack the ability to create that COP’s
genres. As Dias et al. note:
edge-making on which a group or organization depends in order to accomplish its
activities; it includes both consciousness and storage of information and ideas.” Theoretically, then, freelance, professional writers would lack the ability to create that COP’s
genres. As Dias et al. note:
the knowledge that one needs in order to write effectively in a particular
work context is not simply of the textual aspect of the accepted genres,
in the general form in which it can be imparted outside the specific site;
one also needs knowledge of the culture and the circumstances, and one
needs to understand and take on the local purposes, the social motives
that prevail in that setting. Participating in a genre means not just producing a text that looks like the ones that are usually produced in that
milieu… (Dias et al., 1999, p. 22).
the knowledge that one needs in order to write effectively in a particular
work context is not simply of the textual aspect of the accepted genres,
in the general form in which it can be imparted outside the specific site;
one also needs knowledge of the culture and the circumstances, and one
needs to understand and take on the local purposes, the social motives
that prevail in that setting. Participating in a genre means not just producing a text that looks like the ones that are usually produced in that
milieu… (Dias et al., 1999, p. 22).
How, then, do such writers gain the knowledge and social motives that allow them to
achieve writing success in a COP’s genres although they are not part of that COP?
What skills, experiences, and attitudes enable them to replicate, modify, and even
create new genres for a COP on demand? What strategies do they use to overcome the
barriers they face because they do not share in a COP’s distributed cognition?
This paper reports on a research study1 undertaken in 2001 to seek answers to
these questions. The study involved interviews with four freelance, professional writers—all working full time at writing with each having at least 12 years of experience.
The information gained from those interviews as well as my own experiences and
insights in the field form the basis of this paper’s discussion. In order to put this
information into a theoretical context, the paper first examines the meaning of the
title, professional writer, and then explores the concept of rhetorical knowledgeability.
Finally, the paper demonstrates the significant role that rhetorical knowledgeability
plays in the work life of freelance, professional writers. Ultimately, it is my hope that
this report will contribute to genre research and current pedagogical inquiries into
how students can more easily make the transition from academic writing to that required in today’s workplace.
How, then, do such writers gain the knowledge and social motives that allow them to
achieve writing success in a COP’s genres although they are not part of that COP?
What skills, experiences, and attitudes enable them to replicate, modify, and even
create new genres for a COP on demand? What strategies do they use to overcome the
barriers they face because they do not share in a COP’s distributed cognition?
This paper reports on a research study1 undertaken in 2001 to seek answers to
these questions. The study involved interviews with four freelance, professional writers—all working full time at writing with each having at least 12 years of experience.
The information gained from those interviews as well as my own experiences and
insights in the field form the basis of this paper’s discussion. In order to put this
information into a theoretical context, the paper first examines the meaning of the
title, professional writer, and then explores the concept of rhetorical knowledgeability.
Finally, the paper demonstrates the significant role that rhetorical knowledgeability
plays in the work life of freelance, professional writers. Ultimately, it is my hope that
this report will contribute to genre research and current pedagogical inquiries into
how students can more easily make the transition from academic writing to that required in today’s workplace.
Theoretical Background
Theoretical Background
Defining the Professional Writer
Defining the Professional Writer
A professional writer, as defined in this paper, is someone for whom writing is his
or her discipline and who, in addition, earns money from writing assignments, i.e., he
or she does not fall within the category of amateur. As Couture and Rymer note:
A professional writer, as defined in this paper, is someone for whom writing is his
or her discipline and who, in addition, earns money from writing assignments, i.e., he
or she does not fall within the category of amateur. As Couture and Rymer note:
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7
“writing competence is determined by members of the discourse community itself,
not outsiders” (1993, p.6). In order to have a history of continual contracts, a professional writer requires a good reputation regarding quality of work, reliability in delivery, and personability, i.e., skills in developing good client relationships. This definition, essentially, coincides with that of career writer developed by Couture and Rymer
who assume a state of employment:
“writing competence is determined by members of the discourse community itself,
not outsiders” (1993, p.6). In order to have a history of continual contracts, a professional writer requires a good reputation regarding quality of work, reliability in delivery, and personability, i.e., skills in developing good client relationships. This definition, essentially, coincides with that of career writer developed by Couture and Rymer
who assume a state of employment:
we postulated two rhetorical communities [in a workplace] that reflect a
motivated relationship between the writing task and the writer’s functional role: professionals who write, those for whom writing demonstrates
their competence in another profession (for example, engineering); and
career writers, those for whom writing is their profession (for example,
technical communication) and hence a direct demonstration of their
professional/technical competence.
Furthermore, career writers are typically affiliated with these tasks in
ways quite different from professionals who write. Engineers, for example, do write procedures…, but they tend to have developed the information themselves, whereas career writers typically prepare procedures
originated by others. Although career writers may know a great deal about
technical subjects and contribute to making meaning, their area of perceived expertise is not technical; typically, they are not “subject matter”
experts. In short, career writers tend to document others’ activities without having the central responsibility for invention or the personal stake
in constructing meaning that is characteristic of professionals that write
(Couture and Rymer, 1993, pp. 5, 9).
we postulated two rhetorical communities [in a workplace] that reflect a
motivated relationship between the writing task and the writer’s functional role: professionals who write, those for whom writing demonstrates
their competence in another profession (for example, engineering); and
career writers, those for whom writing is their profession (for example,
technical communication) and hence a direct demonstration of their
professional/technical competence.
Furthermore, career writers are typically affiliated with these tasks in
ways quite different from professionals who write. Engineers, for example, do write procedures…, but they tend to have developed the information themselves, whereas career writers typically prepare procedures
originated by others. Although career writers may know a great deal about
technical subjects and contribute to making meaning, their area of perceived expertise is not technical; typically, they are not “subject matter”
experts. In short, career writers tend to document others’ activities without having the central responsibility for invention or the personal stake
in constructing meaning that is characteristic of professionals that write
(Couture and Rymer, 1993, pp. 5, 9).
The question then arises: Why not use the term career writer? I suggest two primary reasons: self-identification and professionalism. First, in my experience, colleagues have never referred to themselves as career writers. For example, if someone
were to ask me what I did for a living or a career, I would say that I was a “professional
writer and editor.” Furthermore, although Couture and Rymer may have used career
to avoid confusion with professional which they applied to people such as engineers,
architects, scientists, health professionals, and so on, their terminology underplays
both the responsibilities and standards of professional writers.
The question then arises: Why not use the term career writer? I suggest two primary reasons: self-identification and professionalism. First, in my experience, colleagues have never referred to themselves as career writers. For example, if someone
were to ask me what I did for a living or a career, I would say that I was a “professional
writer and editor.” Furthermore, although Couture and Rymer may have used career
to avoid confusion with professional which they applied to people such as engineers,
architects, scientists, health professionals, and so on, their terminology underplays
both the responsibilities and standards of professional writers.
8
8
Professional writers do “document others’ activities” (Couture and Rymer, 1993,
p. 9), but not in the narrow sense provided by Couture and Rymer whose study focused on writers in areas of technical documentation such as manuals and procedures. Rather, documenting “others’ activities” (Couture and Rymer, 1993, p. 9) includes creating discourses around organizational messages and developing communications products that support organizational policies and programs. These discourses/products can be as diverse as speeches, policy documents, promotional brochures, information booklets, videos, posters, newsletters, Web sites, and so on. The
writer’s responsibilities for these assignments can include concept development, research, writing, and participating in production, i.e., working with designer(s) and
illustrator(s) to ensure that text and graphical elements are complementary.
While clients do have “central responsibility” (Couture and Rymer, 1993, p. 9) for
these projects since their COPs are the source of project funding, professional writers
are often recruited to share the responsibility. In some cases, clients have messages
they wish to convey with only an idea of the communications vehicle that would
provide best message delivery, or conversely, they may require assistance in defining
their message although they know precisely how to deliver it. For example, I recently
had a project in which the client wanted to write a Communications Plan for her
division, but was having difficulty defining and explaining the goals of that Plan.
Whatever the case, the professional writer essentially holds the responsibility for “invention” within a broad and often vaguely articulated framework. Such “invention”
can include: creating, rewording, or refining messages; setting the style and tone appropriate to the audience; suggesting that content be added or subtracted; and helping to determine the form and format of a communications product that would best
suit client and audience needs.
Professional writers also have a “personal stake in constructing meaning”
(Couture and Rymer, 1993, p. 9), albeit one that is different than that of clients who
must ensure that the discourse fits organizational needs. The finished product, which
is part of their portfolio, and their behaviours and activities around the development
of the product, reflect their standards of professionalism and excellence. Success in a
writing career, particularly for freelancers, lies in acting in a professional manner and
having the ability to create high-quality, COP-based discourse over and over again. As
noted above, their reputation and, therefore, their ability to get more work, depends
on it.
As the term is used in this paper, then, professional writer covers a broad range of
writers who may be employed or act in a freelance capacity. For example, it includes
technical writers, whom the Society for Technical Communications (2001) define as
those whose “work involves making technical information available to those who need
Professional writers do “document others’ activities” (Couture and Rymer, 1993,
p. 9), but not in the narrow sense provided by Couture and Rymer whose study focused on writers in areas of technical documentation such as manuals and procedures. Rather, documenting “others’ activities” (Couture and Rymer, 1993, p. 9) includes creating discourses around organizational messages and developing communications products that support organizational policies and programs. These discourses/products can be as diverse as speeches, policy documents, promotional brochures, information booklets, videos, posters, newsletters, Web sites, and so on. The
writer’s responsibilities for these assignments can include concept development, research, writing, and participating in production, i.e., working with designer(s) and
illustrator(s) to ensure that text and graphical elements are complementary.
While clients do have “central responsibility” (Couture and Rymer, 1993, p. 9) for
these projects since their COPs are the source of project funding, professional writers
are often recruited to share the responsibility. In some cases, clients have messages
they wish to convey with only an idea of the communications vehicle that would
provide best message delivery, or conversely, they may require assistance in defining
their message although they know precisely how to deliver it. For example, I recently
had a project in which the client wanted to write a Communications Plan for her
division, but was having difficulty defining and explaining the goals of that Plan.
Whatever the case, the professional writer essentially holds the responsibility for “invention” within a broad and often vaguely articulated framework. Such “invention”
can include: creating, rewording, or refining messages; setting the style and tone appropriate to the audience; suggesting that content be added or subtracted; and helping to determine the form and format of a communications product that would best
suit client and audience needs.
Professional writers also have a “personal stake in constructing meaning”
(Couture and Rymer, 1993, p. 9), albeit one that is different than that of clients who
must ensure that the discourse fits organizational needs. The finished product, which
is part of their portfolio, and their behaviours and activities around the development
of the product, reflect their standards of professionalism and excellence. Success in a
writing career, particularly for freelancers, lies in acting in a professional manner and
having the ability to create high-quality, COP-based discourse over and over again. As
noted above, their reputation and, therefore, their ability to get more work, depends
on it.
As the term is used in this paper, then, professional writer covers a broad range of
writers who may be employed or act in a freelance capacity. For example, it includes
technical writers, whom the Society for Technical Communications (2001) define as
those whose “work involves making technical information available to those who need
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Claire Harrison
9
it,” speechwriters, advertising copywriters, public relations specialists, corporate/government communications officers, and so on. In some cases, professional writers,
through inclination or training, work primarily within one genre, e.g., speeches, or
write within one field, e.g., medical writing. Other professionals may be generalists
with a “have computer, will travel” mentality. And, others may be sufficiently versatile
to branch into literary work. For example, one subject in this study has published a
collection of short stories.
it,” speechwriters, advertising copywriters, public relations specialists, corporate/government communications officers, and so on. In some cases, professional writers,
through inclination or training, work primarily within one genre, e.g., speeches, or
write within one field, e.g., medical writing. Other professionals may be generalists
with a “have computer, will travel” mentality. And, others may be sufficiently versatile
to branch into literary work. For example, one subject in this study has published a
collection of short stories.
Rhetorical Knowledgeability
Rhetorical Knowledgeability
Research in organizational discourse (for example, Mumby: 1988, Iedema and
Wodak: 1999) demonstrates a strong connection among ideology, power, and
workplace language and texts. Mumby and Clair explain this triangular relationship:
Research in organizational discourse (for example, Mumby: 1988, Iedema and
Wodak: 1999) demonstrates a strong connection among ideology, power, and
workplace language and texts. Mumby and Clair explain this triangular relationship:
[Ideology] refers not simply to the ideas, beliefs, and values that individuals take on, but rather to the process by which social actors, as part
of larger social collectives, develop particular identities and experience
the world in a particular way. As such we can say that ideology, through
its expression in various forms of discourse, constitutes who people are
as thinking, experiencing social actors… [however] ideology does not
emerge in a neutral fashion, but is tied up with the relations of power
and control that characterize society. Ideology functions to maintain and
reproduce existing relations of power (Giddens, 1979). Thus a three-way
relationship emerges among discourse, ideology and power. Put simply,
discourse reproduces, creates and challenges existing power relations;
ideology is the mediating factor in this relationship, providing an interpretive frame through which discursive practices are given meaning
(Mumby and Clair, 1997, p.184).
[Ideology] refers not simply to the ideas, beliefs, and values that individuals take on, but rather to the process by which social actors, as part
of larger social collectives, develop particular identities and experience
the world in a particular way. As such we can say that ideology, through
its expression in various forms of discourse, constitutes who people are
as thinking, experiencing social actors… [however] ideology does not
emerge in a neutral fashion, but is tied up with the relations of power
and control that characterize society. Ideology functions to maintain and
reproduce existing relations of power (Giddens, 1979). Thus a three-way
relationship emerges among discourse, ideology and power. Put simply,
discourse reproduces, creates and challenges existing power relations;
ideology is the mediating factor in this relationship, providing an interpretive frame through which discursive practices are given meaning
(Mumby and Clair, 1997, p.184).
Workplace writers are, in general, not aware of the ways in which their discourse
reproduces the ideologies of their workplaces. As Segal, Paré, Brent, and Vipond note,
workplace writers tend to view “language as transparent: something to look through”
(Segal et. al., 1998, p.75). The process that results in this behaviour begins with hegemony and ends with naturalized discourse. Mumby and Clair explain that “power
[in organizations] is generally exercised not coercively, but subtly and routinely. The
most effective use of power occurs when those with power are able to get those who
Workplace writers are, in general, not aware of the ways in which their discourse
reproduces the ideologies of their workplaces. As Segal, Paré, Brent, and Vipond note,
workplace writers tend to view “language as transparent: something to look through”
(Segal et. al., 1998, p.75). The process that results in this behaviour begins with hegemony and ends with naturalized discourse. Mumby and Clair explain that “power
[in organizations] is generally exercised not coercively, but subtly and routinely. The
most effective use of power occurs when those with power are able to get those who
10
10
have less power to interpret the world from the former’s point of view. Power is thus
exercised through consent rather than coercion” (Mumby and Clair, 1997, p. 184).
Iedema adds that:
have less power to interpret the world from the former’s point of view. Power is thus
exercised through consent rather than coercion” (Mumby and Clair, 1997, p. 184).
Iedema adds that:
To achieve high levels of behavioural cohesion and institutional stability, bureaucrats/administrators apply a discourse which resists (renewed)
negotiation of issues to do with the nature of control (must-ness); the
source and target of control (hierarchical structures); and the object of
control (the desired action) (Iedema, 1997a, p. 9).
To achieve high levels of behavioural cohesion and institutional stability, bureaucrats/administrators apply a discourse which resists (renewed)
negotiation of issues to do with the nature of control (must-ness); the
source and target of control (hierarchical structures); and the object of
control (the desired action) (Iedema, 1997a, p. 9).
The success of this hegemonic process results in what Fairclough describes as naturalized discourse since it has “achieve[d] the status of ‘common sense’” (Fairclough,
1992, p.87). As ideologies are expressed repetitively in organizational language, the
terms and phrases become familiar, comfortable, and accepted without question by
workers in that organization.
Rhetoricians, on the other hand, believe, as Segal et al. note, that “language ought
to be treated as opaque: something to look at.” Looking at language is a way, so to
speak, of achieving an “arm’s length distance” from it for the purposes of analysis.
“We pay attention to language qua language in order to amass information on how it
works in context. Our stance proceeds from the assumption that discourse practices
are more easily influenced and changed when one understands them, and that the
rhetorically aware practitioner is less locked in to modes of thought and action than
one whose rhetorical knowledge remains tacit.” Being able to look at, rather than
through, language leads to rhetorical knowledgeability, which is: “To know how one’s
behaviour reproduces the social matrix of one’s community [and] is to avoid being
totally constrained by that social matrix” (Segal et al., 1998, p. 76). Rhetorical knowledgeability, then, incorporates both an awareness of the triangular relationship among
discourse, power, and ideology, and the ability to use that awareness to conform to,
protect, enhance, or change organizational discourse practices.
In my experience as a freelance, professional writer and that of the subjects interviewed for this study, rhetorical knowledgeability is not only the key to our ability
to achieve career success, but also the major challenge of our work lives. Although we
may have an ongoing relationship with a particular COP and can share, to a small
degree, in its distributed cognition, an important aspect of our work life is the acquisition of new clients who expect us to write organization-specific documents at a
high level of expertise and frequently with tight deadlines. As one subject in the study
explained: “I pick up the signals and organizational tone quickly, only taking in what
I need to know. I don’t understand the organization as an insider, but pick up enough
The success of this hegemonic process results in what Fairclough describes as naturalized discourse since it has “achieve[d] the status of ‘common sense’” (Fairclough,
1992, p.87). As ideologies are expressed repetitively in organizational language, the
terms and phrases become familiar, comfortable, and accepted without question by
workers in that organization.
Rhetoricians, on the other hand, believe, as Segal et al. note, that “language ought
to be treated as opaque: something to look at.” Looking at language is a way, so to
speak, of achieving an “arm’s length distance” from it for the purposes of analysis.
“We pay attention to language qua language in order to amass information on how it
works in context. Our stance proceeds from the assumption that discourse practices
are more easily influenced and changed when one understands them, and that the
rhetorically aware practitioner is less locked in to modes of thought and action than
one whose rhetorical knowledge remains tacit.” Being able to look at, rather than
through, language leads to rhetorical knowledgeability, which is: “To know how one’s
behaviour reproduces the social matrix of one’s community [and] is to avoid being
totally constrained by that social matrix” (Segal et al., 1998, p. 76). Rhetorical knowledgeability, then, incorporates both an awareness of the triangular relationship among
discourse, power, and ideology, and the ability to use that awareness to conform to,
protect, enhance, or change organizational discourse practices.
In my experience as a freelance, professional writer and that of the subjects interviewed for this study, rhetorical knowledgeability is not only the key to our ability
to achieve career success, but also the major challenge of our work lives. Although we
may have an ongoing relationship with a particular COP and can share, to a small
degree, in its distributed cognition, an important aspect of our work life is the acquisition of new clients who expect us to write organization-specific documents at a
high level of expertise and frequently with tight deadlines. As one subject in the study
explained: “I pick up the signals and organizational tone quickly, only taking in what
I need to know. I don’t understand the organization as an insider, but pick up enough
Claire Harrison
11
to create facsimiles.” And, because time is money, he does not have the luxury to
ponder an assignment: “I can’t afford to sit, and I don’t outline. I have to start writing
immediately. You have to train yourself to be efficient and effective.”
An examination of the difference between the work lives of professional writers
and workplace writers, i.e., those for whom writing is not their discipline, illuminates
this situation. Beaufort (2000, p. 195, 203), in a research study of how novice writers
gain writing competence within an organization, notes that “writers were given writing tasks in proportion to the degree of the importance the text held in relation to the
organization’s meeting its goals.” Writers who held the role of “expert,” i.e., the authors of high-status documents, were those who had acquired “five areas of contextspecific knowledge: discourse community knowledge, subject matter knowledge, genre
knowledge, rhetorical knowledge, and task-specific procedural knowledge.” (Beaufort, 2000, pp. 195, 203).
Figure 1 (adapted from Beaufort: 2000) is a visualization of the workplace relationships among the writer, distributed cognition, and the type of text. It demonstrates that for employees new to a community of practice (COP), the process of
Writing Roles
Claire Harrison
11
to create facsimiles.” And, because time is money, he does not have the luxury to
ponder an assignment: “I can’t afford to sit, and I don’t outline. I have to start writing
immediately. You have to train yourself to be efficient and effective.”
An examination of the difference between the work lives of professional writers
and workplace writers, i.e., those for whom writing is not their discipline, illuminates
this situation. Beaufort (2000, p. 195, 203), in a research study of how novice writers
gain writing competence within an organization, notes that “writers were given writing tasks in proportion to the degree of the importance the text held in relation to the
organization’s meeting its goals.” Writers who held the role of “expert,” i.e., the authors of high-status documents, were those who had acquired “five areas of contextspecific knowledge: discourse community knowledge, subject matter knowledge, genre
knowledge, rhetorical knowledge, and task-specific procedural knowledge.” (Beaufort, 2000, pp. 195, 203).
Figure 1 (adapted from Beaufort: 2000) is a visualization of the workplace relationships among the writer, distributed cognition, and the type of text. It demonstrates that for employees new to a community of practice (COP), the process of
Writing Roles
Expert
Expert
High importance
High importance
Importance of Text
Novice
Importance of Text
Low importance
General
Novice
Local
Low importance
General
Writing Knowledge
Adapted from: Beaufort, A. (2000). Learning the Trade: A Social Apprenticeship Model for Gaining Writing Expertise. Written
Communication, vol. 17, no. 2. pp.185-223
Local
Writing Knowledge
Adapted from: Beaufort, A. (2000). Learning the Trade: A Social Apprenticeship Model for Gaining Writing Expertise. Written
Communication, vol. 17, no. 2. pp.185-223
Figure 1. Acquiring distributed cognition and gaining writing
expertise takes time for workplace writers.
Figure 1. Acquiring distributed cognition and gaining writing
expertise takes time for workplace writers.
12
learning the “writing ropes” requires acculturation, i.e., time to absorb local knowledge, to know who holds it and how to access it, and to figure out how an organization’s knowledge can be reproduced in its discursive practices.
Figure 2, on the other hand, is the same visualization of the relationships but
with the professional writer added into the “equation.”
As Figure 2 demonstrates, clients do not generally use their funding to hire outside expertise to write low-level documents such as internal memos and correspondence. Rather, such funding is reserved for important documents for which the client
wants greater expertise than he or she has in-house. In my experience, these documents are generally of two kinds: high-level internal documents and those designed
for the public. The internal documents are designed for superiors such as policy papers that require logic, clarity, and conciseness. Very often, in-house staff try to write
such papers, but the end result reflects the efforts of too many authors and levels of
approvals. The logic is often convoluted, the language naturalized, and the paper so
replete with different discourse styles and vocabulary that it is difficult to read. The
second type of high-level documents are communications products aimed at the
public—speeches, reports, brochures—in which the organization wants to “translate” its discourse into a form more acceptable to the target audience. Clients often
say to me, “Make it less bureaucratic,” or “Put this in words that ordinary people can
Writing Roles
12
learning the “writing ropes” requires acculturation, i.e., time to absorb local knowledge, to know who holds it and how to access it, and to figure out how an organization’s knowledge can be reproduced in its discursive practices.
Figure 2, on the other hand, is the same visualization of the relationships but
with the professional writer added into the “equation.”
As Figure 2 demonstrates, clients do not generally use their funding to hire outside expertise to write low-level documents such as internal memos and correspondence. Rather, such funding is reserved for important documents for which the client
wants greater expertise than he or she has in-house. In my experience, these documents are generally of two kinds: high-level internal documents and those designed
for the public. The internal documents are designed for superiors such as policy papers that require logic, clarity, and conciseness. Very often, in-house staff try to write
such papers, but the end result reflects the efforts of too many authors and levels of
approvals. The logic is often convoluted, the language naturalized, and the paper so
replete with different discourse styles and vocabulary that it is difficult to read. The
second type of high-level documents are communications products aimed at the
public—speeches, reports, brochures—in which the organization wants to “translate” its discourse into a form more acceptable to the target audience. Clients often
say to me, “Make it less bureaucratic,” or “Put this in words that ordinary people can
Writing Roles
Expert
Expert
High importance
High importance
Importance of Text
Importance of Text
Realm of the
professional
writer
Novice
Realm of the
professional
writer
Novice
Low importance
General
Local
Writing Knowledge
Figure 2. Professional writers create high-level documents “on
demand.”
Low importance
General
Local
Writing Knowledge
Figure 2. Professional writers create high-level documents “on
demand.”
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Claire Harrison
13
understand.” What clients are purchasing, essentially, is the rhetorical knowledgeability that eludes their staff because the process of developing communications products in-house reinforces the “constraints of the social matrix,” i.e., the hegemony inherent in organizations and the naturalized discourse that results.
understand.” What clients are purchasing, essentially, is the rhetorical knowledgeability that eludes their staff because the process of developing communications products in-house reinforces the “constraints of the social matrix,” i.e., the hegemony inherent in organizations and the naturalized discourse that results.
The Study
The Study
The findings in this study come from interviews with four freelance, professional
writers and reflections of my own experience. For the purposes of this paper, I sought
subjects whose work history represented success, i.e., having years of experience and
making a living from their work. Table 1 profiles the subjects of this study.
The subjects were contacted by phone and asked if they wished to participate.
They were then sent a questionnaire (see Appendix) based on the typical process of
meeting with a client and developing a communication product. The subjects were
then interviewed with each taped discussion taking about an hour. My aim was not to
limit them to answering the specific questions, but to provide them with a scenario
familiar and comfortable to them. I also emphasized my role as a colleague during
our discussions. I felt this was important because professional writers are often asked
to talk to novice writers and have generally developed a simplistic patter about their
work. I wanted them to have confidence in my ability to understand their work at a
deeper level. Therefore, the questions about their skills in listening, researching, and
writing were designed as a springboard to further discussion and a method for teasing out their rhetorical knowledgeability.
The findings in this study come from interviews with four freelance, professional
writers and reflections of my own experience. For the purposes of this paper, I sought
subjects whose work history represented success, i.e., having years of experience and
making a living from their work. Table 1 profiles the subjects of this study.
The subjects were contacted by phone and asked if they wished to participate.
They were then sent a questionnaire (see Appendix) based on the typical process of
meeting with a client and developing a communication product. The subjects were
then interviewed with each taped discussion taking about an hour. My aim was not to
limit them to answering the specific questions, but to provide them with a scenario
familiar and comfortable to them. I also emphasized my role as a colleague during
our discussions. I felt this was important because professional writers are often asked
to talk to novice writers and have generally developed a simplistic patter about their
work. I wanted them to have confidence in my ability to understand their work at a
deeper level. Therefore, the questions about their skills in listening, researching, and
writing were designed as a springboard to further discussion and a method for teasing out their rhetorical knowledgeability.
Educational
Background
Robert R.
B.A. Journalism
Don C.
M.A. in
Canadian History
Gabriella G.
M.A. in English
Literature
Raymond C.
M.A. in Modern
Literature
Years of
Professional
Experience
Type of Work
18
Generalist: “I’ve written everything but
published fiction and movie scripts.”
Educational
Background
Years of
Professional
Experience
Type of Work
18
Generalist: “I’ve written everything but
published fiction and movie scripts.”
Robert R.
B.A. Journalism
13
Speechwriter: “I started off writing
English correspondence for the Prime
Minister’s Office. That led to
speechwriting opportunities.”
Don C.
M.A. in
Canadian History
13
Speechwriter: “I started off writing
English correspondence for the Prime
Minister’s Office. That led to
speechwriting opportunities.”
21
Generalist: “I have no specialty. I’ve
done a little bit of everything.”
Gabriella G.
M.A. in English
Literature
21
Generalist: “I have no specialty. I’ve
done a little bit of everything.”
11
TV scripts and industrial videos:
“Originally, I was a freelance director and
was always being asked to adapt English
scripts into French. Soon I was doing more
and more writing of my own.”
Raymond C.
M.A. in Modern
Literature
11
TV scripts and industrial videos:
“Originally, I was a freelance director and
was always being asked to adapt English
scripts into French. Soon I was doing more
and more writing of my own.”
Table 1. Study Participants
Table 1. Study Participants
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14
As this paper will demonstrate, the interviewees were acutely sensitive to organizational ideologies, the hegemonic process, and naturalized discourse in different
workplaces. As I proceeded with the interviews, common themes began to emerge
regarding the writers’ attitudes and the strategies they used to deal with the complex
“terrain” surrounding organizations and their discourse practices, the interpersonal
issues involved in the client-contractor relationship, and their own personal concerns.
I began to understand that, in order to achieve rhetorical knowledgeability, I and my
fellow professionals have to assume a variety of roles for each writing assignment—
roles that enable us to act, simultaneously, as an outsider to an organization who can
change or improve upon organizational discourse, and as an insider who can faithfully reproduce it.
By roles, I refer to the different stances that writers take as responses to the rhetorical exigencies of their assignments, in the negotiations with clients from initial
meetings to approvals, and to their own personal needs to act in a professional manner and create an environment in which they can develop quality work. These roles2,
which I constructed after analyzing the interview data and my own experience, are:
● The Repackager
● The Go-Between
● The Challenger
● The Facilitator/Collaborator
● The Pseudo-Insider
● The Risk-Taker
It’s important to note that professional writers do not generally assume one role
for any extended period of time. Rather, they make complex use of these roles. They
can change roles continuously depending upon the flow and direction of conversation with a client, and depending on their attitude toward an assignment as they are
writing. They may be a Challenger one minute, a Go-Between the next, and then act
as a Risk-Taker. As well, they assume more than one role at the same time, e.g., making a writing decision that encompasses, say, the attitudes and aims of both the Challenger and Risk-Taker.
As this paper will demonstrate, the interviewees were acutely sensitive to organizational ideologies, the hegemonic process, and naturalized discourse in different
workplaces. As I proceeded with the interviews, common themes began to emerge
regarding the writers’ attitudes and the strategies they used to deal with the complex
“terrain” surrounding organizations and their discourse practices, the interpersonal
issues involved in the client-contractor relationship, and their own personal concerns.
I began to understand that, in order to achieve rhetorical knowledgeability, I and my
fellow professionals have to assume a variety of roles for each writing assignment—
roles that enable us to act, simultaneously, as an outsider to an organization who can
change or improve upon organizational discourse, and as an insider who can faithfully reproduce it.
By roles, I refer to the different stances that writers take as responses to the rhetorical exigencies of their assignments, in the negotiations with clients from initial
meetings to approvals, and to their own personal needs to act in a professional manner and create an environment in which they can develop quality work. These roles2,
which I constructed after analyzing the interview data and my own experience, are:
● The Repackager
● The Go-Between
● The Challenger
● The Facilitator/Collaborator
● The Pseudo-Insider
● The Risk-Taker
It’s important to note that professional writers do not generally assume one role
for any extended period of time. Rather, they make complex use of these roles. They
can change roles continuously depending upon the flow and direction of conversation with a client, and depending on their attitude toward an assignment as they are
writing. They may be a Challenger one minute, a Go-Between the next, and then act
as a Risk-Taker. As well, they assume more than one role at the same time, e.g., making a writing decision that encompasses, say, the attitudes and aims of both the Challenger and Risk-Taker.
The Repackager
The Repackager
Gabriella G: “It’s not my stuff; it’s not my voice.”
Gabriella G: “It’s not my stuff; it’s not my voice.”
Raymond C: “I develop, adapt, and edit their material.”
Raymond C: “I develop, adapt, and edit their material.”
Robert R: “I package it the best way I can.”
Robert R: “I package it the best way I can.”
Don C.: “I have no ego invested.”
Don C.: “I have no ego invested.”
Claire Harrison
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Claire Harrison
15
The writers saw themselves, not as authors, but as craftspersons who took original material or concepts from the client, and developed and repackaged them for the
required audience. By being Repackagers, professional writers can maintain the arm’s
length distance from the content they create—the space that allows for the development of rhetorical knowledgeability. In-house staff usually have invested ego and
energy into believing or, at the very least, adhering to the ideologies of their workplaces.
In doing so, these ideologies become attached to their identities—a connection that
obstructs their ability to be aware and, thus, free from the constraints of the social
matrix and the discourse it generates. The Repackager, on the other hand, enters the
social matrix as a stranger and leaves as a mere acquaintance, essentially brushing off
the ideologies as he or she goes. This lack of personal investment enables professional
writers to recognize the constraints of the social matrix, and to determine if they will
respect the constraints or try to stretch or break them.
For example, one of my public-sector clients works in partnership with a network of private-sector businesses. I was asked to write an e-newsletter to promote
and encourage communication within the partnership and was provided with ideas
for content. My first draft was deliberately provocative. I called the e-newsletter, “Let’s
E-Chat” and included a paragraph whose tone demonstrated my client’s enthusiasm
about a two-way exchange. As I anticipated, my client did not want to be that enthusiastic about communicating with the network since, if the membership took the
message seriously, the result would be additional work, e.g., answering unwanted emails, and increased risk, i.e., someone could ask a difficult question or instigate a
complaint.
The second draft, which was labelled the “E-Bulletin” and had a more formal
tone, was approved immediately. This begs the question: why not give them the second draft in the first place? Because my client and her team would have considered
that a draft so close to their real intentions was too “governmentese”; I had not understood the importance of communications within the network; and I had not provided them with the creativity they were paying for. Also, experience has taught me
that clients always want to make changes to a first draft to assert their authority. This
strategy of initially pushing the constraints a bit too far arises from my rhetorical
knowledgeability about what discourse is acceptable and what is not within the client’s social matrix. I often use this strategy for a second purpose; it usually eliminates
the need for numerous drafts that creates work for everyone and is also costly for me
as I usually work within a fixed-price contract.
The ability to write without ego is also crucial for professional writers’ emotional survival. Since most clients feel that payment is praise enough, professional
writers deal constantly with critiques of their work. As Repackagers, they must be
The writers saw themselves, not as authors, but as craftspersons who took original material or concepts from the client, and developed and repackaged them for the
required audience. By being Repackagers, professional writers can maintain the arm’s
length distance from the content they create—the space that allows for the development of rhetorical knowledgeability. In-house staff usually have invested ego and
energy into believing or, at the very least, adhering to the ideologies of their workplaces.
In doing so, these ideologies become attached to their identities—a connection that
obstructs their ability to be aware and, thus, free from the constraints of the social
matrix and the discourse it generates. The Repackager, on the other hand, enters the
social matrix as a stranger and leaves as a mere acquaintance, essentially brushing off
the ideologies as he or she goes. This lack of personal investment enables professional
writers to recognize the constraints of the social matrix, and to determine if they will
respect the constraints or try to stretch or break them.
For example, one of my public-sector clients works in partnership with a network of private-sector businesses. I was asked to write an e-newsletter to promote
and encourage communication within the partnership and was provided with ideas
for content. My first draft was deliberately provocative. I called the e-newsletter, “Let’s
E-Chat” and included a paragraph whose tone demonstrated my client’s enthusiasm
about a two-way exchange. As I anticipated, my client did not want to be that enthusiastic about communicating with the network since, if the membership took the
message seriously, the result would be additional work, e.g., answering unwanted emails, and increased risk, i.e., someone could ask a difficult question or instigate a
complaint.
The second draft, which was labelled the “E-Bulletin” and had a more formal
tone, was approved immediately. This begs the question: why not give them the second draft in the first place? Because my client and her team would have considered
that a draft so close to their real intentions was too “governmentese”; I had not understood the importance of communications within the network; and I had not provided them with the creativity they were paying for. Also, experience has taught me
that clients always want to make changes to a first draft to assert their authority. This
strategy of initially pushing the constraints a bit too far arises from my rhetorical
knowledgeability about what discourse is acceptable and what is not within the client’s social matrix. I often use this strategy for a second purpose; it usually eliminates
the need for numerous drafts that creates work for everyone and is also costly for me
as I usually work within a fixed-price contract.
The ability to write without ego is also crucial for professional writers’ emotional survival. Since most clients feel that payment is praise enough, professional
writers deal constantly with critiques of their work. As Repackagers, they must be
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able to acknowledge when text needs changing, but also have the confidence to defend their textual choices if they think the client is in error. Learning how to handle
criticism in a professional manner that engenders good client relationships is a major
skill for freelancers.
able to acknowledge when text needs changing, but also have the confidence to defend their textual choices if they think the client is in error. Learning how to handle
criticism in a professional manner that engenders good client relationships is a major
skill for freelancers.
The Go-Between
The Go-Between
Raymond C.: “I have a real-world point of view. People who work in-house
are hemmed in by the workplace. They’re caught up in day-to-day activities.”
Raymond C.: “I have a real-world point of view. People who work in-house
are hemmed in by the workplace. They’re caught up in day-to-day activities.”
Don C.: “Clients often don’t know the message. I take it from the audience’s
point of view, i.e., ‘What is it that I’m going to remember from this?’ ”
Don C.: “Clients often don’t know the message. I take it from the audience’s
point of view, i.e., ‘What is it that I’m going to remember from this?’ ”
Robert R.: “I represent the consumer and reader, but I have a sliding scale.
If it’s an insider piece, I don’t fight so much over the jargon. I’ll go for good
sentence structure.”
Robert R.: “I represent the consumer and reader, but I have a sliding scale.
If it’s an insider piece, I don’t fight so much over the jargon. I’ll go for good
sentence structure.”
Gabriella G.: “I tell them: ‘The reason I’m good for you is I’m not one of
you.’”
Gabriella G.: “I tell them: ‘The reason I’m good for you is I’m not one of
you.’”
The writers saw themselves acting as intermediaries between the client and the
target audience, negotiating a second kind of space—the gap between the client and
the outside world. The Go-Between is a significant role since it is the main reason
why clients hire writers on contract. While some may not have the in-house expertise
to complete assignments, in many cases, clients are well aware that they need someone outside their organization to help sort through messages and present them with
an appropriate style and tone—a recognition of their own lack of rhetorical knowledgeability and the value of that belonging to the writer.
However, given this knowledge on the part of clients, professional writers often
find themselves arguing on behalf of the audience at client meetings. Such meetings
frequently include more than one organizational representative, each with an agenda
regarding the text. Clients often want to add more messages, mention another project,
or have something explained in a particular way. If the addition of such elements will
“muddy” the document, the writer must be able to articulate why in a confident and
convincing manner. An inability to do this often leads to a difficult writing task since
the writer must incorporate information that is conflicting and/or unsuitable within
a text.
The writers saw themselves acting as intermediaries between the client and the
target audience, negotiating a second kind of space—the gap between the client and
the outside world. The Go-Between is a significant role since it is the main reason
why clients hire writers on contract. While some may not have the in-house expertise
to complete assignments, in many cases, clients are well aware that they need someone outside their organization to help sort through messages and present them with
an appropriate style and tone—a recognition of their own lack of rhetorical knowledgeability and the value of that belonging to the writer.
However, given this knowledge on the part of clients, professional writers often
find themselves arguing on behalf of the audience at client meetings. Such meetings
frequently include more than one organizational representative, each with an agenda
regarding the text. Clients often want to add more messages, mention another project,
or have something explained in a particular way. If the addition of such elements will
“muddy” the document, the writer must be able to articulate why in a confident and
convincing manner. An inability to do this often leads to a difficult writing task since
the writer must incorporate information that is conflicting and/or unsuitable within
a text.
Claire Harrison
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Claire Harrison
17
Being a Go-Between also has a strong impact on the writing process, continually
affecting which words writers choose as appropriate or not appropriate for the intended audience. Shriver notes that many document writers, editors, and designers
“imagine the audience and draw on their internal representation of the audience as a
guide to writing and design…. The strength of intuitive modes is that they
capture…the phenomenon that skilled communicators are good at ‘doing things with
words and pictures’ that get the audience’s attention and keep it” (Shriver, 1997, p.159).
However, since intuition is derived from “the gut,” it may lead to inaccurate judgments. Kirsch interviewed five experienced writers and found that they “develop rich
representations of audiences,” but that they became extremely attached to these representations, perhaps to the detriment of the audience (Kirsch, 1990, p.226). I suggest
that professional writers who are in demand are those whose intuitions tend to be
“dead on” most of the time.
Being a Go-Between also has a strong impact on the writing process, continually
affecting which words writers choose as appropriate or not appropriate for the intended audience. Shriver notes that many document writers, editors, and designers
“imagine the audience and draw on their internal representation of the audience as a
guide to writing and design…. The strength of intuitive modes is that they
capture…the phenomenon that skilled communicators are good at ‘doing things with
words and pictures’ that get the audience’s attention and keep it” (Shriver, 1997, p.159).
However, since intuition is derived from “the gut,” it may lead to inaccurate judgments. Kirsch interviewed five experienced writers and found that they “develop rich
representations of audiences,” but that they became extremely attached to these representations, perhaps to the detriment of the audience (Kirsch, 1990, p.226). I suggest
that professional writers who are in demand are those whose intuitions tend to be
“dead on” most of the time.
The Challenger
The Challenger
Raymond C: “They’ll say the bullshit and propaganda, but I’ll try to manage the interview. I always ask dumb questions such as ‘What’s your problem?’ I try to be provocative in a goofy way. I want them to drop their guards
and speak out.”
Raymond C: “They’ll say the bullshit and propaganda, but I’ll try to manage the interview. I always ask dumb questions such as ‘What’s your problem?’ I try to be provocative in a goofy way. I want them to drop their guards
and speak out.”
Robert R: “We’re not just there to give them what they want, but what they
need. I act as a counter-force to the clients’ acculturation which often works
against clear communication.”
Robert R: “We’re not just there to give them what they want, but what they
need. I act as a counter-force to the clients’ acculturation which often works
against clear communication.”
The writers, with the exception of Gabriella G., felt that sometimes they had to
play a more forceful role than that of the Go-Between. Sometimes, they had to be
Challengers—“play the devil’s advocate” in the words of Raymond C.—to force clients to confront organizational ideologies and motives and to see how they obstructed
good communications. As Robert R. noted: “Insiders have assumptions about what is
true. I bring a fresh eye and skepticism to what people accept as given.”
The events I recounted regarding the e-newsletter demonstrate that I was not
only acting as a Repackager at that time, but also as a Challenger. In Canada, as in
many developed nations, a number of complex factors such as public distrust in authority and the speed of modern communications have forced governments to take a
stance of being more open, transparent, and accessible. As well, high deficits have
compelled them to take on partnerships with the private sector to increase income
and offset costs. Therefore, my client and her team were following the “company line,”
i.e., the contemporary government rhetoric of “increased communications” and
The writers, with the exception of Gabriella G., felt that sometimes they had to
play a more forceful role than that of the Go-Between. Sometimes, they had to be
Challengers—“play the devil’s advocate” in the words of Raymond C.—to force clients to confront organizational ideologies and motives and to see how they obstructed
good communications. As Robert R. noted: “Insiders have assumptions about what is
true. I bring a fresh eye and skepticism to what people accept as given.”
The events I recounted regarding the e-newsletter demonstrate that I was not
only acting as a Repackager at that time, but also as a Challenger. In Canada, as in
many developed nations, a number of complex factors such as public distrust in authority and the speed of modern communications have forced governments to take a
stance of being more open, transparent, and accessible. As well, high deficits have
compelled them to take on partnerships with the private sector to increase income
and offset costs. Therefore, my client and her team were following the “company line,”
i.e., the contemporary government rhetoric of “increased communications” and
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18
“strengthening partnerships” when they initially discussed the tone and style of the enewsletter. The first draft challenged them to live up to these goals, but as their response demonstrated, putting their ideas in print forced them to acknowledge the
real ideologies of their workplace in which the need for caution and facelessness are
predominant.
The role of Challenger is a delicate one, particularly when dealing with new clients. It requires the ability to listen well, read body language, and have sensitivity to
the undercurrents at a meeting. On the other hand, when clients are paying for expertise that they cannot find in-house, they expect to get value for their money. As I
noted above, many welcome the outsider perspective, acknowledging the limitations
of being inside the organizational “bubble.”
“strengthening partnerships” when they initially discussed the tone and style of the enewsletter. The first draft challenged them to live up to these goals, but as their response demonstrated, putting their ideas in print forced them to acknowledge the
real ideologies of their workplace in which the need for caution and facelessness are
predominant.
The role of Challenger is a delicate one, particularly when dealing with new clients. It requires the ability to listen well, read body language, and have sensitivity to
the undercurrents at a meeting. On the other hand, when clients are paying for expertise that they cannot find in-house, they expect to get value for their money. As I
noted above, many welcome the outsider perspective, acknowledging the limitations
of being inside the organizational “bubble.”
The Facilitator/Collaborator
The Facilitator/Collaborator
Gabriella G.: “I end up interviewing the client who has a hard time telling
me the whole story because he/she assumes I know more than I do. And,
they often keep talking around the subject and I keep pulling them back.
What I listen for are the missing links.”
Gabriella G.: “I end up interviewing the client who has a hard time telling
me the whole story because he/she assumes I know more than I do. And,
they often keep talking around the subject and I keep pulling them back.
What I listen for are the missing links.”
Don C.: “Sometimes I know more about the message than the client because I’m also writing for other clients and have a better understanding of
the big picture than anyone else in the room. I help them tie things together.”
Don C.: “Sometimes I know more about the message than the client because I’m also writing for other clients and have a better understanding of
the big picture than anyone else in the room. I help them tie things together.”
Gabriella G. never saw herself as a Challenger—she felt that was too strong a
word. Rather, she saw herself as being in a helping profession—the role that I have
termed Facilitator/Collaborator. As she said: “Insiders have a handicap. They’re unable to communicate their thoughts clearly because they’ve developed sloppy or shorthand ways of speaking. They don’t realize that it’s meaningless [to the audience]. I
help people find the right words. We negotiate over language. It’s a push-and-pull
situation.” She found this role “good, pleasing, and interesting.” All the writers agreed
that one of their important functions was to help clients better understand what they
wanted to say and why—an ability that arises from a rhetorical awareness of the purpose of an organization’s discourse and its discourse practices.
As freelancers, the writers are not “locked into [the] modes of thought and action” of the social matrix (Segal et al., p. 76) and their rhetorical knowledgeability
allows them to engage with clients in problem-solving activities and to help create,
and participate in, an environment in which useful negotiations could occur and
result in a high quality product. Gollin, in a study of writing collaboration in a
Gabriella G. never saw herself as a Challenger—she felt that was too strong a
word. Rather, she saw herself as being in a helping profession—the role that I have
termed Facilitator/Collaborator. As she said: “Insiders have a handicap. They’re unable to communicate their thoughts clearly because they’ve developed sloppy or shorthand ways of speaking. They don’t realize that it’s meaningless [to the audience]. I
help people find the right words. We negotiate over language. It’s a push-and-pull
situation.” She found this role “good, pleasing, and interesting.” All the writers agreed
that one of their important functions was to help clients better understand what they
wanted to say and why—an ability that arises from a rhetorical awareness of the purpose of an organization’s discourse and its discourse practices.
As freelancers, the writers are not “locked into [the] modes of thought and action” of the social matrix (Segal et al., p. 76) and their rhetorical knowledgeability
allows them to engage with clients in problem-solving activities and to help create,
and participate in, an environment in which useful negotiations could occur and
result in a high quality product. Gollin, in a study of writing collaboration in a
Claire Harrison
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Claire Harrison
19
workplace, describes such a negotiation between a client and an outside writing consultant. Analyzing the use of high and low modality in one of their conversations, she
notes:
workplace, describes such a negotiation between a client and an outside writing consultant. Analyzing the use of high and low modality in one of their conversations, she
notes:
While the attention of the writers in this extract is ostensibly on content,
there is a parallel negotiation going on in the interpersonal plane…powerholding shifts from Fiona to Max and then back to Fiona. In her role as
project leader, Fiona mitigates some of her authority early in the exchange by using politeness…[Then] Max seems to be taking over the
leading role. However, Max is sensitive to the need to maintain a harmonious working relationship. He realizes that they might be entering into
a full-scale argument, which would be counter productive…we see a
sudden shift. He moves from high modality to medium, shifting from
strong expression of group obligation to personal belief…Fiona immediately seizes her opportunity, and reverts to high modality (Gollin, 1996,
p. 24–25).
While the attention of the writers in this extract is ostensibly on content,
there is a parallel negotiation going on in the interpersonal plane…powerholding shifts from Fiona to Max and then back to Fiona. In her role as
project leader, Fiona mitigates some of her authority early in the exchange by using politeness…[Then] Max seems to be taking over the
leading role. However, Max is sensitive to the need to maintain a harmonious working relationship. He realizes that they might be entering into
a full-scale argument, which would be counter productive…we see a
sudden shift. He moves from high modality to medium, shifting from
strong expression of group obligation to personal belief…Fiona immediately seizes her opportunity, and reverts to high modality (Gollin, 1996,
p. 24–25).
In my experience, the longer and better the client-contractor relationship, the
more equality exists between client and writer, making the transitions between powerholding shifts smoother and even pleasurable to both parties.
In my experience, the longer and better the client-contractor relationship, the
more equality exists between client and writer, making the transitions between powerholding shifts smoother and even pleasurable to both parties.
The Pseudo-Insider
The Pseudo-Insider
Gabriella G: “I’m like an actor playing a role. I’m distant and yet involved.”
Gabriella G: “I’m like an actor playing a role. I’m distant and yet involved.”
Raymond C: “I try to find what it is that I agree with. You have to ‘buy in’;
make a private connection.”
Raymond C: “I try to find what it is that I agree with. You have to ‘buy in’;
make a private connection.”
Robert R.: “I let part of my brain think the way they do. I represent them
and have to express their messages.”
Robert R.: “I let part of my brain think the way they do. I represent them
and have to express their messages.”
Don C.: “I put myself in another consciousness and see how the world looks
to them.”
Don C.: “I put myself in another consciousness and see how the world looks
to them.”
Just as the writers have to represent the audience in the role of Go-Between, they
also have to represent the perspective of the client in the role of Pseudo-Insider. Rhetorical knowledgeability is crucial for this role, because it enables the writer to cross
another type of space—the gap between their own identities and that of their clients’.
When arriving, so to speak, in the opposite camp, the writers must deliberately “wrap”
themselves in its ideologies and discourse practices. For example, this is the major
Just as the writers have to represent the audience in the role of Go-Between, they
also have to represent the perspective of the client in the role of Pseudo-Insider. Rhetorical knowledgeability is crucial for this role, because it enables the writer to cross
another type of space—the gap between their own identities and that of their clients’.
When arriving, so to speak, in the opposite camp, the writers must deliberately “wrap”
themselves in its ideologies and discourse practices. For example, this is the major
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20
role that I played when writing the second draft of the e-newsletter. Don C. who
writes speeches for members of different political parties in Canada laughingly referred to himself as “an ideological slut.” However, as the writers’ quotes demonstrate,
this role has a schizophrenic quality to it, i.e., they can only let one part of themselves
be the Pseudo-Insider, while the other part retains its independence. The dangers of
moving too far into the organizational terrain will be a loss of rhetorical knowledgeability if they identify so closely with an organization’s ideologies that the discourse
begins to sound like commonsense, i.e, naturalized.
Client meetings are key to learning about this role since the writer can intuit the
organizational ideologies and hierarchies and pick up on the phraseology and jargon.
Gabriella G. said that, in a first meeting, “I listen in a different way. Sometimes I tape
their words, but I have no consistent method.” Don C. writes down the vocabulary
that he hears during a meeting with a new client: “I need to get tuned to their
buzzwords, because I’m going to have to send those buzzwords back.” Robert R. pointed
out that the clients “are keen to make you understand. They say what’s important,
and they know the internal sensitivities.” Raymond C. noted that years of experience
had helped him “build sensitivity to general organizational patterns.”
The Pseudo-Insider role also has a major effect on the writing process, causing
the writer to structure content, shape ideas, and express information in ways that are
organizationally appropriate and will be acceptable to the client. During this process,
the writer is constantly alternating between the roles of Pseudo-Insider and Go-Between in an attempt to fashion text that meets the needs of both client and audience.
This situation can have a knife-edge quality. Robert R. said: “I’m not always convinced that the organization wants to communicate the message clearly. Sometimes
it’s more manipulation and obfuscation.” And Gabriella G. noted that: “Sometimes
you’re in a paradoxical situation where the text has to be clear and yet not clear. You
have to find the right nuance.”
role that I played when writing the second draft of the e-newsletter. Don C. who
writes speeches for members of different political parties in Canada laughingly referred to himself as “an ideological slut.” However, as the writers’ quotes demonstrate,
this role has a schizophrenic quality to it, i.e., they can only let one part of themselves
be the Pseudo-Insider, while the other part retains its independence. The dangers of
moving too far into the organizational terrain will be a loss of rhetorical knowledgeability if they identify so closely with an organization’s ideologies that the discourse
begins to sound like commonsense, i.e, naturalized.
Client meetings are key to learning about this role since the writer can intuit the
organizational ideologies and hierarchies and pick up on the phraseology and jargon.
Gabriella G. said that, in a first meeting, “I listen in a different way. Sometimes I tape
their words, but I have no consistent method.” Don C. writes down the vocabulary
that he hears during a meeting with a new client: “I need to get tuned to their
buzzwords, because I’m going to have to send those buzzwords back.” Robert R. pointed
out that the clients “are keen to make you understand. They say what’s important,
and they know the internal sensitivities.” Raymond C. noted that years of experience
had helped him “build sensitivity to general organizational patterns.”
The Pseudo-Insider role also has a major effect on the writing process, causing
the writer to structure content, shape ideas, and express information in ways that are
organizationally appropriate and will be acceptable to the client. During this process,
the writer is constantly alternating between the roles of Pseudo-Insider and Go-Between in an attempt to fashion text that meets the needs of both client and audience.
This situation can have a knife-edge quality. Robert R. said: “I’m not always convinced that the organization wants to communicate the message clearly. Sometimes
it’s more manipulation and obfuscation.” And Gabriella G. noted that: “Sometimes
you’re in a paradoxical situation where the text has to be clear and yet not clear. You
have to find the right nuance.”
The Risk-Taker
The Risk-Taker
Robert R: “Clients are risk averse because it’s not efficient for them to take
risks. They need to get approvals and don’t want repercussions. So they use
language that’s already been approved, and it tends to get replicated over
and over and imported into new documents. We tug at the other end of the
rope and offer them a contrasting way to say things.”
Robert R: “Clients are risk averse because it’s not efficient for them to take
risks. They need to get approvals and don’t want repercussions. So they use
language that’s already been approved, and it tends to get replicated over
and over and imported into new documents. We tug at the other end of the
rope and offer them a contrasting way to say things.”
Raymond C: “The clients are often timid and afraid and don’t use real-life
words. They write for the boss. I write for the audience.”
Raymond C: “The clients are often timid and afraid and don’t use real-life
words. They write for the boss. I write for the audience.”
Claire Harrison
21
Claire Harrison
21
The writers also believed that they had the opportunity to say things in ways
that were off-limits to clients. Their use of rhetorical knowledgeability, particularly
an awareness of the connection between the power hierarchy within an organization and its discourse, allowed them to make a deliberate attempt to change its discursive practices. As a Risk Taker, the writer may use a different vocabulary—for
example, the e-newsletter title, “Let’s E-Chat,” which I chose for its non-bureaucratic tone. Another change can involve untangling intent. Iedema demonstrates
through a simple example how organizations use modality to conceal the command,
“Pay the fee,” and who is commanding, by using the phrases: “It is required that you
pay the fee” or “The requirement is that you pay the fee” (Iedema, 1997b, p. 8). The
result, in more complex discourse, is highly convoluted and multi-syllabic text that
makes it difficult for audiences to comprehend. In situations like these, professional
writers generally try to provide clarity and reader appeal—for example, I might revise the command, leaving it hidden, but making it more dialogic, avoiding
nominalizations, and eliminating the passive voice: “Are you interested in using this
service? Then your fee will be…” As Robert R. noted: “You want to engage the reader
in the process by asking rhetorical questions or speaking personally with the reader
[by] using the ‘second person.’”
Sometimes discursive changes are accepted and even welcomed; sometimes they
are rejected. When the latter occurs, the writer’s outsider status usually provides protection. For example, in the case of the e-newsletter, the client took full responsibility,
saying that she and her group had not realized exactly what they wanted. Don C. said:
“I’m given the benefit of the doubt for my lack of knowledge. That lets me say things
in new ways.” However, if a writer takes too many unacceptable risks, the client will
ultimately assume that he or she was not the right contractor for the job. As Robert R.
explained: “Risk-taking is an art and it varies from case to case. You need experience
to know how far you can go.” However, risk-taking is pleasurable because it provides
space for creativity in both writing and problem-solving. And, when it is successful,
clients are enthusiastic and appreciative. Don C. noted that he sometimes felt like a
“white knight” who arrives to save the situation.
The writers also believed that they had the opportunity to say things in ways
that were off-limits to clients. Their use of rhetorical knowledgeability, particularly
an awareness of the connection between the power hierarchy within an organization and its discourse, allowed them to make a deliberate attempt to change its discursive practices. As a Risk Taker, the writer may use a different vocabulary—for
example, the e-newsletter title, “Let’s E-Chat,” which I chose for its non-bureaucratic tone. Another change can involve untangling intent. Iedema demonstrates
through a simple example how organizations use modality to conceal the command,
“Pay the fee,” and who is commanding, by using the phrases: “It is required that you
pay the fee” or “The requirement is that you pay the fee” (Iedema, 1997b, p. 8). The
result, in more complex discourse, is highly convoluted and multi-syllabic text that
makes it difficult for audiences to comprehend. In situations like these, professional
writers generally try to provide clarity and reader appeal—for example, I might revise the command, leaving it hidden, but making it more dialogic, avoiding
nominalizations, and eliminating the passive voice: “Are you interested in using this
service? Then your fee will be…” As Robert R. noted: “You want to engage the reader
in the process by asking rhetorical questions or speaking personally with the reader
[by] using the ‘second person.’”
Sometimes discursive changes are accepted and even welcomed; sometimes they
are rejected. When the latter occurs, the writer’s outsider status usually provides protection. For example, in the case of the e-newsletter, the client took full responsibility,
saying that she and her group had not realized exactly what they wanted. Don C. said:
“I’m given the benefit of the doubt for my lack of knowledge. That lets me say things
in new ways.” However, if a writer takes too many unacceptable risks, the client will
ultimately assume that he or she was not the right contractor for the job. As Robert R.
explained: “Risk-taking is an art and it varies from case to case. You need experience
to know how far you can go.” However, risk-taking is pleasurable because it provides
space for creativity in both writing and problem-solving. And, when it is successful,
clients are enthusiastic and appreciative. Don C. noted that he sometimes felt like a
“white knight” who arrives to save the situation.
CONCLUSION
CONCLUSION
The study reported in this paper suggests that professional writers, particularly
those who freelance, must be masters of rhetorical knowledgeability in order to earn
a living. Further, the study shows that the key to this rhetorical knowledgeability is
the capacity to take on various roles either sequentially or simultaneously. These roles,
played out in complex ways towards both clients and text, allow professional writers
to straddle the divide between a COP and the outside world with one foot, so to
The study reported in this paper suggests that professional writers, particularly
those who freelance, must be masters of rhetorical knowledgeability in order to earn
a living. Further, the study shows that the key to this rhetorical knowledgeability is
the capacity to take on various roles either sequentially or simultaneously. These roles,
played out in complex ways towards both clients and text, allow professional writers
to straddle the divide between a COP and the outside world with one foot, so to
22
speak, in either camp. This “stance” enables them to participate to some degree in a
COP’s social matrix and yet maintain a necessary distance from it. However, many
research gaps remain. For example:
22
speak, in either camp. This “stance” enables them to participate to some degree in a
COP’s social matrix and yet maintain a necessary distance from it. However, many
research gaps remain. For example:
• Professional writers act as ethnographers when they enter a workplace.
How do they acquire the skills to do this without training and yet clearly
achieve success through their ability to recreate an organization’s culture
and language?
• Professional writers act as ethnographers when they enter a workplace.
How do they acquire the skills to do this without training and yet clearly
achieve success through their ability to recreate an organization’s culture
and language?
• Professional writers manage to share in some of the distributed cognition of a workplace. How do they gain and apply this knowledge?
• Professional writers manage to share in some of the distributed cognition of a workplace. How do they gain and apply this knowledge?
• Professional writers have an almost instantaneous recognition of
workplace genres. How have they acquired this ability? Do they develop
mental schemata or templates and, if so, how does this take place?
• Professional writers have an almost instantaneous recognition of
workplace genres. How have they acquired this ability? Do they develop
mental schemata or templates and, if so, how does this take place?
• Professional writers’ ability to role-play arises from experience and exigency, a heightened sensitivity to organizational language and interpersonal situations, and a talent for writing in a variety of genres and media. How do these specific factors and experiences interweave to create
success? And, conversely, is there a mix that would result in failure?
• Professional writers’ ability to role-play arises from experience and exigency, a heightened sensitivity to organizational language and interpersonal situations, and a talent for writing in a variety of genres and media. How do these specific factors and experiences interweave to create
success? And, conversely, is there a mix that would result in failure?
• Professional writers have learned their role-playing skills on the job, so
to speak. How effective would role-playing be for novice writers in an
academic setting? And what steps need to be taken to teach this particular skill in the classroom.
• Professional writers have learned their role-playing skills on the job, so
to speak. How effective would role-playing be for novice writers in an
academic setting? And what steps need to be taken to teach this particular skill in the classroom.
In sum, the world of the professional writer provides, I suggest, a rich research
source for scholars interested in the writing process, genre studies, and pedagogical
strategies for assisting students as they make the transition from writing for academe
to writing for the workplace.
In sum, the world of the professional writer provides, I suggest, a rich research
source for scholars interested in the writing process, genre studies, and pedagogical
strategies for assisting students as they make the transition from writing for academe
to writing for the workplace.
Appendix: Questions for Professional Writers
Appendix: Questions for Professional Writers
Note: I’ve structured the questions along my own steps toward getting acculturated
to a new client. They may not fit your approach. Please think of them only as a starting point.
Note: I’ve structured the questions along my own steps toward getting acculturated
to a new client. They may not fit your approach. Please think of them only as a starting point.
Claire Harrison
23
Claire Harrison
23
The scenario: You have been phoned and asked to undertake an assignment for a new
client. You agree and go to your first meeting.
The scenario: You have been phoned and asked to undertake an assignment for a new
client. You agree and go to your first meeting.
At the meeting, the project manager explains the assignment to you.
• What do you listen for to ensure that you understand all the requirements of the assignment?
• How do you gather tacit information from the meeting about the organization to help you achieve your task, i.e., organizational culture, hierarchy, ideology?
• What clues do you get from people and attitudes around the table? How
do you see these?
• What kind of questions do you find yourself asking at these meetings?
• What listening/interpreting skills do you think you use at this point in
your assignment?
At the meeting, the project manager explains the assignment to you.
• What do you listen for to ensure that you understand all the requirements of the assignment?
• How do you gather tacit information from the meeting about the organization to help you achieve your task, i.e., organizational culture, hierarchy, ideology?
• What clues do you get from people and attitudes around the table? How
do you see these?
• What kind of questions do you find yourself asking at these meetings?
• What listening/interpreting skills do you think you use at this point in
your assignment?
You’re given background material to read.
• What do you find out from this information that allows you to write for
the client as if you worked as an employee?
• What do you look for in a client’s written materials that give you clues to
how you have to write your own assignment?
• What reading skills do you think you use at this point in your assignment?
You’re given background material to read.
• What do you find out from this information that allows you to write for
the client as if you worked as an employee?
• What do you look for in a client’s written materials that give you clues to
how you have to write your own assignment?
• What reading skills do you think you use at this point in your assignment?
You start writing.
• How do you undertake your work? Plan, outline, just get into it, etc.?
• How do you ensure that you write in the appropriate style, tone and
vocabulary of the client?
• How do you ensure that your writing both explicitly and implicitly duplicates the ideology of the client?
• Do you think your status as an outsider gives you an advantage? How?
• Do you think your status as an outsider has disadvantages and, if so,
what are they?
• What writing skills do you think you use at this point in your assignment?
You start writing.
• How do you undertake your work? Plan, outline, just get into it, etc.?
• How do you ensure that you write in the appropriate style, tone and
vocabulary of the client?
• How do you ensure that your writing both explicitly and implicitly duplicates the ideology of the client?
• Do you think your status as an outsider gives you an advantage? How?
• Do you think your status as an outsider has disadvantages and, if so,
what are they?
• What writing skills do you think you use at this point in your assignment?
24
24
Throughout the process, you submit drafts and get back corrections, suggestions,
additions, etc.
• What is the major area where you generally get corrections: structure,
content, vocabulary, etc?
• What clues about the organizational culture and ideology do you learn
from these corrections? How do you notice these clues?
• What do you do if the client appears to be changing the scope of the
assignment? How does this affect your understanding the his/her organization?
• Do you find that some assignments require more “collaboration” with
the client than others?
• What writing and interpersonal skills do you think you use at this point
in your assignment?
Throughout the process, you submit drafts and get back corrections, suggestions,
additions, etc.
• What is the major area where you generally get corrections: structure,
content, vocabulary, etc?
• What clues about the organizational culture and ideology do you learn
from these corrections? How do you notice these clues?
• What do you do if the client appears to be changing the scope of the
assignment? How does this affect your understanding the his/her organization?
• Do you find that some assignments require more “collaboration” with
the client than others?
• What writing and interpersonal skills do you think you use at this point
in your assignment?
Other Information
• How many years have you worked as a writing consultant?
• What genres do you primarily work in? Example: speeches, reports,
scripts, brochures, Web sites, etc.
• What kind of clients do you have? Private sector, public sector, NGO.
• Do you have a particular writing content specialty?
• What do you think are your strengths? Weaknesses?
• If you had to give advice to a novice professional writer, what would you
say?
Other Information
• How many years have you worked as a writing consultant?
• What genres do you primarily work in? Example: speeches, reports,
scripts, brochures, Web sites, etc.
• What kind of clients do you have? Private sector, public sector, NGO.
• Do you have a particular writing content specialty?
• What do you think are your strengths? Weaknesses?
• If you had to give advice to a novice professional writer, what would you
say?
NOTES
NOTES
1
An earlier version of this paper was presented at the Congress of the Social
Sciences and Humanities, Canadian Association for the Teachers of Technical
Writing, Quebec City, May 26, 2001.
An earlier version of this paper was presented at the Congress of the Social
Sciences and Humanities, Canadian Association for the Teachers of Technical
Writing, Quebec City, May 26, 2001.
While these roles emerged from the conversations with freelance professional
writers, I suggest that they also apply to in-house professional writers. For example,
after I presented this paper to a graduate class, one student who is a writer at the
Bank of Canada said that she played all the roles in her job except that of PseudoInsider since she was, of course, “on the inside.”
While these roles emerged from the conversations with freelance professional
writers, I suggest that they also apply to in-house professional writers. For example,
after I presented this paper to a graduate class, one student who is a writer at the
Bank of Canada said that she played all the roles in her job except that of PseudoInsider since she was, of course, “on the inside.”
2
1
2
Claire Harrison
25
Claire Harrison
25
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Isabelle Clerc et Céline Beaudet
27
Pour un enseignement de la rédaction
professionnelle ou de la rédaction technique ?
Pour un enseignement de la rédaction
professionnelle ou de la rédaction technique ?
Isabelle Clerc, Université Laval
Céline Beaudet, Université de Sherbrooke
Isabelle Clerc, Université Laval
Céline Beaudet, Université de Sherbrooke
27
Although the market for technical editing is on the rise, Quebec and Frenchspeaking European countries deplore the lack of technical editors. This shortage perplexes the two authors of this article. Making an inventory of expected skills for professional, non-specialized editors and their specialized
homologues, Clerc and Beaudet maintain that professional editors are communicators before they are experts in content.
Although the market for technical editing is on the rise, Quebec and Frenchspeaking European countries deplore the lack of technical editors. This shortage perplexes the two authors of this article. Making an inventory of expected skills for professional, non-specialized editors and their specialized
homologues, Clerc and Beaudet maintain that professional editors are communicators before they are experts in content.
Le marché de la rédaction technique est en plein essor. Les offres d’emploi en
rédaction technique, de plus en plus nombreuses, en sont la meilleure preuve. Au
cours des vingt dernières années, l’arrivée d’Internet a eu pour effet de décupler la
masse documentaire et d’augmenter tout autant la tâche d’écriture dans les entreprises. Cet état de fait tient en bonne partie aux nouvelles normes de qualité internationales qui exigent des industries désignées ISO 9000 qu’elles respectent le principe de
« traçabilité » pour tout produit manufacturé.
Paradoxalement, bien que le marché soit en pleine expansion, la formation en
rédaction technique ne s’est pas développée au Québec, ni dans les pays de l’Europe
francophone (Vanhulle, 2000; La rédaction technique : actes du séminaire de Bruxelles
des 24 et 25 novembre 1997, 2000). Nous distinguons la formation en rédaction technique de la formation en rédaction professionnelle, non spécialisée, plus répandue
sous le couvert de divers programmes de communication, au Québec ou dans l’Europe francophone. La rédaction technique, dans notre perspective, est un secteur de
la communication professionnelle exigeant une surspécialisation, le plus souvent de
nature technique ou scientifique, mais aussi dans les domaines de la gestion et de
l’administration.1 Nous entendons par surspécialisation le fait que le rédacteur technique est d’abord spécialisé en communication écrite professionnelle et que, de surcroît, il possède des compétences dans le domaine technique et scientifique, l’habilitant à traiter des contenus propres à ces domaines d’activités.
Le marché de la rédaction technique est en plein essor. Les offres d’emploi en
rédaction technique, de plus en plus nombreuses, en sont la meilleure preuve. Au
cours des vingt dernières années, l’arrivée d’Internet a eu pour effet de décupler la
masse documentaire et d’augmenter tout autant la tâche d’écriture dans les entreprises. Cet état de fait tient en bonne partie aux nouvelles normes de qualité internationales qui exigent des industries désignées ISO 9000 qu’elles respectent le principe de
« traçabilité » pour tout produit manufacturé.
Paradoxalement, bien que le marché soit en pleine expansion, la formation en
rédaction technique ne s’est pas développée au Québec, ni dans les pays de l’Europe
francophone (Vanhulle, 2000; La rédaction technique : actes du séminaire de Bruxelles
des 24 et 25 novembre 1997, 2000). Nous distinguons la formation en rédaction technique de la formation en rédaction professionnelle, non spécialisée, plus répandue
sous le couvert de divers programmes de communication, au Québec ou dans l’Europe francophone. La rédaction technique, dans notre perspective, est un secteur de
la communication professionnelle exigeant une surspécialisation, le plus souvent de
nature technique ou scientifique, mais aussi dans les domaines de la gestion et de
l’administration.1 Nous entendons par surspécialisation le fait que le rédacteur technique est d’abord spécialisé en communication écrite professionnelle et que, de surcroît, il possède des compétences dans le domaine technique et scientifique, l’habilitant à traiter des contenus propres à ces domaines d’activités.
28
Pour un enseignement de la rédaction professionnelle ou de la rédaction technique ?
28
Au Québec, la rédaction technique est enseignée, sur le mode mineur, dans les
programmes de génie et dans certaines facultés d’administration; tous ces programmes incluent une formation rudimentaire en rédaction technique et en techniques de
l’expression, en rapport avec chaque domaine de spécialisation. Aucun ne vise à former des rédacteurs techniques.
Quant à la formation en rédaction professionnelle, toujours au Québec, elle n’est
pas orientée vers la maîtrise d’un contenu en particulier, mais bien vers la maîtrise
des techniques de rédaction, basée sur des connaissances en sciences du langage et de
la communication et sur les technologies de l’information. Les écrits techniques y
sont envisagés comme un genre parmi d’autres et font rarement l’objet de plus d’une
activité pédagogique.
Le rédacteur professionnel est un spécialiste de la communication écrite,
contextualisée et tournée vers le destinataire. Nous soutenons ici que la rédaction
professionnelle englobe la rédaction technique et non l’inverse (Clerc, 1998 : 355).
Elle va de l’écriture créative (textes publicitaires) à l’écriture technique (manuels, procédures, soumissions) en passant par l’écriture administrative. « Est dit rédacteur professionnel tout individu qui exerce une activité langagière à titre professionnel à partir d’un mandat et qui en tire ses moyens d’existence » (Clerc, 1999 : 348). Cette définition permet de comprendre que celui qui se consacre uniquement à l’écriture de
slogans se dise publicitaire, que celui qui se consacre uniquement à l’écriture de relations publiques se dise relationniste ou agent d’information, que celui qui ne se consacre qu’à la rédaction de guides, manuels, procédures se dise rédacteur technique.
Mais le pigiste qui exerce son métier dans différents domaines (écrire un discours,
concevoir un cours à distance, un site web, un panneau d’exposition, etc.) selon les
commandes qu’il reçoit est un rédacteur professionnel généraliste.
Étant posées ces définitions du rédacteur technique et du rédacteur professionnel, pour tenter d’expliquer la pénurie de rédacteurs techniques sur le marché du
travail, il nous semble important d’évaluer les compétences rédactionnelles exigées
en rédaction technique par les employeurs et de les comparer à ce qui est exigé en
rédaction professionnelle. Pour ce faire, nous avons d’abord cherché à cerner ce qu’est
la rédaction technique, vue sous l’angle du marché de l’emploi au Québec, des compétences attendues et de la distinction entre rédaction technique et rédaction professionnelle. Nous avons ensuite examiné les tâches réservées à des communicateurs et
celles dédiées aux experts de contenu. Nous avons enfin dégagé les connaissances à
transmettre pour répondre à notre question de départ. La formation à donner aux
rédacteurs professionnels et aux rédacteurs techniques doit-elle être distincte ?
Au Québec, la rédaction technique est enseignée, sur le mode mineur, dans les
programmes de génie et dans certaines facultés d’administration; tous ces programmes incluent une formation rudimentaire en rédaction technique et en techniques de
l’expression, en rapport avec chaque domaine de spécialisation. Aucun ne vise à former des rédacteurs techniques.
Quant à la formation en rédaction professionnelle, toujours au Québec, elle n’est
pas orientée vers la maîtrise d’un contenu en particulier, mais bien vers la maîtrise
des techniques de rédaction, basée sur des connaissances en sciences du langage et de
la communication et sur les technologies de l’information. Les écrits techniques y
sont envisagés comme un genre parmi d’autres et font rarement l’objet de plus d’une
activité pédagogique.
Le rédacteur professionnel est un spécialiste de la communication écrite,
contextualisée et tournée vers le destinataire. Nous soutenons ici que la rédaction
professionnelle englobe la rédaction technique et non l’inverse (Clerc, 1998 : 355).
Elle va de l’écriture créative (textes publicitaires) à l’écriture technique (manuels, procédures, soumissions) en passant par l’écriture administrative. « Est dit rédacteur professionnel tout individu qui exerce une activité langagière à titre professionnel à partir d’un mandat et qui en tire ses moyens d’existence » (Clerc, 1999 : 348). Cette définition permet de comprendre que celui qui se consacre uniquement à l’écriture de
slogans se dise publicitaire, que celui qui se consacre uniquement à l’écriture de relations publiques se dise relationniste ou agent d’information, que celui qui ne se consacre qu’à la rédaction de guides, manuels, procédures se dise rédacteur technique.
Mais le pigiste qui exerce son métier dans différents domaines (écrire un discours,
concevoir un cours à distance, un site web, un panneau d’exposition, etc.) selon les
commandes qu’il reçoit est un rédacteur professionnel généraliste.
Étant posées ces définitions du rédacteur technique et du rédacteur professionnel, pour tenter d’expliquer la pénurie de rédacteurs techniques sur le marché du
travail, il nous semble important d’évaluer les compétences rédactionnelles exigées
en rédaction technique par les employeurs et de les comparer à ce qui est exigé en
rédaction professionnelle. Pour ce faire, nous avons d’abord cherché à cerner ce qu’est
la rédaction technique, vue sous l’angle du marché de l’emploi au Québec, des compétences attendues et de la distinction entre rédaction technique et rédaction professionnelle. Nous avons ensuite examiné les tâches réservées à des communicateurs et
celles dédiées aux experts de contenu. Nous avons enfin dégagé les connaissances à
transmettre pour répondre à notre question de départ. La formation à donner aux
rédacteurs professionnels et aux rédacteurs techniques doit-elle être distincte ?
29
29
Le marché de l’emploi en rédaction professionnelle
Le marché de l’emploi en rédaction professionnelle
Selon une étude réalisée en 1997 sur le marché de l’emploi en rédaction professionnelle au Québec (Gibbs, 1998), étude mise à jour en 1999 (Lévesque, 1999), le
domaine de la rédaction professionnelle connaît un essor considérable. En effet, le
nombre d’offres d’emploi a quadruplé entre 1995 et 1998. Pour interpréter ces chiffres,
il faut savoir que, dans le domaine de la rédaction professionnelle, seulement 20 %
des offres d’emploi sont publiées, 80 % des contrats de rédaction étant donnés à la
pige2.
Comme le révèle la figure 1, le nombre d’offres d’emploi s’est maintenu en 1993,
1994 et 1995 ; il a doublé en 1996 (98 offres) et a progressé de façon nette mais constante en 1997 (130 offres) et en 1998 (217 offres). Les offres sont parues principalement
dans trois journaux francophones québécois : La Presse (76 %), Le Devoir, (9 %) et Le
Soleil (10 %). Les 5 % restant proviennent d’annonces parues dans Internet et dans
des hebdomadaires régionaux. Il faut prévoir avec les années une augmentation des
offres d’emploi par voie électronique.
La figure 1 donne également un aperçu de la distribution des corps d’emploi en
rédaction professionnelle. Si la majorité des offres concernent les rédacteurs, elles
s’adressent – règle générale – davantage à des rédacteurs techniques qu’à des rédacteurs généralistes. La prépondérance de la rédaction technique n’étonne pas. La masse
documentaire dans l’industrie aura augmenté dans les mêmes proportions entre 1999
et 2002 qu’elle l’avait fait entre 1950 et 19993 (source : www.thebrain.com).
Selon une étude réalisée en 1997 sur le marché de l’emploi en rédaction professionnelle au Québec (Gibbs, 1998), étude mise à jour en 1999 (Lévesque, 1999), le
domaine de la rédaction professionnelle connaît un essor considérable. En effet, le
nombre d’offres d’emploi a quadruplé entre 1995 et 1998. Pour interpréter ces chiffres,
il faut savoir que, dans le domaine de la rédaction professionnelle, seulement 20 %
des offres d’emploi sont publiées, 80 % des contrats de rédaction étant donnés à la
pige2.
Comme le révèle la figure 1, le nombre d’offres d’emploi s’est maintenu en 1993,
1994 et 1995 ; il a doublé en 1996 (98 offres) et a progressé de façon nette mais constante en 1997 (130 offres) et en 1998 (217 offres). Les offres sont parues principalement
dans trois journaux francophones québécois : La Presse (76 %), Le Devoir, (9 %) et Le
Soleil (10 %). Les 5 % restant proviennent d’annonces parues dans Internet et dans
des hebdomadaires régionaux. Il faut prévoir avec les années une augmentation des
offres d’emploi par voie électronique.
La figure 1 donne également un aperçu de la distribution des corps d’emploi en
rédaction professionnelle. Si la majorité des offres concernent les rédacteurs, elles
s’adressent – règle générale – davantage à des rédacteurs techniques qu’à des rédacteurs généralistes. La prépondérance de la rédaction technique n’étonne pas. La masse
documentaire dans l’industrie aura augmenté dans les mêmes proportions entre 1999
et 2002 qu’elle l’avait fait entre 1950 et 19993 (source : www.thebrain.com).
250
250
Rédacteur technique
Rédacteur / Réd. Réviseur
200
200
Réd. en chef / Éditeur
150
Total
Réviseur / Correcteur
Nombre
Nombre
Total
100
100
50
50
0
150
0
1993
1994
1995
Année
1996
1997
1998
1993
1994
1995
Année
1996
1997
1998
Figure 1 – Évolution du nombre d’offres selon les types d’emplois
Figure 1 – Évolution du nombre d’offres selon les types d’emplois
30
30
Aujourd’hui, le moindre projet de haute technicité comprend le plus
souvent une documentation énorme qui couvre des centaines de mètres
de rayonnages. Par exemple, l’Aéronavale américaine gère 25 000 manuels techniques, renfermant 3 millions de pages et concernant 135 appareils. Pour un seul appareil, la documentation technique s’élève à environ 300 000 pages. (Timbal-Duclaux, 1993)
Aujourd’hui, le moindre projet de haute technicité comprend le plus
souvent une documentation énorme qui couvre des centaines de mètres
de rayonnages. Par exemple, l’Aéronavale américaine gère 25 000 manuels techniques, renfermant 3 millions de pages et concernant 135 appareils. Pour un seul appareil, la documentation technique s’élève à environ 300 000 pages. (Timbal-Duclaux, 1993)
Par ailleurs, les offres d’emploi visent dans une moindre mesure – mais en proportion presque équivalente – des réviseurs correcteurs et des rédacteurs en chef ou
des éditeurs. La distinction faite entre rédacteurs/rédacteurs réviseurs et réviseurs
correcteurs est la suivante : on regroupe les rédacteurs et les rédacteurs réviseurs sous
le même chapeau parce qu’ils sont avant tout des rédacteurs. Ils sont donc appelés à
rédiger, parfois à partir de documentation, parfois non. Ils ont donc plus ou moins de
recherches à faire. Par ailleurs, quand ils doivent réécrire un texte, ils le retravaillent
sous ses aspects informatif, structurel, interactionnel, visuel et linguistique. La révision linguistique fait partie de leur travail, mais elle n’occupe pas la place centrale. À
l’opposé, les réviseurs correcteurs sont appelés à revoir les textes principalement sur
le plan linguistique (syntaxe, vocabulaire, ponctuation, accords, etc.) et à corriger les
épreuves.
Les exigences de qualification diffèrent selon les emplois ou les fonctions occupées, en raison de la diversité des champs d’activité dans lesquels les rédacteurs exercent leur métier.
Le tableau 1 indique clairement quels domaines d’activités réclament des rédacteurs et dans quelle proportion. Se dégagent en fait quatre grands secteurs :
Par ailleurs, les offres d’emploi visent dans une moindre mesure – mais en proportion presque équivalente – des réviseurs correcteurs et des rédacteurs en chef ou
des éditeurs. La distinction faite entre rédacteurs/rédacteurs réviseurs et réviseurs
correcteurs est la suivante : on regroupe les rédacteurs et les rédacteurs réviseurs sous
le même chapeau parce qu’ils sont avant tout des rédacteurs. Ils sont donc appelés à
rédiger, parfois à partir de documentation, parfois non. Ils ont donc plus ou moins de
recherches à faire. Par ailleurs, quand ils doivent réécrire un texte, ils le retravaillent
sous ses aspects informatif, structurel, interactionnel, visuel et linguistique. La révision linguistique fait partie de leur travail, mais elle n’occupe pas la place centrale. À
l’opposé, les réviseurs correcteurs sont appelés à revoir les textes principalement sur
le plan linguistique (syntaxe, vocabulaire, ponctuation, accords, etc.) et à corriger les
épreuves.
Les exigences de qualification diffèrent selon les emplois ou les fonctions occupées, en raison de la diversité des champs d’activité dans lesquels les rédacteurs exercent leur métier.
Le tableau 1 indique clairement quels domaines d’activités réclament des rédacteurs et dans quelle proportion. Se dégagent en fait quatre grands secteurs :
1. les sciences + technologies + aéronautique + transport = 151
1. les sciences + technologies + aéronautique + transport = 151
2. l’informatique (+NTIC4 à 60 %) = 130
2. l’informatique (+NTIC4 à 60 %) = 130
1. publicité + communications + linguistique + formation/éducation +culture + loisirs + NTIC (40 %) = 114
1. publicité + communications + linguistique + formation/éducation +culture + loisirs + NTIC (40 %) = 114
2. l’édition = 90
2. l’édition = 90
La figure 2 révèle que le rédacteur technique travaille surtout dans les domaines
où la communication écrite n’est pas l’orientation première des entreprises (sciences,
technologies, etc.), alors que son confrère généraliste travaille dans les domaines où le
La figure 2 révèle que le rédacteur technique travaille surtout dans les domaines
où la communication écrite n’est pas l’orientation première des entreprises (sciences,
technologies, etc.), alors que son confrère généraliste travaille dans les domaines où le
31
31
Tableau 1 – Champs d’activités par type d’emploi
Tableau 1 – Champs d’activités par type d’emploi
(Source : www.thebrain.com/BrainEKPtour/ekptour.htm)
(Source : www.thebrain.com/BrainEKPtour/ekptour.htm)
Rédacteur
technique
Domaine
Rédacteur/
Réviseur/
Réd.
Correcteur
réviseur
Réd. en
chef/
Éditeur
Total
Rédacteur
technique
Domaine
Rédacteur/
Réviseur/
Réd.
Correcteur
réviseur
Réd. en
chef/
Éditeur
Total
Agriculture
1
3
0
0
4
Agriculture
1
3
0
0
Archéologie
0
2
0
0
2
Archéologie
0
2
0
0
2
Commerce de détail
0
9
2
1
12
Commerce de détail
0
9
2
1
12
Développement international
0
2
0
0
2
0
2
0
0
2
Édition
Environnement
1
32
16
41
90
1
32
16
41
90
1
2
1
0
4
Édition
Environnement
1
2
1
0
4
Finances, Économie, Droit, Administration
3
13
7
5
28
3
13
7
5
28
Formation, Éducation, Culture, Loisirs
4
23
6
9
42
4
23
6
9
42
Industrie, Commerce
0
8
0
0
8
Industrie, Commerce
0
8
0
0
8
Informatique
77
10
4
3
94
Informatique
77
10
4
3
94
NTIC
Publicité, Communications, Services
linguistiques
Santé, Pharmacologie
30
19
0
2
51
30
19
0
2
51
2
32
13
5
52
2
32
13
5
52
11
19
1
1
32
NTIC
Publicité, Communications, Services
linguistiques
11
19
1
1
32
Sciences et technologies, Ingénierie
81
16
4
6
107
81
16
4
6
107
Transport, Aéronautique
37
2
4
1
44
37
2
4
1
44
248
192
58
74
572
248
192
58
74
572
Total
Total
4
produit principal des entreprises et des institutions prend la forme de discours et de
textes et a pour support l’expression de la langue (publicité, communications, services linguistiques, édition, etc.).
Cette différence propre au domaine d’activité se reflète également dans les exigences énumérées. Le rédacteur technique doit témoigner des compétences liées à la
communication écrite en français (compétences discursives, linguistiques, graphiques et culture générale). Il doit aussi — dans la majeure partie des cas — savoir
l’anglais, soit pour traduire ou adapter des manuels rédigés en anglais, soit encore
pour rédiger les versions française et anglaise de la documentation d’accompagnement destinée aux utilisateurs. La figure 3 ci-dessous permet de voir que si on demande aussi bien aux rédacteurs techniques qu’aux rédacteurs professionnels de savoir l’anglais et le français, c’est aux rédacteurs techniques surtout qu’on demande de
savoir rédiger en anglais.
produit principal des entreprises et des institutions prend la forme de discours et de
textes et a pour support l’expression de la langue (publicité, communications, services linguistiques, édition, etc.).
Cette différence propre au domaine d’activité se reflète également dans les exigences énumérées. Le rédacteur technique doit témoigner des compétences liées à la
communication écrite en français (compétences discursives, linguistiques, graphiques et culture générale). Il doit aussi — dans la majeure partie des cas — savoir
l’anglais, soit pour traduire ou adapter des manuels rédigés en anglais, soit encore
pour rédiger les versions française et anglaise de la documentation d’accompagnement destinée aux utilisateurs. La figure 3 ci-dessous permet de voir que si on demande aussi bien aux rédacteurs techniques qu’aux rédacteurs professionnels de savoir l’anglais et le français, c’est aux rédacteurs techniques surtout qu’on demande de
savoir rédiger en anglais.
32
32
La rédaction technique : un vide dans la formation
La rédaction technique : un vide dans la formation
En Europe, on trouve ici et là quelques formations, souvent isolées, jamais réellement institutionnalisées, comme en témoignent les recherches de Vanhulle (2000).
En Europe, on trouve ici et là quelques formations, souvent isolées, jamais réellement institutionnalisées, comme en témoignent les recherches de Vanhulle (2000).
Nos recherches sur le terrain ont amené à un constat répétitif : en dehors
d’initiatives de professeurs dans quelques établissements, on apprend rarement à rédiger dans le supérieur. Aucune rédaction d’écrits techniques
relatifs aux différents domaines professionnels […] n’est effectuée en
pratique. En théorie, certains programmes d’options d’enseignement
supérieur l’envisagent, mais rien de concret ! Constat déconcertant quand
on pense qu’un cadre d’entreprise, donc un des moteurs de celle-ci, un
des responsables du circuit de l’écrit à l’intérieur comme à l’extérieur de
celle-ci, n’apprend pas à rédiger. Dans la plupart des cas, c’est le travail
de fin d’études ou le mémoire qui constitue LE moment de vérité, la
seule base d’évaluation des capacités de rédaction des étudiants.
(Vanhulle, 2000 : 40–41)
Nos recherches sur le terrain ont amené à un constat répétitif : en dehors
d’initiatives de professeurs dans quelques établissements, on apprend rarement à rédiger dans le supérieur. Aucune rédaction d’écrits techniques
relatifs aux différents domaines professionnels […] n’est effectuée en
pratique. En théorie, certains programmes d’options d’enseignement
supérieur l’envisagent, mais rien de concret ! Constat déconcertant quand
on pense qu’un cadre d’entreprise, donc un des moteurs de celle-ci, un
des responsables du circuit de l’écrit à l’intérieur comme à l’extérieur de
celle-ci, n’apprend pas à rédiger. Dans la plupart des cas, c’est le travail
de fin d’études ou le mémoire qui constitue LE moment de vérité, la
seule base d’évaluation des capacités de rédaction des étudiants.
(Vanhulle, 2000 : 40–41)
90
90
80
70
60
Rédacteur / Réd. réviseur
60
Rédacteur / Réd. réviseur
Figure 2 – Champs d’activités par type d’emploi (rédacteur
technique et rédacteur)
Publicité, Communications,
Services linguistiques
NTIC
Informatique
Industrie, Commerce
Champs d’activités
Environnement
Agriculture
Publicité, Communications,
Services linguistiques
NTIC
Informatique
Industrie, Commerce
Environnement
Champs d’activités
Édition
0
10
0
Commerce de détail
20
10
Archéologie
30
20
Édition
40
30
40
50
Commerce de détail
50
Archéologie
Nombre
70
Agriculture
Nombre
80
Figure 2 – Champs d’activités par type d’emploi (rédacteur
technique et rédacteur)
33
33
Cette lecture sévère est confirmée dans plusieurs articles rassemblés dans les actes du séminaire sur la rédaction technique tenu à Bruxelles en novembre 19975. Dans
sa synthèse finale, Daniel Blampain fait le constat suivant :
L’écriture technique est le parent pauvre de la formation technique, voire
de l’enseignement de la langue maternelle. L’apprentissage du savoirécrire n’est en général pas conscientisé. (La rédaction technique, 2000 : 192)
L’écriture technique est le parent pauvre de la formation technique, voire
de l’enseignement de la langue maternelle. L’apprentissage du savoirécrire n’est en général pas conscientisé. (La rédaction technique, 2000 : 192)
Le Québec francophone n’est pas beaucoup plus avancé. Nous l’avons dit plus
haut, la rédaction technique fait l’objet, règle générale, d’une seule activité pédagogique dans les cursus en rédaction professionnelle ainsi que dans les cursus d’orientation technique. Mais pourquoi ce retard, dans les pays francophones, en regard de la
situation dans le monde anglo-saxon, alors que le marché industriel clame son besoin
de rédacteurs techniques rédigeant en français ? Nous estimons que la réponse est
triple.
Tout d’abord, l’industrie et l’université n’ont jamais vraiment été en situation de
collaborer dans la formation des rédacteurs. Les programmes universitaires sont chargés et l’ajout d’activités pédagogiques en rédaction technique ne se fait pas sans heurts.
Ainsi, Vanhulle (2000) signale, pour l’Europe, l’inexistence de formation en rédaction technique dans l’ordre supérieur d’enseignement. Au Canada, ce n’est pas le cas,
l’écriture technique faisant pourtant partie de la formation des ingénieurs, par exem-
Le Québec francophone n’est pas beaucoup plus avancé. Nous l’avons dit plus
haut, la rédaction technique fait l’objet, règle générale, d’une seule activité pédagogique dans les cursus en rédaction professionnelle ainsi que dans les cursus d’orientation technique. Mais pourquoi ce retard, dans les pays francophones, en regard de la
situation dans le monde anglo-saxon, alors que le marché industriel clame son besoin
de rédacteurs techniques rédigeant en français ? Nous estimons que la réponse est
triple.
Tout d’abord, l’industrie et l’université n’ont jamais vraiment été en situation de
collaborer dans la formation des rédacteurs. Les programmes universitaires sont chargés et l’ajout d’activités pédagogiques en rédaction technique ne se fait pas sans heurts.
Ainsi, Vanhulle (2000) signale, pour l’Europe, l’inexistence de formation en rédaction technique dans l’ordre supérieur d’enseignement. Au Canada, ce n’est pas le cas,
l’écriture technique faisant pourtant partie de la formation des ingénieurs, par exem-
100
100
90
90
80
80
70
60
50
40
Nombre
Nombre
Cette lecture sévère est confirmée dans plusieurs articles rassemblés dans les actes du séminaire sur la rédaction technique tenu à Bruxelles en novembre 19975. Dans
sa synthèse finale, Daniel Blampain fait le constat suivant :
70
50
40
30
30
20
20
10
10
0
60
0
Aucune
mention de
Anglais et
français
Français
seulement
Anglais
seulement
Rédaction en
anglais
Espagnol
langue
Aucune
mention de
Anglais et
français
Français
seulement
Anglais
seulement
Rédaction en
anglais
Espagnol
langue
Langues de travail
Langues de travail
Figure 3 – Langues de travail par type d’emploi
Figure 3 – Langues de travail par type d’emploi
34
34
ple ; elle est aussi exigée par le Bureau canadien d’accréditation des programmes en
génie. Toutefois, cette exigence se traduit, dans les faits, par 3 crédits de rédaction sur
les 120 crédits que compte le programme. Et pour que les étudiants ne « rechignent »
pas trop devant ce qu’ils jugent en général inutile dans leur formation, à l’Université
Laval6 par exemple, on a fondu dans un cours de communication (COM-21573) le
contenu communicationnel avec la démarche de design. Cette nouvelle orientation
se traduit aussi dans le titre du cours Ingénierie, design et communication. À l’École
Polytechnique de Montréal, l’enseignement de la communication s’insère dans le cours
ING1040 Introduction au génie et aux projets d’ingénierie7 ; le cours porte en fait sur la
profession d’ingénieur (nature du travail, types de réalisations, carrières, spécialités,
nature de la formation universitaire, recherche de pointe), la méthodologie des projets d’ingénierie et le travail en équipe, la tenue de réunions efficaces, la façon de faire
un exposé, et enfin, la planification et la rédaction d’un rapport technique. Le profil
est similaire à l’Université de Sherbrooke : on étudie les techniques de rédaction associées aux écrits techniques les plus courants dans un cours intitulé Communication et
pratique professionnelle (2 crédits) ; un second cours intitulé Initiation à la pratique
professionnelle porte sur la langue et la correction orthographique ainsi que sur les
écrits liés à la recherche d’emploi. On peut déduire de ces exemples que si la rédaction
technique est enseignée aux apprentis ingénieurs, cet enseignement ne vise pas à faire
d’eux des rédacteurs techniques.
La deuxième raison du vide dans la formation actuelle tiendrait à l’orientation
donnée aux programmes de rédaction professionnelle. Au Québec, les programmes
les plus importants sont, par ordre d’ancienneté et d’importance de fréquentation,
ceux de Sherbrooke (258 inscrits en 2001 au certificat et au baccalauréat) et ceux de
Laval (134 inscrits en 2001 au certificat et au baccalauréat). Ces deux programmes
proposent un enseignement général de la rédaction ; la place faite à la rédaction technique demeure minime. Les programmes sont pensés pour satisfaire aux exigences
du marché des communications émanant des entreprises de communication (presse
écrite et électronique), de l’administration publique, du monde de l’éducation, des
entreprises paragouvernementales et culturelles, parmi d’autres. Cela tient surtout à
la formation et à l’intérêt des professeurs en poste ainsi qu’au choix limité – faute de
ressources – des cours optionnels. En France, en Belgique ou en Suisse, il n’existe pas
de programmes d’études universitaires spécialisés en rédaction technique ou en rédaction professionnelle ; seule la rédaction journalistique s’enseigne dans des écoles
spécialisées.
Enfin, troisième explication possible : les industriels ne mesurent sans doute pas
encore assez les bénéfices qu’ils pourraient retirer d’avoir à leur service de véritables
rédacteurs techniques compétents. Les experts de contenu sont rarement en situation
ple ; elle est aussi exigée par le Bureau canadien d’accréditation des programmes en
génie. Toutefois, cette exigence se traduit, dans les faits, par 3 crédits de rédaction sur
les 120 crédits que compte le programme. Et pour que les étudiants ne « rechignent »
pas trop devant ce qu’ils jugent en général inutile dans leur formation, à l’Université
Laval6 par exemple, on a fondu dans un cours de communication (COM-21573) le
contenu communicationnel avec la démarche de design. Cette nouvelle orientation
se traduit aussi dans le titre du cours Ingénierie, design et communication. À l’École
Polytechnique de Montréal, l’enseignement de la communication s’insère dans le cours
ING1040 Introduction au génie et aux projets d’ingénierie7 ; le cours porte en fait sur la
profession d’ingénieur (nature du travail, types de réalisations, carrières, spécialités,
nature de la formation universitaire, recherche de pointe), la méthodologie des projets d’ingénierie et le travail en équipe, la tenue de réunions efficaces, la façon de faire
un exposé, et enfin, la planification et la rédaction d’un rapport technique. Le profil
est similaire à l’Université de Sherbrooke : on étudie les techniques de rédaction associées aux écrits techniques les plus courants dans un cours intitulé Communication et
pratique professionnelle (2 crédits) ; un second cours intitulé Initiation à la pratique
professionnelle porte sur la langue et la correction orthographique ainsi que sur les
écrits liés à la recherche d’emploi. On peut déduire de ces exemples que si la rédaction
technique est enseignée aux apprentis ingénieurs, cet enseignement ne vise pas à faire
d’eux des rédacteurs techniques.
La deuxième raison du vide dans la formation actuelle tiendrait à l’orientation
donnée aux programmes de rédaction professionnelle. Au Québec, les programmes
les plus importants sont, par ordre d’ancienneté et d’importance de fréquentation,
ceux de Sherbrooke (258 inscrits en 2001 au certificat et au baccalauréat) et ceux de
Laval (134 inscrits en 2001 au certificat et au baccalauréat). Ces deux programmes
proposent un enseignement général de la rédaction ; la place faite à la rédaction technique demeure minime. Les programmes sont pensés pour satisfaire aux exigences
du marché des communications émanant des entreprises de communication (presse
écrite et électronique), de l’administration publique, du monde de l’éducation, des
entreprises paragouvernementales et culturelles, parmi d’autres. Cela tient surtout à
la formation et à l’intérêt des professeurs en poste ainsi qu’au choix limité – faute de
ressources – des cours optionnels. En France, en Belgique ou en Suisse, il n’existe pas
de programmes d’études universitaires spécialisés en rédaction technique ou en rédaction professionnelle ; seule la rédaction journalistique s’enseigne dans des écoles
spécialisées.
Enfin, troisième explication possible : les industriels ne mesurent sans doute pas
encore assez les bénéfices qu’ils pourraient retirer d’avoir à leur service de véritables
rédacteurs techniques compétents. Les experts de contenu sont rarement en situation
35
de produire une documentation de qualité. Pourtant, le marché industriel francophone est bel et bien à la recherche de rédacteurs techniques. Voici une liste de ces
avantages :
35
de produire une documentation de qualité. Pourtant, le marché industriel francophone est bel et bien à la recherche de rédacteurs techniques. Voici une liste de ces
avantages :
• moins de demandes d’aide (téléphonique, en ligne ou sur place) ;
• moins de demandes d’aide (téléphonique, en ligne ou sur place) ;
• plus grande utilisation des possibilités de l’équipement (bien des fonctions des appareils sont inemployées) ;
• plus grande utilisation des possibilités de l’équipement (bien des fonctions des appareils sont inemployées) ;
• plus grande utilisation de la documentation (faute de la comprendre, on
ne la lit pas) ;
• plus grande utilisation de la documentation (faute de la comprendre, on
ne la lit pas) ;
• amélioration de l’image de marque du produit ou de l’entreprise ;
• amélioration de l’image de marque du produit ou de l’entreprise ;
• élimination des risques de demandes en dommages et intérêts ou de transfert de responsabilité civile, les défauts de documentation relevant davantage de la faute selon la loi que du vice caché ;
• élimination des risques de demandes en dommages et intérêts ou de transfert de responsabilité civile, les défauts de documentation relevant davantage de la faute selon la loi que du vice caché ;
• meilleure connaissance du produit, de la part des vendeurs ;
• meilleure connaissance du produit, de la part des vendeurs ;
• facilitation de la traduction.
• facilitation de la traduction.
Bien plus qu’un scribe, le rédacteur technique analyse le produit et les besoins
des utilisateurs ; il manipule le produit et le critique avant sa commercialisation.
La valeur ajoutée par un rédacteur technique se situe à la fois dans le produit,
dans son interface et dans son utilisabilité. Il faut savoir que les dirigeants d’entreprise sont la plupart du temps des ingénieurs ou des administrateurs qui n’ont pas été
formés en rédaction ; on ne s’étonnera pas alors de leur manque d’intérêt pour le
sujet. Se confirme ici encore le besoin de faire connaître le métier de rédacteur professionnel. C’est ce que s’est proposé de faire le magazine Rédiger8, revue de vulgarisation entièrement consacrée à la rédaction professionnelle. C’est également la mission
que s’est donnée le Conseil des Rédacteurs Techniques en France, déplorant que « Le
métier est en constante mutation parce qu’il est mal défini et que les marchés changent. » (http://www.chezcom/crt/).
Bien plus qu’un scribe, le rédacteur technique analyse le produit et les besoins
des utilisateurs ; il manipule le produit et le critique avant sa commercialisation.
La valeur ajoutée par un rédacteur technique se situe à la fois dans le produit,
dans son interface et dans son utilisabilité. Il faut savoir que les dirigeants d’entreprise sont la plupart du temps des ingénieurs ou des administrateurs qui n’ont pas été
formés en rédaction ; on ne s’étonnera pas alors de leur manque d’intérêt pour le
sujet. Se confirme ici encore le besoin de faire connaître le métier de rédacteur professionnel. C’est ce que s’est proposé de faire le magazine Rédiger8, revue de vulgarisation entièrement consacrée à la rédaction professionnelle. C’est également la mission
que s’est donnée le Conseil des Rédacteurs Techniques en France, déplorant que « Le
métier est en constante mutation parce qu’il est mal défini et que les marchés changent. » (http://www.chezcom/crt/).
La rédaction technique : une forme d’organisation du travail
La rédaction technique : une forme d’organisation du travail
Mais quelle est la spécificité de la rédaction technique ? Reprenons ici une définition de Vanhulle (2000 : 7) :
Mais quelle est la spécificité de la rédaction technique ? Reprenons ici une définition de Vanhulle (2000 : 7) :
36
36
Pour nous, le texte technique est destiné avant tout à informer ou instruire à propos de produits et de processus de fabrication, de construction, de transformation.
Pour nous, le texte technique est destiné avant tout à informer ou instruire à propos de produits et de processus de fabrication, de construction, de transformation.
[…] On désignera par « technique », un ensemble de procédés bien définis et transmissibles, destinés à produire certains résultats jugés utiles.
[…] On désignera par « technique », un ensemble de procédés bien définis et transmissibles, destinés à produire certains résultats jugés utiles.
L’auteure précise plus loin (2000, 7) qu’elle « circonscrit [son] champ à la sphère
interne et à la périphérie immédiate de l’entreprise, de la production et des relations
avec des clients et des fournisseurs industriels ». Or, pour bien comprendre le fonctionnement d’une industrie, il faut se représenter l’image suivante :
Comme le révèle la figure -4, une entreprise comporte trois grands pôles : 1– le
pôle « clients », 2 – le pôle de soutien logistique et organisationnel, 3 – le pôle de suivi,
évaluation et amélioration.
L’auteure précise plus loin (2000, 7) qu’elle « circonscrit [son] champ à la sphère
interne et à la périphérie immédiate de l’entreprise, de la production et des relations
avec des clients et des fournisseurs industriels ». Or, pour bien comprendre le fonctionnement d’une industrie, il faut se représenter l’image suivante :
Comme le révèle la figure -4, une entreprise comporte trois grands pôles : 1– le
pôle « clients », 2 – le pôle de soutien logistique et organisationnel, 3 – le pôle de suivi,
évaluation et amélioration.
1. Le pôle « clients » comprend une chaîne d’opérations qui, une fois la soumission acceptée par le client, commence avec l’approvisionnement (ce
qui suppose les relations avec les fournisseurs et la vérification de l’inventaire) et qui se poursuit avec la fabrication, de l’usinage à l’emballage.
La documentation touchant ce pôle est vaste et diversifiée : elle comprend les commandes, les plans, les cahiers des charges et les devis, les
contrats ; s’y trouvent aussi outre les bordereaux de transmission et les
documents relatifs à la qualité, les spécifications techniques et les manuels d’entretien et d’opération.
1. Le pôle « clients » comprend une chaîne d’opérations qui, une fois la soumission acceptée par le client, commence avec l’approvisionnement (ce
qui suppose les relations avec les fournisseurs et la vérification de l’inventaire) et qui se poursuit avec la fabrication, de l’usinage à l’emballage.
La documentation touchant ce pôle est vaste et diversifiée : elle comprend les commandes, les plans, les cahiers des charges et les devis, les
contrats ; s’y trouvent aussi outre les bordereaux de transmission et les
documents relatifs à la qualité, les spécifications techniques et les manuels d’entretien et d’opération.
2. Le pôle de soutien logistique et organisationnel comprend toutes les activités qui visent à soutenir les opérations manufacturières, depuis l’approvisionnement jusqu’à la livraison et au service après-vente. L’organisation repose sur les lignes de pensée de l’entreprise (normes ISO 90009,
exigences relatives à la performance et aux résultats, principes de gestion, valeurs, etc.), et se traduisent par des politiques (gestion des opérations), des procédures (coordination des activités) et des instructions de
travail (exécution des tâches spécifiques).
2. Le pôle de soutien logistique et organisationnel comprend toutes les activités qui visent à soutenir les opérations manufacturières, depuis l’approvisionnement jusqu’à la livraison et au service après-vente. L’organisation repose sur les lignes de pensée de l’entreprise (normes ISO 90009,
exigences relatives à la performance et aux résultats, principes de gestion, valeurs, etc.), et se traduisent par des politiques (gestion des opérations), des procédures (coordination des activités) et des instructions de
travail (exécution des tâches spécifiques).
1. Pour qu’un système maintienne son niveau de performance et ses résultats tout en restant conforme aux normes de qualité ISO 9000, il faut
assurer un suivi, une évaluation et des corrections continus. Ce principe
1. Pour qu’un système maintienne son niveau de performance et ses résultats tout en restant conforme aux normes de qualité ISO 9000, il faut
assurer un suivi, une évaluation et des corrections continus. Ce principe
37
Figure 4 : le fonctionnement d’une entreprise en lien avec l’écrit
technique (source : NGUYEN, Cung (2001). « Guide de gestion des
opérations manufacturières »)
37
Figure 4 : le fonctionnement d’une entreprise en lien avec l’écrit
technique (source : NGUYEN, Cung (2001). « Guide de gestion des
opérations manufacturières »)
d’amélioration continue exige une collecte constante d’information, dont
la principale source sont les audits internes grâce auxquels les responsables de projets cernent les problèmes (rapports d’audits) et trouvent des
solutions appropriées (demandes de fonds pour projets).
d’amélioration continue exige une collecte constante d’information, dont
la principale source sont les audits internes grâce auxquels les responsables de projets cernent les problèmes (rapports d’audits) et trouvent des
solutions appropriées (demandes de fonds pour projets).
Restent, en amont et en aval de cette longue chaîne, les écrits publicitaires pour
« vendre » les produits et faire la promotion de la compagnie (brochures d’entreprise,
dépliants, site web, etc.) et, s’il y a lieu, les demandes de subvention en R&D.
Le rédacteur technique ayant suivi une formation en communication professionnelle peut-il ou non rédiger les documents techniques mentionnés plus haut ? La
réponse est oui et non. Oui, pour certains documents, non pour d’autres. Et dans
tous les cas, il ne peut le faire seul. Un expert de contenu doit l’aider qu’il soit ingénieur, technicien, inspecteur, opérateur, etc. Il est clair que plus un rédacteur fréquentera un milieu et plus il deviendra autonome : on ne passe pas d’une « culture » d’entreprise à une autre aisément, pas plus qu’on ne passe d’un domaine (avec sa terminologie propre) à un autre sans un temps de familiarisation. En d’autres mots, on ne
travaille pas un jour chez Bombardier et le lendemain chez Agropur. C’est en cela
Restent, en amont et en aval de cette longue chaîne, les écrits publicitaires pour
« vendre » les produits et faire la promotion de la compagnie (brochures d’entreprise,
dépliants, site web, etc.) et, s’il y a lieu, les demandes de subvention en R&D.
Le rédacteur technique ayant suivi une formation en communication professionnelle peut-il ou non rédiger les documents techniques mentionnés plus haut ? La
réponse est oui et non. Oui, pour certains documents, non pour d’autres. Et dans
tous les cas, il ne peut le faire seul. Un expert de contenu doit l’aider qu’il soit ingénieur, technicien, inspecteur, opérateur, etc. Il est clair que plus un rédacteur fréquentera un milieu et plus il deviendra autonome : on ne passe pas d’une « culture » d’entreprise à une autre aisément, pas plus qu’on ne passe d’un domaine (avec sa terminologie propre) à un autre sans un temps de familiarisation. En d’autres mots, on ne
travaille pas un jour chez Bombardier et le lendemain chez Agropur. C’est en cela
38
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justement que se distingue le plus le rédacteur technique du rédacteur « généraliste ».
Le contexte spécialisé où œuvre le premier l’oblige à acquérir des connaissances d’ordre technique qui dépassent, dans la plupart des cas, les limites de la culture générale,
plus éclectique, d’une personne éduquée.
justement que se distingue le plus le rédacteur technique du rédacteur « généraliste ».
Le contexte spécialisé où œuvre le premier l’oblige à acquérir des connaissances d’ordre technique qui dépassent, dans la plupart des cas, les limites de la culture générale,
plus éclectique, d’une personne éduquée.
Le rédacteur technique formé en communication et non en sciences et génie
pourra d’une part rédiger ou réécrire les documents de soutien (politiques, procédures, instructions de travail) ; il pourra d’autre part rédiger les manuels d’exploitation
et d’entretien. Enfin, il pourra rédiger les documents promotionnels et faire les demandes de subvention ou de crédit d’impôts (certaines firmes spécialisées proposent
ce service moyennant un pourcentage sur le montant réclamé et reçu).
Le rédacteur technique formé en communication et non en sciences et génie
pourra d’une part rédiger ou réécrire les documents de soutien (politiques, procédures, instructions de travail) ; il pourra d’autre part rédiger les manuels d’exploitation
et d’entretien. Enfin, il pourra rédiger les documents promotionnels et faire les demandes de subvention ou de crédit d’impôts (certaines firmes spécialisées proposent
ce service moyennant un pourcentage sur le montant réclamé et reçu).
Les compétences du rédacteur technique
Les compétences du rédacteur technique
Quelles compétences le rédacteur technique doit-il posséder pour être en mesure de répondre aux différents types de mandats ? La réponse, nous l’avons trouvée
dans la communication de Jean-Paul Bardez publiée dans les pré-actes 10 de
COMTEC’98, 2e congrès du Conseil des rédacteurs Techniques (CRT). Jean-Paul Bardez est président fondateur du Conseil des rédacteurs techniques et secrétaire de la
Fédération mondiale des associations de communicateurs techniques.
Quelles compétences le rédacteur technique doit-il posséder pour être en mesure de répondre aux différents types de mandats ? La réponse, nous l’avons trouvée
dans la communication de Jean-Paul Bardez publiée dans les pré-actes 10 de
COMTEC’98, 2e congrès du Conseil des rédacteurs Techniques (CRT). Jean-Paul Bardez est président fondateur du Conseil des rédacteurs techniques et secrétaire de la
Fédération mondiale des associations de communicateurs techniques.
En dehors d’une culture générale technique et d’une capacité à écrire, le
goût pour le travail de groupe et la communication verbale ainsi que
l’esprit critique sont les principales qualités de celui qui souhaite devenir rédacteur technique. Bien plus que la connaissance d’un logiciel de
PAO ou la maîtrise d’une spécialité technique, ceci me semble correspondre à des critères de recrutement efficaces. Le rédacteur est un spécialiste de la communication et non pas un spécialiste du produit qu’il
va documenter [c’est nous qui soulignons] : par essence, il peut donc
s’adapter aux divers domaines techniques. (Bardez, dans COMTEC’98)
En dehors d’une culture générale technique et d’une capacité à écrire, le
goût pour le travail de groupe et la communication verbale ainsi que
l’esprit critique sont les principales qualités de celui qui souhaite devenir rédacteur technique. Bien plus que la connaissance d’un logiciel de
PAO ou la maîtrise d’une spécialité technique, ceci me semble correspondre à des critères de recrutement efficaces. Le rédacteur est un spécialiste de la communication et non pas un spécialiste du produit qu’il
va documenter [c’est nous qui soulignons] : par essence, il peut donc
s’adapter aux divers domaines techniques. (Bardez, dans COMTEC’98)
L’auteur précise plus loin qu’il faut avoir des bases scolaires en physique, en chimie, en mathématiques, en mécanique, etc., mais – surtout – une bonne dose de curiosité pour la technique en général. Il précise que le rédacteur technique devra vite
constater que les résultats qu’on lui fournit peuvent être faux et que toute donnée
non vérifiée peut être inexacte.
Un site web français consacré à la promotion de la profession de rédacteur technique (http://www.redtech.free.fr/) énumère quelques compétences du rédacteur technique :
L’auteur précise plus loin qu’il faut avoir des bases scolaires en physique, en chimie, en mathématiques, en mécanique, etc., mais – surtout – une bonne dose de curiosité pour la technique en général. Il précise que le rédacteur technique devra vite
constater que les résultats qu’on lui fournit peuvent être faux et que toute donnée
non vérifiée peut être inexacte.
Un site web français consacré à la promotion de la profession de rédacteur technique (http://www.redtech.free.fr/) énumère quelques compétences du rédacteur technique :
39
« Le rédacteur technique doit avoir :
« Le rédacteur technique doit avoir :
• une bonne culture générale ;
• une bonne culture générale ;
• des qualités rédactionnelles et linguistiques ;
• des qualités rédactionnelles et linguistiques ;
• une facilité de communication ;
• une facilité de communication ;
• une autonomie et une prise d’initiative permanente ;
• une autonomie et une prise d’initiative permanente ;
• la maîtrise des outils informatiques ;
• la maîtrise des outils informatiques ;
• une connaissance des différents services de l’entreprise et de leur
organisation ».
• une connaissance des différents services de l’entreprise et de leur
organisation ».
39
Ces observations reviennent à dire qu’il n’y a en fait pas de différence majeure
entre le rédacteur professionnel et le rédacteur technique, ce qui corrobore les propos
de Russell, Bossé-Andrieu et Cajolet-Laganière (1995), qui rapportaient que les compétences attendues du rédacteur technique par les experts en contenu étaient une
bonne connaissance de la langue et la capacité d’écrire pour être compris de son lectorat11. L’un et l’autre doivent posséder une maîtrise parfaite de la langue et du discours dans des contextes de communication donnés, doivent travailler en équipe,
supporter un rythme de production rapide, répondre à une exigence de qualité. Ils
doivent posséder nombre de qualités personnelles, de l’esprit d’analyse à l’esprit critique en passant par la diplomatie, la souplesse. Seuls le degré de maîtrise de l’anglais
et le type de culture, générale et scientifique, diffèrent.
Il s’ensuit que la pénurie de rédacteurs techniques que déplore le monde industriel, du moins au Québec, tiendrait davantage à la méconnaissance de ce qui caractérise la profession de rédacteur technique : il est d’abord un spécialiste de la communication écrite et non un expert en contenu. Son expertise ressortit du domaine des
communications et du langage; sa formation générale inclut des bases en sciences
pures et en sciences appliquées, en mathématiques. Un intérêt marqué pour la connaissance technique et scientifique le caractérise et le différencie de son collègue, le
rédacteur professionnel, généraliste. À cela s’ajoutent la capacité et le goût de maîtriser le vocabulaire pointu d’une langue de spécialité.
Ces observations reviennent à dire qu’il n’y a en fait pas de différence majeure
entre le rédacteur professionnel et le rédacteur technique, ce qui corrobore les propos
de Russell, Bossé-Andrieu et Cajolet-Laganière (1995), qui rapportaient que les compétences attendues du rédacteur technique par les experts en contenu étaient une
bonne connaissance de la langue et la capacité d’écrire pour être compris de son lectorat11. L’un et l’autre doivent posséder une maîtrise parfaite de la langue et du discours dans des contextes de communication donnés, doivent travailler en équipe,
supporter un rythme de production rapide, répondre à une exigence de qualité. Ils
doivent posséder nombre de qualités personnelles, de l’esprit d’analyse à l’esprit critique en passant par la diplomatie, la souplesse. Seuls le degré de maîtrise de l’anglais
et le type de culture, générale et scientifique, diffèrent.
Il s’ensuit que la pénurie de rédacteurs techniques que déplore le monde industriel, du moins au Québec, tiendrait davantage à la méconnaissance de ce qui caractérise la profession de rédacteur technique : il est d’abord un spécialiste de la communication écrite et non un expert en contenu. Son expertise ressortit du domaine des
communications et du langage; sa formation générale inclut des bases en sciences
pures et en sciences appliquées, en mathématiques. Un intérêt marqué pour la connaissance technique et scientifique le caractérise et le différencie de son collègue, le
rédacteur professionnel, généraliste. À cela s’ajoutent la capacité et le goût de maîtriser le vocabulaire pointu d’une langue de spécialité.
40
40
Si les récentes enquêtes en Belgique et en France permettent de conclure que la
formation en rédaction professionnelle et technique de langue française est absente
de l’enseignement supérieur, ce n’est pas le cas au Québec. Les programmes de baccalauréat et de maîtrise dans le domaine de la communication écrite professionnelle, en
français, au Québec, sont reconnus pour leur efficacité. Parmi les diplômés, certains
ont une culture scientifique, ayant poursuivi des études collégiales ou universitaires
en sciences pures ou appliquées. Cet intérêt pour la science se manifeste, par ailleurs,
dans la popularité d’une activité pédagogique consacrée à la vulgarisation scientifique, à l’Université de Sherbrooke.
La pénurie de rédacteurs techniques disponibles au Québec ressortirait surtout,
à notre avis, de la faible reconnaissance du rédacteur professionnel dans le milieu
industriel. Les personnes formées pour communiquer clairement un contenu technique sont diplômées des programmes de rédaction et de communication, et non des
programmes d’orientation technique. Les diplômés des programmes de rédaction et
de communication apprennent à maîtriser la langue, l’organisation logique des contenus dans les genres textuels divers, la gestion du point de vue dans l’écrit, la prise en
compte du destinataire de la communication et, pour résumer, l’ensemble des habiletés langagières et communicationnelles qui favorisent la rédaction de textes lisibles et
intelligibles. Cela inclut l’intégration des valeurs propres à chaque entreprise ou milieu de travail (ce que l’on désigne souvent de culture d’entreprise), et du lexique qui
les fait émerger12.
Le rédacteur professionnel est rarement spécialiste d’un contenu particulier, sauf
exception. Toutefois, il ne travaille pas en vase clos. Lorsqu’il accomplit un mandat de
nature technique, il tisse nécessairement des liens étroits avec des experts en contenu.
Le rédacteur professionnel est, par définition, un expert en recherche et traitement de
l’information. L’information est la matière première avec laquelle il travaille. Lorsque
l’information technique est validée par les experts en contenu, le rédacteur professionnel met en discours cette information selon des standards qui facilitent le processus de communication.
Malgré le constat sans cesse répété de la piètre qualité des écrits techniques rédigés par les experts en contenu, les entreprises et les organisations continuent de considérer le rédacteur technique d’abord comme un expert en contenu et, de surcroît
(et par miracle), un bon rédacteur. C’est comme chercher la pierre philosophale. Voilà
qui occupe un temps précieux qui serait plus utile si on regardait avec d’autres lunettes, à partir d’autres prémisses. L’expert en contenu conçoit très bien son produit,
mais le rédacteur technique, s’appuyant sur sa formation en rédaction professionnelle, sur sa propre culture scientifique et sur le savoir des experts en contenu, sait
transformer l’information technique et scientifique en discours adapté aux circons-
Si les récentes enquêtes en Belgique et en France permettent de conclure que la
formation en rédaction professionnelle et technique de langue française est absente
de l’enseignement supérieur, ce n’est pas le cas au Québec. Les programmes de baccalauréat et de maîtrise dans le domaine de la communication écrite professionnelle, en
français, au Québec, sont reconnus pour leur efficacité. Parmi les diplômés, certains
ont une culture scientifique, ayant poursuivi des études collégiales ou universitaires
en sciences pures ou appliquées. Cet intérêt pour la science se manifeste, par ailleurs,
dans la popularité d’une activité pédagogique consacrée à la vulgarisation scientifique, à l’Université de Sherbrooke.
La pénurie de rédacteurs techniques disponibles au Québec ressortirait surtout,
à notre avis, de la faible reconnaissance du rédacteur professionnel dans le milieu
industriel. Les personnes formées pour communiquer clairement un contenu technique sont diplômées des programmes de rédaction et de communication, et non des
programmes d’orientation technique. Les diplômés des programmes de rédaction et
de communication apprennent à maîtriser la langue, l’organisation logique des contenus dans les genres textuels divers, la gestion du point de vue dans l’écrit, la prise en
compte du destinataire de la communication et, pour résumer, l’ensemble des habiletés langagières et communicationnelles qui favorisent la rédaction de textes lisibles et
intelligibles. Cela inclut l’intégration des valeurs propres à chaque entreprise ou milieu de travail (ce que l’on désigne souvent de culture d’entreprise), et du lexique qui
les fait émerger12.
Le rédacteur professionnel est rarement spécialiste d’un contenu particulier, sauf
exception. Toutefois, il ne travaille pas en vase clos. Lorsqu’il accomplit un mandat de
nature technique, il tisse nécessairement des liens étroits avec des experts en contenu.
Le rédacteur professionnel est, par définition, un expert en recherche et traitement de
l’information. L’information est la matière première avec laquelle il travaille. Lorsque
l’information technique est validée par les experts en contenu, le rédacteur professionnel met en discours cette information selon des standards qui facilitent le processus de communication.
Malgré le constat sans cesse répété de la piètre qualité des écrits techniques rédigés par les experts en contenu, les entreprises et les organisations continuent de considérer le rédacteur technique d’abord comme un expert en contenu et, de surcroît
(et par miracle), un bon rédacteur. C’est comme chercher la pierre philosophale. Voilà
qui occupe un temps précieux qui serait plus utile si on regardait avec d’autres lunettes, à partir d’autres prémisses. L’expert en contenu conçoit très bien son produit,
mais le rédacteur technique, s’appuyant sur sa formation en rédaction professionnelle, sur sa propre culture scientifique et sur le savoir des experts en contenu, sait
transformer l’information technique et scientifique en discours adapté aux circons-
41
41
tances et au destinataire. Dans notre perspective, la maîtrise professionnelle de la
langue et du discours écrit est une habileté d’expert en communication écrite, lequel
est formé spécifiquement pour produire des textes clairs qui atteignent les objectifs
de la situation de communication. Écrire, c’est communiquer : c’est là que le rédacteur va d’abord chercher son expertise. Voilà pourquoi, comme nous l’avons signalé
en introduction, nous considérons que la rédaction professionnelle englobe la rédaction technique.
Tant que les employeurs chercheront les communicateurs parmi les experts en
contenu, tels les ingénieurs, ils perpétueront d’eux-mêmes la pénurie de rédacteurs
techniques. Les ingénieurs, les administrateurs ne sont pas des rédacteurs techniques
professionnels. Une meilleure collaboration entre les employeurs des domaines techniques et administratifs et les universités permettrait sans doute à ces dernières de
faire valoir l’intérêt de jumeler une culture technique et scientifique avec une formation en communication écrite professionnelle. Cela motiverait les responsables des
programmes de rédaction professionnelle à développer, par exemple, des micro-cheminements en rédaction technique à l’intérieur du cursus en rédaction professionnelle. Toutefois, une telle initiative passe par la reconnaissance de la rédaction technique comme pratique relevant du domaine de la communication langagière et non de
la discipline technique ou scientifique à laquelle elle se rattache.
tances et au destinataire. Dans notre perspective, la maîtrise professionnelle de la
langue et du discours écrit est une habileté d’expert en communication écrite, lequel
est formé spécifiquement pour produire des textes clairs qui atteignent les objectifs
de la situation de communication. Écrire, c’est communiquer : c’est là que le rédacteur va d’abord chercher son expertise. Voilà pourquoi, comme nous l’avons signalé
en introduction, nous considérons que la rédaction professionnelle englobe la rédaction technique.
Tant que les employeurs chercheront les communicateurs parmi les experts en
contenu, tels les ingénieurs, ils perpétueront d’eux-mêmes la pénurie de rédacteurs
techniques. Les ingénieurs, les administrateurs ne sont pas des rédacteurs techniques
professionnels. Une meilleure collaboration entre les employeurs des domaines techniques et administratifs et les universités permettrait sans doute à ces dernières de
faire valoir l’intérêt de jumeler une culture technique et scientifique avec une formation en communication écrite professionnelle. Cela motiverait les responsables des
programmes de rédaction professionnelle à développer, par exemple, des micro-cheminements en rédaction technique à l’intérieur du cursus en rédaction professionnelle. Toutefois, une telle initiative passe par la reconnaissance de la rédaction technique comme pratique relevant du domaine de la communication langagière et non de
la discipline technique ou scientifique à laquelle elle se rattache.
NOTES
NOTES
1
C’est également l’opinion de Bertand Labasse dont l’article « Entre déficit
épistémologique et défi procédural : une discipline en souffrance
d’expertise. » est publié dans ce numéro; voir également Massiva N’Zafio,
« Qu’est-ce que technique veut dire ? », Technostyle, vol. 13, n 1, 1996.
1
C’est également l’opinion de Bertand Labasse dont l’article « Entre déficit
épistémologique et défi procédural : une discipline en souffrance
d’expertise. » est publié dans ce numéro; voir également Massiva N’Zafio,
« Qu’est-ce que technique veut dire ? », Technostyle, vol. 13, n 1, 1996.
2
Source : sondage auprès des employeurs et des professionnels, septembre 1995,
Direction générale des programmes de premier cycle, Université Laval, 46 p.
2
Source : sondage auprès des employeurs et des professionnels, septembre 1995,
Direction générale des programmes de premier cycle, Université Laval, 46 p.
3
Notre traduction de « We will create as much information from 1999 to 2002 as
was created in the entire history of humanity prior to 1999 ».
3
Notre traduction de « We will create as much information from 1999 to 2002 as
was created in the entire history of humanity prior to 1999 ».
4
Nous plaçons les NTIC dans deux domaines : celui voué à la rédaction de manuels
techniques consacrés aux NTIC et celui relatif à la conception de sites web.
4
Nous plaçons les NTIC dans deux domaines : celui voué à la rédaction de manuels
techniques consacrés aux NTIC et celui relatif à la conception de sites web.
5
(2000). La rédaction technique : actes du séminaire de Bruxelles des 24 et 25
novembre 1997, Bruxelles, Duculot, coll. « Champs linguistiques. Recueils »,
207 p.
5
207 p.
42
42
6
Source : http://www.ulaval.ca/sg/PR/C1/1.314.01.html [site consulté le 26 du
112001]
6
Source : http://www.ulaval.ca/sg/PR/C1/1.314.01.html [site consulté le 26 du
112001]
7
Source : http://www.polymtl.ca/etudes/bc/a_gch_bc.php [site consulté le 26 du 11
2001
7
Source : http://www.polymtl.ca/etudes/bc/a_gch_bc.php [site consulté le 26 du 11
2001
8
[articles en format pdf] http://www.ciral.ulaval.ca/redaction/mag.
8
[articles en format pdf] http://www.ciral.ulaval.ca/redaction/mag.
9
Les normes ISO 9000 sont relatives à la gestion de la qualité. La norme ISO10013,
elle, propose des lignes directrices pour l’élaboration des manuels qualité.
9
Les normes ISO 9000 sont relatives à la gestion de la qualité. La norme ISO10013,
elle, propose des lignes directrices pour l’élaboration des manuels qualité.
10
http://www.chez.com/crt/evenements/PREACT98.pdf
10
http://www.chez.com/crt/evenements/PREACT98.pdf
11
«These results are consistent with an observation made in a recent Maclean’s
article, to the effect that employers of technical writers are more interested in
hiring good communicators than computer wizards . » (Russell, BosséAndrieu et Cajolet-Laganière : p. 60)
11
«These results are consistent with an observation made in a recent Maclean’s
article, to the effect that employers of technical writers are more interested in
hiring good communicators than computer wizards . » (Russell, BosséAndrieu et Cajolet-Laganière : p. 60)
12
« La façon dont on écrit chez Kodak est très différente de celle qui prévaut chez
Corning. Chacune découle du style de l’organisation, de l’image que celle-ci
se fait d’elle-même, de ce que tel comportement y est jugé acceptable ou non,
etc. » (BARABAS, C.P.,Technical Writing in a corporate culture : a study of
the nature of information, Corwwod, Ablex, p. 90, cité par Réjean Roy, «Les
outils d’aide à la rédaction : une solution aux besoins francophones en
matière de rédaction? », La rédaction technique, actes du séminaire de Bruxelles
des 24 et 25 novembre 1997, Bruxelles, Duculot, coll. « Champs linguistiques.
Recueils » : 42.
12
« La façon dont on écrit chez Kodak est très différente de celle qui prévaut chez
Corning. Chacune découle du style de l’organisation, de l’image que celle-ci
se fait d’elle-même, de ce que tel comportement y est jugé acceptable ou non,
etc. » (BARABAS, C.P.,Technical Writing in a corporate culture : a study of
the nature of information, Corwwod, Ablex, p. 90, cité par Réjean Roy, «Les
outils d’aide à la rédaction : une solution aux besoins francophones en
matière de rédaction? », La rédaction technique, actes du séminaire de Bruxelles
des 24 et 25 novembre 1997, Bruxelles, Duculot, coll. « Champs linguistiques.
Recueils » : 42.
BIBLIOGRAPHIE
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professionnelles», L’intervention : usages et méthodes, Georges-A. Legault
(dir.), Sherbrooke, Éditions G.G.C., p.69–89.
BEAUDET, Céline (1998). « Littératie et rédaction : vers la définition d’une pratique
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BEAUDET, Céline (1999). «les compétences linguistiques et discursives du
rédacteur professionnel : un ensemble à circonscrire », Les professions
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traduction, rédaction et terminologie (sous la direction de GUÉVEL, Zélie et
Isabelle CLERC), Actes du colloque de l’ACFAS, CIRAL, Publication B-217,
p. 3–18.
BEAUDET, Céline (1999). «les compétences linguistiques et discursives du
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CLERC, Isabelle (1999). « Les composantes d’un enseignement systémique de la
rédaction professionnelle en milieu universitaire », Les professions langagières
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CLERC), Actes du colloque de l’ACFAS, CIRAL, Publication B-217, p. 19–30.
CLERC, Isabelle (1999). « Les composantes d’un enseignement systémique de la
rédaction professionnelle en milieu universitaire », Les professions langagières
à l’aube de l’an 2000 : recherches pédagogiques et linguistiques en traduction,
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CLERC), Actes du colloque de l’ACFAS, CIRAL, Publication B-217, p. 19–30.
CLERC, Isabelle (1998). « L’enseignement de la rédaction professionnelle en milieu
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de FORTIER, Gilles et Clémence PRÉFONTAINE), Montréal, Éditions
Logiques, coll. « Théories et pratiques dans l’enseignement », p. 345–370.
CLERC, Isabelle (1998). « L’enseignement de la rédaction professionnelle en milieu
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de FORTIER, Gilles et Clémence PRÉFONTAINE), Montréal, Éditions
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COMITÉ DE PROGRAMME (1995). Enquêtes auprès des employeurs, des
étudiants, des finissants en rédaction technique, Québec, Université Laval,
131 p.
GIBBS, Rose-Marie (1998). Le marché de l’emploi en rédaction professionnelle,
rapport présenté au Comité de programme du Certificat en rédaction
professionnelle, Québec, Université Laval, 42 p.
GIBBS, Rose-Marie (1998). Le marché de l’emploi en rédaction professionnelle,
rapport présenté au Comité de programme du Certificat en rédaction
professionnelle, Québec, Université Laval, 42 p.
LÉVESQUE, Patrick (1999). Description du marché de l’emploi en rédaction
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rédaction professionnelle, Québec, Université Laval, 67 p.
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LAZAR, Anne (2000). « Les pratiques d’enseignement et de formation aux aspects
langagiers du monde du travail », étude réalisée pour la Délégation Générale à
la Langue Française, Paris, Institut national de recherche pédagogique, 36 p.
[+ annexes]
LAZAR, Anne (2000). « Les pratiques d’enseignement et de formation aux aspects
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1998 à juin 1999, Rapport, Département des lettres et communications,
Université de Sherbrooke, 25 p.
LOSLIER, Michelle et Céline BEAUDET (1999). Le marché de la rédaction
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Technostyle, vol. 12, no 2, p. 49–75.
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Technostyle, vol. 12, no 2, p. 49–75.
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VANHULLE, Sabin (2000). La langue française à l’ouvrage, Ministère de la
Communauté française et Duculot, coll. « Français & Société », 50 p.
VANHULLE, Sabin (2000). La langue française à l’ouvrage, Ministère de la
Communauté française et Duculot, coll. « Français & Société », 50 p.
Éric Kavanagh
45
Éric Kavanagh
Entre identité et lisibilité :
le cas embarrassant du Canada1
Entre identité et lisibilité :
le cas embarrassant du Canada1
Éric Kavanagh
Groupe Rédiger, CIRAL, Université Laval
Éric Kavanagh
Groupe Rédiger, CIRAL, Université Laval
This article is concerned with ideological presuppositions that are superimposed over linguistic and communication considerations in certain editing
situations. The case of the names of Canadian national parks is used here as
an example to illustrate the fact that among the skills that professional editors need, the aptitude for thoroughly understanding the company culture of
the client is of primary importance.
45
This article is concerned with ideological presuppositions that are superimposed over linguistic and communication considerations in certain editing
situations. The case of the names of Canadian national parks is used here as
an example to illustrate the fact that among the skills that professional editors need, the aptitude for thoroughly understanding the company culture of
the client is of primary importance.
1. Introduction
1. Introduction
Non, ce texte n’est pas destiné à une revue de sciences politiques… Le problème
à peine soulevé dans le titre de cet article est de nature communicationnelle. C’est à
tout le moins l’aspect dont nous traiterons ici. Voici la situation. Depuis janvier 2001,
l’Agence Parcs Canada, qui relève du ministère du Patrimoine, a procédé plus ou
moins officiellement2 à la modification des appellations française et anglaise des sites
nationaux qu’elle administre. Cette modification consiste essentiellement en l’ajout
du segment du Canada aux noms déjà existants. Par exemple, les appellations :
Non, ce texte n’est pas destiné à une revue de sciences politiques… Le problème
à peine soulevé dans le titre de cet article est de nature communicationnelle. C’est à
tout le moins l’aspect dont nous traiterons ici. Voici la situation. Depuis janvier 2001,
l’Agence Parcs Canada, qui relève du ministère du Patrimoine, a procédé plus ou
moins officiellement2 à la modification des appellations française et anglaise des sites
nationaux qu’elle administre. Cette modification consiste essentiellement en l’ajout
du segment du Canada aux noms déjà existants. Par exemple, les appellations :
1. parc national Jasper
1. parc national Jasper
2. lieu historique national Kejimkujik
2. lieu historique national Kejimkujik
3. réserve de parc national Nahanni
3. réserve de parc national Nahanni
sont devenues :
sont devenues :
4. parc national du Canada Jasper
4. parc national du Canada Jasper
5. lieu historique national du Canada Kejimkujik
5. lieu historique national du Canada Kejimkujik
6. réserve de parc national du Canada Nahanni
6. réserve de parc national du Canada Nahanni
46
Entre identité et lisibilité : le cas embarrassant du Canada
46
Cet ajout notionnel, banal en apparence, a d’abord inquiété plusieurs francophones qui travaillent dans le réseau des parcs nationaux. Nous savons que la haute
direction de Parcs Canada et le ministère dont il relève ont été informés des problèmes communicationnels et linguistiques liés à une telle formulation. Malgré les demandes d’abstention et de révision, la modification des appellations a été appliquée
avec peu de retouche. De toute évidence, les arguments linguistiques n’ont pas tenu la
route devant le poids politique des intentions qui sous-tendent cette mesure. C’est à
tout le moins ce dont témoigne l’extrait suivant tiré d’une note interne émise par la
direction de Parcs Canada à l’attention de tout son personnel :
Cet ajout notionnel, banal en apparence, a d’abord inquiété plusieurs francophones qui travaillent dans le réseau des parcs nationaux. Nous savons que la haute
direction de Parcs Canada et le ministère dont il relève ont été informés des problèmes communicationnels et linguistiques liés à une telle formulation. Malgré les demandes d’abstention et de révision, la modification des appellations a été appliquée
avec peu de retouche. De toute évidence, les arguments linguistiques n’ont pas tenu la
route devant le poids politique des intentions qui sous-tendent cette mesure. C’est à
tout le moins ce dont témoigne l’extrait suivant tiré d’une note interne émise par la
direction de Parcs Canada à l’attention de tout son personnel :
Ces décisions [de modifier les appellations] ont été prises pour veiller à
ce que Parcs Canada continue d’accroître la sensibilisation aux parcs
nationaux et aux lieux historiques nationaux du Canada et pour contribuer davantage au sentiment d’identité canadienne. [Note interne datée
du 15 janvier 2001]
Ces décisions [de modifier les appellations] ont été prises pour veiller à
ce que Parcs Canada continue d’accroître la sensibilisation aux parcs
nationaux et aux lieux historiques nationaux du Canada et pour contribuer davantage au sentiment d’identité canadienne. [Note interne datée
du 15 janvier 2001]
Les deux raisons évoquées amènent à réfléchir. Dans le premier cas, difficile d’imaginer en quoi le fait d’ajouter du Canada aux appellations existantes permettra « d’accroître la sensibilisation aux parcs nationaux », à moins bien sûr que le mot Canada
soit porteur d’une quelconque vertu marketing. La sensibilisation au drapeau est une
chose ; la sensibilisation à l’écologie, à l’intégrité du territoire et au patrimoine historique en est une autre. Quant à la deuxième raison, « contribuer davantage au sentiment d’identité », elle nous semble davantage convenir pour expliquer la modification des appellations. Cependant, il est permis de douter de l’efficacité d’une telle
mesure pour servir cette intention. Cela pose toute la question de la compréhension
des idéologies ainsi que des compétences que doit développer le rédacteur professionnel pour en assumer la gestion dans des situations de travail aussi particulières.
Cette compétence se traduit notamment par la maîtrise des manifestations de la subjectivité dans le langage. Le cas présenté ici est trop limité pour nous faire saisir tous
les aspects de cette compétence à développer, mais il mettra en lumière le tiraillement
entre lisibilité et idéologie.
Dans ce qui suit, nous nous pencherons sur les problèmes (point 4, 5, 6, 7 et 8)
qu’engendre l’ajout du segment du Canada et nous tenterons d’en expliquer l’impact
négatif sur la lisibilité et l’intelligibilité des appellations de parcs et de lieux historiques nationaux. Nous proposerons, en bout de ligne, quelques éléments de solution
(point 9) pour enrayer en partie ou en totalité les problèmes présentés. Mais avant de
Les deux raisons évoquées amènent à réfléchir. Dans le premier cas, difficile d’imaginer en quoi le fait d’ajouter du Canada aux appellations existantes permettra « d’accroître la sensibilisation aux parcs nationaux », à moins bien sûr que le mot Canada
soit porteur d’une quelconque vertu marketing. La sensibilisation au drapeau est une
chose ; la sensibilisation à l’écologie, à l’intégrité du territoire et au patrimoine historique en est une autre. Quant à la deuxième raison, « contribuer davantage au sentiment d’identité », elle nous semble davantage convenir pour expliquer la modification des appellations. Cependant, il est permis de douter de l’efficacité d’une telle
mesure pour servir cette intention. Cela pose toute la question de la compréhension
des idéologies ainsi que des compétences que doit développer le rédacteur professionnel pour en assumer la gestion dans des situations de travail aussi particulières.
Cette compétence se traduit notamment par la maîtrise des manifestations de la subjectivité dans le langage. Le cas présenté ici est trop limité pour nous faire saisir tous
les aspects de cette compétence à développer, mais il mettra en lumière le tiraillement
entre lisibilité et idéologie.
Dans ce qui suit, nous nous pencherons sur les problèmes (point 4, 5, 6, 7 et 8)
qu’engendre l’ajout du segment du Canada et nous tenterons d’en expliquer l’impact
négatif sur la lisibilité et l’intelligibilité des appellations de parcs et de lieux historiques nationaux. Nous proposerons, en bout de ligne, quelques éléments de solution
(point 9) pour enrayer en partie ou en totalité les problèmes présentés. Mais avant de
Éric Kavanagh
47
Éric Kavanagh
47
parler des problèmes, nous présenterons la structure des intitulés (point 2) ainsi qu’une
tentative d’explication (point 3) de la mise en place de cette mesure en ce qui a trait à
l’influence de l’anglais.
parler des problèmes, nous présenterons la structure des intitulés (point 2) ainsi qu’une
tentative d’explication (point 3) de la mise en place de cette mesure en ce qui a trait à
l’influence de l’anglais.
2. Entre générique et spécifique…
2. Entre générique et spécifique…
Pour effectuer l’analyse que nous proposons, nous avons étudié 187 désignations
officielles de parcs et de lieux historiques nationaux3. Nous avons procédé en deux
temps. D’abord, nous avons observé le corpus complet (les 187 désignations) sans
l’ajout du segment. Cela nous a permis de comprendre le mode de construction des
appellations de Parcs Canada. Ensuite, nous avons observé le corpus modifié afin
d’en évaluer les problèmes.
Pour effectuer l’analyse que nous proposons, nous avons étudié 187 désignations
officielles de parcs et de lieux historiques nationaux3. Nous avons procédé en deux
temps. D’abord, nous avons observé le corpus complet (les 187 désignations) sans
l’ajout du segment. Cela nous a permis de comprendre le mode de construction des
appellations de Parcs Canada. Ensuite, nous avons observé le corpus modifié afin
d’en évaluer les problèmes.
Tableau 1 – Répartition des appellations en fonction du type d’infrastructure patrimoniale
Tableau 1 – Répartition des appellations en fonction du type d’infrastructure patrimoniale
lieux historiques
145
lieux historiques
145
parcs et réserves de parcs
39
parcs et réserves de parcs
39
parcs marins ou aires marines
3
parcs marins ou aires marines
3
Les intitulés des parcs et lieux historiques nationaux comportent deux éléments
d’information fondamentaux : un élément générique et un élément spécifique. Le
générique est un concept plus « large » que le spécifique, et l’objet désigné par l’un et
l’autre des éléments est de nature fort différente. Dans le cas des parcs et lieux historiques nationaux, le générique désigne le type d’infrastructure patrimoniale. Le Tableau 1 en montre la répartition4.
L’ajout du segment du Canada s’est fait à la fin du générique des appellations.
Cette position cause certains problèmes que nous verrons plus loin. La structure des
anciennes désignations peut être représentée de la façon suivante :
( [[x] gén.] [[y] spéc.] ) ancienne désignation
EXEMPLE : ( [[parc national] gén.] [[Ivvavik] spéc.] ) ancienne désignation
MODÈLE :
et la structure des nouvelles désignations, de la façon suivante :
MODÈLE :
nouvelle désignation
( [[[x] + [du Canada]] ] [[y] ] )
EXEMPLE : ( [[[parc national] + [du Canada]] gén.] [[Ivvavik] spéc.] ) nouvelle désignation
gén.
spéc.
Les intitulés des parcs et lieux historiques nationaux comportent deux éléments
d’information fondamentaux : un élément générique et un élément spécifique. Le
générique est un concept plus « large » que le spécifique, et l’objet désigné par l’un et
l’autre des éléments est de nature fort différente. Dans le cas des parcs et lieux historiques nationaux, le générique désigne le type d’infrastructure patrimoniale. Le Tableau 1 en montre la répartition4.
L’ajout du segment du Canada s’est fait à la fin du générique des appellations.
Cette position cause certains problèmes que nous verrons plus loin. La structure des
anciennes désignations peut être représentée de la façon suivante :
( [[x] gén.] [[y] spéc.] ) ancienne désignation
EXEMPLE : ( [[parc national] gén.] [[Ivvavik] spéc.] ) ancienne désignation
MODÈLE :
et la structure des nouvelles désignations, de la façon suivante :
( [[[x] + [du Canada]] gén.] [[y] spéc.] ) nouvelle désignation
EXEMPLE : ( [[[parc national] + [du Canada]] gén.] [[Ivvavik] spéc.] ) nouvelle désignation
MODÈLE :
48
De toute évidence, l’ajout du segment complexifie l’énoncé. La nature sémantique de la zone de contact entre le générique et le spécifique s’en trouve grandement
modifiée. Avant de pousser plus à fond l’analyse, nous devons signaler que certaines
désignations du corpus n’ont pas subi la transformation. Il s’agit de :
7. réserve d’aire marine nationale de conservation Gwaii Haanas
8. parc marin du Saguenay—Saint-Laurent
9. réserve de parc national Gwaii Haanas
48
De toute évidence, l’ajout du segment complexifie l’énoncé. La nature sémantique de la zone de contact entre le générique et le spécifique s’en trouve grandement
modifiée. Avant de pousser plus à fond l’analyse, nous devons signaler que certaines
désignations du corpus n’ont pas subi la transformation. Il s’agit de :
7. réserve d’aire marine nationale de conservation Gwaii Haanas
8. parc marin du Saguenay—Saint-Laurent
9. réserve de parc national Gwaii Haanas
Nous ne sommes pas en mesure d’expliquer ces trois cas d’exception. La mesure
prévoit-elle des cas d’exceptions—si c’est le cas, nous n’en comprenons pas la logique
linguistique—ou bien s’agit-il tout simplement d’un manque de cohérence dans son
application globale ?
Nous ne sommes pas en mesure d’expliquer ces trois cas d’exception. La mesure
prévoit-elle des cas d’exceptions—si c’est le cas, nous n’en comprenons pas la logique
linguistique—ou bien s’agit-il tout simplement d’un manque de cohérence dans son
application globale ?
3. Les deux solitudes se croisent
3. Les deux solitudes se croisent
Tous les sites de Parcs Canada ont deux appellations, l’une en français et l’autre
en anglais. Pour effectuer notre analyse, nous n’avons retenu que les appellations françaises. Toutefois, il faut absolument noter l’influence évidente de l’anglais dans l’application de la mesure décrite plus haut. Si la mesure ne semble poser que peu de
problème en anglais, il en va bien autrement pour les intitulés français. Par exemple,
dans :
Tous les sites de Parcs Canada ont deux appellations, l’une en français et l’autre
en anglais. Pour effectuer notre analyse, nous n’avons retenu que les appellations françaises. Toutefois, il faut absolument noter l’influence évidente de l’anglais dans l’application de la mesure décrite plus haut. Si la mesure ne semble poser que peu de
problème en anglais, il en va bien autrement pour les intitulés français. Par exemple,
dans :
10. Terra Nova National Park of Canada
10. Terra Nova National Park of Canada
l’ajout du segment du Canada se fait de façon « naturelle » en position finale de l’appellation. Dans le cas du français, cet ajout entraîne une rupture de l’énoncé préexistant, comme le montre l’exemple suivant (et tous ceux qui précèdent) :
11. parc national du Canada Terra-Nova
l’ajout du segment du Canada se fait de façon « naturelle » en position finale de l’appellation. Dans le cas du français, cet ajout entraîne une rupture de l’énoncé préexistant, comme le montre l’exemple suivant (et tous ceux qui précèdent) :
11. parc national du Canada Terra-Nova
Avant que les autorités de Parcs Canada n’imposent la modification, on a pu
observer une autre forme de son application. Voici deux extraits tirés de communiqués officiels datant de mars 2000, soit presque un an avant l’annonce « officielle » de
la modification.
12. Sheila Copps annonce une contribution pour la conservation et la mise en
valeur du lieu historique national de l’hôtel de ville de Woodstock du
Canada
Avant que les autorités de Parcs Canada n’imposent la modification, on a pu
observer une autre forme de son application. Voici deux extraits tirés de communiqués officiels datant de mars 2000, soit presque un an avant l’annonce « officielle » de
la modification.
12. Sheila Copps annonce une contribution pour la conservation et la mise en
valeur du lieu historique national de l’hôtel de ville de Woodstock du
Canada
[titre d’un communiqué officiel daté du 3 mars 2000]
Éric Kavanagh
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Éric Kavanagh
49
13. Érection d’un monument commémoratif au lieu historique national de
l’anse aux meadows [sic] du Canada
13. Érection d’un monument commémoratif au lieu historique national de
l’anse aux meadows [sic] du Canada
Si l’influence de l’anglais n’est pas immédiatement apparente dans l’exemple 11
(et les précédents), les extraits 12 et 13 montrent clairement que le segment du Canada
a tout simplement été ajouté à la fin des appellations françaises par calque de l’anglais. Pas de doute, la mesure a d’abord été pensée en anglais et imposée au français
sans égard aux différences de structures linguistiques5.
La mesure « officielle », bien qu’elle corrige une partie du problème des premières tentatives (exemple 11), n’est toutefois pas exempte de tout reproche. Notre examen nous a permis de relever cinq problèmes principaux qui touchent tout particulièrement à la lisibilité et à l’intelligibilité des appellations.
Si l’influence de l’anglais n’est pas immédiatement apparente dans l’exemple 11
(et les précédents), les extraits 12 et 13 montrent clairement que le segment du Canada
a tout simplement été ajouté à la fin des appellations françaises par calque de l’anglais. Pas de doute, la mesure a d’abord été pensée en anglais et imposée au français
sans égard aux différences de structures linguistiques5.
La mesure « officielle », bien qu’elle corrige une partie du problème des premières tentatives (exemple 11), n’est toutefois pas exempte de tout reproche. Notre examen nous a permis de relever cinq problèmes principaux qui touchent tout particulièrement à la lisibilité et à l’intelligibilité des appellations.
Tableau 2 – Longueur moyenne des nouvelles appellations (en
nombre de caractères)
Tableau 2 – Longueur moyenne des nouvelles appellations (en
nombre de caractères)
générique
28 (20 + 8)
générique
28 (20 + 8)
spécifique
18
spécifique
18
total
46
total
46
4. Appellations très looooooooongues…
4. Appellations très looooooooongues…
En apparence banale, cette assertion implique des conséquences importantes sur
la lisibilité des désignations des parcs et des lieux historiques. Comme les désignations sont déjà longues (38 caractères en moyenne avant la modification), l’ajout du
segment (8 caractères supplémentaires) contribue à augmenter le temps de lecture et,
par le fait même, l’effort de mémorisation pour les retenir ou même les lire. Cette
observation prend de l’importance quand on considère les documents officiels dans
lesquels l’intitulé d’un de ces lieux doit paraître à plusieurs reprises.
Le Tableau 2 présente les longueurs moyennes des nouvelles appellations. Seule
la longueur du générique est affectée par l’ajout du segment.
Bien que nous n’ayons pas fait la comparaison systématique, nous sommes en
mesure d’affirmer que les appellations françaises des parcs et lieux historiques nationaux sont en moyenne plus longues que celles des parcs provinciaux du Québec6
ainsi que celles des parcs nationaux de France7. Nous admettons volontiers qu’il s’agit
d’un problème qui peut sembler légèrement en marge de celui que nous traitons de-
En apparence banale, cette assertion implique des conséquences importantes sur
la lisibilité des désignations des parcs et des lieux historiques. Comme les désignations sont déjà longues (38 caractères en moyenne avant la modification), l’ajout du
segment (8 caractères supplémentaires) contribue à augmenter le temps de lecture et,
par le fait même, l’effort de mémorisation pour les retenir ou même les lire. Cette
observation prend de l’importance quand on considère les documents officiels dans
lesquels l’intitulé d’un de ces lieux doit paraître à plusieurs reprises.
Le Tableau 2 présente les longueurs moyennes des nouvelles appellations. Seule
la longueur du générique est affectée par l’ajout du segment.
Bien que nous n’ayons pas fait la comparaison systématique, nous sommes en
mesure d’affirmer que les appellations françaises des parcs et lieux historiques nationaux sont en moyenne plus longues que celles des parcs provinciaux du Québec6
ainsi que celles des parcs nationaux de France7. Nous admettons volontiers qu’il s’agit
d’un problème qui peut sembler légèrement en marge de celui que nous traitons de-
50
puis le début. Cependant, l’ajout de huit caractères supplémentaires peut avoir des
répercussions un peu plus graves si l’on considère le contexte (et le cotexte, c’est-àdire le texte qui entoure la désignation) d’utilisation des appellations.
En effet, nombreux sont les contextes d’utilisation où l’emploi officiel de l’appellation est requis. Voici les principaux contextes d’utilisation :
•
•
•
•
textes de loi ou administratifs
logo fédéral, c’est-à-dire l’en-tête graphique des documents officiels
discours protocolaires
discours « conventionnés » (réception d’appels téléphoniques dans les
centres d’interprétation, présentation du parc lors des causeries ou des
tours guidés, etc.)
• supports visuels officiels (affiches ou panneaux de signalisation, notamment à l’entrée des parcs)
• publications officielles (journal du parc).
50
puis le début. Cependant, l’ajout de huit caractères supplémentaires peut avoir des
répercussions un peu plus graves si l’on considère le contexte (et le cotexte, c’est-àdire le texte qui entoure la désignation) d’utilisation des appellations.
En effet, nombreux sont les contextes d’utilisation où l’emploi officiel de l’appellation est requis. Voici les principaux contextes d’utilisation :
•
•
•
•
textes de loi ou administratifs
logo fédéral, c’est-à-dire l’en-tête graphique des documents officiels
discours protocolaires
discours « conventionnés » (réception d’appels téléphoniques dans les
centres d’interprétation, présentation du parc lors des causeries ou des
tours guidés, etc.)
• supports visuels officiels (affiches ou panneaux de signalisation, notamment à l’entrée des parcs)
• publications officielles (journal du parc).
Il est important de noter que tous ces contextes nécessitent la plupart du temps
l’usage de l’appellation française et anglaise, le bilinguisme étant de rigueur dans les
organismes fédéraux. Le dédoublement causé par le bilinguisme ainsi que les répétitions obligatoires (dans les textes notamment) contribuent à rendre difficile l’intégration d’appellations aussi longues.
Même si, en fin de compte, l’impact de cette augmentation semble être davantage économique (temps et argent), il ne faudrait pas omettre de considérer les conséquences négatives que cette mesure aurait sur le lecteur moyen, voire sur le « faible
lecteur ». En effet, ce type de lecteur, qui compose près de la moitié du lectorat canadien, requiert qu’on s’adresse à lui d’une façon claire et simple. Sans ces précautions,
il risque de voir sa lecture compromise au point peut-être de devoir l’abandonner.
L’ajout du segment du Canada est donc une mesure qui irait à l’encontre de ce principe de communication claire et simple, principe pourtant fortement soutenu et encouragé par le gouvernement canadien8.
Il est important de noter que tous ces contextes nécessitent la plupart du temps
l’usage de l’appellation française et anglaise, le bilinguisme étant de rigueur dans les
organismes fédéraux. Le dédoublement causé par le bilinguisme ainsi que les répétitions obligatoires (dans les textes notamment) contribuent à rendre difficile l’intégration d’appellations aussi longues.
Même si, en fin de compte, l’impact de cette augmentation semble être davantage économique (temps et argent), il ne faudrait pas omettre de considérer les conséquences négatives que cette mesure aurait sur le lecteur moyen, voire sur le « faible
lecteur ». En effet, ce type de lecteur, qui compose près de la moitié du lectorat canadien, requiert qu’on s’adresse à lui d’une façon claire et simple. Sans ces précautions,
il risque de voir sa lecture compromise au point peut-être de devoir l’abandonner.
L’ajout du segment du Canada est donc une mesure qui irait à l’encontre de ce principe de communication claire et simple, principe pourtant fortement soutenu et encouragé par le gouvernement canadien8.
5. Redondance notionnelle et… nationale !
5. Redondance notionnelle et… nationale !
L’ajout du segment du Canada est porteur d’une information précise : « ceci est
un site canadien ». Cependant, non seulement cette précision n’est pas forcément
nouvelle dans l’appellation ou dans le document qui la comporte, mais elle est même
redondante d’un certain point de vue. Trois éléments peuvent d’ailleurs déjà indiquer
l’identité canadienne du site désigné :
L’ajout du segment du Canada est porteur d’une information précise : « ceci est
un site canadien ». Cependant, non seulement cette précision n’est pas forcément
nouvelle dans l’appellation ou dans le document qui la comporte, mais elle est même
redondante d’un certain point de vue. Trois éléments peuvent d’ailleurs déjà indiquer
l’identité canadienne du site désigné :
Éric Kavanagh
51
Éric Kavanagh
• la désignation du site lui-même. Même si toutes les désignations ne
sont pas toujours connues—notamment des étrangers—, plusieurs laissent aisément supposer le pays. Évidemment, cela varie en fonction de la
culture du lecteur. Plus le lecteur est familier avec la culture canadienne,
moins cette précision est nécessaire.
• la désignation du site lui-même. Même si toutes les désignations ne
sont pas toujours connues—notamment des étrangers—, plusieurs laissent aisément supposer le pays. Évidemment, cela varie en fonction de la
culture du lecteur. Plus le lecteur est familier avec la culture canadienne,
moins cette précision est nécessaire.
• la mention « national ». Bien qu’elle soit polysémique au Québec en
raison du contexte politique, cette mention ne peut être qu’interprétée
d’une seule façon dans les documents officiels qui arborent l’unifolié :
« national » signifie « Canada ». D’autre part, les citoyens, c’est le cas pour
les Québécois, savent en général que les parcs et lieux historiques nationaux relèvent du palier fédéral alors que les parcs provinciaux sont l’apanage des provinces.
• la mention « national ». Bien qu’elle soit polysémique au Québec en
raison du contexte politique, cette mention ne peut être qu’interprétée
d’une seule façon dans les documents officiels qui arborent l’unifolié :
« national » signifie « Canada ». D’autre part, les citoyens, c’est le cas pour
les Québécois, savent en général que les parcs et lieux historiques nationaux relèvent du palier fédéral alors que les parcs provinciaux sont l’apanage des provinces.
• le logo du Canada. Ce dernier est incorporé à toutes les publications
officielles du gouvernement. Le lecteur est donc toujours en mesure de
savoir—du moins à l’écrit—que le site désigné est de juridiction fédérale, donc qu’il s’agit d’un site canadien.
• le logo du Canada. Ce dernier est incorporé à toutes les publications
officielles du gouvernement. Le lecteur est donc toujours en mesure de
savoir—du moins à l’écrit—que le site désigné est de juridiction fédérale, donc qu’il s’agit d’un site canadien.
51
À ces trois éléments, nous pouvons en ajouter un quatrième, le contexte. En effet, la lecture des appellations est rarement faite de façon isolée. Il faut supposer que,
dans la majorité des cas, le lecteur a en main un document complet lorsqu’il est confronté à ces désignations. Par le fait même, le lecteur est généralement conscient qu’il
est en train de consulter un dépliant, une brochure, une page Web, une revue, un
rapport, etc., dont l’émetteur est Parcs Canada. Dans le cas où les désignations sont
utilisées dans des écrits produits par d’autres instances (guides touristiques régionaux, guides de voyages, etc.), il est difficile d’envisager une situation où les auteurs
de ces documents n’auraient pas mentionné le nom du pays dans lequel se trouve le
site en question.
Certains lecteurs pourraient se demander pourquoi on réinscrit le nom Canada
alors qu’il est présent, plus ou moins explicitement, 1) dans ce que révèle la désignation du site, 2) dans le mot national, 3) dans le logo et 4) dans le contexte.
À ces trois éléments, nous pouvons en ajouter un quatrième, le contexte. En effet, la lecture des appellations est rarement faite de façon isolée. Il faut supposer que,
dans la majorité des cas, le lecteur a en main un document complet lorsqu’il est confronté à ces désignations. Par le fait même, le lecteur est généralement conscient qu’il
est en train de consulter un dépliant, une brochure, une page Web, une revue, un
rapport, etc., dont l’émetteur est Parcs Canada. Dans le cas où les désignations sont
utilisées dans des écrits produits par d’autres instances (guides touristiques régionaux, guides de voyages, etc.), il est difficile d’envisager une situation où les auteurs
de ces documents n’auraient pas mentionné le nom du pays dans lequel se trouve le
site en question.
Certains lecteurs pourraient se demander pourquoi on réinscrit le nom Canada
alors qu’il est présent, plus ou moins explicitement, 1) dans ce que révèle la désignation du site, 2) dans le mot national, 3) dans le logo et 4) dans le contexte.
6. D’un complément à l’autre
6. D’un complément à l’autre
Plus les désignations s’allongent, plus leur structure se complexifie. Dans notre
corpus, cette complexification prend tout particulièrement la forme de cascades de
compléments de la forme de + nom. Si elle ne s’avère pas une faute en soi—rien
Plus les désignations s’allongent, plus leur structure se complexifie. Dans notre
corpus, cette complexification prend tout particulièrement la forme de cascades de
compléments de la forme de + nom. Si elle ne s’avère pas une faute en soi—rien
52
d’ailleurs n’empêcherait qu’on construise une phrase constituée de 1000 compléments
sans que la syntaxe en soit pour autant vraiment déficiente —, cette cascade constitue
cependant une entorse grave aux principes de base de la lisibilité.
En effet, il faut considérer chacun des éléments de la cascade comme un chaînon
supplémentaire qui apporte une nouvelle information à la base sémantique de l’énoncé.
Le lecteur doit alors faire un effort supplémentaire pour préserver en mémoire toutes
ces données imbriquées dans un rapport d’addition/inclusion. Le problème principal
est que la cascade de compléments risque souvent de créer un écran qui éloigne le
sujet du groupe verbe, constituant généralement porteur du sens principal de la phrase.
Les exemples suivants illustrent, en partie, l’effet « écran » de la cascade.
52
d’ailleurs n’empêcherait qu’on construise une phrase constituée de 1000 compléments
sans que la syntaxe en soit pour autant vraiment déficiente —, cette cascade constitue
cependant une entorse grave aux principes de base de la lisibilité.
En effet, il faut considérer chacun des éléments de la cascade comme un chaînon
supplémentaire qui apporte une nouvelle information à la base sémantique de l’énoncé.
Le lecteur doit alors faire un effort supplémentaire pour préserver en mémoire toutes
ces données imbriquées dans un rapport d’addition/inclusion. Le problème principal
est que la cascade de compléments risque souvent de créer un écran qui éloigne le
sujet du groupe verbe, constituant généralement porteur du sens principal de la phrase.
Les exemples suivants illustrent, en partie, l’effet « écran » de la cascade.
[La proposition] GS [ne fait pas l’affaire des intervenants.] GV
[La proposition] GS [ne fait pas l’affaire des intervenants.] GV
[La proposition [de négocier une entente de longue durée] écran] GS [ne
fait pas l’affaire des intervenants.] GV
[La proposition [de négocier une entente de longue durée] écran] GS [ne
fait pas l’affaire des intervenants.] GV
[La proposition [de négocier une entente de longue durée provenant de
la réserve de parc national du Canada de l’Archipel-de-Mingan] écran] GS
[ne fait pas l’affaire des intervenants.] GV
[La proposition [de négocier une entente de longue durée provenant de
la réserve de parc national du Canada de l’Archipel-de-Mingan] écran] GS
[ne fait pas l’affaire des intervenants.] GV
Par ailleurs, certains ouvrages traitant du style à l’écrit proscrivent les cascades
de compléments. C’est le cas notamment d’un guide préparé par le gouvernement
fédéral.
Par ailleurs, certains ouvrages traitant du style à l’écrit proscrivent les cascades
de compléments. C’est le cas notamment d’un guide préparé par le gouvernement
fédéral.
Il faut éviter l’enchaînement abusif de compléments dépendant l’un de
l’autre, car ils allongent démesurément la phrase et souvent nuisent à sa
clarté. Ex. : La profondeur du mépris des chefs des milieux de l’émigration… (SÉC, 1987 : 59)
Il faut éviter l’enchaînement abusif de compléments dépendant l’un de
l’autre, car ils allongent démesurément la phrase et souvent nuisent à sa
clarté. Ex. : La profondeur du mépris des chefs des milieux de l’émigration… (SÉC, 1987 : 59)
Notons aussi la remarque péjorative que formule le grammairien Dupré à l’endroit de ce type de construction.
Notons aussi la remarque péjorative que formule le grammairien Dupré à l’endroit de ce type de construction.
Que dire de ces kyrielles de de directement héritées de la syntaxe anglaise
et qui nous paraissent hélas, désormais, la seule façon d’articuler une
phrase […]. (DUPRÉ, 1972 : 601b)
Que dire de ces kyrielles de de directement héritées de la syntaxe anglaise
et qui nous paraissent hélas, désormais, la seule façon d’articuler une
phrase […]. (DUPRÉ, 1972 : 601b)
Éric Kavanagh
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En vertu de ces remarques, certains intitulés du corpus souffrent davantage de
l’ajout du segment que d’autres. Ces appellations sont aussi les plus longues de notre
corpus, comme en témoignent les exemples suivants :
Éric Kavanagh
53
En vertu de ces remarques, certains intitulés du corpus souffrent davantage de
l’ajout du segment que d’autres. Ces appellations sont aussi les plus longues de notre
corpus, comme en témoignent les exemples suivants :
14. lieu historique national du Canada de la Grosse-Île-et-le-Mémorial-desIrlandais [73 caractères]
14. lieu historique national du Canada de la Grosse-Île-et-le-Mémorial-desIrlandais [73 caractères]
15. lieu historique national du Canada du Premier-Puits-de-Pétrole-del’Ouest-Canadien [76 caractères]
15. lieu historique national du Canada du Premier-Puits-de-Pétrole-del’Ouest-Canadien [76 caractères]
16. lieu historique national du Canada de la Station-d’Étude-des-RayonsCosmiques-du-Mont-Sulphur [86 caractères]
16. lieu historique national du Canada de la Station-d’Étude-des-RayonsCosmiques-du-Mont-Sulphur [86 caractères]
17. lieu historique national du Canada du Centre-d’Inscription-de-l’EntréeEst-du-Parc-du-Mont-Riding [91 caractères]
17. lieu historique national du Canada du Centre-d’Inscription-de-l’EntréeEst-du-Parc-du-Mont-Riding [91 caractères]
À l’oral, les conséquences de ces cascades sont non négligeables. En effet, prononcés à haute voix, ces intitulés entraînent presque autant de coupures dans la prosodie que le nombre de compléments qu’on y trouve. D’autre part, lorsque les désignations sont mises en texte (ou en discours), il n’est pas exclu que le cotexte comporte, lui aussi, quelques compléments étant donné la nature des textes dans lesquels
elles peuvent être employées (textes administratifs).
Bien sûr, l’ajout du segment du Canada n’est pas responsable à lui seul des difficultés de lecture que causent de tels énoncés. Cependant, sa présence contribue nettement à la complexification de l’ensemble. Par ailleurs, comme le souci de précision
serait un des arguments majeurs pour défendre de telles structures, la présence du
segment du Canada s’avère la plus difficile à défendre puisque, comme nous l’avons
illustré au point 5, son contenu est redondant.
À l’oral, les conséquences de ces cascades sont non négligeables. En effet, prononcés à haute voix, ces intitulés entraînent presque autant de coupures dans la prosodie que le nombre de compléments qu’on y trouve. D’autre part, lorsque les désignations sont mises en texte (ou en discours), il n’est pas exclu que le cotexte comporte, lui aussi, quelques compléments étant donné la nature des textes dans lesquels
elles peuvent être employées (textes administratifs).
Bien sûr, l’ajout du segment du Canada n’est pas responsable à lui seul des difficultés de lecture que causent de tels énoncés. Cependant, sa présence contribue nettement à la complexification de l’ensemble. Par ailleurs, comme le souci de précision
serait un des arguments majeurs pour défendre de telles structures, la présence du
segment du Canada s’avère la plus difficile à défendre puisque, comme nous l’avons
illustré au point 5, son contenu est redondant.
7. Les cohabitations bizarres
7. Les cohabitations bizarres
Dans le point précédent, nous évoquions les conséquences d’une telle mesure
sur la transposition à l’oral. L’examen de notre corpus nous a aussi révélé quelques
cas de cohabitation phonétique (et parfois sémantique) particulièrement « choquante »
pour l’oreille. De tous les problèmes identifiés, celui-ci est peut-être le moindre. Mais
en considérant toute l’importance que les entreprises, quelles qu’elles soient, accor-
Dans le point précédent, nous évoquions les conséquences d’une telle mesure
sur la transposition à l’oral. L’examen de notre corpus nous a aussi révélé quelques
cas de cohabitation phonétique (et parfois sémantique) particulièrement « choquante »
pour l’oreille. De tous les problèmes identifiés, celui-ci est peut-être le moindre. Mais
en considérant toute l’importance que les entreprises, quelles qu’elles soient, accor-
54
dent aux propriétés esthétiques de leur nom de marque (branding), on peut légitimement se demander si Parcs Canada n’aurait pas avantage à revisiter certaines appellations. Voici quelques exemples de cohabitations bizarres :
54
dent aux propriétés esthétiques de leur nom de marque (branding), on peut légitimement se demander si Parcs Canada n’aurait pas avantage à revisiter certaines appellations. Voici quelques exemples de cohabitations bizarres :
18. lieu historique national du Canada du Col-Howse
18. lieu historique national du Canada du Col-Howse
19. lieu historique national du Canada du Cap-Spear
19. lieu historique national du Canada du Cap-Spear
20. lieu historique national du Canada Gulf of Georgia Cannery
20. lieu historique national du Canada Gulf of Georgia Cannery
21. lieu historique national du Canada du Canal-Rideau
21. lieu historique national du Canada du Canal-Rideau
22. lieu historique national du Canada de La Fourche
22. lieu historique national du Canada de La Fourche
Notre étude n’étant pas d’abord stylistique, nous n’insisterons pas sur ces bizarreries dont l’évaluation reste très subjective.
Notre étude n’étant pas d’abord stylistique, nous n’insisterons pas sur ces bizarreries dont l’évaluation reste très subjective.
8. La rupture du Canada
8. La rupture du Canada
L’inconvénient majeur causé par l’ajout du segment du Canada à la fin du générique réside dans la rupture syntaxique et sémantique qu’il provoque. La cascade de
compléments (voir point 6) constitue une chaîne sémantique dont les éléments sont
imbriqués de manière à enrichir le sens du mot ou du groupe de mots auxquels ils
sont adjoints par la préposition de. Ainsi, dans :
L’inconvénient majeur causé par l’ajout du segment du Canada à la fin du générique réside dans la rupture syntaxique et sémantique qu’il provoque. La cascade de
compléments (voir point 6) constitue une chaîne sémantique dont les éléments sont
imbriqués de manière à enrichir le sens du mot ou du groupe de mots auxquels ils
sont adjoints par la préposition de. Ainsi, dans :
23. lieu historique national de la Bataille-de-la-Châteauguay
le segment de la Bataille-de-la-Châteauguay vient « enrichir » le groupe de mots lieu
historique national, de même que de-la-Châteauguay le fait pour le mot Bataille, ce
qu’illustre l’exemple suivant :
23. lieu historique national de la Bataille-de-la-Châteauguay
le segment de la Bataille-de-la-Châteauguay vient « enrichir » le groupe de mots lieu
historique national, de même que de-la-Châteauguay le fait pour le mot Bataille, ce
qu’illustre l’exemple suivant :
[lieu historique national] gén. [de la Bataille-de-la-Châteauguay] spéc.
[lieu historique national] gén. [de la Bataille-de-la-Châteauguay] spéc.
[lieu historique national] gén. [[de la Bataille-[de-la-Châteauguay] C2] C1] spéc.
[lieu historique national] gén. [[de la Bataille-[de-la-Châteauguay] C2] C1] spéc.
[lieu historique national [de la Bataille-[de-la-Châteauguay] C2] C1] dés.
[lieu historique national [de la Bataille-[de-la-Châteauguay] C2] C1] dés.
Éric Kavanagh
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Éric Kavanagh
55
Ce découpage des composantes illustre bien leur imbrication et montre comment un chaînon dépend sémantiquement de celui qui précède et comment ce même
chaînon devient un « support » sémantique pour le complément qui le suit. Cependant, la portée de cette subordination n’est pas toujours la même. Lorsqu’on ajoute le
segment du Canada, on assiste à une rupture de la chaîne sémantico-syntaxique, où
du Canada vient interrompre le lien entre le générique et le spécifique.
Ce découpage des composantes illustre bien leur imbrication et montre comment un chaînon dépend sémantiquement de celui qui précède et comment ce même
chaînon devient un « support » sémantique pour le complément qui le suit. Cependant, la portée de cette subordination n’est pas toujours la même. Lorsqu’on ajoute le
segment du Canada, on assiste à une rupture de la chaîne sémantico-syntaxique, où
du Canada vient interrompre le lien entre le générique et le spécifique.
[lieu historique national [du Canada] C3 [de la Bataille-[de-la-Châteauguay] C2] C1] dés.
[lieu historique national [du Canada] C3 [de la Bataille-[de-la-Châteauguay] C2] C1] dés.
Si le segment du Canada est en relation claire de dépendance sémantique avec le
générique (dont il fait partie), on remarque toutefois qu’il n’agit pas comme support
sémantique pour le reste de la désignation. C’est en ce sens qu’il crée une rupture.
Dans ce cas, les termes spécifiques ne peuvent selon toute logique compléter le segment du Canada. Ce dernier constitue donc un écran entre deux éléments d’une cascade qu’on ne doit nullement interrompre.
Bien sûr la « compétition » entre les compléments est chose fréquente dans la
langue. Le contexte et les processus inférentiels suffisent la plupart du temps pour
réparer ce genre de rupture. Cependant, c’est au prix d’un certain effort cognitif—et
c’est sans parler de l’agacement que cela provoque—que le lecteur arrivera à bien
comprendre l’énoncé. Notre capacité à « réparer » ce genre de rupture ne permet toutefois pas de gommer le manque de fluidité que l’on ressent à la lecture des nouvelles
appellations.
Si le segment du Canada est en relation claire de dépendance sémantique avec le
générique (dont il fait partie), on remarque toutefois qu’il n’agit pas comme support
sémantique pour le reste de la désignation. C’est en ce sens qu’il crée une rupture.
Dans ce cas, les termes spécifiques ne peuvent selon toute logique compléter le segment du Canada. Ce dernier constitue donc un écran entre deux éléments d’une cascade qu’on ne doit nullement interrompre.
Bien sûr la « compétition » entre les compléments est chose fréquente dans la
langue. Le contexte et les processus inférentiels suffisent la plupart du temps pour
réparer ce genre de rupture. Cependant, c’est au prix d’un certain effort cognitif—et
c’est sans parler de l’agacement que cela provoque—que le lecteur arrivera à bien
comprendre l’énoncé. Notre capacité à « réparer » ce genre de rupture ne permet toutefois pas de gommer le manque de fluidité que l’on ressent à la lecture des nouvelles
appellations.
9. Ô solutions
9. Ô solutions
Notre étude de cas ne prétend pas présenter toutes les possibilités de réorganisation des intitulés. En guise de conclusion, nous explorerons sommairement quatre
propositions qui règlent en partie (mais rarement en totalité) les problèmes évoqués
dans les points précédents. Les trois dernières peuvent être combinées.
Notre étude de cas ne prétend pas présenter toutes les possibilités de réorganisation des intitulés. En guise de conclusion, nous explorerons sommairement quatre
propositions qui règlent en partie (mais rarement en totalité) les problèmes évoqués
dans les points précédents. Les trois dernières peuvent être combinées.
Première proposition : renoncer à l’ajout du segment
Première proposition : renoncer à l’ajout du segment
L’ensemble des problèmes évoqués sont autant d’arguments qui militent en faveur du renoncement à l’ajout du segment du Canada. Étant donné que ce dernier
allonge l’appellation (point 4), apporte une information redondante (point 5), cause
des cohabitations bizarres (point 7) et entraîne des problèmes de lisibilité et de compréhension (points 6 et 8), il nous semble raisonnable de proposer cette solution radicale.
L’ensemble des problèmes évoqués sont autant d’arguments qui militent en faveur du renoncement à l’ajout du segment du Canada. Étant donné que ce dernier
allonge l’appellation (point 4), apporte une information redondante (point 5), cause
des cohabitations bizarres (point 7) et entraîne des problèmes de lisibilité et de compréhension (points 6 et 8), il nous semble raisonnable de proposer cette solution radicale.
56
Cependant, comme il est probablement fort difficile de faire marche arrière dans
ce genre de décision, nous avons entrepris d’analyser deux autres possibilités. Il est
toutefois très important de noter que, malgré les efforts investis pour réorganiser les
désignations de la meilleure façon qui soit, les remarques sur la longueur et la redondance des énoncés après l’ajout du segment seront toujours valables.
Deuxième proposition : adjectiver le segment du Canada
On l’a vu, l’ajout du segment du Canada entraîne une rupture syntaxique où que
soit placé le segment dans la désignation. À notre avis, l’adjectivation du segment
règlerait en partie ce problème.
56
Cependant, comme il est probablement fort difficile de faire marche arrière dans
ce genre de décision, nous avons entrepris d’analyser deux autres possibilités. Il est
toutefois très important de noter que, malgré les efforts investis pour réorganiser les
désignations de la meilleure façon qui soit, les remarques sur la longueur et la redondance des énoncés après l’ajout du segment seront toujours valables.
Deuxième proposition : adjectiver le segment du Canada
On l’a vu, l’ajout du segment du Canada entraîne une rupture syntaxique où que
soit placé le segment dans la désignation. À notre avis, l’adjectivation du segment
règlerait en partie ce problème.
24. lieu historique national du Canada de la Bataille-de-la-Châteauguay devient lieu historique national canadien de la Bataille-de-la-Châteauguay
24. lieu historique national du Canada de la Bataille-de-la-Châteauguay devient lieu historique national canadien de la Bataille-de-la-Châteauguay
25. lieu historique national du Canada du Canal-de-Lachine devient lieu historique national canadien du Canal-de-Lachine
25. lieu historique national du Canada du Canal-de-Lachine devient lieu historique national canadien du Canal-de-Lachine
Une fois adjectivé, le segment perd de son effet d’écran entre le générique et le
spécifique. Toutefois, lorsqu’on applique cette transformation à l’ensemble des appellations du corpus, quelques cas nous semblent plus douteux.
Une fois adjectivé, le segment perd de son effet d’écran entre le générique et le
spécifique. Toutefois, lorsqu’on applique cette transformation à l’ensemble des appellations du corpus, quelques cas nous semblent plus douteux.
26. parc national canadien Forillon
26. parc national canadien Forillon
27. lieu historique national canadien Cartier-Brébeuf
27. lieu historique national canadien Cartier-Brébeuf
Ces exemples ont la particularité d’avoir un spécifique qui n’est constitué que
d’un nom propre (c’était vrai aussi avant l’ajout du segment). À notre avis, c’est le fait
qu’il s’agisse de compléments apposés (et non explicitement liés par une préposition)
qui « gêne » un peu ici. Cependant, aucun manquement grave à la lisibilité n’est commis dans ces cas.
Cette proposition constitue certainement la voie la plus économique et la plus
« facile » de toutes les propositions raisonnables que l’on pourrait avancer, notamment parce qu’elle respecte la structure de base de l’énoncé. Cependant, malgré ces
efforts, une certaine lourdeur dans la structure est toujours présente.
Troisième proposition : restructurer l’énoncé
Ces exemples ont la particularité d’avoir un spécifique qui n’est constitué que
d’un nom propre (c’était vrai aussi avant l’ajout du segment). À notre avis, c’est le fait
qu’il s’agisse de compléments apposés (et non explicitement liés par une préposition)
qui « gêne » un peu ici. Cependant, aucun manquement grave à la lisibilité n’est commis dans ces cas.
Cette proposition constitue certainement la voie la plus économique et la plus
« facile » de toutes les propositions raisonnables que l’on pourrait avancer, notamment parce qu’elle respecte la structure de base de l’énoncé. Cependant, malgré ces
efforts, une certaine lourdeur dans la structure est toujours présente.
Troisième proposition : restructurer l’énoncé
Éric Kavanagh
57
Le segment du Canada ou sa version adjectivée (canadien) est lié au générique.
C’est la raison pour laquelle il doit obligatoirement y être apposé. Cependant, le spécifique, constitué des éléments Archipel-de-Mingan, Banff, de la Mauricie, Yoho, etc., a
lui aussi besoin de cette proximité avec le générique, non pas parce qu’il en fait partie,
mais parce qu’il le complète directement.
Une autre proposition à cet égard est de regrouper distinctement les éléments du
générique, d’abord, et ceux du spécifique, ensuite. Pour distinguer ces deux groupes,
il nous faudrait cependant utiliser des marqueurs typographiques comme les deuxpoints (:) ou le tiret court (–), comme en témoignent les exemples suivants :
Éric Kavanagh
57
Le segment du Canada ou sa version adjectivée (canadien) est lié au générique.
C’est la raison pour laquelle il doit obligatoirement y être apposé. Cependant, le spécifique, constitué des éléments Archipel-de-Mingan, Banff, de la Mauricie, Yoho, etc., a
lui aussi besoin de cette proximité avec le générique, non pas parce qu’il en fait partie,
mais parce qu’il le complète directement.
Une autre proposition à cet égard est de regrouper distinctement les éléments du
générique, d’abord, et ceux du spécifique, ensuite. Pour distinguer ces deux groupes,
il nous faudrait cependant utiliser des marqueurs typographiques comme les deuxpoints (:) ou le tiret court (–), comme en témoignent les exemples suivants :
28. lieu historique national du Canada—(La) Bataille-de-la-Châteauguay
28. lieu historique national du Canada—(La) Bataille-de-la-Châteauguay
29. lieu historique national canadien—(La) Bataille-de-la-Châteauguay
29. lieu historique national canadien—(La) Bataille-de-la-Châteauguay
30. lieu historique national du Canada—(Le) Canal-de-Lachine
30. lieu historique national du Canada—(Le) Canal-de-Lachine
31. lieu historique national canadien—(Le) Canal-de-Lachine
31. lieu historique national canadien—(Le) Canal-de-Lachine
32. réserve de parc national du Canada—(L’)Archipel-de-Mingan
32. réserve de parc national du Canada—(L’)Archipel-de-Mingan
33. réserve de parc national canadien—(L’)Archipel-de-Mingan
33. réserve de parc national canadien—(L’)Archipel-de-Mingan
Cette solution présente deux avantages clairs. D’abord, le segment du Canada ou
canadien est parfaitement intégré. D’autre part, la délimitation ainsi créée entre le
générique et le spécifique élimine toute possibilité d’ambiguïtés. Le choix d’une telle
solution nécessiterait cependant qu’on se penche sur la question des déterminants
puisqu’ils ne sont pas présents dans toutes les désignations du corpus.
L’inconvénient—et peut-être est-il plus important que dans la situation précédente—de cette structure réside cependant dans le fait qu’il est maintenant impossible de lire la désignation de façon « naturelle ». En effet, les désignations originales,
bien qu’elles soient longues parfois, s’intègrent relativement bien dans la structure
naturelle de la phrase française. La réorganisation que nous proposons provoque une
dislocation qui scinde la désignation en deux. Ce problème n’est évidemment pas
insurmontable, mais il risque toutefois d’ « accrocher » l’œil du lecteur non averti et
de rendre plus ardue la tâche des rédacteurs qui auront à intégrer ces titres dans les
Cette solution présente deux avantages clairs. D’abord, le segment du Canada ou
canadien est parfaitement intégré. D’autre part, la délimitation ainsi créée entre le
générique et le spécifique élimine toute possibilité d’ambiguïtés. Le choix d’une telle
solution nécessiterait cependant qu’on se penche sur la question des déterminants
puisqu’ils ne sont pas présents dans toutes les désignations du corpus.
L’inconvénient—et peut-être est-il plus important que dans la situation précédente—de cette structure réside cependant dans le fait qu’il est maintenant impossible de lire la désignation de façon « naturelle ». En effet, les désignations originales,
bien qu’elles soient longues parfois, s’intègrent relativement bien dans la structure
naturelle de la phrase française. La réorganisation que nous proposons provoque une
dislocation qui scinde la désignation en deux. Ce problème n’est évidemment pas
insurmontable, mais il risque toutefois d’ « accrocher » l’œil du lecteur non averti et
de rendre plus ardue la tâche des rédacteurs qui auront à intégrer ces titres dans les
58
textes officiels. Si l’intégration dans les textes courants peut poser ce problème, ça ne
semble pas le cas dans les contextes ou les désignations sont employées seules (les
panneaux de signalisation par exemple).
Quatrième proposition : système de double emploi
58
textes officiels. Si l’intégration dans les textes courants peut poser ce problème, ça ne
semble pas le cas dans les contextes ou les désignations sont employées seules (les
panneaux de signalisation par exemple).
Quatrième proposition : système de double emploi
Dans la langue parlée ou dans les textes de vulgarisation, les locuteurs et les auteurs
ont généralement tendance à utiliser des formes abrégées comme Parc Mingan, Parc
Forillon, le Fort-Numéro-Un-de-la-Pointe-de-Lévy, etc. Il s’agit certainement d’une
avenue à explorer pour faciliter les communications. Il serait intéressant de songer à
utiliser une double dénomination, soit l’appellation officielle, dans les textes administratifs, dans les logos, en première mention dans un texte, et l’appellation d’usage,
dans le corps des textes officiels destinés au grand public. C’est d’ailleurs l’une des
recommandations qui accompagnaient l’annonce « officielle » de l’ajout du segment :
Dans la langue parlée ou dans les textes de vulgarisation, les locuteurs et les auteurs
ont généralement tendance à utiliser des formes abrégées comme Parc Mingan, Parc
Forillon, le Fort-Numéro-Un-de-la-Pointe-de-Lévy, etc. Il s’agit certainement d’une
avenue à explorer pour faciliter les communications. Il serait intéressant de songer à
utiliser une double dénomination, soit l’appellation officielle, dans les textes administratifs, dans les logos, en première mention dans un texte, et l’appellation d’usage,
dans le corps des textes officiels destinés au grand public. C’est d’ailleurs l’une des
recommandations qui accompagnaient l’annonce « officielle » de l’ajout du segment :
Cet ajout devra s’effectuer de façon systématique sur les pages couvertures, dans les titres et les en-têtes et au début des documents (p. ex. : plans
directeurs, rapports sur l’état des parcs, publicités). Dans le corps du
texte, il conviendra de faire l’ajout sporadiquement en évitant de devenir répétitif; on pourra donc utiliser simplement « parc national », « lieu
historique national » ou le nom usuel de l’endroit. [Note interne datée
du 15 janvier 2001]
Cet ajout devra s’effectuer de façon systématique sur les pages couvertures, dans les titres et les en-têtes et au début des documents (p. ex. : plans
directeurs, rapports sur l’état des parcs, publicités). Dans le corps du
texte, il conviendra de faire l’ajout sporadiquement en évitant de devenir répétitif; on pourra donc utiliser simplement « parc national », « lieu
historique national » ou le nom usuel de l’endroit. [Note interne datée
du 15 janvier 2001]
Cette proposition présente certainement l’inconvénient d’introduire le redoublement du système. Ceci est cependant inévitable dans la mesure où le ministère
désire faire jouer aux désignations plusieurs rôles à la fois (identification du type
d’aménagement, identification du parc ou du lieu historique, identification du palier
gouvernemental, identification du pays). Une fois que le parc ou le lieu historique est
présenté au lecteur dans sa désignation complète, ce dernier n’a guère plus besoin que
de se faire rappeler le nom spécifique du site à propos duquel il tente de s’informer.
C’est de ce point de vue que nous avançons l’idée d’un double système.
Cette proposition présente certainement l’inconvénient d’introduire le redoublement du système. Ceci est cependant inévitable dans la mesure où le ministère
désire faire jouer aux désignations plusieurs rôles à la fois (identification du type
d’aménagement, identification du parc ou du lieu historique, identification du palier
gouvernemental, identification du pays). Une fois que le parc ou le lieu historique est
présenté au lecteur dans sa désignation complète, ce dernier n’a guère plus besoin que
de se faire rappeler le nom spécifique du site à propos duquel il tente de s’informer.
C’est de ce point de vue que nous avançons l’idée d’un double système.
***
***
Les problèmes liés à l’ajout du segment du Canada sont de natures diverses, et les
solutions qui pourraient régler tous les problèmes ne sont pas légion. Bien qu’il soit
des questions bien plus importantes que celle-ci, nous croyons qu’il est du devoir des
communicateurs professionnels d’attirer l’attention sur ce genre de situation en s’as-
Les problèmes liés à l’ajout du segment du Canada sont de natures diverses, et les
solutions qui pourraient régler tous les problèmes ne sont pas légion. Bien qu’il soit
des questions bien plus importantes que celle-ci, nous croyons qu’il est du devoir des
communicateurs professionnels d’attirer l’attention sur ce genre de situation en s’as-
Éric Kavanagh
59
Éric Kavanagh
59
surant toutefois de toujours proposer des solutions inspirées du contexte de la problématique. Le véritable reproche que l’on peut ici diriger vers le ministère canadien
du Patrimoine, c’est d’avoir mis de l’avant une mesure pour laquelle une véritable
discussion d’ordre linguistique et communicationnel était nécessaire.
Depuis février 2002, cette problématique s’est complexifiée. En effet, Parcs Québec a annoncé que les parcs du réseau québécois porteraient désormais la désignation, eux aussi, de parc national. Les raisons évoquées dans le communiqué, contrairement aux arguments de la note interne de la direction de Parcs Canada, n’ont rien à
voir avec le sentiment d’identité nationale ou provinciale. À tout le moins, en apparence. C’est la reconnaissance internationale en vertu ce certains critères de qualité
environnementale et de gestion qui semble le point de départ de cette mesure.
L’ajout du segment du Canada trouve dans la mesure québécoise une nouvelle
justification, peut-être même la plus solide d’entre toutes : il y a le national québécois
et le national canadien. Présents dans la désignations des parcs des deux paliers de
gouvernement, cet adjectif en vient donc à perdre une partie importante de sa fonction identitaire. Peu à peu, il se vide de son sens, notamment lorsqu’on considère des
expressions comme nation québécoise ou capitale nationale pour désigner la ville de
Québec. L’ajout du segment du Canada est peut-être le symptôme de cette perte de
sens. Il reste maintenant à savoir si les décideurs iront jusqu’à proposer l’appellation
parc national fédéral du Canada pour bien faire sentir la différence…
surant toutefois de toujours proposer des solutions inspirées du contexte de la problématique. Le véritable reproche que l’on peut ici diriger vers le ministère canadien
du Patrimoine, c’est d’avoir mis de l’avant une mesure pour laquelle une véritable
discussion d’ordre linguistique et communicationnel était nécessaire.
Depuis février 2002, cette problématique s’est complexifiée. En effet, Parcs Québec a annoncé que les parcs du réseau québécois porteraient désormais la désignation, eux aussi, de parc national. Les raisons évoquées dans le communiqué, contrairement aux arguments de la note interne de la direction de Parcs Canada, n’ont rien à
voir avec le sentiment d’identité nationale ou provinciale. À tout le moins, en apparence. C’est la reconnaissance internationale en vertu ce certains critères de qualité
environnementale et de gestion qui semble le point de départ de cette mesure.
L’ajout du segment du Canada trouve dans la mesure québécoise une nouvelle
justification, peut-être même la plus solide d’entre toutes : il y a le national québécois
et le national canadien. Présents dans la désignations des parcs des deux paliers de
gouvernement, cet adjectif en vient donc à perdre une partie importante de sa fonction identitaire. Peu à peu, il se vide de son sens, notamment lorsqu’on considère des
expressions comme nation québécoise ou capitale nationale pour désigner la ville de
Québec. L’ajout du segment du Canada est peut-être le symptôme de cette perte de
sens. Il reste maintenant à savoir si les décideurs iront jusqu’à proposer l’appellation
parc national fédéral du Canada pour bien faire sentir la différence…
NOTES
NOTES
1. Cet article s’inspire d’une étude de cas que nous avons effectuée en mars 2000
pour le compte d’un organisme fédéral.
1. Cet article s’inspire d’une étude de cas que nous avons effectuée en mars 2000
pour le compte d’un organisme fédéral.
2. À notre connaissance, aucun communiqué de presse destiné à la population
canadienne n’a fait état de ce changement.
2. À notre connaissance, aucun communiqué de presse destiné à la population
canadienne n’a fait état de ce changement.
3. Parcs Canada gère en tout 145 lieux historiques nationaux, 39 parcs nationaux et
réserves, 3 aires marines nationales, environ 1100 édifices fédéraux, 28 rivières
et 163 gares ferroviaires du patrimoine. [http://www.parcscanada.gc.ca/]
3. Parcs Canada gère en tout 145 lieux historiques nationaux, 39 parcs nationaux et
réserves, 3 aires marines nationales, environ 1100 édifices fédéraux, 28 rivières
et 163 gares ferroviaires du patrimoine. [http://www.parcscanada.gc.ca/]
4. Parce qu’elles constituaient des cas isolés dans notre corpus, nous avons
amalgamé les occurrences suivantes : parc marin national, parc national et
réserve de parc national et réserve d’aire marine nationale de conservation.
4. Parce qu’elles constituaient des cas isolés dans notre corpus, nous avons
amalgamé les occurrences suivantes : parc marin national, parc national et
réserve de parc national et réserve d’aire marine nationale de conservation.
5. D’ailleurs, avant que la mesure soit annoncée officiellement, le ministère du
Patrimoine avait déjà « suggéré » à l’Agence Parcs Canada d’effectuer l’ajout
du segment exactement comme on le retrouve dans les exemples 9 et 10.
5. D’ailleurs, avant que la mesure soit annoncée officiellement, le ministère du
Patrimoine avait déjà « suggéré » à l’Agence Parcs Canada d’effectuer l’ajout
du segment exactement comme on le retrouve dans les exemples 9 et 10.
60
60
6. Parcs et réserves fauniques du Québec : http://www.bonjourquebec.com/
francais/attraits/parcs.html.
6. Parcs et réserves fauniques du Québec : http://www.bonjourquebec.com/
francais/attraits/parcs.html.
7. Parcs nationaux de France : http://www.parcsnationaux-fr.com/.
7. Parcs nationaux de France : http://www.parcsnationaux-fr.com/.
8. Secrétariat national à l’alphabétisation : http://www.nald.ca/nlsf.htm
8. Secrétariat national à l’alphabétisation : http://www.nald.ca/nlsf.htm
BIBLIOGRAPHIE
BIBLIOGRAPHIE
ARCAND, Richard et Nicole BOURBEAU (1995). La communication efficace,
Éditions CEC, 426 p.
ARCAND, Richard et Nicole BOURBEAU (1995). La communication efficace,
Éditions CEC, 426 p.
BEAUDET, Céline (1999). Guide de rédaction en milieu communautaire, Éditions
GGC, 150 p.
BEAUDET, Céline (1999). Guide de rédaction en milieu communautaire, Éditions
GGC, 150 p.
CAJOLET-LAGANIÈRE, Hélène, Pierre COLLINGE et Gérard LAGANIÈRE (1997).
Rédaction technique, administrative et scientifique, Éditions Laganière, 468 p.
CAJOLET-LAGANIÈRE, Hélène, Pierre COLLINGE et Gérard LAGANIÈRE (1997).
Rédaction technique, administrative et scientifique, Éditions Laganière, 468 p.
CLERC, Isabelle (2000). La démarche de rédaction, Éditions Nota Bene, 179 p.
CLERC, Isabelle (2000). La démarche de rédaction, Éditions Nota Bene, 179 p.
DUPRÉ, P. (1972). Encyclopédie du bon français dans l’usage contemporain, Paris,
Éditions de Trévise, 3 tomes. 2716 p.
DUPRÉ, P. (1972). Encyclopédie du bon français dans l’usage contemporain, Paris,
Éditions de Trévise, 3 tomes. 2716 p.
GOUVERNEMENT DU Canada (1993). Pour un style clair et simple, 62 p.
GOUVERNEMENT DU Canada (1993). Pour un style clair et simple, 62 p.
LABASSE, Bertrand (1999). « Perception et compréhension de l’écrit », dans
COMBIER, M., La chose imprimée, Retz, p. 458-462.
LABASSE, Bertrand (1999). « Perception et compréhension de l’écrit », dans
COMBIER, M., La chose imprimée, Retz, p. 458-462.
SÉC—SECRÉTARIAT D’ÉTAT DU CANADA (1987). Vade-mecum linguistique,
Ottawa, Groupe Communication Canada—Édition, 144 p.
SÉC—SECRÉTARIAT D’ÉTAT DU CANADA (1987). Vade-mecum linguistique,
Ottawa, Groupe Communication Canada—Édition, 144 p.
Marjorie Rush Hovde
61
Marjorie Rush Hovde
Negotiating Organizational Constraints:
Tactics for Technical Communicators
Negotiating Organizational Constraints:
Tactics for Technical Communicators
Marjorie Rush Hovde, Ph.D.
Indiana University-Purdue University Indianapolis
Marjorie Rush Hovde, Ph.D.
Indiana University-Purdue University Indianapolis
Les communicateurs techniques travaillent dans des organismes, où les conventions et les frontières sont source de confusion pour les débutants. L’étude
présentée fait état d’observations découlant d’une recherche menée sur deux
lieux de travail distincts. On y décrit comment quatre communicateurs techniques utilisent diverses tactiques socio-interactives pour traiter des contraintes
organisationnelles en recourant à des modèles comportementaux efficaces,
moyennement efficaces et moins efficaces. Ces tactiques permettent aux
communicateurs de maintenir le système d’activité de l’organisme, d’y résister ou de le modifier de façon pro-active. L’étude montre que le recours à
certaines de ces tactiques permet aux communicateurs techniques de négocier efficacement avec d’autres personnes de l’organisme, particulièrement
en fournissant à leurs collègues de travail des raisons convaincantes en relation avec l’organisme. Ces tactiques, qui représentent une dimension d’expertise clé pour les communicateurs techniques, intéressent les
communicateurs techniques débutants, les formateurs oeuvrant en contexte
universitaire et les responsables de formation au travail.
Les communicateurs techniques travaillent dans des organismes, où les conventions et les frontières sont source de confusion pour les débutants. L’étude
présentée fait état d’observations découlant d’une recherche menée sur deux
lieux de travail distincts. On y décrit comment quatre communicateurs techniques utilisent diverses tactiques socio-interactives pour traiter des contraintes
organisationnelles en recourant à des modèles comportementaux efficaces,
moyennement efficaces et moins efficaces. Ces tactiques permettent aux
communicateurs de maintenir le système d’activité de l’organisme, d’y résister ou de le modifier de façon pro-active. L’étude montre que le recours à
certaines de ces tactiques permet aux communicateurs techniques de négocier efficacement avec d’autres personnes de l’organisme, particulièrement
en fournissant à leurs collègues de travail des raisons convaincantes en relation avec l’organisme. Ces tactiques, qui représentent une dimension d’expertise clé pour les communicateurs techniques, intéressent les
communicateurs techniques débutants, les formateurs oeuvrant en contexte
universitaire et les responsables de formation au travail.
The author wishes to thank Patricia Sullivan, Jim Porter, Janice Lauer,
and Rachel Spilka, the dissertation committee under whose guidance
the data were originally collected. In addition, Graham Smart, his students in a Purdue University graduate seminar in Professional Writing
Theory, and an anonymous Technostyle reviewer have contributed valuable insights for analyzing this material.
The author wishes to thank Patricia Sullivan, Jim Porter, Janice Lauer,
and Rachel Spilka, the dissertation committee under whose guidance
the data were originally collected. In addition, Graham Smart, his students in a Purdue University graduate seminar in Professional Writing
Theory, and an anonymous Technostyle reviewer have contributed valuable insights for analyzing this material.
“ You gotta know when to hold ’em
Know when to fold ’em
Know when to walk away
Know when to run.”
(Don Schlitz, “The Gambler”)
“ You gotta know when to hold ’em
Know when to fold ’em
Know when to walk away
Know when to run.”
(Don Schlitz, “The Gambler”)
61
62
Negotiating Organizational Constraints: Tactics for Technical Communicators
62
Imagine the following scenario: A person is working on an undergraduate degree in technical communication and has begun an internship of writing computer
manuals for a four-person software company as its first technical communicator. No
standardized procedures guide the writing and revising of documentation. Existing
manuals were written by salespeople in their spare time. The president is also the
programmer, and he has openly stated that he hates documentation. He never records
on paper the upgrades he has made to the software. The company’s sole salesperson,
who also serves as the trainer, knows a great deal about the software and the users, but
he is seldom in the office because he trains clients at their sites. The only other employee is an office manager who also handles customers’ questions about the software
when they call in. Where does the new technical communicator start? How does she
gather the information she needs about the software and the users? On what basis
does she make decisions about the format and design of the manuals? Most importantly, how does she relate to the people with whom she works in order to produce
good quality documentation?
This scenario, describing one of the situations in this study, supports Sopensky
and Modrey’s (1995) claim that in addition to technical communication abilities, technical communicators need procedural or “how-to” knowledge of how to interact socially within their organizations in order to improve the quality of their written products. Indeed Van Wicklen (2001) estimates that technical communicators can spend
as much as one-third of their time interacting with co-workers in their organizations,
facing obstacles such as “difficulty obtaining information, reticent or uncooperative
engineers, canceled projects, unreasonable or unclear deadlines … and office politics” (p. 8).
Thus while the job of a technical communicator is usually not as fraught with
risk as that of the gambler mentioned in the epigram, both gamblers and technical
communicators do need procedural knowledge in their contexts. In particular, apprentices (Lave and Wenger, 1991) in the field may lack judgment about when to hold,
fold, walk away — or run. Consequently, awareness and use of a range of intra-organizational communication tactics may help student and apprentice technical communicators gain influence over their work.
To gain a greater understanding of such tactics, I conducted observational casestudy research in two different work sites.1 During my data-gathering, I noticed that
apprentice technical communicators often had good ideas for designing documentation but did not know how to address corporate constraints that prevented them
from carrying out those ideas. However, more experienced technical communicators
Imagine the following scenario: A person is working on an undergraduate degree in technical communication and has begun an internship of writing computer
manuals for a four-person software company as its first technical communicator. No
standardized procedures guide the writing and revising of documentation. Existing
manuals were written by salespeople in their spare time. The president is also the
programmer, and he has openly stated that he hates documentation. He never records
on paper the upgrades he has made to the software. The company’s sole salesperson,
who also serves as the trainer, knows a great deal about the software and the users, but
he is seldom in the office because he trains clients at their sites. The only other employee is an office manager who also handles customers’ questions about the software
when they call in. Where does the new technical communicator start? How does she
gather the information she needs about the software and the users? On what basis
does she make decisions about the format and design of the manuals? Most importantly, how does she relate to the people with whom she works in order to produce
good quality documentation?
This scenario, describing one of the situations in this study, supports Sopensky
and Modrey’s (1995) claim that in addition to technical communication abilities, technical communicators need procedural or “how-to” knowledge of how to interact socially within their organizations in order to improve the quality of their written products. Indeed Van Wicklen (2001) estimates that technical communicators can spend
as much as one-third of their time interacting with co-workers in their organizations,
facing obstacles such as “difficulty obtaining information, reticent or uncooperative
engineers, canceled projects, unreasonable or unclear deadlines … and office politics” (p. 8).
Thus while the job of a technical communicator is usually not as fraught with
risk as that of the gambler mentioned in the epigram, both gamblers and technical
communicators do need procedural knowledge in their contexts. In particular, apprentices (Lave and Wenger, 1991) in the field may lack judgment about when to hold,
fold, walk away — or run. Consequently, awareness and use of a range of intra-organizational communication tactics may help student and apprentice technical communicators gain influence over their work.
To gain a greater understanding of such tactics, I conducted observational casestudy research in two different work sites.1 During my data-gathering, I noticed that
apprentice technical communicators often had good ideas for designing documentation but did not know how to address corporate constraints that prevented them
from carrying out those ideas. However, more experienced technical communicators
Marjorie Rush Hovde
63
Marjorie Rush Hovde
63
who had a variety of tactics for dealing with their contextual situations, and who
knew when to use appropriate social-interactional tactics, were frequently more influential than technical communicators who did not.
Below I discuss the literature in technical communication on intra-organizational communication dynamics, the design of the present study, its findings, and
implications for theory, pedagogy and practice. The study takes as its point of departure two central questions: What tactics does a technical communicator need to know
how to employ in dealing with others within the organization? How are the uses of
these tactics related to the influence that technical communicators exhibit within their
organizations?
who had a variety of tactics for dealing with their contextual situations, and who
knew when to use appropriate social-interactional tactics, were frequently more influential than technical communicators who did not.
Below I discuss the literature in technical communication on intra-organizational communication dynamics, the design of the present study, its findings, and
implications for theory, pedagogy and practice. The study takes as its point of departure two central questions: What tactics does a technical communicator need to know
how to employ in dealing with others within the organization? How are the uses of
these tactics related to the influence that technical communicators exhibit within their
organizations?
Technical Communicators and Inter-Organizational
Communication Practices
Technical Communicators and Inter-Organizational
Communication Practices
For technical communicators, the ability to communicate with co-workers in
organizations is vital. In entry and mid-level positions that demand intense work
with co-workers, technical communicators make decisions in situations where people may disagree and where resources are limited (Pfeffer, 1995). Therefore, technical
communicators need to understand how influence works and how they can work
within the constraints of organizational dynamics to exercise a measure of control
over their work.
The relatively powerless positions of many technical communicators within their
organizations may lead to unhappiness with their jobs. Reportedly, technical communicators express dissatisfaction with co-workers on a greater level than in other
occupations, especially regarding the time and resources allocated to for their work,
noting that documentation is frequently not a high priority in their organizations.
Many technical communicators also indicate that they would like to have more responsibility in making decisions about their writing (Philbin, Ryan, and Friedel, 1995).
A repertoire of intra-organizational communication options may help such technical
communicators feel empowered to deal with workplace constraints, thus reducing
their dissatisfaction.
This organizational challenge is particularly acute for apprentice technical communicators whose social-interactional tactics have been shaped largely by academic
experiences. They face a daunting transition involving a high degree of “uncertainty”
(Miller and Jablin, 1991) when they move into professional roles largely because they
do not know how to understand and deal with internal organizational politics within
their organizations (Thomas, 1995). New employees need to learn how to develop
working relationships with co-workers who can assist them in their work, while not
For technical communicators, the ability to communicate with co-workers in
organizations is vital. In entry and mid-level positions that demand intense work
with co-workers, technical communicators make decisions in situations where people may disagree and where resources are limited (Pfeffer, 1995). Therefore, technical
communicators need to understand how influence works and how they can work
within the constraints of organizational dynamics to exercise a measure of control
over their work.
The relatively powerless positions of many technical communicators within their
organizations may lead to unhappiness with their jobs. Reportedly, technical communicators express dissatisfaction with co-workers on a greater level than in other
occupations, especially regarding the time and resources allocated to for their work,
noting that documentation is frequently not a high priority in their organizations.
Many technical communicators also indicate that they would like to have more responsibility in making decisions about their writing (Philbin, Ryan, and Friedel, 1995).
A repertoire of intra-organizational communication options may help such technical
communicators feel empowered to deal with workplace constraints, thus reducing
their dissatisfaction.
This organizational challenge is particularly acute for apprentice technical communicators whose social-interactional tactics have been shaped largely by academic
experiences. They face a daunting transition involving a high degree of “uncertainty”
(Miller and Jablin, 1991) when they move into professional roles largely because they
do not know how to understand and deal with internal organizational politics within
their organizations (Thomas, 1995). New employees need to learn how to develop
working relationships with co-workers who can assist them in their work, while not
64
64
alienating others (Freedman and Adam, 1996). Furthermore, because typical political
practices are often not overtly acknowledged (Thomas, 1995; Smart, 2000), apprentices’ struggles to work effectively with colleagues may be made even more difficult.
The silence about power relationships within organizations also extends to silence in recent technical communication scholarship about how to deal with those
power relationships (Thomas, 1995). The few authors who have tried to describe the
complex expertise needed by technical communicators have tended to overlook organizational communication abilities (Green and Nolan, 1984; Dobrin, 1997). (Ironically, Dobrin mentions that one of the reasons he left technical communication was
that “given the constraints” [p. 105], he was not doing the work he thought he should
do.) Fortunately, however, a few authors do provide practical advice for technical
communicators on taking organizational power relationships into account when communicating with reviewers of their documents (Hackos, 1994; Smart, 2000) or mention technical communicators’ intra-organizational communication abilities tangentially (Heneghan, 1992; Raven, 1997). However, we need a rich understanding of effective tactics in many different situations.
When it is found, advice for technical communicators on communicating within
organizations offers only general suggestions that one should try to effect changes
largely through personal initiative (Barker, 1998; Grove, Lundgren, and Hays, 1992;
Sopensky and Modrey, 1995). Van Wicklen (2001) is somewhat more aware of the
complexities of organizational power relationships, but even so, she still encourages a
great deal of personal initiative on the part of the technical communicators. Apprentice technical communicators certainly need personal initiative, but they also need to
develop a repertoire of specific tactics for dealing with complex organizational constraints and expectations.
Two qualitative, empirical studies point to certain tactics that technical communicators need. Heneghan (1987) noted that the apprentice technical communicators
in her workplace study needed intra-organizational communication abilities such as
writing collaboratively and interviewing for information. In Raven’s study (1992), the
technical communicators observed needed to know how to negotiate the contradictions that arose when different reviewers disagreed about changes in documentation.
Raven’s technical communicators’ strategies included: negotiating (checking with an
approver, or getting the approver to conclude the change is necessary); capitulating;
waiting; and escalating (making an executive decision, negotiating with other managers, verifying technical information, or seeking an arbitrator). The tactics Raven
observed deal only with how to resolve differences of opinion. However, because of
the dual-directional nature of how individuals interact with a system, I wished to
alienating others (Freedman and Adam, 1996). Furthermore, because typical political
practices are often not overtly acknowledged (Thomas, 1995; Smart, 2000), apprentices’ struggles to work effectively with colleagues may be made even more difficult.
The silence about power relationships within organizations also extends to silence in recent technical communication scholarship about how to deal with those
power relationships (Thomas, 1995). The few authors who have tried to describe the
complex expertise needed by technical communicators have tended to overlook organizational communication abilities (Green and Nolan, 1984; Dobrin, 1997). (Ironically, Dobrin mentions that one of the reasons he left technical communication was
that “given the constraints” [p. 105], he was not doing the work he thought he should
do.) Fortunately, however, a few authors do provide practical advice for technical
communicators on taking organizational power relationships into account when communicating with reviewers of their documents (Hackos, 1994; Smart, 2000) or mention technical communicators’ intra-organizational communication abilities tangentially (Heneghan, 1992; Raven, 1997). However, we need a rich understanding of effective tactics in many different situations.
When it is found, advice for technical communicators on communicating within
organizations offers only general suggestions that one should try to effect changes
largely through personal initiative (Barker, 1998; Grove, Lundgren, and Hays, 1992;
Sopensky and Modrey, 1995). Van Wicklen (2001) is somewhat more aware of the
complexities of organizational power relationships, but even so, she still encourages a
great deal of personal initiative on the part of the technical communicators. Apprentice technical communicators certainly need personal initiative, but they also need to
develop a repertoire of specific tactics for dealing with complex organizational constraints and expectations.
Two qualitative, empirical studies point to certain tactics that technical communicators need. Heneghan (1987) noted that the apprentice technical communicators
in her workplace study needed intra-organizational communication abilities such as
writing collaboratively and interviewing for information. In Raven’s study (1992), the
technical communicators observed needed to know how to negotiate the contradictions that arose when different reviewers disagreed about changes in documentation.
Raven’s technical communicators’ strategies included: negotiating (checking with an
approver, or getting the approver to conclude the change is necessary); capitulating;
waiting; and escalating (making an executive decision, negotiating with other managers, verifying technical information, or seeking an arbitrator). The tactics Raven
observed deal only with how to resolve differences of opinion. However, because of
the dual-directional nature of how individuals interact with a system, I wished to
Marjorie Rush Hovde
65
Marjorie Rush Hovde
65
look also at tactics that initiated action or reacted to non-conflict situations. Additionally, I wished to learn if technical communicators in other organizations practiced
her four tactics.
Important social-interactional abilities needed by technical communicators in
complex organizational situations have not been thoroughly explored. The socialinteractional tactics discerned through this study begin to build understandings of
what those abilities are and how those abilities look in practice. This understanding
can provide a range of options to beginners, as well as to more experienced technical
communicators, as they attempt to carry out their complex work. In this study, I
designed a project that would begin to shape a fine-grained picture of technical communicators’ tactics for negotiating organizational constraints.
look also at tactics that initiated action or reacted to non-conflict situations. Additionally, I wished to learn if technical communicators in other organizations practiced
her four tactics.
Important social-interactional abilities needed by technical communicators in
complex organizational situations have not been thoroughly explored. The socialinteractional tactics discerned through this study begin to build understandings of
what those abilities are and how those abilities look in practice. This understanding
can provide a range of options to beginners, as well as to more experienced technical
communicators, as they attempt to carry out their complex work. In this study, I
designed a project that would begin to shape a fine-grained picture of technical communicators’ tactics for negotiating organizational constraints.
The Study
The Study
The methods and model for this study are located within the understanding of
activity theory that human behavior is best studied in its contexts, as part of an activity system aimed at achieving specific goals and using tools and genres to achieve
those goals. In considering the tactics that technical communicators employed, I assumed that they were influenced by and worked within the larger system. The tactics
that I observed could be understood as both tools and genres of behavior that function during the processes of producing documentation. Below, I discuss my research
questions, the theoretical framework of the study, and its methodology, research sites,
and participants.
The methods and model for this study are located within the understanding of
activity theory that human behavior is best studied in its contexts, as part of an activity system aimed at achieving specific goals and using tools and genres to achieve
those goals. In considering the tactics that technical communicators employed, I assumed that they were influenced by and worked within the larger system. The tactics
that I observed could be understood as both tools and genres of behavior that function during the processes of producing documentation. Below, I discuss my research
questions, the theoretical framework of the study, and its methodology, research sites,
and participants.
Research Questions
Research Questions
This study is located in the context of one broad question: What is the nature of
procedural knowledge or expertise for technical communicators? On the basis of my
reading of research literature (for instance, Green and Nolan, 1984; Grove, et al., 1992;
Heneghan, 1987; Raven, 1992; Sopensky and Modrey, 1995) and on my observations of
technical communicators at work, I have created a working map of abilities needed
by technical communicators (Figure 1), indicating the complexity of their expertise.
(This map is not intended to be exhaustive or representative of every technical communicator’s situation. Rather, it represents abilities that technical communicators may
need as they create documentation.)
In this article, I focus specifically on the upper right shaded quadrant of the map
as I explore the questions: What does a professional technical communicator need to
know how to do in dealing with others within the organization? What tactics are
employed by influential technical communicators and by those with less influence?
This study is located in the context of one broad question: What is the nature of
procedural knowledge or expertise for technical communicators? On the basis of my
reading of research literature (for instance, Green and Nolan, 1984; Grove, et al., 1992;
Heneghan, 1987; Raven, 1992; Sopensky and Modrey, 1995) and on my observations of
technical communicators at work, I have created a working map of abilities needed
by technical communicators (Figure 1), indicating the complexity of their expertise.
(This map is not intended to be exhaustive or representative of every technical communicator’s situation. Rather, it represents abilities that technical communicators may
need as they create documentation.)
In this article, I focus specifically on the upper right shaded quadrant of the map
as I explore the questions: What does a professional technical communicator need to
know how to do in dealing with others within the organization? What tactics are
employed by influential technical communicators and by those with less influence?
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66
Figure 1.Technical communicators need abilities to function in four
areas.
Figure 1.Technical communicators need abilities to function in four
areas.
In addition, I wished to explore how activity theory could illuminate the practices of
these technical communicators and how the analysis of their practices could influence the principles of activity theory.
I found these questions especially compelling after I observed the two least experienced and influential technical communicators in this study. Unlike the more experienced technical communicators, both apprentices were products of a professional
writing undergraduate major with an emphasis in writing for business and industry.
Yet, their specialized education in technical communication did not necessarily teach
them tactics they needed for dealing with the realities of working with others in their
organization. They both held many valuable ideas about the nature of effective documentation, but neither had mastered the ability to argue effectively within their organizations for major changes. They knew how to write and design documents, but
they did not know how to deal with organizational constraints that influenced writing. As Pfeffer (1992) argues, “…we need to understand strategies and tactics of using
power so that we can consider the range of approaches available to us and use what is
likely to be effective” (p. 341). The observations in this study begin to provide such
practical knowledge.
In addition, I wished to explore how activity theory could illuminate the practices of
these technical communicators and how the analysis of their practices could influence the principles of activity theory.
I found these questions especially compelling after I observed the two least experienced and influential technical communicators in this study. Unlike the more experienced technical communicators, both apprentices were products of a professional
writing undergraduate major with an emphasis in writing for business and industry.
Yet, their specialized education in technical communication did not necessarily teach
them tactics they needed for dealing with the realities of working with others in their
organization. They both held many valuable ideas about the nature of effective documentation, but neither had mastered the ability to argue effectively within their organizations for major changes. They knew how to write and design documents, but
they did not know how to deal with organizational constraints that influenced writing. As Pfeffer (1992) argues, “…we need to understand strategies and tactics of using
power so that we can consider the range of approaches available to us and use what is
likely to be effective” (p. 341). The observations in this study begin to provide such
practical knowledge.
Theoretical Framework
Theoretical Framework
Social-interactional practices are inextricably intertwined with the uses of power
and influence. (For my purposes here, I am defining “power” as having the means to
compel certain behaviors from co-workers; “influence” for me has a milder connotation, one of shaping behavior without an extensive use of force.) Technical commu-
Social-interactional practices are inextricably intertwined with the uses of power
and influence. (For my purposes here, I am defining “power” as having the means to
compel certain behaviors from co-workers; “influence” for me has a milder connotation, one of shaping behavior without an extensive use of force.) Technical commu-
Marjorie Rush Hovde
67
Marjorie Rush Hovde
67
nicators without much knowledge of their organization may experience unproductive encounters because “Not understanding the degree to which the situation is politicized may cause a person either to use power and influence when it is unnecessary,
and thereby violate behavioral norms as well as waste resources, or to underestimate
the extent to which power needs to be employed, and fail in the task of implementation” (Pfeffer, 1995, p. 33). This principle is played out in Raven’s (1997) study in which
engineers held a higher status than the technical communicators and acted to protect
that status, sometimes withholding information from the technical communicators
to be sure that not too many people would understand engineers’ specialized information. Because previous technical communicators in the organization had lacked
technical knowledge and were seen as “glorified scribes” by some engineers, these
engineers were accustomed to directing the development of both the product and the
documentation; they resisted the technical communicators’ suggestions for how to
create documents for users. These technical communicators worked in close physical
proximity to engineers, so they may have followed the engineers’ suggestions for
changes in documentation in order to avoid insulting the engineers and thereby jeopardizing working relationships. This challenging situation is far from unusual, so technical communicators in similarly complex organizations need all the tactics they can
find or devise.
One reason that political rules are often not named is that they are complex,
situational, and subject to constant, albeit gradual, change as part of an “activity system.” Recent proponents of activity theory argue that one should understand typical
patterns of behavior in an individual by considering the entire “activity” that motivates and shapes that behavior, including the collective use physical and conceptual
tools. As David Russell (1995) explains, “Activity theory analyzes human behavior and
consciousness in terms of activity systems: goal-directed, historically situated, cooperative human interactions...functional system[s] consisting of a subject (person or
persons), an object(ive) (an objective or goal or common task), and the tools (including signs) that mediate the interaction” (p. 53, emphasis his). Such a system operates
as “a local sphere of goal-directed collaborative endeavor, where thinking, knowing,
and intellectual accomplishment are mediated by a matrix of physical settings, symbol systems, analytic methods, technologies, and structured social interaction” (Smart,
2000, p. 226). This perspective can enrich our understanding of the interaction between behavior and context because activity theory “embeds consciousness in a wider
activity system and describes a dynamic by which changes in consciousness are directly related to the material and social conditions current in a person’s situation”
(Nardi, 1996, p. 13.) In understanding the community and its rules, one can see the
forces affecting the behavior of the individuals.
nicators without much knowledge of their organization may experience unproductive encounters because “Not understanding the degree to which the situation is politicized may cause a person either to use power and influence when it is unnecessary,
and thereby violate behavioral norms as well as waste resources, or to underestimate
the extent to which power needs to be employed, and fail in the task of implementation” (Pfeffer, 1995, p. 33). This principle is played out in Raven’s (1997) study in which
engineers held a higher status than the technical communicators and acted to protect
that status, sometimes withholding information from the technical communicators
to be sure that not too many people would understand engineers’ specialized information. Because previous technical communicators in the organization had lacked
technical knowledge and were seen as “glorified scribes” by some engineers, these
engineers were accustomed to directing the development of both the product and the
documentation; they resisted the technical communicators’ suggestions for how to
create documents for users. These technical communicators worked in close physical
proximity to engineers, so they may have followed the engineers’ suggestions for
changes in documentation in order to avoid insulting the engineers and thereby jeopardizing working relationships. This challenging situation is far from unusual, so technical communicators in similarly complex organizations need all the tactics they can
find or devise.
One reason that political rules are often not named is that they are complex,
situational, and subject to constant, albeit gradual, change as part of an “activity system.” Recent proponents of activity theory argue that one should understand typical
patterns of behavior in an individual by considering the entire “activity” that motivates and shapes that behavior, including the collective use physical and conceptual
tools. As David Russell (1995) explains, “Activity theory analyzes human behavior and
consciousness in terms of activity systems: goal-directed, historically situated, cooperative human interactions...functional system[s] consisting of a subject (person or
persons), an object(ive) (an objective or goal or common task), and the tools (including signs) that mediate the interaction” (p. 53, emphasis his). Such a system operates
as “a local sphere of goal-directed collaborative endeavor, where thinking, knowing,
and intellectual accomplishment are mediated by a matrix of physical settings, symbol systems, analytic methods, technologies, and structured social interaction” (Smart,
2000, p. 226). This perspective can enrich our understanding of the interaction between behavior and context because activity theory “embeds consciousness in a wider
activity system and describes a dynamic by which changes in consciousness are directly related to the material and social conditions current in a person’s situation”
(Nardi, 1996, p. 13.) In understanding the community and its rules, one can see the
forces affecting the behavior of the individuals.
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68
Using activity theory in conjunction with empirical study (Nardi, 1996; Russell
1995, 1997) offers a researcher an “elaborated theory of context...that embraces objects and motives of collectives and their participants to explain reciprocal interactions among people...” (Russell, 1997, p. 505). This approach guided this study of individuals’ actions as they employed discourse tools within social contexts to accomplish specific ends. Such qualitative empirical study can lead to “grounded theory”
(Berkenkotter and Huckin, 1995, p. x). As grounded theory is applied to practice, it
should prove more useful because it has taken into account the entire social system in
which an activity takes place.
Using activity theory in conjunction with empirical study (Nardi, 1996; Russell
1995, 1997) offers a researcher an “elaborated theory of context...that embraces objects and motives of collectives and their participants to explain reciprocal interactions among people...” (Russell, 1997, p. 505). This approach guided this study of individuals’ actions as they employed discourse tools within social contexts to accomplish specific ends. Such qualitative empirical study can lead to “grounded theory”
(Berkenkotter and Huckin, 1995, p. x). As grounded theory is applied to practice, it
should prove more useful because it has taken into account the entire social system in
which an activity takes place.
Methodology, Research Sites, and Participants
Methodology, Research Sites, and Participants
In order to begin to answer the research questions posed above, I conducted
observational case-study research in two different organizations that created user
documentation for software products produced in-house. The first site, a small organization that I call B&F Programming, employed four people. This organization
produced and marketed software to a small, specialized user base. The B&F technical
communicator I studied, Sue (all names are pseudonyms), worked there in the summers and part-time during the school year. She was relatively new to the organization
and revised paper manuals for their two major software products.
The second site, a larger, not-for-profit organization that I call Money Services,
provided financial services to other not-for-profit organizations. Money Services’
primary function was to provide these services; the software they sold to clients allowed them to provide the services more efficiently. The key informant at that site, a
Technical Writer II whom I call Trish, had about five more years of experience as a
technical communicator than Sue. Although Money Services had about 12 Technical
Writers at the time of my data collection, I focused on three, Trish, Hanna (a Senior
Technical Writer), and Faith (a Technical Writer I), as they created paper and on-line
documentation for a software package that I call QuickCash.
I observed and recorded interactions of these technical communicators at work
one or two days a week for a period of 10 months. As an observor, I attempted to have
as little effect on the technical communicators’ work as possible. The participants
also kept a small notebook in which to record significant events when I was not present.
I made special note of meetings and interactions during which technical communicators made decisions with co-workers. While on site, I asked the participants to talk
aloud about what they were doing, as long as it did not interfere with their work.
Extensive field notes, tape recordings of a few meetings, collected documents, and
open-ended interviews with technical communicators and their co-workers provided
additional data.
In order to begin to answer the research questions posed above, I conducted
observational case-study research in two different organizations that created user
documentation for software products produced in-house. The first site, a small organization that I call B&F Programming, employed four people. This organization
produced and marketed software to a small, specialized user base. The B&F technical
communicator I studied, Sue (all names are pseudonyms), worked there in the summers and part-time during the school year. She was relatively new to the organization
and revised paper manuals for their two major software products.
The second site, a larger, not-for-profit organization that I call Money Services,
provided financial services to other not-for-profit organizations. Money Services’
primary function was to provide these services; the software they sold to clients allowed them to provide the services more efficiently. The key informant at that site, a
Technical Writer II whom I call Trish, had about five more years of experience as a
technical communicator than Sue. Although Money Services had about 12 Technical
Writers at the time of my data collection, I focused on three, Trish, Hanna (a Senior
Technical Writer), and Faith (a Technical Writer I), as they created paper and on-line
documentation for a software package that I call QuickCash.
I observed and recorded interactions of these technical communicators at work
one or two days a week for a period of 10 months. As an observor, I attempted to have
as little effect on the technical communicators’ work as possible. The participants
also kept a small notebook in which to record significant events when I was not present.
I made special note of meetings and interactions during which technical communicators made decisions with co-workers. While on site, I asked the participants to talk
aloud about what they were doing, as long as it did not interfere with their work.
Extensive field notes, tape recordings of a few meetings, collected documents, and
open-ended interviews with technical communicators and their co-workers provided
additional data.
Marjorie Rush Hovde
69
Marjorie Rush Hovde
69
In analyzing the data collected at the two sites, I attempted to observe what technical communicators actually did rather than relying on what they might say they
did, focusing on their actual “communication behavior” (Falcione, Sussman, and
Herden, 1987). Upon completion of the data collection, I analyzed and categorized
the social-interactional tactics that these technical communicators used when dealing with others within the organization. I looked especially at instances in which the
technical communicators took actions outside of situations covered by routine procedures. I also analyzed other factors, such as the relative experience and influence of
the technical communicators within the organization.
In political situations within their organizations, these technical communicators experienced varying levels of power and influence. At B&F, technical writing had
a low priority as evidenced by the fact that Bill, the president and programmer, had
not initiated the hiring of a technical communicator; Sue had called him at the beginning of a summer on the chance that he might need one. One of her biggest job
challenges was to get information about the software updates from Bill, the sole programmer. She often had to find circuitous ways to complete her work; at one point, I
observed her eavesdropping on a conversation Bill was having with someone else
explaining his software. Sue did not perceive that she had the power to question him
directly for information or to alter the typical practices of the organization. One advantage she experienced was that because there was little oversight of her work, she
could determine the direction of many of her tasks and some of her documentation
decisions.
Technical Writing at Money Services held a slightly stronger position within the
company, even though they were housed in an office building about five miles distant
from the Money Services headquarters because it was not large enough to accommodate all of Money Services’ employees. (See Pfeffer, 1992, on the relationships between
physical settings and power.) Several of the technical communicators commented
that their situations at Money Services were better than at other places where they
had worked. Several employees in other departments who worked closely with the
technical communicators commented to me that they were impressed with what the
technical communicators accomplished given limited resources. However, corporate
culture posed barriers to ideal circumstances. For instance, the technical communicators had no direct access to external users because Marketing representatives were
concerned that too much interaction with users might jeopardize accounts (Hovde,
2000). In addition, the organization’s six-month software and documentation revision schedule did not permit the technical communicators to add user research to
their already multitudinous tasks. Furthermore, the technical communicators could
not decide by themselves how to organize manuals. Over the years, the manuals had
In analyzing the data collected at the two sites, I attempted to observe what technical communicators actually did rather than relying on what they might say they
did, focusing on their actual “communication behavior” (Falcione, Sussman, and
Herden, 1987). Upon completion of the data collection, I analyzed and categorized
the social-interactional tactics that these technical communicators used when dealing with others within the organization. I looked especially at instances in which the
technical communicators took actions outside of situations covered by routine procedures. I also analyzed other factors, such as the relative experience and influence of
the technical communicators within the organization.
In political situations within their organizations, these technical communicators experienced varying levels of power and influence. At B&F, technical writing had
a low priority as evidenced by the fact that Bill, the president and programmer, had
not initiated the hiring of a technical communicator; Sue had called him at the beginning of a summer on the chance that he might need one. One of her biggest job
challenges was to get information about the software updates from Bill, the sole programmer. She often had to find circuitous ways to complete her work; at one point, I
observed her eavesdropping on a conversation Bill was having with someone else
explaining his software. Sue did not perceive that she had the power to question him
directly for information or to alter the typical practices of the organization. One advantage she experienced was that because there was little oversight of her work, she
could determine the direction of many of her tasks and some of her documentation
decisions.
Technical Writing at Money Services held a slightly stronger position within the
company, even though they were housed in an office building about five miles distant
from the Money Services headquarters because it was not large enough to accommodate all of Money Services’ employees. (See Pfeffer, 1992, on the relationships between
physical settings and power.) Several of the technical communicators commented
that their situations at Money Services were better than at other places where they
had worked. Several employees in other departments who worked closely with the
technical communicators commented to me that they were impressed with what the
technical communicators accomplished given limited resources. However, corporate
culture posed barriers to ideal circumstances. For instance, the technical communicators had no direct access to external users because Marketing representatives were
concerned that too much interaction with users might jeopardize accounts (Hovde,
2000). In addition, the organization’s six-month software and documentation revision schedule did not permit the technical communicators to add user research to
their already multitudinous tasks. Furthermore, the technical communicators could
not decide by themselves how to organize manuals. Over the years, the manuals had
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70
been organized according to the architecture of the software because Systems Developers liked them that way, although in the middle of my data gathering, the technical
communicators received permission to reorganize the manuals to be structured according to users’ typical workflow. The technical communicators also had to be accountable to the Client Support Department, which was largely responsible for the
distribution of the manuals.
been organized according to the architecture of the software because Systems Developers liked them that way, although in the middle of my data gathering, the technical
communicators received permission to reorganize the manuals to be structured according to users’ typical workflow. The technical communicators also had to be accountable to the Client Support Department, which was largely responsible for the
distribution of the manuals.
Findings
Findings
The discussion below of these technical communicators’ social-interactional tactics begins to create a picture of an important aspect of the expertise of technical
communicators. While this picture will need to be tested and supplemented with
further studies, nevertheless the findings provide useful insights into options available to technical communicators as they interact with people in their organizations
using tactics that perpetuated, resisted, and/or shaped the activity system.
The discussion below of these technical communicators’ social-interactional tactics begins to create a picture of an important aspect of the expertise of technical
communicators. While this picture will need to be tested and supplemented with
further studies, nevertheless the findings provide useful insights into options available to technical communicators as they interact with people in their organizations
using tactics that perpetuated, resisted, and/or shaped the activity system.
Varying levels of influence among the technical communicators
Varying levels of influence among the technical communicators
In this data gathering and analysis, I observed that the use of several socialinteractional tactics was one of the factors that affected the amount of influence that
the four technical communicators observed in the study were able to employ. Below I
briefly sketch a portrait of the technical communicators and then discuss the uses of
each of the tactics they employed.
An Influential Technical Communicator. Hanna, as Senior Technical Writer,
exercised a great deal of influence within Money Services. People both inside and
outside the Technical Writing Department respected her and sought her advice. Bright,
articulate, and busy, she sat on many cross-departmental planning committees for
revisions to the software and the documentation. Within Technical Writing, she supervised the work of other technical communicators and served as editor of some of
their documentation. (Soon after I completed my data gathering, she was promoted
to Department Head when the Supervisor stepped down.)
In her use of social-interactional tactics, Hanna knew how to go along with others’ decisions when necessary, even if she did not always agree with them. But she was
also able to argue well for changes when needed. She frequently served as a liaison
between Technical Writing and the other departments with which they needed to
work, bringing information from the members of one department to those of another.
Hanna frequently agreed with the proposals of others, but she also resisted some
of them. When she resisted, she usually gave a reason that others might not have
thought about. These reasons frequently were based on knowledge gained through
In this data gathering and analysis, I observed that the use of several socialinteractional tactics was one of the factors that affected the amount of influence that
the four technical communicators observed in the study were able to employ. Below I
briefly sketch a portrait of the technical communicators and then discuss the uses of
each of the tactics they employed.
An Influential Technical Communicator. Hanna, as Senior Technical Writer,
exercised a great deal of influence within Money Services. People both inside and
outside the Technical Writing Department respected her and sought her advice. Bright,
articulate, and busy, she sat on many cross-departmental planning committees for
revisions to the software and the documentation. Within Technical Writing, she supervised the work of other technical communicators and served as editor of some of
their documentation. (Soon after I completed my data gathering, she was promoted
to Department Head when the Supervisor stepped down.)
In her use of social-interactional tactics, Hanna knew how to go along with others’ decisions when necessary, even if she did not always agree with them. But she was
also able to argue well for changes when needed. She frequently served as a liaison
between Technical Writing and the other departments with which they needed to
work, bringing information from the members of one department to those of another.
Hanna frequently agreed with the proposals of others, but she also resisted some
of them. When she resisted, she usually gave a reason that others might not have
thought about. These reasons frequently were based on knowledge gained through
Marjorie Rush Hovde
71
Marjorie Rush Hovde
71
her interaction with others on cross-departmental committees. The technical communicators working with her usually agreed with her wishes when she presented such
extra-departmental reasons.
A Moderately Influential Technical Communicator. Trish, my primary informant at Money Services, had worked at there nearly as long as Hanna had, but she did
not wield the influence that Hanna did. Although Trish interacted frequently with
people from other departments, she did not participate in early design decisions for
revised software and documentation. Rather, the meetings she typically attended gave
her opportunities only to discuss revised software specifications or participate in technical reviews of the documentation.
Trish had built an image of the documentation expectations of people in other
departments and did not seem to resist their wishes very often. She generally complied with requests, especially from those whom she perceived had influence and power
at Money Services. As reasons for her writing decisions, Trish frequently stated, “The
Systems Developers want it this way,” or “They said they wanted us to do it this way. I
would change it if it were up to me.” She did, however, resist more frequently within
the Technical Writing Department. She did not initiate or make decisions as frequently
as Hanna did, and this limited her influence on the work she was doing. In addition,
the quality of the documentation sometimes suffered from her too-frequent compliance.
Trish’s level of comfort in employing a variety of tactics to effect major changes
in the QuickCash manuals evolved gradually through the time of my data gathering.
Early in the study, at a planning meeting for the next version of documentation with
Faith and Hanna, Trish brought up a list of small changes in formatting conventions
that she wanted made in the QuickCash paper manuals. However as the study progressed, she was given permission from colleagues outside Technical Writing to reorganize and streamline the next version; and after that Trish listed many larger aspects
of the manuals that she wished to change. Overall, Trish’s typical uses of sociointeractional tactics led her to be only moderately influential in communicating with
co-workers.
The Least Influential Technical Communicators. The two relatively new technical communicators whom I studied, Sue at B&F and Faith at Money Services, exhibited even less influence in their organizations than did Trish. As a novice and the
only technical communicator at B&F, Sue needed to create documentation within an
organization that did not value it highly. In contrast to Money Services, B&F had few
standard procedures for creating documentation, so Sue had to devise her own procedures and count on the cooperation of co-workers. Both Sue and Faith experienced
initially what Miller and Jablin (1991) characterize as a period of uncertainty in which
her interaction with others on cross-departmental committees. The technical communicators working with her usually agreed with her wishes when she presented such
extra-departmental reasons.
A Moderately Influential Technical Communicator. Trish, my primary informant at Money Services, had worked at there nearly as long as Hanna had, but she did
not wield the influence that Hanna did. Although Trish interacted frequently with
people from other departments, she did not participate in early design decisions for
revised software and documentation. Rather, the meetings she typically attended gave
her opportunities only to discuss revised software specifications or participate in technical reviews of the documentation.
Trish had built an image of the documentation expectations of people in other
departments and did not seem to resist their wishes very often. She generally complied with requests, especially from those whom she perceived had influence and power
at Money Services. As reasons for her writing decisions, Trish frequently stated, “The
Systems Developers want it this way,” or “They said they wanted us to do it this way. I
would change it if it were up to me.” She did, however, resist more frequently within
the Technical Writing Department. She did not initiate or make decisions as frequently
as Hanna did, and this limited her influence on the work she was doing. In addition,
the quality of the documentation sometimes suffered from her too-frequent compliance.
Trish’s level of comfort in employing a variety of tactics to effect major changes
in the QuickCash manuals evolved gradually through the time of my data gathering.
Early in the study, at a planning meeting for the next version of documentation with
Faith and Hanna, Trish brought up a list of small changes in formatting conventions
that she wanted made in the QuickCash paper manuals. However as the study progressed, she was given permission from colleagues outside Technical Writing to reorganize and streamline the next version; and after that Trish listed many larger aspects
of the manuals that she wished to change. Overall, Trish’s typical uses of sociointeractional tactics led her to be only moderately influential in communicating with
co-workers.
The Least Influential Technical Communicators. The two relatively new technical communicators whom I studied, Sue at B&F and Faith at Money Services, exhibited even less influence in their organizations than did Trish. As a novice and the
only technical communicator at B&F, Sue needed to create documentation within an
organization that did not value it highly. In contrast to Money Services, B&F had few
standard procedures for creating documentation, so Sue had to devise her own procedures and count on the cooperation of co-workers. Both Sue and Faith experienced
initially what Miller and Jablin (1991) characterize as a period of uncertainty in which
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72
“newcomers perceive that they receive less information from those around them than
they believe is needed” (p. 92). As Schein (1987) has noted, the stage of being new to
an organization can be a “crucial time of learning...often painful and full of surprises”
(p. 158). The tactics that these apprentices employed indicate that they were still struggling to maneuver socially within their organizations.
Faith, as a Technical Writer I, suggested several innovations at Money Services,
but many of them were never implemented, partly because of her limited ability to
argue effectively for them with reasons that addressed organizational constraints. As
a newcomer to Money Services, she had been initially assigned to revise documentation for QuickCash. Because she spent a great deal of time learning about the software well enough to document it, she had little opportunity to interact with people
from outside her own department. Throughout the course of the data gathering, Faith
frequently expressed frustration at how slowly traditions at Money Services changed.
After working at Money Services for a year and a half, Faith complied reluctantly with
creating system-oriented manuals. Although she would have preferred manuals organized by user tasks rather than by the system, she realized that tradition was strong
in the Technical Writing Department and that major projects, such as revising a manual
to be user-task oriented, took a great deal of time to plan. This compliance indicated
that she was becoming aware of organizational constraints that prevented her from
achieving an ideal. (Near the end of my data gathering, she announced that she was
looking for another job, possibly one in freelance or magazine journalism.)
As mentioned earlier, both Sue and Faith were products of a professional writing
undergraduate major with an emphasis in writing for business and industry; each
had taken a course in writing for the computer industry, and each had more formal
technical communication education than the others in this study. Both apprentices
held valuable ideas about the nature of effective documentation, but neither had
mastered the ability to argue effectively in their organizational contexts for major
changes. As apprentices, both felt frustrated at times about not knowing their organizations well enough to be influential, a condition similar to that noted by Miller and
Jablin (1991). Both technical communicators typically complied or deferred when
decisions had to be made. Nonetheless, on occasion both were able to provide fresh
perspectives to the traditions of each organization, as also noted in Freedman and
Adam (1996).
“newcomers perceive that they receive less information from those around them than
they believe is needed” (p. 92). As Schein (1987) has noted, the stage of being new to
an organization can be a “crucial time of learning...often painful and full of surprises”
(p. 158). The tactics that these apprentices employed indicate that they were still struggling to maneuver socially within their organizations.
Faith, as a Technical Writer I, suggested several innovations at Money Services,
but many of them were never implemented, partly because of her limited ability to
argue effectively for them with reasons that addressed organizational constraints. As
a newcomer to Money Services, she had been initially assigned to revise documentation for QuickCash. Because she spent a great deal of time learning about the software well enough to document it, she had little opportunity to interact with people
from outside her own department. Throughout the course of the data gathering, Faith
frequently expressed frustration at how slowly traditions at Money Services changed.
After working at Money Services for a year and a half, Faith complied reluctantly with
creating system-oriented manuals. Although she would have preferred manuals organized by user tasks rather than by the system, she realized that tradition was strong
in the Technical Writing Department and that major projects, such as revising a manual
to be user-task oriented, took a great deal of time to plan. This compliance indicated
that she was becoming aware of organizational constraints that prevented her from
achieving an ideal. (Near the end of my data gathering, she announced that she was
looking for another job, possibly one in freelance or magazine journalism.)
As mentioned earlier, both Sue and Faith were products of a professional writing
undergraduate major with an emphasis in writing for business and industry; each
had taken a course in writing for the computer industry, and each had more formal
technical communication education than the others in this study. Both apprentices
held valuable ideas about the nature of effective documentation, but neither had
mastered the ability to argue effectively in their organizational contexts for major
changes. As apprentices, both felt frustrated at times about not knowing their organizations well enough to be influential, a condition similar to that noted by Miller and
Jablin (1991). Both technical communicators typically complied or deferred when
decisions had to be made. Nonetheless, on occasion both were able to provide fresh
perspectives to the traditions of each organization, as also noted in Freedman and
Adam (1996).
Using social-interactional tactics within the activity systems
Using social-interactional tactics within the activity systems
Given the assumption of activity theory that individuals and the culture are constantly influencing one another, I have divided these technical communicators’ typical social-interactional tactics into those used by individuals to react to the culture,
Given the assumption of activity theory that individuals and the culture are constantly influencing one another, I have divided these technical communicators’ typical social-interactional tactics into those used by individuals to react to the culture,
Marjorie Rush Hovde
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Marjorie Rush Hovde
73
Table 1. Social-interactional tactics have the potential to exhibit
varying effects within an activity system.
Table 1. Social-interactional tactics have the potential to exhibit
varying effects within an activity system.
either perpetuating it or resisting it, and those used by individuals to attempt to influence the practices of the culture. (In this discussion, I do not argue that the individuals used the tactics with these intentions, but rather that the tactics had the potential
to promote specific effects on the culture.)
Tactics used in reaction to the culture. Within any activity system, participants
react to the expectations and demands expressed by the culture. Frequently, these
technical communicators reacted to the culture in ways that had the effects of perpetuating the practices and values of the system, but they also found opportunity to
resist, as discussed below.
Tactics to perpetuate the culture. The tactics discussed below, all of which had
the effect of perpetuating the culture, can be divided into three types.
1. Agreeing. The technical communicators in the study often went along with
requests and traditions because they were in agreement with the rationale behind
them. They did their best to accommodate the requests of other departments in planning and producing the documentation. Such a high level of agreement is necessary
for an organization to function, so this level of agreement is not surprising.
2. Complying. At other times, the technical communicators complied with a request, but the reason behind the compliance was often that they had not thought
about reasons for or against the action. They simply did as they were told. For instance, Trish complied with organizational work processes that contributed to the
creation of the manuals. She planned the documentation development processes
around the schedules of the Systems Developers and the people in Systems Support
who needed the manuals and on-line help in place before they could begin beta testing of the newest version of the software.
either perpetuating it or resisting it, and those used by individuals to attempt to influence the practices of the culture. (In this discussion, I do not argue that the individuals used the tactics with these intentions, but rather that the tactics had the potential
to promote specific effects on the culture.)
Tactics used in reaction to the culture. Within any activity system, participants
react to the expectations and demands expressed by the culture. Frequently, these
technical communicators reacted to the culture in ways that had the effects of perpetuating the practices and values of the system, but they also found opportunity to
resist, as discussed below.
Tactics to perpetuate the culture. The tactics discussed below, all of which had
the effect of perpetuating the culture, can be divided into three types.
1. Agreeing. The technical communicators in the study often went along with
requests and traditions because they were in agreement with the rationale behind
them. They did their best to accommodate the requests of other departments in planning and producing the documentation. Such a high level of agreement is necessary
for an organization to function, so this level of agreement is not surprising.
2. Complying. At other times, the technical communicators complied with a request, but the reason behind the compliance was often that they had not thought
about reasons for or against the action. They simply did as they were told. For instance, Trish complied with organizational work processes that contributed to the
creation of the manuals. She planned the documentation development processes
around the schedules of the Systems Developers and the people in Systems Support
who needed the manuals and on-line help in place before they could begin beta testing of the newest version of the software.
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74
The two least experienced technical communicators complied more frequently
than the more experienced ones. At B&F, Sue’s compliance with her co-workers’ requests sometimes reflected her uncertainty about principles of effective document
design. For instance, Bill, the president and only programmer at B&F, wanted topics
in the manuals arranged as one-page modules, so Sue complied, even though she had
to squeeze information to make it fit onto some of the pages. Once, Sue tried a different page layout to make the information fit better, but Bill did not like it, so she
returned to the standard layout. In this compliance, Sue was unable to argue successfully for changes that she wished to make, but she did not display resentment when
one of her ideas was not adopted.
At times, Faith complied in a way that was to her detriment. After one of Trish’s
reviews of the manual written largely by Faith, she made only the changes that Trish
had marked. Faith did not go through the manual herself to find errors that Trish
might have missed. For reasons that were not clear to me, Faith did not go above and
beyond compliance in this case, which gave Trish great concern about the overall
quality of Faith’s manuals.
3. Acquiescing. In acquiescing, these technical communicators reluctantly went
along with a request or expectation. Pfeffer (1992) has noted that many people in
organizations seem to want to acquiesce, to yield authority to higher-ups. Although
he decries this “passivity,” at times it was necessary given the realities of competing
organizational claims, especially of forces outside Technical Writing. For instance,
Hanna once consented reluctantly to having the divider tabs of the QuickCash manuals
printed in-house instead at an external facility that could give them a more professional look. She realized that the decision was made to reduce expenses for the company and that the standards of the Technical Writing Department had to take lower
priority.
Trish and Faith also acquiesced to the Money Services’ tradition that Technical
Writers could not get in touch with end users, even though they believed such contact
would have improved the quality of the documentation. (The Marketing Department was cautious about allowing anyone other than Marketing representatives to
have contact with clients. Hence, the technical communicators knew little directly
about clients and about how they used the software and documentation.) Furthermore, upper management did not budget time for technical communicators to conduct any form of user testing. Trish accepted these conditions as “given” and never
proposed that the technical communicators have more direct contact with users, even
though she was sure such contact would help the documentation. Faith, on the other
hand, proposed from time to time that the Technical Writers find ways to find out
The two least experienced technical communicators complied more frequently
than the more experienced ones. At B&F, Sue’s compliance with her co-workers’ requests sometimes reflected her uncertainty about principles of effective document
design. For instance, Bill, the president and only programmer at B&F, wanted topics
in the manuals arranged as one-page modules, so Sue complied, even though she had
to squeeze information to make it fit onto some of the pages. Once, Sue tried a different page layout to make the information fit better, but Bill did not like it, so she
returned to the standard layout. In this compliance, Sue was unable to argue successfully for changes that she wished to make, but she did not display resentment when
one of her ideas was not adopted.
At times, Faith complied in a way that was to her detriment. After one of Trish’s
reviews of the manual written largely by Faith, she made only the changes that Trish
had marked. Faith did not go through the manual herself to find errors that Trish
might have missed. For reasons that were not clear to me, Faith did not go above and
beyond compliance in this case, which gave Trish great concern about the overall
quality of Faith’s manuals.
3. Acquiescing. In acquiescing, these technical communicators reluctantly went
along with a request or expectation. Pfeffer (1992) has noted that many people in
organizations seem to want to acquiesce, to yield authority to higher-ups. Although
he decries this “passivity,” at times it was necessary given the realities of competing
organizational claims, especially of forces outside Technical Writing. For instance,
Hanna once consented reluctantly to having the divider tabs of the QuickCash manuals
printed in-house instead at an external facility that could give them a more professional look. She realized that the decision was made to reduce expenses for the company and that the standards of the Technical Writing Department had to take lower
priority.
Trish and Faith also acquiesced to the Money Services’ tradition that Technical
Writers could not get in touch with end users, even though they believed such contact
would have improved the quality of the documentation. (The Marketing Department was cautious about allowing anyone other than Marketing representatives to
have contact with clients. Hence, the technical communicators knew little directly
about clients and about how they used the software and documentation.) Furthermore, upper management did not budget time for technical communicators to conduct any form of user testing. Trish accepted these conditions as “given” and never
proposed that the technical communicators have more direct contact with users, even
though she was sure such contact would help the documentation. Faith, on the other
hand, proposed from time to time that the Technical Writers find ways to find out
Marjorie Rush Hovde
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Marjorie Rush Hovde
75
more about the end users. Although some of her more ambitious plans were never
implemented, she did redesign the user response card in the paper manuals, an initiative that led to an increased rate of return from users.
This acquiescence, even to co-workers’ unwise decisions, should hardly surprise
us. As Pfeffer (1992) has noted, “Authority is...obeyed because it is inconceivable not
to. The power of leaders and bosses becomes institutionalized, and is thus not questioned or even thought about” (p. 133). Furthermore, Pfeffer notes that “social proof ”
is powerful in that people tend to agree with others rather than make independent
judgments. Apprentice technical communicators understandably may have chosen
this path of least resistance, but the more experienced technical communicators often
took it as well. These technical communicators usually realized that the request was
not the ideal that they would have liked, but they also realized that factors in the
activity system required that they compromise their ideals. They also sometimes realized that they did not have enough influence to carry out the ideal plan. Ironically, the
more they knew about the organization’s goals and values, the more they were able to
acquiesce when they deemed that larger goals and values were more influential than
their own. However, this knowledge of the organization also allowed them to resist
the culture at times, as discussed below.
Tactics that resist the culture. As Russell (1995) has argued, “activity systems are
dialectical. Change is not unidirectional. It is accomplished through joint activity,
whether cooperative or conflictual….The participants…appropriate (borrow and
transform) the tools and object(ive)s and points of view of others, leading to changes
in the means of pursuing the object(ive) of the activity system” (p. 55, emphasis his).
In this vein, given the relative lack of influence that these technical communicators
held within their organizations, I was surprised at how frequently they employed
tactics that resisted the culture, albeit usually in indirect ways. Each of the four tactics
described below had the potential to change the directions of their organizations’
practices.
1. Suggesting other options. Many times, when these technical communicators
did not agree with someone else’s proposal, they did not say “no” directly, but instead
proposed other options. This tactic can turn a culture in new directions. This tactic
was most often successful when the options were feasible within the typical practices
and situations of the culture. Because suggesting other options is a way of saying “no”
indirectly, the technical communicators were usually able to maintain smooth working relations with co-workers while still influencing the practices of the organization.
When suggesting other options, Hanna and Trish usually gave reasons based in
their knowledge of corporate constraints and their knowledge of the documentation.
When the technical communicators were planning the 4.2 version of the QuickCash
more about the end users. Although some of her more ambitious plans were never
implemented, she did redesign the user response card in the paper manuals, an initiative that led to an increased rate of return from users.
This acquiescence, even to co-workers’ unwise decisions, should hardly surprise
us. As Pfeffer (1992) has noted, “Authority is...obeyed because it is inconceivable not
to. The power of leaders and bosses becomes institutionalized, and is thus not questioned or even thought about” (p. 133). Furthermore, Pfeffer notes that “social proof ”
is powerful in that people tend to agree with others rather than make independent
judgments. Apprentice technical communicators understandably may have chosen
this path of least resistance, but the more experienced technical communicators often
took it as well. These technical communicators usually realized that the request was
not the ideal that they would have liked, but they also realized that factors in the
activity system required that they compromise their ideals. They also sometimes realized that they did not have enough influence to carry out the ideal plan. Ironically, the
more they knew about the organization’s goals and values, the more they were able to
acquiesce when they deemed that larger goals and values were more influential than
their own. However, this knowledge of the organization also allowed them to resist
the culture at times, as discussed below.
Tactics that resist the culture. As Russell (1995) has argued, “activity systems are
dialectical. Change is not unidirectional. It is accomplished through joint activity,
whether cooperative or conflictual….The participants…appropriate (borrow and
transform) the tools and object(ive)s and points of view of others, leading to changes
in the means of pursuing the object(ive) of the activity system” (p. 55, emphasis his).
In this vein, given the relative lack of influence that these technical communicators
held within their organizations, I was surprised at how frequently they employed
tactics that resisted the culture, albeit usually in indirect ways. Each of the four tactics
described below had the potential to change the directions of their organizations’
practices.
1. Suggesting other options. Many times, when these technical communicators
did not agree with someone else’s proposal, they did not say “no” directly, but instead
proposed other options. This tactic can turn a culture in new directions. This tactic
was most often successful when the options were feasible within the typical practices
and situations of the culture. Because suggesting other options is a way of saying “no”
indirectly, the technical communicators were usually able to maintain smooth working relations with co-workers while still influencing the practices of the organization.
When suggesting other options, Hanna and Trish usually gave reasons based in
their knowledge of corporate constraints and their knowledge of the documentation.
When the technical communicators were planning the 4.2 version of the QuickCash
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76
documentation, some people outside the Technical Writing Department proposed
that all documentation be placed on-line. Because Hanna knew that such an approach
would take several years to accomplish, she proposed instead that they send only the
large manuals to the internal clients until the on-line documentation was fully implemented. In another instance, a User Support person suggested that material about
professional judgment for the users might go into the manual. Trish replied that it
would be difficult to include such information in the manuals, but that perhaps such
material could be included in the quarterly newsletter that Electronic Services sent to
clients. Had she not known about that newsletter, she may have been less able to
propose a feasible option.
Although the apprentices proposed other options less frequently than did the
more experienced technical communicators, occasionally insights gained from their
exposure to other ideas and activity systems worked to an advantage because they
were able to challenge typical practices. While participating in the planning of a new
version of the QuickCash documentation, Faith suggested they eliminate the field
definitions and the quick key access in one of the manuals because it was covered in
another book. This proposal was accepted, as was her idea to index the paper manuals
by topics rather than by chapter and section headings. Although seemingly small,
these changes enhanced the usability of the manuals. The two newcomers were able
to question tradition and suggest new ways to meet needs, even if these suggestions
were not always implemented.
2. Refusing or resisting. Directly refusing to do what someone else in the organization has requested is probably the riskiest of the tactics that I observed these technical communicators use. This risky behavior was almost always accompanied by a
reason for the refusal. The more influential technical communicators were likely to
think of strong reasons to refuse. While accompanying refusals with reasons indicates
the relatively powerless status of even the most influential of the technical communicators, the inclusion of a reason communicated to co-workers that the technical communicators were not refusing for arbitrary reasons, but for reasons that fit the value
structures of the organizations.
Giving persuasive reasons for resistance seemed to be a part of both Trish’s and
Hanna’s expertise as technical communicators. Simply saying “no” was not enough.
In one instance, a member of another department suggested that Money Services
switch from using a large three-ring binder to using a small three-ring binder to hold
the manual pages. Hanna resisted this suggestion by pointing out that a smaller binder
might actually involve substantial cost. At another time, people from another department suggested distributing information for clients on an electronic bulletin board.
Trish cautioned against this, mentioning that clients at a previous job did not like to
documentation, some people outside the Technical Writing Department proposed
that all documentation be placed on-line. Because Hanna knew that such an approach
would take several years to accomplish, she proposed instead that they send only the
large manuals to the internal clients until the on-line documentation was fully implemented. In another instance, a User Support person suggested that material about
professional judgment for the users might go into the manual. Trish replied that it
would be difficult to include such information in the manuals, but that perhaps such
material could be included in the quarterly newsletter that Electronic Services sent to
clients. Had she not known about that newsletter, she may have been less able to
propose a feasible option.
Although the apprentices proposed other options less frequently than did the
more experienced technical communicators, occasionally insights gained from their
exposure to other ideas and activity systems worked to an advantage because they
were able to challenge typical practices. While participating in the planning of a new
version of the QuickCash documentation, Faith suggested they eliminate the field
definitions and the quick key access in one of the manuals because it was covered in
another book. This proposal was accepted, as was her idea to index the paper manuals
by topics rather than by chapter and section headings. Although seemingly small,
these changes enhanced the usability of the manuals. The two newcomers were able
to question tradition and suggest new ways to meet needs, even if these suggestions
were not always implemented.
2. Refusing or resisting. Directly refusing to do what someone else in the organization has requested is probably the riskiest of the tactics that I observed these technical communicators use. This risky behavior was almost always accompanied by a
reason for the refusal. The more influential technical communicators were likely to
think of strong reasons to refuse. While accompanying refusals with reasons indicates
the relatively powerless status of even the most influential of the technical communicators, the inclusion of a reason communicated to co-workers that the technical communicators were not refusing for arbitrary reasons, but for reasons that fit the value
structures of the organizations.
Giving persuasive reasons for resistance seemed to be a part of both Trish’s and
Hanna’s expertise as technical communicators. Simply saying “no” was not enough.
In one instance, a member of another department suggested that Money Services
switch from using a large three-ring binder to using a small three-ring binder to hold
the manual pages. Hanna resisted this suggestion by pointing out that a smaller binder
might actually involve substantial cost. At another time, people from another department suggested distributing information for clients on an electronic bulletin board.
Trish cautioned against this, mentioning that clients at a previous job did not like to
Marjorie Rush Hovde
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Marjorie Rush Hovde
77
pay the communication costs for an electronic bulletin board. (This was in pre-Web
days.) Their reasons seemed to be most persuasive when they took the values of the
organization into account.
Despite her propensity to comply with requests from outside of Technical Writing, Trish felt more free to resist or refuse within her department. At one time, Sally,
the Supervisor of Technical Writing asked Trish to write a proposal for a new project.
Trish refused, stating that she was behind schedule on her regular work because she
had spent the last week compiling figures for another new project. She frequently
showed her ability to fit her reason to the person, knowing what reasons the other
person would find persuasive.
Sometimes Trish’s reasons for refusals seemed to be based more on her own
standards than on what was best for the users. For instance, at one time, the technical
communicators received requests from User Support to include non-software related
business procedures in the QuickCash manuals. Trish argued that such knowledge
was outside the typical work of a Technical Writer and that they would have to conduct additional research and interviewing in order to learn non-software information. She saw her responsibility as documenting only the software, not necessarily
providing the user with non-software information. In this view, she had been influenced by the values of an organization that did not see documentation as meeting the
users’ non-software knowledge needs as well as training and phone support could.
The least influential technical communicators seldom refused requests directly.
Instead, they used other more indirect tactics when they wished to resist the culture.
3. Ignoring. This tactic, another risky one, was seldom used. When these technical communicators ignored someone, it was usually in response to a suggestion from
someone with little power. Even if these technical communicators might have wanted
to ignore a request from someone in greater power, they did not do so in my observations.
The few instances of ignoring that I observed occurred in reaction to Faith, the
least experienced technical communicator. For instance, while planning a new version of the QuickCash manual, Faith proposed that they send a survey to end users to
see what they would like. Neither Trish nor Hanna responded to this suggestion. I do
not know if they had not heard Faith, or if they had heard her and had chosen not to
respond. However, conducting such a survey would have been a complex process at
Money Services, involving gaining permission from many departments that would
have resisted such relatively direct client contact initiated by the Technical Writers.
Hanna and Trish may have elected not to take time to explain the complexities to
Faith at that moment. Their lack of response may also have indicated Faith’s relative
pay the communication costs for an electronic bulletin board. (This was in pre-Web
days.) Their reasons seemed to be most persuasive when they took the values of the
organization into account.
Despite her propensity to comply with requests from outside of Technical Writing, Trish felt more free to resist or refuse within her department. At one time, Sally,
the Supervisor of Technical Writing asked Trish to write a proposal for a new project.
Trish refused, stating that she was behind schedule on her regular work because she
had spent the last week compiling figures for another new project. She frequently
showed her ability to fit her reason to the person, knowing what reasons the other
person would find persuasive.
Sometimes Trish’s reasons for refusals seemed to be based more on her own
standards than on what was best for the users. For instance, at one time, the technical
communicators received requests from User Support to include non-software related
business procedures in the QuickCash manuals. Trish argued that such knowledge
was outside the typical work of a Technical Writer and that they would have to conduct additional research and interviewing in order to learn non-software information. She saw her responsibility as documenting only the software, not necessarily
providing the user with non-software information. In this view, she had been influenced by the values of an organization that did not see documentation as meeting the
users’ non-software knowledge needs as well as training and phone support could.
The least influential technical communicators seldom refused requests directly.
Instead, they used other more indirect tactics when they wished to resist the culture.
3. Ignoring. This tactic, another risky one, was seldom used. When these technical communicators ignored someone, it was usually in response to a suggestion from
someone with little power. Even if these technical communicators might have wanted
to ignore a request from someone in greater power, they did not do so in my observations.
The few instances of ignoring that I observed occurred in reaction to Faith, the
least experienced technical communicator. For instance, while planning a new version of the QuickCash manual, Faith proposed that they send a survey to end users to
see what they would like. Neither Trish nor Hanna responded to this suggestion. I do
not know if they had not heard Faith, or if they had heard her and had chosen not to
respond. However, conducting such a survey would have been a complex process at
Money Services, involving gaining permission from many departments that would
have resisted such relatively direct client contact initiated by the Technical Writers.
Hanna and Trish may have elected not to take time to explain the complexities to
Faith at that moment. Their lack of response may also have indicated Faith’s relative
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78
lack of power. When impractical suggestions came from Sally, the Supervisor of Technical Writing, Trish and Hanna generally briefly and gently explained why her suggestion could not be carried out.
In most instances, suggestions from co-workers received responses, either supportive or resisting. This lack of use of the tactic of ignoring may reveal the nature of
the power relationships between Technical Writing and other departments. Ignoring
suggestions would have damaged the credibility the Technical Writers had worked
long to build and would have strained relationships with colleagues on whom Technical Writing depended. Contrary to the observations of Lee-Ann Kastman Breuch
(2001) who found that her transitional technical communication students often ignored requests from external clients, I observed no instances of Sue or Faith ignoring
comments or requests from co-workers. This absence may indicate their relatively
powerless position, but also may indicate that they were sufficiently aware of the practices of the workplace activity system to realize that ignoring was not typically a wise
tactic.
4. Postponing or deferring. In using this tactic, the technical communicators
delayed a decision and/or asked for someone else’s input before making a decision. At
times they even deferred the decision entirely to a co-worker. Even the least experienced technical communicators used this tactic frequently; it seemed to be one that
they learned early in their careers.
Several strategic reasons may have prompted these technical communicators to
postpone or defer a decision. One was that deferral allowed for greater thought and
collaboration so that wise decisions could be made, especially in complex, problematic situations. As Pfeffer (1992) has argued, “Delay gives you a chance to learn more
about other people’s points of view and this knowledge can be employed in formulating tactics that will be more successful.” (p. 227). Delay can allow time for people to
think of other options and evaluate them.
As a case in point, Trish and Faith once discovered discrepancies between the
software specifications and how the software actually worked. It was too late to change
the software, but it also would have looked bad if an external client found the documentation to be inaccurate. Trish decided to talk to Hanna before documenting this
information because, as she noted, “We’ve opened up a can of worms.” When two
competing values were in tension, Trish chose not to make the decision by herself.
Another reason for deferral was that sometimes a decision lay outside of the
technical communicator’s responsibilities. The most experienced and influential technical communicator, Hanna, seemed to be the one who delayed the least. One reason
lack of power. When impractical suggestions came from Sally, the Supervisor of Technical Writing, Trish and Hanna generally briefly and gently explained why her suggestion could not be carried out.
In most instances, suggestions from co-workers received responses, either supportive or resisting. This lack of use of the tactic of ignoring may reveal the nature of
the power relationships between Technical Writing and other departments. Ignoring
suggestions would have damaged the credibility the Technical Writers had worked
long to build and would have strained relationships with colleagues on whom Technical Writing depended. Contrary to the observations of Lee-Ann Kastman Breuch
(2001) who found that her transitional technical communication students often ignored requests from external clients, I observed no instances of Sue or Faith ignoring
comments or requests from co-workers. This absence may indicate their relatively
powerless position, but also may indicate that they were sufficiently aware of the practices of the workplace activity system to realize that ignoring was not typically a wise
tactic.
4. Postponing or deferring. In using this tactic, the technical communicators
delayed a decision and/or asked for someone else’s input before making a decision. At
times they even deferred the decision entirely to a co-worker. Even the least experienced technical communicators used this tactic frequently; it seemed to be one that
they learned early in their careers.
Several strategic reasons may have prompted these technical communicators to
postpone or defer a decision. One was that deferral allowed for greater thought and
collaboration so that wise decisions could be made, especially in complex, problematic situations. As Pfeffer (1992) has argued, “Delay gives you a chance to learn more
about other people’s points of view and this knowledge can be employed in formulating tactics that will be more successful.” (p. 227). Delay can allow time for people to
think of other options and evaluate them.
As a case in point, Trish and Faith once discovered discrepancies between the
software specifications and how the software actually worked. It was too late to change
the software, but it also would have looked bad if an external client found the documentation to be inaccurate. Trish decided to talk to Hanna before documenting this
information because, as she noted, “We’ve opened up a can of worms.” When two
competing values were in tension, Trish chose not to make the decision by herself.
Another reason for deferral was that sometimes a decision lay outside of the
technical communicator’s responsibilities. The most experienced and influential technical communicator, Hanna, seemed to be the one who delayed the least. One reason
Marjorie Rush Hovde
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Marjorie Rush Hovde
79
may have been that her job responsibilities did not entitle her to make those decisions. Making a decision that went beyond the boundaries of their job expectation
could have landed these technical communicators in trouble.
A third reason to defer was that at times, the technical communicators did not
want to take responsibility for the outcome of a decision or wanted to make sure that
accountability lay elsewhere. When Hanna faced a decision that might yield negative
results, she made sure that it was approved by the Technical Writing Supervisor, who
would take responsibility. In addition, Hanna routinely deferred responsibility by asking upper management to sign off on the Technical Writers’ planned documentation
schedules, so that the technical communicators would not be accountable for missed
deadlines caused by a “curve” thrown into the project by management. Thus Hanna
attempted to ensure that responsibility for delayed publications lay elsewhere.
Trish frequently deferred or postponed interdepartmental decisions as a “tailcovering” tactic, such as when she asked Frank, the Supervisor of User Support, to
sign off on printing redesigned manual covers. She explained, “It’s his money, so having him sign off covers us.” In another instance, she wrote a memo letting Sally’s
superiors know that a discrepancy in the numbers of QuickCash manuals planned
and the number actually produced was caused by Frank having changed his mind
after approving the plan. Trish wanted to be sure that they understood that the consequent depletion of inventory supplies was not her fault.
A fourth reason to delay or defer a decision was to make a point diplomatically.
For instance, Frank, the Supervisor of Client Support, once suggested that all software “cascades” be listed in an appendix of the manuals, almost like a walkthrough of
the software. Trish did not want to include these because it would create too much
duplication to maintain, but she did not want to come across as the “bad guy.” Consequently, she brought the idea up at an interdepartmental planning meeting (with
Frank present) and asked the group to decide on whether or not to implement it.
They decided not to.
Not being able to defer or deferring too much could have negative consequences
for these technical communicators. For instance, Trish sometimes seemed unable to
relinquish control as she delegated work to Faith. At times, Trish asked Faith to take
responsibility for a project, but then went to relevant meetings with Faith or took the
project back into her own hands if Faith was gone for a few days. Trish worked diligently and produced work of high quality, but was frequently passed over for more
supervisory positions, apparently because of her weak managerial and “people” skills.
In addition, Faith sometimes asked other Technical Writers to deal with issues raised
by people outside of the department. Doing so may have prevented her from gaining
valuable experience in working with people across the organization.
may have been that her job responsibilities did not entitle her to make those decisions. Making a decision that went beyond the boundaries of their job expectation
could have landed these technical communicators in trouble.
A third reason to defer was that at times, the technical communicators did not
want to take responsibility for the outcome of a decision or wanted to make sure that
accountability lay elsewhere. When Hanna faced a decision that might yield negative
results, she made sure that it was approved by the Technical Writing Supervisor, who
would take responsibility. In addition, Hanna routinely deferred responsibility by asking upper management to sign off on the Technical Writers’ planned documentation
schedules, so that the technical communicators would not be accountable for missed
deadlines caused by a “curve” thrown into the project by management. Thus Hanna
attempted to ensure that responsibility for delayed publications lay elsewhere.
Trish frequently deferred or postponed interdepartmental decisions as a “tailcovering” tactic, such as when she asked Frank, the Supervisor of User Support, to
sign off on printing redesigned manual covers. She explained, “It’s his money, so having him sign off covers us.” In another instance, she wrote a memo letting Sally’s
superiors know that a discrepancy in the numbers of QuickCash manuals planned
and the number actually produced was caused by Frank having changed his mind
after approving the plan. Trish wanted to be sure that they understood that the consequent depletion of inventory supplies was not her fault.
A fourth reason to delay or defer a decision was to make a point diplomatically.
For instance, Frank, the Supervisor of Client Support, once suggested that all software “cascades” be listed in an appendix of the manuals, almost like a walkthrough of
the software. Trish did not want to include these because it would create too much
duplication to maintain, but she did not want to come across as the “bad guy.” Consequently, she brought the idea up at an interdepartmental planning meeting (with
Frank present) and asked the group to decide on whether or not to implement it.
They decided not to.
Not being able to defer or deferring too much could have negative consequences
for these technical communicators. For instance, Trish sometimes seemed unable to
relinquish control as she delegated work to Faith. At times, Trish asked Faith to take
responsibility for a project, but then went to relevant meetings with Faith or took the
project back into her own hands if Faith was gone for a few days. Trish worked diligently and produced work of high quality, but was frequently passed over for more
supervisory positions, apparently because of her weak managerial and “people” skills.
In addition, Faith sometimes asked other Technical Writers to deal with issues raised
by people outside of the department. Doing so may have prevented her from gaining
valuable experience in working with people across the organization.
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Knowing when to defer, although it was sometimes a sign of indecision, also
indicated that these technical communicators knew when to wait in order that a decision could be made thoughtfully. Deliberate delay played an important part in these
technical communicators’ professional knowledge. However, not handling deferral
wisely may have made them less influential in the organization at times.
Tactics used pro-actively to influence the culture. Although the majority of the
tactics that these technical communicators used were in reaction to the requests of
other participants in their respective activity systems, these technical communicators
also at times initiated actions that could potentially affect the normal practices of that
system. Like the tactics for resisting, the use of pro-active tactics could lead to changes
within the typical genres of behavior of the activity system.
Making new decisions. At times, these technical communicators ran into situations in which no one else had made a decision for them to follow. In those instances,
they often made decisions without a great deal of consultation. Usually, these decisions were about small changes. Making decisions also entails taking responsibility
for the outcomes, however, and so the least experienced and influential technical communicators often avoided making decisions, especially about major issues.
Hanna made decisions, especially decisions within the Technical Writing Department, to all more frequently than the others did, based on her knowledge of users
and on her knowledge of organizational constraints. Although she often made these
decisions collaboratively in discussion with Trish and Faith, this practice indicates
Hanna’s decisiveness, her ability to create solutions that solved several problems at
once, and her influence within the company. At times, Hanna took responsibility for
decisions that were potentially expensive. When Trish discovered that 600–700 manual
covers were printed with the QuickCash name in a format different from the copyrighted one, Hanna made the decision to discard all of them and to print new covers.
Occasionally, Trish made decisions largely on her own about small matters within
Technical Writing and within her responsibilities as a Technical Writer II. For example, when planning a new version of the manuals, she and Faith decided on their own
that, in order to make the manuals concise, they would show only the shortest way to
do a task. In another instance of a decision that did not involve much risk, Trish
altered a routine thank-you memo to the head of the Copy Center that Supervisor,
Sally, had asked Trish to ghost write after a manual was complete. Trish added her
own name to Sally’s and turned the thank-you into a planning memo for the next
version. Trish explained that she added her name because Sally did not participate in
day-to-day planning, and it would look awkward if it seemed that the time-line was
coming from Sally only. Trish thought the head of the Copy Center needed the timeline. Such instances of Trish’s making new decisions happened rarely during my ob-
Knowing when to defer, although it was sometimes a sign of indecision, also
indicated that these technical communicators knew when to wait in order that a decision could be made thoughtfully. Deliberate delay played an important part in these
technical communicators’ professional knowledge. However, not handling deferral
wisely may have made them less influential in the organization at times.
Tactics used pro-actively to influence the culture. Although the majority of the
tactics that these technical communicators used were in reaction to the requests of
other participants in their respective activity systems, these technical communicators
also at times initiated actions that could potentially affect the normal practices of that
system. Like the tactics for resisting, the use of pro-active tactics could lead to changes
within the typical genres of behavior of the activity system.
Making new decisions. At times, these technical communicators ran into situations in which no one else had made a decision for them to follow. In those instances,
they often made decisions without a great deal of consultation. Usually, these decisions were about small changes. Making decisions also entails taking responsibility
for the outcomes, however, and so the least experienced and influential technical communicators often avoided making decisions, especially about major issues.
Hanna made decisions, especially decisions within the Technical Writing Department, to all more frequently than the others did, based on her knowledge of users
and on her knowledge of organizational constraints. Although she often made these
decisions collaboratively in discussion with Trish and Faith, this practice indicates
Hanna’s decisiveness, her ability to create solutions that solved several problems at
once, and her influence within the company. At times, Hanna took responsibility for
decisions that were potentially expensive. When Trish discovered that 600–700 manual
covers were printed with the QuickCash name in a format different from the copyrighted one, Hanna made the decision to discard all of them and to print new covers.
Occasionally, Trish made decisions largely on her own about small matters within
Technical Writing and within her responsibilities as a Technical Writer II. For example, when planning a new version of the manuals, she and Faith decided on their own
that, in order to make the manuals concise, they would show only the shortest way to
do a task. In another instance of a decision that did not involve much risk, Trish
altered a routine thank-you memo to the head of the Copy Center that Supervisor,
Sally, had asked Trish to ghost write after a manual was complete. Trish added her
own name to Sally’s and turned the thank-you into a planning memo for the next
version. Trish explained that she added her name because Sally did not participate in
day-to-day planning, and it would look awkward if it seemed that the time-line was
coming from Sally only. Trish thought the head of the Copy Center needed the timeline. Such instances of Trish’s making new decisions happened rarely during my ob-
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Marjorie Rush Hovde
81
servations, however. She usually followed the lead of others. Avoiding responsibility
for decisions about large matters also meant that she did not have opportunities to
exert influence on the typical organizational practices.
Although Faith did at times participate in decision-making processes with Trish
and Hanna, thus learning how and when to make decisions, it was rare that Faith or
Sue made decisions on their own. The apprentices did not appear to want the individual responsibility entailed in making a decision.
Proposing/innovating. In proposing or innovating, these technical communicators were typically not reacting to a situation presented to them, as in the previously discussed tactic. Instead, they seemed to be coming up with a new idea for coworkers to consider. This tactic also differs from that of making a decision in that not
all of the courses of action that these technical communicators proposed were implemented. As Pfeffer (1992) has argued, “Innovation almost invariably threatens the
status quo, and consequently innovation is an inherently political activity” (p. 7).
Therefore, it should not be surprising that Hanna and Trish innovated relatively more
frequently than Faith and Sue, the two least experienced and effective technical communicators, especially about matters that carried a great deal of weight.
Hanna seemed to propose more freely than did any of the other technical communicators in this study. She was more inclined to initiate and give persuasive reasons, to act rather than only react. She frequently proposed new practices outside the
Technical Writing Department, indicating that she knew how to deal with the power
relationships of the larger organization. Although she solicited responses and input
from others, she also suggested possibilities for how revised documentation could
deal with problems that the others observed. Hanna’s greatest source of influence, in
addition to her position as Senior Technical Writer, seemed to lie in her ability to
propose new ways of working. Innovation may have been less frequently observed in
the other Technical Writers because, as Pfeffer (1992) argues, “organizational innovation often…involves obtaining the power and influence necessary to overcome resistance” (p. 71). Hanna demonstrated such influence by initiating requests for information from people in other departments about QuickCash users and about what should
be excluded from the manuals. She proposed new formats for the manuals when the
audience for them changed. These proposals provided opportunity for the typical
practices of the activity system to change.
While Trish was willing to innovate in some circumstances, her work was characterized by less innovation than that of Hanna. In one instance she proposed that
they make page breaks more frequent in the manuals, but such innovations were not
typical for her. She worked cautiously within what she understood to be her responsibilities. Although Trish had ideas for possible directions, these ideas were often ex-
servations, however. She usually followed the lead of others. Avoiding responsibility
for decisions about large matters also meant that she did not have opportunities to
exert influence on the typical organizational practices.
Although Faith did at times participate in decision-making processes with Trish
and Hanna, thus learning how and when to make decisions, it was rare that Faith or
Sue made decisions on their own. The apprentices did not appear to want the individual responsibility entailed in making a decision.
Proposing/innovating. In proposing or innovating, these technical communicators were typically not reacting to a situation presented to them, as in the previously discussed tactic. Instead, they seemed to be coming up with a new idea for coworkers to consider. This tactic also differs from that of making a decision in that not
all of the courses of action that these technical communicators proposed were implemented. As Pfeffer (1992) has argued, “Innovation almost invariably threatens the
status quo, and consequently innovation is an inherently political activity” (p. 7).
Therefore, it should not be surprising that Hanna and Trish innovated relatively more
frequently than Faith and Sue, the two least experienced and effective technical communicators, especially about matters that carried a great deal of weight.
Hanna seemed to propose more freely than did any of the other technical communicators in this study. She was more inclined to initiate and give persuasive reasons, to act rather than only react. She frequently proposed new practices outside the
Technical Writing Department, indicating that she knew how to deal with the power
relationships of the larger organization. Although she solicited responses and input
from others, she also suggested possibilities for how revised documentation could
deal with problems that the others observed. Hanna’s greatest source of influence, in
addition to her position as Senior Technical Writer, seemed to lie in her ability to
propose new ways of working. Innovation may have been less frequently observed in
the other Technical Writers because, as Pfeffer (1992) argues, “organizational innovation often…involves obtaining the power and influence necessary to overcome resistance” (p. 71). Hanna demonstrated such influence by initiating requests for information from people in other departments about QuickCash users and about what should
be excluded from the manuals. She proposed new formats for the manuals when the
audience for them changed. These proposals provided opportunity for the typical
practices of the activity system to change.
While Trish was willing to innovate in some circumstances, her work was characterized by less innovation than that of Hanna. In one instance she proposed that
they make page breaks more frequent in the manuals, but such innovations were not
typical for her. She worked cautiously within what she understood to be her responsibilities. Although Trish had ideas for possible directions, these ideas were often ex-
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pressed only in reaction to someone else’s comments. As Pfeffer (1992) has argued,
initiating can make one vulnerable, and can cause actions to be taken that cannot be
easily undone. Trish apparently did not wish to take on such uncertainty and responsibility, although she did find ways to innovate in lower-risk situations.
While Faith and Sue were generally less likely to innovate than Hanna and Trish,
nevertheless they were able to propose and implement several changes in the manuals that added to their usability. For instance, Sue reorganized some of the manuals
into a more chronological structure, and Bill approved of the change. She also experimented with new page designs and suggested adding a glossary to one of manuals. In
these innovations, she demonstrated an emerging sense of users’ documentation needs
and of what might meet those needs.
Faith also frequently proposed new approaches. Not all were accepted, but her
proposing of them indicated that she felt free to innovate (or that she was unaware of
the risks she was taking). For instance, at a planning meeting for revising the 4.2
documentation, Faith argued that on-line help should be brief, task-oriented, and
without background information. This suggestion was not implemented, but her others about a new page for each task, the inclusion of a mail-back card for client responses, and an index for the manuals organized by topics rather than by headings
from the text all were implemented for the 4.2 QuickCash manuals. During Faith’s
time at Money Services, she had begun to learn how to generate persuasive reasons
for her proposals. When the QuickCash documentation team was planning to revise
manuals, Faith argued for starting each new task on a new page. Hanna expressed
concern that this change might make the manuals longer, but Faith countered with a
prototype chapter of the QuickCash manual that she had created with each task on a
new page; the section had not become significantly longer. In doing so, Faith displayed that she had learned that she needed to provide evidence to support her claim
to Hanna’s satisfaction.
However, Faith had not yet learned tactics for presenting or proposing ideas in
interdepartmental settings, a tactic that the more influential technical communicators practiced much more frequently then she did. The apprentices’ relative newness
seemed to be an asset in thinking of new ways to approach their work—and one
could speculate that this was because of their recent experience in other activity systems— their inability to argue effectively for some of their innovations limited the
amount of changes that they could actually implement.
Educating others. At times, the technical communicators in the study, especially
the more experienced ones, took advantage of opportunities to educate co-workers
about the typical practices of their area of their organizations. As could be expected,
they educated newer technical communicators, but they also took opportunities to
pressed only in reaction to someone else’s comments. As Pfeffer (1992) has argued,
initiating can make one vulnerable, and can cause actions to be taken that cannot be
easily undone. Trish apparently did not wish to take on such uncertainty and responsibility, although she did find ways to innovate in lower-risk situations.
While Faith and Sue were generally less likely to innovate than Hanna and Trish,
nevertheless they were able to propose and implement several changes in the manuals that added to their usability. For instance, Sue reorganized some of the manuals
into a more chronological structure, and Bill approved of the change. She also experimented with new page designs and suggested adding a glossary to one of manuals. In
these innovations, she demonstrated an emerging sense of users’ documentation needs
and of what might meet those needs.
Faith also frequently proposed new approaches. Not all were accepted, but her
proposing of them indicated that she felt free to innovate (or that she was unaware of
the risks she was taking). For instance, at a planning meeting for revising the 4.2
documentation, Faith argued that on-line help should be brief, task-oriented, and
without background information. This suggestion was not implemented, but her others about a new page for each task, the inclusion of a mail-back card for client responses, and an index for the manuals organized by topics rather than by headings
from the text all were implemented for the 4.2 QuickCash manuals. During Faith’s
time at Money Services, she had begun to learn how to generate persuasive reasons
for her proposals. When the QuickCash documentation team was planning to revise
manuals, Faith argued for starting each new task on a new page. Hanna expressed
concern that this change might make the manuals longer, but Faith countered with a
prototype chapter of the QuickCash manual that she had created with each task on a
new page; the section had not become significantly longer. In doing so, Faith displayed that she had learned that she needed to provide evidence to support her claim
to Hanna’s satisfaction.
However, Faith had not yet learned tactics for presenting or proposing ideas in
interdepartmental settings, a tactic that the more influential technical communicators practiced much more frequently then she did. The apprentices’ relative newness
seemed to be an asset in thinking of new ways to approach their work—and one
could speculate that this was because of their recent experience in other activity systems— their inability to argue effectively for some of their innovations limited the
amount of changes that they could actually implement.
Educating others. At times, the technical communicators in the study, especially
the more experienced ones, took advantage of opportunities to educate co-workers
about the typical practices of their area of their organizations. As could be expected,
they educated newer technical communicators, but they also took opportunities to
Marjorie Rush Hovde
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Marjorie Rush Hovde
83
educate people outside of the Technical Writing Department about its needs. In a
sense, this tactic could be viewed as one that perpetuates the activity system, but it
also can be seen as an attempt to be pro-active rather than reactive.
As Green and Nolan (1984) have argued, educating others is typically one of the
tasks of more experienced technical communicators. Educating others often happened during the technical communicators’ everyday tasks rather than in structured,
formal settings (as in Freedman and Adam, 1996). Hanna’s role as liaison gave her
opportunity to educate co-workers both inside and outside the Technical Writing
area. In one instance, a manager in Systems Support commented in reviewing drafts
of new QuickCash Quick Reference manuals that information was not complete. Even
though Faith was writing the manuals and receiving reviewer comments, Hanna called
this manager and explained to her that Quick Reference manuals were intended only
to give basic information. The manager’s comments stopped after that call.
Hanna was able to educate and to provide reasons for explaining why a certain
action might not be able to be taken. Educating another person, especially a novice to
the organization, allows an insider such to “rais[e] to awareness” about what she “knows
but has relegated to...her subconscious or has taken for granted” (Sutton and Louis,
1987, p. 350). Opportunities for education also may “challenge or affirm the insider’s
schema” (Sutton and Louis, p. 350). Hanna’s ability to educate others reflected her
great knowledge of the organizational climate at Money Services and provided clues
to her understanding of its constraints.
Although she did so less frequently than Hanna, Trish also educated co-workers
in the course of her daily work. For instance, she was able to use the QuickCash documentation structure to show other Technical Writers how to incorporate information
in documentation without capturing prompts from the software, because capturing
prompts was difficult and took a great deal of time. In addition, she educated Faith in
how to learn about new software by reviewing specifications for a QuickCash variation and writing questions for Faith to cover in the specifications walkthroughs.
In addition, Trish frequently educated Frank, the Supervisor of User Services,
who had worked for Money Services for only one-and-a-half years and at times seemed
unaware of the complexities of the organization. When Frank commissioned a special Quick Reference manual, Trish educated Frank and others from User Support
about the technical communicators’ writing cycles, emphasizing that when a document went out for review, it was largely complete. This action seemed necessary to
her because several people in Client Support wanted to make major changes in a
review draft of a Quick Reference manual late in the document cycle. Her tactic of
educate people outside of the Technical Writing Department about its needs. In a
sense, this tactic could be viewed as one that perpetuates the activity system, but it
also can be seen as an attempt to be pro-active rather than reactive.
As Green and Nolan (1984) have argued, educating others is typically one of the
tasks of more experienced technical communicators. Educating others often happened during the technical communicators’ everyday tasks rather than in structured,
formal settings (as in Freedman and Adam, 1996). Hanna’s role as liaison gave her
opportunity to educate co-workers both inside and outside the Technical Writing
area. In one instance, a manager in Systems Support commented in reviewing drafts
of new QuickCash Quick Reference manuals that information was not complete. Even
though Faith was writing the manuals and receiving reviewer comments, Hanna called
this manager and explained to her that Quick Reference manuals were intended only
to give basic information. The manager’s comments stopped after that call.
Hanna was able to educate and to provide reasons for explaining why a certain
action might not be able to be taken. Educating another person, especially a novice to
the organization, allows an insider such to “rais[e] to awareness” about what she “knows
but has relegated to...her subconscious or has taken for granted” (Sutton and Louis,
1987, p. 350). Opportunities for education also may “challenge or affirm the insider’s
schema” (Sutton and Louis, p. 350). Hanna’s ability to educate others reflected her
great knowledge of the organizational climate at Money Services and provided clues
to her understanding of its constraints.
Although she did so less frequently than Hanna, Trish also educated co-workers
in the course of her daily work. For instance, she was able to use the QuickCash documentation structure to show other Technical Writers how to incorporate information
in documentation without capturing prompts from the software, because capturing
prompts was difficult and took a great deal of time. In addition, she educated Faith in
how to learn about new software by reviewing specifications for a QuickCash variation and writing questions for Faith to cover in the specifications walkthroughs.
In addition, Trish frequently educated Frank, the Supervisor of User Services,
who had worked for Money Services for only one-and-a-half years and at times seemed
unaware of the complexities of the organization. When Frank commissioned a special Quick Reference manual, Trish educated Frank and others from User Support
about the technical communicators’ writing cycles, emphasizing that when a document went out for review, it was largely complete. This action seemed necessary to
her because several people in Client Support wanted to make major changes in a
review draft of a Quick Reference manual late in the document cycle. Her tactic of
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educating a newcomer helped to solidify her position as an insider (Sutton & Louis,
1987) and may have contributed slightly to her power or influence within the organization.
Faith and Sue were not in positions from which they could educate others, as
would be consistent with Green and Nolan’s findings (1984). They were still in the
position of being educated about the practices of their new activity systems.
educating a newcomer helped to solidify her position as an insider (Sutton & Louis,
1987) and may have contributed slightly to her power or influence within the organization.
Faith and Sue were not in positions from which they could educate others, as
would be consistent with Green and Nolan’s findings (1984). They were still in the
position of being educated about the practices of their new activity systems.
Implications for Practice, Theory, and Pedagogy
Implications for Practice, Theory, and Pedagogy
The socio-interactional tactics discussed above seem consistent with two of
Pfeffer’s (1992) principles of working with power within an organization: understanding the various interests within the organization, and understanding why others may
think the way they do. The technical communicators observed in this study did not
seem to use these tactics deliberately, but rather used them spontaneously, contrary
to Pfeffer’s recommendation that in the process of implementing a project within an
organization, one should set goals, study others within the organization, and then
select appropriate tactics to get the job done. As the table below indicates, technical
communicators with varying levels of influence used these tactics in different ways.
How frequently the technical communicators used each tactic, especially at the varying levels of influences that each one held, reveals the practice of one highly significant aspect of their expertise.
The socio-interactional tactics discussed above seem consistent with two of
Pfeffer’s (1992) principles of working with power within an organization: understanding the various interests within the organization, and understanding why others may
think the way they do. The technical communicators observed in this study did not
seem to use these tactics deliberately, but rather used them spontaneously, contrary
to Pfeffer’s recommendation that in the process of implementing a project within an
organization, one should set goals, study others within the organization, and then
select appropriate tactics to get the job done. As the table below indicates, technical
communicators with varying levels of influence used these tactics in different ways.
How frequently the technical communicators used each tactic, especially at the varying levels of influences that each one held, reveals the practice of one highly significant aspect of their expertise.
Effective and Ineffective Practices of Influence
Effective and Ineffective Practices of Influence
In this study, the effectiveness of the social-interactional tactics listed in Table 2
was influenced by factors including the person using the tactic, this person’s position
in their organization, and the political context in which the tactic was used.
This study indicates that knowing how to interact with co-workers is an important component of procedural knowledge/expertise for technical communicators. The
tactics discerned in this study begin to provide a range of options that might help the
technical communicator mentioned in the opening paragraph of this article to work
within a difficult context. In naming these tactics, I hoped to put names to elements
of tacit practical procedural knowledge and dispel some of the mystery about how
technical communicators deal with organizational power relationships. The findings
also begin to answer the research questions addressed in this study regarding how
technical communicators deal with organizational constraints, how these findings
relate to activity and discourse theories, and how we can use these insights in pedagogy.
In this study, the effectiveness of the social-interactional tactics listed in Table 2
was influenced by factors including the person using the tactic, this person’s position
in their organization, and the political context in which the tactic was used.
This study indicates that knowing how to interact with co-workers is an important component of procedural knowledge/expertise for technical communicators. The
tactics discerned in this study begin to provide a range of options that might help the
technical communicator mentioned in the opening paragraph of this article to work
within a difficult context. In naming these tactics, I hoped to put names to elements
of tacit practical procedural knowledge and dispel some of the mystery about how
technical communicators deal with organizational power relationships. The findings
also begin to answer the research questions addressed in this study regarding how
technical communicators deal with organizational constraints, how these findings
relate to activity and discourse theories, and how we can use these insights in pedagogy.
Marjorie Rush Hovde
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Marjorie Rush Hovde
85
Table 2. Tactics and influence variables among the four technical
communicators.
Table 2. Tactics and influence variables among the four technical
communicators.
What does a professional technical communicator need to know how to do in
dealing with others within the organization? Each social-interactional tactic that
these technical communicators practiced carried with it risks and benefits that technical communicators had to assess quickly in situations of decision or change, depending on the role they held or the position held by the person with whom they
were communicating. The most influential individuals were able to play various roles
and improvise as circumstances arose, consonant with Hanks’ (1991) observations of
“mastery.”
What does a professional technical communicator need to know how to do in
dealing with others within the organization? Each social-interactional tactic that
these technical communicators practiced carried with it risks and benefits that technical communicators had to assess quickly in situations of decision or change, depending on the role they held or the position held by the person with whom they
were communicating. The most influential individuals were able to play various roles
and improvise as circumstances arose, consonant with Hanks’ (1991) observations of
“mastery.”
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Some of these tactics are similar to those that technical communicators used in
Raven’s (1992) study. Raven’s categories of Waiting and Escalating could be subsumed
under mine of Postponing/Deferring. Her Capitulating parallels the Acquiescing/
Agreeing described in this study. Her Negotiating can be seen as similar to Suggesting
other Options. The technical communicators in this study used additional tactics,
however, in situations that did not involve conflict resolution, thus giving a richer
picture than that in Raven of technical communicators’ options for communicating
within organizations.
Although I did not do a quantitative analysis of the data, I observed that the
more risky tactics such as Ignoring, Educating, Refusing, and Innovating were the
least frequently used, especially by the less experienced technical communicators. This
avoidance of risk is not surprising given the typical status of the technical communicators in this study. Additionally, many of the tactics were used in reaction to coworkers. Tactics that initiated action were used with less frequency. The relative status
of the technical communicators in this study may not have permitted them a great
deal of opportunity to initiate.
What tactics are employed by influential technical communicators and by those
with less influence? Influence for an individual within an organization can come
from many sources including one’s job title, experience, knowledge, ability to persuade, communication tactics, and/or co-workers’ perceptions of that individual. It
appears that a combination of the title, tactics, and level of knowledge were primary
factors affecting the influence a technical communicator had. As Pfeffer (1992) suggests, the job title is only one source of a person’s influence and is not all one needs to
exercise power. For instance, Money Services’ Technical Writing Supervisor, Sally, by
virtue of her job title, appeared to be in a position to implement improvements for
her department, yet she was frequently ineffectual. I suspect this was because she
overused the tactic of compliance. She sometimes initiated actions, but she seldom
proposed new options. On the other hand, Faith and Sue, the least experienced and
lowest in status of these technical communicators, at times were able to effect changes
that, although seemingly small, improved the usability of the documentation. Thus it
would appear that job titles alone do not determine technical communicators’ influence; the influence may come in part from the socio-interactional tactics they employ
while working within their positions
The technical communicators observed in the study needed to understand well
the organizational constraints and culture in order to do their best work. Experienced technical communicators know that practices and reasoning within a corporation are Byzantine and irrational. For all of the technical communicators observed,
simply using socio-interactional tactics themselves to accomplish their ends was not
Some of these tactics are similar to those that technical communicators used in
Raven’s (1992) study. Raven’s categories of Waiting and Escalating could be subsumed
under mine of Postponing/Deferring. Her Capitulating parallels the Acquiescing/
Agreeing described in this study. Her Negotiating can be seen as similar to Suggesting
other Options. The technical communicators in this study used additional tactics,
however, in situations that did not involve conflict resolution, thus giving a richer
picture than that in Raven of technical communicators’ options for communicating
within organizations.
Although I did not do a quantitative analysis of the data, I observed that the
more risky tactics such as Ignoring, Educating, Refusing, and Innovating were the
least frequently used, especially by the less experienced technical communicators. This
avoidance of risk is not surprising given the typical status of the technical communicators in this study. Additionally, many of the tactics were used in reaction to coworkers. Tactics that initiated action were used with less frequency. The relative status
of the technical communicators in this study may not have permitted them a great
deal of opportunity to initiate.
What tactics are employed by influential technical communicators and by those
with less influence? Influence for an individual within an organization can come
from many sources including one’s job title, experience, knowledge, ability to persuade, communication tactics, and/or co-workers’ perceptions of that individual. It
appears that a combination of the title, tactics, and level of knowledge were primary
factors affecting the influence a technical communicator had. As Pfeffer (1992) suggests, the job title is only one source of a person’s influence and is not all one needs to
exercise power. For instance, Money Services’ Technical Writing Supervisor, Sally, by
virtue of her job title, appeared to be in a position to implement improvements for
her department, yet she was frequently ineffectual. I suspect this was because she
overused the tactic of compliance. She sometimes initiated actions, but she seldom
proposed new options. On the other hand, Faith and Sue, the least experienced and
lowest in status of these technical communicators, at times were able to effect changes
that, although seemingly small, improved the usability of the documentation. Thus it
would appear that job titles alone do not determine technical communicators’ influence; the influence may come in part from the socio-interactional tactics they employ
while working within their positions
The technical communicators observed in the study needed to understand well
the organizational constraints and culture in order to do their best work. Experienced technical communicators know that practices and reasoning within a corporation are Byzantine and irrational. For all of the technical communicators observed,
simply using socio-interactional tactics themselves to accomplish their ends was not
Marjorie Rush Hovde
87
Marjorie Rush Hovde
87
sufficient. They also had to know how to provide persuasive reasons for action. Reasons these technical communicators gave typically included 1) user needs and how
they are likely to respond to texts, 2) formal conventions, 3) the desires of others
within the company, and 4) the technical communicators’ own time, energy, and expertise constraints. The more appropriately these technical communicators crafted
their reasons to the audience, the more effective they were in arriving at good solutions to problems. The more influential technical communicators frequently adapted
their reasons to the audience at hand. At times, a technical communicator gave slightly
differing reasons for a single action, depending on the audience, indicating that they
had learned how to ascertain what would be persuasive to different audiences. These
influential technical communicators had learned to consider the input of co-workers
but also to put forward their points of view in order to affect the finished documentation, as did the writers in Smart (2000). Within their activity systems, their actions
were influenced by the prevailing conditions, but were not wholly determined by
those conditions. The technical communicators were also, at times, able to influence
the direction of their systems.
Beginning technical communicators may believe and act as if organizations will
respond to arguments for taking an action simply because it appears to be a “common-sense” good idea. For instance, Faith desperately wanted to have greater contact
with the end users of her documentation so that she could create manuals to meet
their needs, an idea that seemed reasonable to her. But she was new enough to the
corporate culture that she did not know how to work with the people in Marketing
nor with tight schedules that prohibited the technical communicators from taking
time for more audience research and analysis. Faith had several ideas worthy of implementing, but she did not understand the corporate culture well enough to know
how to argue effectively for their implementation.
As a result of their academic backgrounds, Faith and Sue knew a great deal about
what is typically thought of as technical communication; they knew how to compose
and design text for the benefit of the readers. However, they were unable to employ
their knowledge if someone else with more influence in the organization opposed
them or if other constraining aspects of organizational culture were in play.
sufficient. They also had to know how to provide persuasive reasons for action. Reasons these technical communicators gave typically included 1) user needs and how
they are likely to respond to texts, 2) formal conventions, 3) the desires of others
within the company, and 4) the technical communicators’ own time, energy, and expertise constraints. The more appropriately these technical communicators crafted
their reasons to the audience, the more effective they were in arriving at good solutions to problems. The more influential technical communicators frequently adapted
their reasons to the audience at hand. At times, a technical communicator gave slightly
differing reasons for a single action, depending on the audience, indicating that they
had learned how to ascertain what would be persuasive to different audiences. These
influential technical communicators had learned to consider the input of co-workers
but also to put forward their points of view in order to affect the finished documentation, as did the writers in Smart (2000). Within their activity systems, their actions
were influenced by the prevailing conditions, but were not wholly determined by
those conditions. The technical communicators were also, at times, able to influence
the direction of their systems.
Beginning technical communicators may believe and act as if organizations will
respond to arguments for taking an action simply because it appears to be a “common-sense” good idea. For instance, Faith desperately wanted to have greater contact
with the end users of her documentation so that she could create manuals to meet
their needs, an idea that seemed reasonable to her. But she was new enough to the
corporate culture that she did not know how to work with the people in Marketing
nor with tight schedules that prohibited the technical communicators from taking
time for more audience research and analysis. Faith had several ideas worthy of implementing, but she did not understand the corporate culture well enough to know
how to argue effectively for their implementation.
As a result of their academic backgrounds, Faith and Sue knew a great deal about
what is typically thought of as technical communication; they knew how to compose
and design text for the benefit of the readers. However, they were unable to employ
their knowledge if someone else with more influence in the organization opposed
them or if other constraining aspects of organizational culture were in play.
Theories of Social Interaction and Discourse
Theories of Social Interaction and Discourse
What can these findings contribute to activity theory and theories of discourse
that explore interactions between the culture and the individual? This study begins
to expand our understanding of how technical communicators negotiate within organizations that may “condition but not determine” their actions (Russell, 1997). The
What can these findings contribute to activity theory and theories of discourse
that explore interactions between the culture and the individual? This study begins
to expand our understanding of how technical communicators negotiate within organizations that may “condition but not determine” their actions (Russell, 1997). The
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88
findings support the claim made in activity theory that an individual needs the resources of an organizational context in order to create documentation, but also that
the individual’s activities are constrained by the values and practices of that context.
Activity theorists also argue that change can happen within a culture when individuals see contradictions and act to resolve them. While the apprentices in this study
were able to see many contradictions, the more experienced technical communicators were likely to ignore some of these contradictions. The study indicates, however,
that individuals such as these technical communicators may have only a small impact
on the practices of an activity system. At least three factors may stand in the way of
change: (1) technical communicators may lack the knowledge to argue effectively for
change, (2) large organizations with their multiple and complex activities may be
difficult to change, and (3) levels of power may affect who can be an agent of change
within a large and complex organization. Further study of technical communicators
with more influence within their organizations may indicate how an activity system
changes.
In addition, this study supports Kastman Breuch’s (2001) contention that students moving from school settings to workplace settings may experience a clash of
activity systems. Faith and Sue, as apprentices in transition from one system to another were learning the typical practices of a new activity system and experiencing
dissonance when the two sets of expectations and traditions clashed.
Somewhat contrary to the claims of activity theorists, however, these technical
communicators did not seem to use these tactics deliberately with a clear objective in
view. Rather, as they faced new situations, they improvised ways to act or react. I
seldom observed the technical communicators explaining why they chose a particular social-interactional tactic.
Questions remain about how these tactics fit into activity theory’s classifications
of the elements of an activity. Are the tactics “tools” that the technical communicators
used to accomplish goals? As Christiansen (1996) has argued, typical tactics may be
considered “tools” because they were created by those who used them, based on their
motivations in their work; the tactics then guided their work. If so, these tactics can
also be viewed as artifacts created by the technical communicators in context and
then used as tools to allow them to function socially.
Or, are the tactics a form of “genre knowledge” regarding the production and use
of documentation within an activity system? Genre knowledge can refer to an understanding of the formal conventions of discourse (Berkenkotter and Huckin, 1995) but
also to “social action arising in response to perceived regularities in situations and
exigencies” (Smart, 2000, p. 226). These genre rules can allow for variation within
one’s activities. Use of the tactics could be also be seen as knowledge of “behavioral
findings support the claim made in activity theory that an individual needs the resources of an organizational context in order to create documentation, but also that
the individual’s activities are constrained by the values and practices of that context.
Activity theorists also argue that change can happen within a culture when individuals see contradictions and act to resolve them. While the apprentices in this study
were able to see many contradictions, the more experienced technical communicators were likely to ignore some of these contradictions. The study indicates, however,
that individuals such as these technical communicators may have only a small impact
on the practices of an activity system. At least three factors may stand in the way of
change: (1) technical communicators may lack the knowledge to argue effectively for
change, (2) large organizations with their multiple and complex activities may be
difficult to change, and (3) levels of power may affect who can be an agent of change
within a large and complex organization. Further study of technical communicators
with more influence within their organizations may indicate how an activity system
changes.
In addition, this study supports Kastman Breuch’s (2001) contention that students moving from school settings to workplace settings may experience a clash of
activity systems. Faith and Sue, as apprentices in transition from one system to another were learning the typical practices of a new activity system and experiencing
dissonance when the two sets of expectations and traditions clashed.
Somewhat contrary to the claims of activity theorists, however, these technical
communicators did not seem to use these tactics deliberately with a clear objective in
view. Rather, as they faced new situations, they improvised ways to act or react. I
seldom observed the technical communicators explaining why they chose a particular social-interactional tactic.
Questions remain about how these tactics fit into activity theory’s classifications
of the elements of an activity. Are the tactics “tools” that the technical communicators
used to accomplish goals? As Christiansen (1996) has argued, typical tactics may be
considered “tools” because they were created by those who used them, based on their
motivations in their work; the tactics then guided their work. If so, these tactics can
also be viewed as artifacts created by the technical communicators in context and
then used as tools to allow them to function socially.
Or, are the tactics a form of “genre knowledge” regarding the production and use
of documentation within an activity system? Genre knowledge can refer to an understanding of the formal conventions of discourse (Berkenkotter and Huckin, 1995) but
also to “social action arising in response to perceived regularities in situations and
exigencies” (Smart, 2000, p. 226). These genre rules can allow for variation within
one’s activities. Use of the tactics could be also be seen as knowledge of “behavioral
Marjorie Rush Hovde
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Marjorie Rush Hovde
89
genres” that suggest typical actions for a variety of situations. These “behavioral genres” may lie between “rules” and “tools” in activity theory models (Clay Spinuzzi,
personal communication. March 24, 1999.) The socio-interactional tactics discussed
here, whether viewed as “tools” or “behavioral genres,” are worthy of study from an
activity theory perspective because they mediate the technical communicators’ social
functioning and because the technical communicators use them for specific purposes.
Understanding the tactics is part of understanding the expert practice of these technical communicators in context. The tactics are “artifacts” that combine with “actions,” and both are “interwoven with each other and with the social worlds of the
human beings they mediate” (Cole, 1996, p. 120). The insights of activity theory allow
us to observe how the individual and the group interact and change each other, mediated by their tools. However, this study raises issues about how these technical communicators’ tactics fit into activity theory models.
genres” that suggest typical actions for a variety of situations. These “behavioral genres” may lie between “rules” and “tools” in activity theory models (Clay Spinuzzi,
personal communication. March 24, 1999.) The socio-interactional tactics discussed
here, whether viewed as “tools” or “behavioral genres,” are worthy of study from an
activity theory perspective because they mediate the technical communicators’ social
functioning and because the technical communicators use them for specific purposes.
Understanding the tactics is part of understanding the expert practice of these technical communicators in context. The tactics are “artifacts” that combine with “actions,” and both are “interwoven with each other and with the social worlds of the
human beings they mediate” (Cole, 1996, p. 120). The insights of activity theory allow
us to observe how the individual and the group interact and change each other, mediated by their tools. However, this study raises issues about how these technical communicators’ tactics fit into activity theory models.
Pedagogical Strategies
Pedagogical Strategies
The results of this study provide students and apprentice technical communicators with a repertoire of actions and reactions for communicating within an organization. Conscious knowledge can help one employ a variety of tactics and thus enhance one’s effectiveness in the organization (Pfeffer, 1992). Without a conscious grasp
of these options, apprentices may assume that their only options are either to do what
they are asked to do or quit their jobs. However, awareness of these social-interactional
tactics is only a starting point. Not all options will be equally effective or appropriate
in all situations. Students also need to learn how to read a rhetorical situation to see
which tactic may be appropriate (as indicated in Table 2) and to learn how to generate
persuasive reasons appropriate for that situation. While apprentices may learn some
of this ability through trial and error, beginning technical communicators who already possess a sense of options and alternatives from their prior training may feel
less trapped into doing only what they are told.
How can beginning technical communicators acquire a repertoire of effective
tactics? Although it may seem that “[p]roblem solving skills evolve more from using
common sense and learning from past experience than from following a cookbook”
(Sopensky and Modrey, 1995, p. 104), this “common sense” may be enhanced through
deliberate instruction. Smart (2000) argues that “learning to play a role in an unfamiliar sociorhetorical ‘game’…involves development on various levels, development
that can only come from experience” (p. 245). However, the observations from this
study provide options that apprentices might learn even before they gain workplace
experience. Educators can provide “experience” in well-supported atmosphere that
prepares novice technical communicators for their experience in organizations.
The results of this study provide students and apprentice technical communicators with a repertoire of actions and reactions for communicating within an organization. Conscious knowledge can help one employ a variety of tactics and thus enhance one’s effectiveness in the organization (Pfeffer, 1992). Without a conscious grasp
of these options, apprentices may assume that their only options are either to do what
they are asked to do or quit their jobs. However, awareness of these social-interactional
tactics is only a starting point. Not all options will be equally effective or appropriate
in all situations. Students also need to learn how to read a rhetorical situation to see
which tactic may be appropriate (as indicated in Table 2) and to learn how to generate
persuasive reasons appropriate for that situation. While apprentices may learn some
of this ability through trial and error, beginning technical communicators who already possess a sense of options and alternatives from their prior training may feel
less trapped into doing only what they are told.
How can beginning technical communicators acquire a repertoire of effective
tactics? Although it may seem that “[p]roblem solving skills evolve more from using
common sense and learning from past experience than from following a cookbook”
(Sopensky and Modrey, 1995, p. 104), this “common sense” may be enhanced through
deliberate instruction. Smart (2000) argues that “learning to play a role in an unfamiliar sociorhetorical ‘game’…involves development on various levels, development
that can only come from experience” (p. 245). However, the observations from this
study provide options that apprentices might learn even before they gain workplace
experience. Educators can provide “experience” in well-supported atmosphere that
prepares novice technical communicators for their experience in organizations.
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90
Given the complexity of workplace culture and power relationships, technical
communication students need exposure to writing problems and situations that are
as “real-world” and complex as possible. Pedagogical conditions in which students
under the guidance of an experienced instructor engage in collaborative, authentic
tasks relating to a complex “messy” activity system hold the most promise for preparing students to experiment with the range of social-interactional tactics that they will
need in the workplace (see Freedman and Adam, 1996). The pedagogical program
that we seek should take into account Hanks’ (1991) contention that “learning a process takes place in a participation framework, not in an individual mind” (p. 15). Involving students in that participation framework may prove valuable to their mastery. In addition, there are indications that “apprentices” who learn from interacting
with each other learn practice more effectively (Lave and Wenger, 1991). This understanding counteracts the advice presented above that individuals just have to “work
smarter” in order to negotiate organizational constraints. In this study, Faith often
collaborated with more experienced Technical Writers and thus was exposed to the
typical tactics employed by the more experienced colleagues. Sue, on the other hand,
often floundered, partly because she had only an office manager to mentor her, not
an experienced technical communicator. Educators and mentors may provide guided
opportunities for educational interactions to take place.
Academically supported internships and job-shadowing can also provide students with valuable guidance during the time of transition from academia to the
workplace. During this transition time, students need to look at all writing tasks in
the context of “power and political situation variables” (Thomas, 1995, p. 467). In
these settings, students can experience learning to analyze a “newly encountered domain of discourse in order to recognize goals, values, and social relationships that are
significantly intermeshed with writing” (Smart, 2000, p. 246). Rather than learning
through trial and error once on the job, students need deliberate training in interpersonal communication skills (Philbin, et al. 1995). Educators may wish to make the
students’ roles in projects similar to the entry-level positions they are likely to have
immediately after graduation. Instructors need to provide guidance in making students aware of options available so that they do not always take the path of least
resistance.
Students also need abilities for analyzing and adapting to the culture of their
organizations, and they need to know how to effect change within those settings.
Beginners who do not learn the culture of the organization, but who see suggestions
from others only as individual preferences, will be less effective within an organization (Freedman and Adam, 1996). Additionally, newcomers need to understand the
organization’s “social system” in order to find persuasive reasons for change. (Pfeffer,
Given the complexity of workplace culture and power relationships, technical
communication students need exposure to writing problems and situations that are
as “real-world” and complex as possible. Pedagogical conditions in which students
under the guidance of an experienced instructor engage in collaborative, authentic
tasks relating to a complex “messy” activity system hold the most promise for preparing students to experiment with the range of social-interactional tactics that they will
need in the workplace (see Freedman and Adam, 1996). The pedagogical program
that we seek should take into account Hanks’ (1991) contention that “learning a process takes place in a participation framework, not in an individual mind” (p. 15). Involving students in that participation framework may prove valuable to their mastery. In addition, there are indications that “apprentices” who learn from interacting
with each other learn practice more effectively (Lave and Wenger, 1991). This understanding counteracts the advice presented above that individuals just have to “work
smarter” in order to negotiate organizational constraints. In this study, Faith often
collaborated with more experienced Technical Writers and thus was exposed to the
typical tactics employed by the more experienced colleagues. Sue, on the other hand,
often floundered, partly because she had only an office manager to mentor her, not
an experienced technical communicator. Educators and mentors may provide guided
opportunities for educational interactions to take place.
Academically supported internships and job-shadowing can also provide students with valuable guidance during the time of transition from academia to the
workplace. During this transition time, students need to look at all writing tasks in
the context of “power and political situation variables” (Thomas, 1995, p. 467). In
these settings, students can experience learning to analyze a “newly encountered domain of discourse in order to recognize goals, values, and social relationships that are
significantly intermeshed with writing” (Smart, 2000, p. 246). Rather than learning
through trial and error once on the job, students need deliberate training in interpersonal communication skills (Philbin, et al. 1995). Educators may wish to make the
students’ roles in projects similar to the entry-level positions they are likely to have
immediately after graduation. Instructors need to provide guidance in making students aware of options available so that they do not always take the path of least
resistance.
Students also need abilities for analyzing and adapting to the culture of their
organizations, and they need to know how to effect change within those settings.
Beginners who do not learn the culture of the organization, but who see suggestions
from others only as individual preferences, will be less effective within an organization (Freedman and Adam, 1996). Additionally, newcomers need to understand the
organization’s “social system” in order to find persuasive reasons for change. (Pfeffer,
Marjorie Rush Hovde
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Marjorie Rush Hovde
91
1992). Because the technical communicators worked with many departments at Money
Services, they held positions favorable to learning about the organizational culture.
The most influential technical communicators needed to know not only writing processes, but also how to give co-workers persuasive reasons for what they wished to do.
In addition to an understanding of general communication theory, students also need
to know how to learn about the social dimension of an organizational activity system
in order to generate reasons appropriate to co-workers.
1992). Because the technical communicators worked with many departments at Money
Services, they held positions favorable to learning about the organizational culture.
The most influential technical communicators needed to know not only writing processes, but also how to give co-workers persuasive reasons for what they wished to do.
In addition to an understanding of general communication theory, students also need
to know how to learn about the social dimension of an organizational activity system
in order to generate reasons appropriate to co-workers.
Future Research
Future Research
Although the socio-interactional tactics discussed here come from specific cases,
they may have broader applications for students and technical communicators. Because this was a preliminary study, the following questions could profitably be answered in future research projects:
1. Do technical communicators in other organizational situations employ the
socio-interaction tactics observed in this study? Are other similar tactics also used?
How do varying situations affect the use of socio-interactional tactics?
2. How frequently do technical communicators of varying influence employ these
tactics? How does use of these tactics lead to influence within an organization? What
other sources of influence within an organization might technical communicators
have?
3. How do apprentices learn and develop these tactics? How do they learn when
to apply which tactic?
4. What reasons do technical communicators provide for their actions or reactions? How persuasive are those reasons with their audiences?
5. How do technical communicators in new organizations learn the organization well enough to begin to generate persuasive reasons for action?
Research attempting to answer these questions can enhance our theories of the
practice of technical communication within complex social systems. From such research, we may also be able to design heuristics that help apprentices learn more
quickly.
Although the socio-interactional tactics discussed here come from specific cases,
they may have broader applications for students and technical communicators. Because this was a preliminary study, the following questions could profitably be answered in future research projects:
1. Do technical communicators in other organizational situations employ the
socio-interaction tactics observed in this study? Are other similar tactics also used?
How do varying situations affect the use of socio-interactional tactics?
2. How frequently do technical communicators of varying influence employ these
tactics? How does use of these tactics lead to influence within an organization? What
other sources of influence within an organization might technical communicators
have?
3. How do apprentices learn and develop these tactics? How do they learn when
to apply which tactic?
4. What reasons do technical communicators provide for their actions or reactions? How persuasive are those reasons with their audiences?
5. How do technical communicators in new organizations learn the organization well enough to begin to generate persuasive reasons for action?
Research attempting to answer these questions can enhance our theories of the
practice of technical communication within complex social systems. From such research, we may also be able to design heuristics that help apprentices learn more
quickly.
Conclusion
Conclusion
This study provides a basis for beginning to understand how technical communicators use social-interactional tactics within an organizational activity system, enhancing our understandings of a key aspect of the universe of expertise employed by
technical communicators, as modeled in Figure 1. Awareness of these tactics can help
student and beginning technical communicators moving into new situations to gain
more influence over their work, to know when to hold, fold, walk away, or run. Such
This study provides a basis for beginning to understand how technical communicators use social-interactional tactics within an organizational activity system, enhancing our understandings of a key aspect of the universe of expertise employed by
technical communicators, as modeled in Figure 1. Awareness of these tactics can help
student and beginning technical communicators moving into new situations to gain
more influence over their work, to know when to hold, fold, walk away, or run. Such
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92
procedural knowledge or “knowing in practice” (Lave and Wenger, 1991) can be used
effectively to contribute to improving the quality of technical documents and the
work lives of technical communicators.
procedural knowledge or “knowing in practice” (Lave and Wenger, 1991) can be used
effectively to contribute to improving the quality of technical documents and the
work lives of technical communicators.
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Hovde, M.R. (2001). “Research tactics for constructing perceptions of subject
matter in organizational contexts: An ethnographic study of technical
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contexts: An ethnographic study of technical communicators. Journal of
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Kuutti, K. (1996). Activity theory as a potential framework for human-computer
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interaction. MIT Press; Cambridge, MA,.
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Philbin, A.I., A.M. Ryan, and L. Friedel. (1995). How technical communicators feel
about their occupation: Facets, attitudes, and implications for the future of
the profession. Journal of Technical Writing and Communication, 25, (3), 303320.
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the profession. Journal of Technical Writing and Communication, 25, (3), 303320.
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Bertrand Labasse
95
Bertrand Labasse
Entre déficit épistémologique et défi procédural :
une discipline en souffrance d’expertise
Entre déficit épistémologique et défi procédural :
une discipline en souffrance d’expertise
Bertrand Labasse,
Université de Lyon 1
Bertrand Labasse,
Université de Lyon 1
In spite of vigorous efforts made in the academic sphere and the professional
world, the domain of applied communication is often seen as too pragmatic
on the one hand and too theoretical on the other. This situation may be
understood as two opposing faces of a single problem, that of expertise, which
is here defined as the interaction of knowledge and skill.
95
In spite of vigorous efforts made in the academic sphere and the professional
world, the domain of applied communication is often seen as too pragmatic
on the one hand and too theoretical on the other. This situation may be
understood as two opposing faces of a single problem, that of expertise, which
is here defined as the interaction of knowledge and skill.
1. Introduction
1. Introduction
On mesure souvent mal à quel point l’« Art de communiquer » constitue un cas
exceptionnel au sein de l’ensemble des champs de la connaissance humaine. Peu d’entre
eux sont aussi anciens (il était une des principales discipline savantes il y a plus de 2000
ans) ; peu sont aussi universels (il concerne toutes les autres filières, notamment scientifiques et économiques) ; peu ont une importance sociale comparable (faire sens auprès
des citoyens, mais aussi des utilisateurs, des pairs, des patients, des salariés, des décideurs,
des consommateurs…) ; peu, pourtant, paraissent aussi frêles dans leurs rapports avec
leurs pôles de référence, le monde académique d’une part, le monde professionnel
d’autre part.
Dans cet article, nous nous proposons, après avoir rappelé certaines tensions
paradoxales que rencontre l’enseignement des techniques de rédaction, de considérer
l’ensemble de ces tensions comme résultant essentiellement d’un déficit d’expertise,
en définissant cette dernière comme la synthèse (et non la juxtaposition) de trois
facteurs: la valeur scientifique, la valeur pratique et la valorisation sociale des connaissances en jeu. Nous soutiendrons que cette expertise ne pourra vraiment être
développée qu’au terme de deux démarches symétriques interrogeant, l’une, la portée technique des connaissances scientifiques disponibles, et l’autre la validité scientifique des connaissances techniques actuellement dispensées.
On mesure souvent mal à quel point l’« Art de communiquer » constitue un cas
exceptionnel au sein de l’ensemble des champs de la connaissance humaine. Peu d’entre
eux sont aussi anciens (il était une des principales discipline savantes il y a plus de 2000
ans) ; peu sont aussi universels (il concerne toutes les autres filières, notamment scientifiques et économiques) ; peu ont une importance sociale comparable (faire sens auprès
des citoyens, mais aussi des utilisateurs, des pairs, des patients, des salariés, des décideurs,
des consommateurs…) ; peu, pourtant, paraissent aussi frêles dans leurs rapports avec
leurs pôles de référence, le monde académique d’une part, le monde professionnel
d’autre part.
Dans cet article, nous nous proposons, après avoir rappelé certaines tensions
paradoxales que rencontre l’enseignement des techniques de rédaction, de considérer
l’ensemble de ces tensions comme résultant essentiellement d’un déficit d’expertise,
en définissant cette dernière comme la synthèse (et non la juxtaposition) de trois
facteurs: la valeur scientifique, la valeur pratique et la valorisation sociale des connaissances en jeu. Nous soutiendrons que cette expertise ne pourra vraiment être
développée qu’au terme de deux démarches symétriques interrogeant, l’une, la portée technique des connaissances scientifiques disponibles, et l’autre la validité scientifique des connaissances techniques actuellement dispensées.
2. Une double tension paradoxale
2. Une double tension paradoxale
Il existe un remarquable contraste entre le développement que connaissent de
facto les techniques de communication — dans la société en général et dans l’enseignement supérieur en particulier — et la reconnaissance de ces mêmes techniques en
tant que domaine de connaissances et de compétence. Ce contraste touche tout le
Il existe un remarquable contraste entre le développement que connaissent de
facto les techniques de communication — dans la société en général et dans l’enseignement supérieur en particulier — et la reconnaissance de ces mêmes techniques en
tant que domaine de connaissances et de compétence. Ce contraste touche tout le
96
Entre déficit épistémologique et défi procédural : une discipline en souffrance d’expertise
96
champ de la rédaction appliquée, tant fonctionnelle (c’est-à-dire apprise en vue de
l’exercice d’un autre métier)1 que professionnelle (apprise en tant qu’activité principale), mais il les touche assez différemment.
Dans le premier cas, par exemple, un examen de nombreux rapports internationaux consacrés tant à la formation des chercheurs et ingénieurs qu’à la diffusion sociale de la culture scientifique permet de constater que l’enseignement des techniques
de communication, et notamment de la rédaction, dans les facultés de sciences est
presque unanimement considérée comme une priorité (Labasse, 1999). Mais ces mêmes rapports ne s’interrogent à aucun moment sur la source et la nature de ces enseignements ou, quand ils le font, suggèrent que tout chercheur en sciences en sait assez
sur la question pour l’enseigner. Cette position est, du reste, explicite chez beaucoup
de scientifiques : « The communication skills to be developed should come from, and be
embedded in, the discipline… » (Radloff, de la Harpe, et al., 1996) « La rédaction scientifique est, en effet, guidée par des principes qui relèvent de la rigueur scientifique ellemême » (Hughier, Maisonneuve et al., 1992 p. 10). Ainsi, les techniques de rédaction
apparaissent-elles comme une matière stratégique mais parfaitement triviale et dénuée de contenus qui lui soient propres2. Les futurs savants ont besoin d’apprendre à
rédiger, mais l’enseignement de la rédaction n’a pas besoin de savants en la matière.
Même dans les pays Anglo-Saxons, où ce domaine paraît bénéficier de plus de considération, nombre de témoignages indiquent que son statut académique demeure fragile, tant vis-à-vis des disciplines littéraires que scientifiques :
champ de la rédaction appliquée, tant fonctionnelle (c’est-à-dire apprise en vue de
l’exercice d’un autre métier)1 que professionnelle (apprise en tant qu’activité principale), mais il les touche assez différemment.
Dans le premier cas, par exemple, un examen de nombreux rapports internationaux consacrés tant à la formation des chercheurs et ingénieurs qu’à la diffusion sociale de la culture scientifique permet de constater que l’enseignement des techniques
de communication, et notamment de la rédaction, dans les facultés de sciences est
presque unanimement considérée comme une priorité (Labasse, 1999). Mais ces mêmes rapports ne s’interrogent à aucun moment sur la source et la nature de ces enseignements ou, quand ils le font, suggèrent que tout chercheur en sciences en sait assez
sur la question pour l’enseigner. Cette position est, du reste, explicite chez beaucoup
de scientifiques : « The communication skills to be developed should come from, and be
embedded in, the discipline… » (Radloff, de la Harpe, et al., 1996) « La rédaction scientifique est, en effet, guidée par des principes qui relèvent de la rigueur scientifique ellemême » (Hughier, Maisonneuve et al., 1992 p. 10). Ainsi, les techniques de rédaction
apparaissent-elles comme une matière stratégique mais parfaitement triviale et dénuée de contenus qui lui soient propres2. Les futurs savants ont besoin d’apprendre à
rédiger, mais l’enseignement de la rédaction n’a pas besoin de savants en la matière.
Même dans les pays Anglo-Saxons, où ce domaine paraît bénéficier de plus de considération, nombre de témoignages indiquent que son statut académique demeure fragile, tant vis-à-vis des disciplines littéraires que scientifiques :
At many institutions, technical communication as a field of study exists in
an odd space (…) that is oftentimes marginalized, both academically and
politically. (…) Many of our colleagues don’t know quite what to make of
technical communications, and they sometimes aren’t sure if they should
support it as an intellectual field in its own right or if they should regard it
more as an area of vocational training… (McCord, 1999).
At many institutions, technical communication as a field of study exists in
an odd space (…) that is oftentimes marginalized, both academically and
politically. (…) Many of our colleagues don’t know quite what to make of
technical communications, and they sometimes aren’t sure if they should
support it as an intellectual field in its own right or if they should regard it
more as an area of vocational training… (McCord, 1999).
Le second cas, celui de la rédaction professionnelle, est typiquement celui du
journalisme. Là, les techniques rédactionnelles ne sont plus l’accessoire utilitaire d’une
autre discipline, mais bien une matière centrale, intimement liée à la pratique. Elle est
d’autant moins prise à la légère que le monde professionnel entretient de nombreux
liens avec les écoles spécialisées, en contribuant souvent à leur financement, à leur
encadrement pédagogique, et même à l’audit et l’accréditation de leurs programmes.
Mais si les éditeurs et les journalistes sont d’accord pour juger que l’enseignement du
journalisme est capital en soi, ils sont tout aussi d’accord pour proclamer que la
meilleure formation est celle que donne la pratique professionnelle, l’apprentissage
Le second cas, celui de la rédaction professionnelle, est typiquement celui du
journalisme. Là, les techniques rédactionnelles ne sont plus l’accessoire utilitaire d’une
autre discipline, mais bien une matière centrale, intimement liée à la pratique. Elle est
d’autant moins prise à la légère que le monde professionnel entretient de nombreux
liens avec les écoles spécialisées, en contribuant souvent à leur financement, à leur
encadrement pédagogique, et même à l’audit et l’accréditation de leurs programmes.
Mais si les éditeurs et les journalistes sont d’accord pour juger que l’enseignement du
journalisme est capital en soi, ils sont tout aussi d’accord pour proclamer que la
meilleure formation est celle que donne la pratique professionnelle, l’apprentissage
Bertrand Labasse
97
Bertrand Labasse
97
« sur le tas » (v. par ex. : Charon et al., 1996, Guerke & Hirst, 1996, Sales 1998, Medsger,
1996). Ainsi les rapports entre la profession et ses écoles s’avèrent-t-ils remarquablement ambigus, voire logiquement intenables : un problème est important ou il ne
l’est pas. Plusieurs auteurs — dont Medsger, op. cit. — estiment que cette situation
est due au désintérêt des enseignants universitaires pour les réalités du journalisme.
Toutefois, un examen des données mêmes que publie Medsger suffit pour penser que
cette accusation, si elle peut être en partie fondée en matière de recherche ou d’attitude générale, est en tout cas excessive en matière d’enseignement. Interrogés sur
l’importance qu’ils attribuent à tel ou tel contenu de formation, les enseignants et les
responsables éditoriaux livrent des évaluations remarquablement proches : les « capacités de base en collecte d’information et en rédaction » sont prioritaires pour les
deux groupes (importantes pour 98 % des responsables de journaux et 95 % des enseignants), suivies par la « capacité à rédiger de façon claire » (97 % — 95 %), tandis
que la « bonne connaissance des critiques adressées au journalisme », par exemple, n’est
jugée importante que par 15 % des éditeurs et 35 % des enseignants. Le problème n’est
donc pas là. Quels que soient les arguments développés, la critique fondamentale ne
vient pas des programmes mais de leurs résultats concrets. Et, essentiellement des
capacités en rédaction des diplômés. Ce qui est mis en cause, souvent avec ironie,
c’est la valeur ajoutée qu’apportent les écoles par rapport à tous les autres cursus.
Ainsi, le statut de l’enseignement de la rédaction appliquée s’avère-t-il, d’une
certaine façon, curieusement similaire dans les filières qui l’accueillent à titre annexe
(cursus scientifiques, économiques, juridiques…) et dans celle dont elles constituent
la matière principale (filières professionnalisantes en information et communication).
Dans les deux cas se trouvent associés de façon assez paradoxale une très forte attente
et un scepticisme non moins fort. Dans les deux cas, le repli se fait sur un apprentissage essentiellement pratique, auquel le modèle « hands on » (traduit en France par
« la main à la pâte ») vient aujourd’hui apporter un semblant de légitimité pédagogique. Mais ce modèle, outre ses limites intrinsèques, s’applique d’autant plus mal en
l’espèce qu’il suppose un corpus de connaissances de référence, des « savoirs savants »
au sens de Chevallard (1995), que la pratique ne vise qu’à faire redécouvrir ou comprendre. Or, en matière de rédaction appliquée, fonctionnelle ou professionnelle, l’entraînement pratique ne paraît pas viser l’acquisition de connaissances spécifiques (à
moins de considérer comme telles quelques normes et genres traditionnels) mais constitue le plus souvent une fin en soi : il est à la fois l’outil et l’objet, la « façon d’apprendre » et « ce qu’il faut apprendre ». Son utilité est naturellement indéniable ; la rédaction appliquée est, in fine, une pratique qui suppose un entraînement poussé. Mais
« sur le tas » (v. par ex. : Charon et al., 1996, Guerke & Hirst, 1996, Sales 1998, Medsger,
1996). Ainsi les rapports entre la profession et ses écoles s’avèrent-t-ils remarquablement ambigus, voire logiquement intenables : un problème est important ou il ne
l’est pas. Plusieurs auteurs — dont Medsger, op. cit. — estiment que cette situation
est due au désintérêt des enseignants universitaires pour les réalités du journalisme.
Toutefois, un examen des données mêmes que publie Medsger suffit pour penser que
cette accusation, si elle peut être en partie fondée en matière de recherche ou d’attitude générale, est en tout cas excessive en matière d’enseignement. Interrogés sur
l’importance qu’ils attribuent à tel ou tel contenu de formation, les enseignants et les
responsables éditoriaux livrent des évaluations remarquablement proches : les « capacités de base en collecte d’information et en rédaction » sont prioritaires pour les
deux groupes (importantes pour 98 % des responsables de journaux et 95 % des enseignants), suivies par la « capacité à rédiger de façon claire » (97 % — 95 %), tandis
que la « bonne connaissance des critiques adressées au journalisme », par exemple, n’est
jugée importante que par 15 % des éditeurs et 35 % des enseignants. Le problème n’est
donc pas là. Quels que soient les arguments développés, la critique fondamentale ne
vient pas des programmes mais de leurs résultats concrets. Et, essentiellement des
capacités en rédaction des diplômés. Ce qui est mis en cause, souvent avec ironie,
c’est la valeur ajoutée qu’apportent les écoles par rapport à tous les autres cursus.
Ainsi, le statut de l’enseignement de la rédaction appliquée s’avère-t-il, d’une
certaine façon, curieusement similaire dans les filières qui l’accueillent à titre annexe
(cursus scientifiques, économiques, juridiques…) et dans celle dont elles constituent
la matière principale (filières professionnalisantes en information et communication).
Dans les deux cas se trouvent associés de façon assez paradoxale une très forte attente
et un scepticisme non moins fort. Dans les deux cas, le repli se fait sur un apprentissage essentiellement pratique, auquel le modèle « hands on » (traduit en France par
« la main à la pâte ») vient aujourd’hui apporter un semblant de légitimité pédagogique. Mais ce modèle, outre ses limites intrinsèques, s’applique d’autant plus mal en
l’espèce qu’il suppose un corpus de connaissances de référence, des « savoirs savants »
au sens de Chevallard (1995), que la pratique ne vise qu’à faire redécouvrir ou comprendre. Or, en matière de rédaction appliquée, fonctionnelle ou professionnelle, l’entraînement pratique ne paraît pas viser l’acquisition de connaissances spécifiques (à
moins de considérer comme telles quelques normes et genres traditionnels) mais constitue le plus souvent une fin en soi : il est à la fois l’outil et l’objet, la « façon d’apprendre » et « ce qu’il faut apprendre ». Son utilité est naturellement indéniable ; la rédaction appliquée est, in fine, une pratique qui suppose un entraînement poussé. Mais
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98
on peut se demander si le rôle prépondérant, voire presque exclusif, que beaucoup
accordent à cet entraînement n’est pas un aveu de carence : doit-il favoriser l’acquisitions de connaissances techniques ou suppléer à leur absence ?
on peut se demander si le rôle prépondérant, voire presque exclusif, que beaucoup
accordent à cet entraînement n’est pas un aveu de carence : doit-il favoriser l’acquisitions de connaissances techniques ou suppléer à leur absence ?
3. Juxtaposer n’est pas savoir
3. Juxtaposer n’est pas savoir
Que l’enseignement soit vu comme essentiellement pratique dans la sphère académique, ou jugé trop théorique dans le monde professionnel (Stephens, 2000) permet de distinguer une cohérence entre ces positions symétriques : ce qui est en cause
n’est pas le pôle de la théorie ou celui de la pratique mais bien le rapport entre les
deux, l’expertise centrale.
Comme nous l’avons remarqué plus haut, ce domaine remonte à l’une des principales disciplines du monde antique : il y a 24 siècles, les rhéteurs3 — à la fois praticiens, enseignants et savants — avaient déjà publié de multiples traités (la Technè
rhétorikè de Corax, considérée comme le premier d’entre eux, aurait été écrite vers —
460) et fondé des « écoles » réputées. Certes, cette discipline a toujours entretenu avec
d’autres des rapports délicats, qui n’ont guère changé depuis lors. Ainsi Cicéron « attribue le dédain des philosophes à l’égard de la rhétorique au fait que la rhétorique est
orientée par la pratique, contrairement à la philosophie qui est spéculative.4 ». Mais il
n’en reste pas moins qu’au début de notre ère, son statut est tel que Quintilien, qui
déplore déjà la fragmentation des disciplines, pense faire beaucoup d’honneur à l’enseignement de la langue (étymologie, grammaire…) et à celui des sciences (mathématiques, astronomie…) en insistant, non sans condescendance, sur l’utilité de telles
matières qui « quoique nécessaires, ne sont susceptibles d’aucun éclat »5 (Livre I, chap. I,
§ 4, trad. Nisard,1842). Si l’on considère aujourd’hui le statut des techniques de communication par rapport à celui des sciences du langage ou de la nature, on mesure le
chemin parcouru, ou, plutôt, le chemin qui n’a pas été parcouru. Les raisons en sont
multiples, mais nous n’en retiendrons que celle qui nous semble la plus fondamentale. Alors que tant d’autres disciplines ont accumulé les victoires épistémologiques,
transformant graduellement ce qui n’était qu’un amas de conjectures en un corpus
de savoirs collectivement formalisés (paradigmes), rendant compte du réel et permettant d’agir plus efficacement sur celui-ci, l’« art de communiquer » a, jusqu’à présent, échoué. Il n’a pas surmonté le défi épistémologique que lui lançait Platon dans
le dialogue de Socrate et du rhéteur Gorgias, et qui reste celui que lui lancent symétriquement, le monde académique et le monde professionnel : que sais-tu, au juste, qui
vaille d’être enseigné et te justifie ? C’est bien sur son expertise que Gorgias (comme
ses descendants) est interpellé : « Mon intention est d’interroger notre homme sur l’essence de son art : à quoi s’engage-t-il ; qu’est-ce qu’il enseigne ? » . Puisqu’il se dit « capable d’en former d’autres à ce métier », Gorgias se doit d’expliciter « la technique défi-
Que l’enseignement soit vu comme essentiellement pratique dans la sphère académique, ou jugé trop théorique dans le monde professionnel (Stephens, 2000) permet de distinguer une cohérence entre ces positions symétriques : ce qui est en cause
n’est pas le pôle de la théorie ou celui de la pratique mais bien le rapport entre les
deux, l’expertise centrale.
Comme nous l’avons remarqué plus haut, ce domaine remonte à l’une des principales disciplines du monde antique : il y a 24 siècles, les rhéteurs3 — à la fois praticiens, enseignants et savants — avaient déjà publié de multiples traités (la Technè
rhétorikè de Corax, considérée comme le premier d’entre eux, aurait été écrite vers —
460) et fondé des « écoles » réputées. Certes, cette discipline a toujours entretenu avec
d’autres des rapports délicats, qui n’ont guère changé depuis lors. Ainsi Cicéron « attribue le dédain des philosophes à l’égard de la rhétorique au fait que la rhétorique est
orientée par la pratique, contrairement à la philosophie qui est spéculative.4 ». Mais il
n’en reste pas moins qu’au début de notre ère, son statut est tel que Quintilien, qui
déplore déjà la fragmentation des disciplines, pense faire beaucoup d’honneur à l’enseignement de la langue (étymologie, grammaire…) et à celui des sciences (mathématiques, astronomie…) en insistant, non sans condescendance, sur l’utilité de telles
matières qui « quoique nécessaires, ne sont susceptibles d’aucun éclat »5 (Livre I, chap. I,
§ 4, trad. Nisard,1842). Si l’on considère aujourd’hui le statut des techniques de communication par rapport à celui des sciences du langage ou de la nature, on mesure le
chemin parcouru, ou, plutôt, le chemin qui n’a pas été parcouru. Les raisons en sont
multiples, mais nous n’en retiendrons que celle qui nous semble la plus fondamentale. Alors que tant d’autres disciplines ont accumulé les victoires épistémologiques,
transformant graduellement ce qui n’était qu’un amas de conjectures en un corpus
de savoirs collectivement formalisés (paradigmes), rendant compte du réel et permettant d’agir plus efficacement sur celui-ci, l’« art de communiquer » a, jusqu’à présent, échoué. Il n’a pas surmonté le défi épistémologique que lui lançait Platon dans
le dialogue de Socrate et du rhéteur Gorgias, et qui reste celui que lui lancent symétriquement, le monde académique et le monde professionnel : que sais-tu, au juste, qui
vaille d’être enseigné et te justifie ? C’est bien sur son expertise que Gorgias (comme
ses descendants) est interpellé : « Mon intention est d’interroger notre homme sur l’essence de son art : à quoi s’engage-t-il ; qu’est-ce qu’il enseigne ? » . Puisqu’il se dit « capable d’en former d’autres à ce métier », Gorgias se doit d’expliciter « la technique défi-
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nie où il a sa compétence ». Cet art, assène finalement le philosophe, n’est « pas une
technique du tout », mais une simple « affaire d’expérience » (trad. Cazeaux, 1996, p.8
ssq.).
Si la notion d’expertise constitue, selon nous, la racine de toutes les autres questions, savantes ou pratiques, qui se posent à l’enseignement de la rédaction appliquée,
c’est précisément qu’elle les relie toutes. Le terme d’expert possède un large champ
sémantique, puisqu’il va d’ « habile » à « savant » (Hachette, 1999 ; Robert, 1990), mais
aucun de ces termes n’en constitue en soi un synonyme acceptable. Sur la bonne
façon d’être un papillon, un entomologiste sait bien des choses qu’un lépidoptère
ignore, mais la réciproque est toute aussi vraie. Sont-ils tous deux des experts, ou
aucun ne l’est-il ? Un mot qui ne permet pas de distinguer un savant d’une chenille
doit inciter à la méfiance.
Bien que l’étymologie du terme — du latin experior (experiri, expertus) : expérimenter — renvoie directement à la pratique, à l’expérience vécue, cette dernière,
comme l’exemple ci-dessus tente de l’illustrer par l’absurde, ne saurait pas plus suffire qu’une connaissance dénuée de perspective praxéologique. Il serait donc tentant
de la définir, non par la seule habileté ou le seul savoir, mais dans la relation qu’un
rédacteur peut entretenir entre sa pratique et la connaissance qu’il en a, relation réciproque, voire symbiotique, telle que l’une se nourrit de l’autre et la développe à son
tour. Toutefois, une telle relation n’est pas celle de l’expertise mais celle de la compétence (ce qui n’est déjà pas si mal). En effet, l’expertise est également une qualité socialement négociée. Être expert, c’est être reconnu comme tel. Même en laissant de
côté l’expertise institutionnalisée (experts judiciaires, etc.) qui n’a pas d’intérêt ici, il
n’en reste pas moins que la question de la légitimité est essentielle dans le champ de la
rédaction. Elle l’est pour les rédacteurs, dont l’identité professionnelle et les rapports
avec les tiers — par exemple les relations entre vulgarisateurs et scientifiques ou entre
communicateurs et clients — dépendent largement de l’expertise qu’ils peuvent revendiquer. Elle l’est tout autant pour leurs enseignants. Dans ce dernier cas, la question n’est pas seulement celle de leur contenance vis-à-vis des sphères professionnelles et académiques, mais aussi, très concrètement, celle de la crédibilité des conseils
qu’ils donnent à leurs étudiants, en une matière où chacun est son propre juge.
Ainsi, toute aspiration à l’expertise, mise en relation d’un savoir et d’une pratique, se doit-elle d’être doublement validée par la valeur intrinsèque (épistémologique) de ce savoir et sa valeur praxéologique, c’est-à-dire sa valeur d’action, son apport réel à la pratique. Or, le double référentiel académique et professionnel de ce
domaine, qui conduit plus facilement à la juxtaposition des approches qu’à leur intégration, ne le porte pas nécessairement à satisfaire à ce double test. Si l’intérêt épistémologique de « faites des phrases courtes » ou « écrivez à la voix active » reste à démon-
nie où il a sa compétence ». Cet art, assène finalement le philosophe, n’est « pas une
technique du tout », mais une simple « affaire d’expérience » (trad. Cazeaux, 1996, p.8
ssq.).
Si la notion d’expertise constitue, selon nous, la racine de toutes les autres questions, savantes ou pratiques, qui se posent à l’enseignement de la rédaction appliquée,
c’est précisément qu’elle les relie toutes. Le terme d’expert possède un large champ
sémantique, puisqu’il va d’ « habile » à « savant » (Hachette, 1999 ; Robert, 1990), mais
aucun de ces termes n’en constitue en soi un synonyme acceptable. Sur la bonne
façon d’être un papillon, un entomologiste sait bien des choses qu’un lépidoptère
ignore, mais la réciproque est toute aussi vraie. Sont-ils tous deux des experts, ou
aucun ne l’est-il ? Un mot qui ne permet pas de distinguer un savant d’une chenille
doit inciter à la méfiance.
Bien que l’étymologie du terme — du latin experior (experiri, expertus) : expérimenter — renvoie directement à la pratique, à l’expérience vécue, cette dernière,
comme l’exemple ci-dessus tente de l’illustrer par l’absurde, ne saurait pas plus suffire qu’une connaissance dénuée de perspective praxéologique. Il serait donc tentant
de la définir, non par la seule habileté ou le seul savoir, mais dans la relation qu’un
rédacteur peut entretenir entre sa pratique et la connaissance qu’il en a, relation réciproque, voire symbiotique, telle que l’une se nourrit de l’autre et la développe à son
tour. Toutefois, une telle relation n’est pas celle de l’expertise mais celle de la compétence (ce qui n’est déjà pas si mal). En effet, l’expertise est également une qualité socialement négociée. Être expert, c’est être reconnu comme tel. Même en laissant de
côté l’expertise institutionnalisée (experts judiciaires, etc.) qui n’a pas d’intérêt ici, il
n’en reste pas moins que la question de la légitimité est essentielle dans le champ de la
rédaction. Elle l’est pour les rédacteurs, dont l’identité professionnelle et les rapports
avec les tiers — par exemple les relations entre vulgarisateurs et scientifiques ou entre
communicateurs et clients — dépendent largement de l’expertise qu’ils peuvent revendiquer. Elle l’est tout autant pour leurs enseignants. Dans ce dernier cas, la question n’est pas seulement celle de leur contenance vis-à-vis des sphères professionnelles et académiques, mais aussi, très concrètement, celle de la crédibilité des conseils
qu’ils donnent à leurs étudiants, en une matière où chacun est son propre juge.
Ainsi, toute aspiration à l’expertise, mise en relation d’un savoir et d’une pratique, se doit-elle d’être doublement validée par la valeur intrinsèque (épistémologique) de ce savoir et sa valeur praxéologique, c’est-à-dire sa valeur d’action, son apport réel à la pratique. Or, le double référentiel académique et professionnel de ce
domaine, qui conduit plus facilement à la juxtaposition des approches qu’à leur intégration, ne le porte pas nécessairement à satisfaire à ce double test. Si l’intérêt épistémologique de « faites des phrases courtes » ou « écrivez à la voix active » reste à démon-
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100
trer, l’intérêt praxéologique de la taxonomie de Jakobson ou du triangle sémiotique
n’est guère plus convaincant. En un mot, l’essentiel de ce domaine se situe quelque
part dans le couloir, inconfortable et mal éclairé, qui sépare la salle de cours et l’atelier
de travaux pratiques. Bien entendu, certain types de connaissances tels que la sociologie de la communication ont intrinsèquement des incidences essentielles, en permettant aux praticiens d’acquérir un recul et une compréhension globale des processus auxquels ils prennent part. Mais si l’on se limite à la seule question des techniques
rédactionnelles (ce qui est très réducteur en soi mais nécessaire ici), alors la distance
entre savoirs et pratiques doit être interrogée.
trer, l’intérêt praxéologique de la taxonomie de Jakobson ou du triangle sémiotique
n’est guère plus convaincant. En un mot, l’essentiel de ce domaine se situe quelque
part dans le couloir, inconfortable et mal éclairé, qui sépare la salle de cours et l’atelier
de travaux pratiques. Bien entendu, certain types de connaissances tels que la sociologie de la communication ont intrinsèquement des incidences essentielles, en permettant aux praticiens d’acquérir un recul et une compréhension globale des processus auxquels ils prennent part. Mais si l’on se limite à la seule question des techniques
rédactionnelles (ce qui est très réducteur en soi mais nécessaire ici), alors la distance
entre savoirs et pratiques doit être interrogée.
4. Les limites du binôme déclaratif-procédural
4. Les limites du binôme déclaratif-procédural
Dans la triade que nous avons évoquée (connaissance — habileté — validité/
légitimité), on pourrait rechercher une correspondance approximative avec le traditionnel triptyque pédagogique savoir — savoir-faire — savoir-être, ou avec la distinction opérée, à la suite d’Anderson (1983), entre les connaissances déclaratives et
procédurales. Ces modèles sont effectivement utiles. Ils ont notamment permis à
Beaudet (1999) de circonscrire la notion de compétence rédactionnelle en une synthèse particulièrement opérante (elle en constitue simultanément la définition, le
manifeste et le programme) :
Dans la triade que nous avons évoquée (connaissance — habileté — validité/
légitimité), on pourrait rechercher une correspondance approximative avec le traditionnel triptyque pédagogique savoir — savoir-faire — savoir-être, ou avec la distinction opérée, à la suite d’Anderson (1983), entre les connaissances déclaratives et
procédurales. Ces modèles sont effectivement utiles. Ils ont notamment permis à
Beaudet (1999) de circonscrire la notion de compétence rédactionnelle en une synthèse particulièrement opérante (elle en constitue simultanément la définition, le
manifeste et le programme) :
Dans ma perspective, le rédacteur professionnel se définit comme sujet
d’énonciation conscient de sa propre position énonciative et des choix
qu’il opère aux différentes étapes de son travail. Son savoir-faire ne saurait se dissocier d’un savoir sur les conditions linguistiques d’émergence
du sens dans le discours. Le rédacteur n’est un professionnel (…) que s’il
est conscient de la complexité des choix qui s’offrent à lui : autrement
dit, il doit maîtriser le savoir d’évaluer sa propre performance, c’est-àdire son savoir-faire.
Dans ma perspective, le rédacteur professionnel se définit comme sujet
d’énonciation conscient de sa propre position énonciative et des choix
qu’il opère aux différentes étapes de son travail. Son savoir-faire ne saurait se dissocier d’un savoir sur les conditions linguistiques d’émergence
du sens dans le discours. Le rédacteur n’est un professionnel (…) que s’il
est conscient de la complexité des choix qui s’offrent à lui : autrement
dit, il doit maîtriser le savoir d’évaluer sa propre performance, c’est-àdire son savoir-faire.
Toutefois, la distinction entre déclaratif et procédural comporte un grand risque
intrinsèque. Elle peut, en effet conduire à isoler arbitrairement ce qui relève du savant
et ce qui relève du pratique. Le modèle original ne suggère certes pas une telle séparation :
Toutefois, la distinction entre déclaratif et procédural comporte un grand risque
intrinsèque. Elle peut, en effet conduire à isoler arbitrairement ce qui relève du savant
et ce qui relève du pratique. Le modèle original ne suggère certes pas une telle séparation :
In the ACT theory (Anderson, 1983) a specific proposal was put forward
for how procedural knowledge derived from declarative knowledge. The
claim was that all knowledge first came into the system in a declarative
form. For instance, one might memorize the side-side-side theorem in
In the ACT theory (Anderson, 1983) a specific proposal was put forward
for how procedural knowledge derived from declarative knowledge. The
claim was that all knowledge first came into the system in a declarative
form. For instance, one might memorize the side-side-side theorem in
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geometry. With practice at using the knowledge in a particular context,
production rules would arise which embodied a procedural form of that
knowledge. This learning process was called proceduralization. (Anderson & Fincham, 1994)
geometry. With practice at using the knowledge in a particular context,
production rules would arise which embodied a procedural form of that
knowledge. This learning process was called proceduralization. (Anderson & Fincham, 1994)
Les évolutions qui sont ultérieurement venues nuancer et développer ces notions, ne permettent pas plus les séparer (voir Tardif, 1992/97 pour une synthèse).
Mais, la tendance naturelle à la juxtaposition, surdéterminée par l’hétérogénéité des
enseignants plus que par leur objet, peut favoriser une toute autre lecture : d’un côté
les connaissances nobles, de l’autre ce que Charon (1990) désigne avec une certaine
désinvolture comme le « tour de main ».
Le terme même de déclaratif fournit heureusement un repère : c’est ce qui peut
être collectivement déclaré, c’est-à-dire — dans notre acception — formalisé, investi
d’une certaine universalité et, autant que possible, vérifié. Le procédural s’acquiert, le
déclaratif s’apprend. Et il concerne donc aussi les fondements techniques du « tour
de main ». C’est même là, sans doute, que la question des connaissances « déclaratives » se pose le plus crûment, comme le suggère le témoignage d’un directeur de journal :
Les évolutions qui sont ultérieurement venues nuancer et développer ces notions, ne permettent pas plus les séparer (voir Tardif, 1992/97 pour une synthèse).
Mais, la tendance naturelle à la juxtaposition, surdéterminée par l’hétérogénéité des
enseignants plus que par leur objet, peut favoriser une toute autre lecture : d’un côté
les connaissances nobles, de l’autre ce que Charon (1990) désigne avec une certaine
désinvolture comme le « tour de main ».
Le terme même de déclaratif fournit heureusement un repère : c’est ce qui peut
être collectivement déclaré, c’est-à-dire — dans notre acception — formalisé, investi
d’une certaine universalité et, autant que possible, vérifié. Le procédural s’acquiert, le
déclaratif s’apprend. Et il concerne donc aussi les fondements techniques du « tour
de main ». C’est même là, sans doute, que la question des connaissances « déclaratives » se pose le plus crûment, comme le suggère le témoignage d’un directeur de journal :
Les jugements rédactionnels emploient volontiers le vocabulaire de la
subjectivité. Un article est « bon » ou « mauvais », voire « intéressant »,
mais en fonction seulement des critères d’appréciation de la personne
qui le lit et qui se prend à ce moment-là pour le « lecteur moyen ». Or, il
s’agit, en fait, le plus souvent d’un journaliste professionnel hyper-informé, largement doté de préjugés et sans doute blasé. (Servan-Schreiber,
Les jugements rédactionnels emploient volontiers le vocabulaire de la
subjectivité. Un article est « bon » ou « mauvais », voire « intéressant »,
mais en fonction seulement des critères d’appréciation de la personne
qui le lit et qui se prend à ce moment-là pour le « lecteur moyen ». Or, il
s’agit, en fait, le plus souvent d’un journaliste professionnel hyper-informé, largement doté de préjugés et sans doute blasé. (Servan-Schreiber,
1972, p. 152)
1972, p. 152)
Bien qu’elle ne vise pas directement l’enseignement, cette observation nous semble
beaucoup plus sévère que celle-ci, plus classique :
Bien qu’elle ne vise pas directement l’enseignement, cette observation nous semble
beaucoup plus sévère que celle-ci, plus classique :
L’écriture, surtout, est en cause. « Les écoles forment bien à la recherche
de l’information, dit Jacques Duquesne, rédacteur en chef au Point, mais
souvent moins bien à sa transmission ; il est anormal qu’elles laissent
sortir des journalistes qui ne savent pas écrire ni structurer un article ».
Au chapitre des doléances, le manque d’adaptabilité des jeunes journalistes à leurs lecteurs est évoqué plusieurs fois… » (Haquin, 1995).
L’écriture, surtout, est en cause. « Les écoles forment bien à la recherche
de l’information, dit Jacques Duquesne, rédacteur en chef au Point, mais
souvent moins bien à sa transmission ; il est anormal qu’elles laissent
sortir des journalistes qui ne savent pas écrire ni structurer un article ».
Au chapitre des doléances, le manque d’adaptabilité des jeunes journalistes à leurs lecteurs est évoqué plusieurs fois… » (Haquin, 1995).
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En effet, tandis que la seconde ne porte que sur les effets, la première touche aux
causes. Or, la distinction Savoir — Savoir-faire ne permet pas à elle seule de rendre
compte des problèmes évoqués par ces deux responsables : ce dont ils parlent, en
évoquant les « critères d’appréciation » ou l’« adaptabilité (…) aux lecteurs », transcende manifestement cette distinction.
Une autre façon de cerner les connaissances techniquement pertinentes peut être
de partir des trois grandes articulations traditionnelles : le rédacteur, le document, le
lecteur, auxquelles on ajoutera, pour mémoire, le contexte6. Ce schéma, précisons-le
au passage, n’est pas l’apanage du modèle mécanique de Shannon (soit, pour simplifier : émetteur-message-récepteur) ; on pourrait le faire remonter à la division classique des modalités de l’éloquence (ethos-logos-pathos). Discutable à certains égards,
il est pratique ici pour cerner trois grands objets de connaissance, dont chacun associe savoir et savoir-faire (étant bien entendu que, dans la réalité, chacun de ces objets
est étroitement imbriqué avec les autres et avec le contexte).
- La connaissance du rédacteur (ou du processus rédactionnel), malgré son importance évidente, est longtemps restée en friche. L’essentiel des discours à son propos tenait de l’invocation de l’expérience commune (« Les professionnels veillent toujours à… »), de l’exemple des maîtres (« Flaubert avait l’habitude de … ») ou de remarques pratiques (trucs contre l’angoisse de la page blanche, etc.), auxquelles s’ajoutaient parfois des extrapolations extra-scientifiques, librement inspirées de travaux
scientifiques (Cerveau droit-cerveau gauche, etc.). Toutefois, cette thématique bénéficie, depuis peu d’années, d’un remarquable développement scientifique au sein des
sciences cognitives, qui pourrait conduire à une nouvelle approche de cette question
dans notre champ. Nous en évoquerons plus loin quelques perspectives.
- La connaissance du texte (prise ici dans son sens le plus large) est, à l’inverse de
la précédente, alimentée par de multiples traditions scientifiques, d’ordre essentiellement linguistique et littéraire. De la stylistique à l’herméneutique, le bagage est écrasant. Mais il porte plus que nul autre la marque de la dichotomie savoirs-habiletés.
Constitué « en lui-même et pour lui-même » (pour paraphraser Saussure), son apport
praxéologique demeure très incertain et sa légitimité auprès des professionnels plus
faible encore. Dans les faits, l’essentiel des connaissances sur le texte, telles qu’on les
retrouve dans les manuels, n’a pas vraiment d’origine savante. Il revient à une description normative, voire péremptoire, des formes usuellement pratiquées, dont les
perspectives de développement conceptuel, de même que l’adaptabilité au réel qu’elles confèrent aux étudiants, paraissent infimes. Globalement, les connaissances sur le
texte issues de la communauté savante (dénotation et connotation, morphème et
lexème, métonymie et synecdoque…) et celles construites par les diverses traditions
professionnelles (genres) possèdent une même limite fondamentale. Fondées sur un
En effet, tandis que la seconde ne porte que sur les effets, la première touche aux
causes. Or, la distinction Savoir — Savoir-faire ne permet pas à elle seule de rendre
compte des problèmes évoqués par ces deux responsables : ce dont ils parlent, en
évoquant les « critères d’appréciation » ou l’« adaptabilité (…) aux lecteurs », transcende manifestement cette distinction.
Une autre façon de cerner les connaissances techniquement pertinentes peut être
de partir des trois grandes articulations traditionnelles : le rédacteur, le document, le
lecteur, auxquelles on ajoutera, pour mémoire, le contexte6. Ce schéma, précisons-le
au passage, n’est pas l’apanage du modèle mécanique de Shannon (soit, pour simplifier : émetteur-message-récepteur) ; on pourrait le faire remonter à la division classique des modalités de l’éloquence (ethos-logos-pathos). Discutable à certains égards,
il est pratique ici pour cerner trois grands objets de connaissance, dont chacun associe savoir et savoir-faire (étant bien entendu que, dans la réalité, chacun de ces objets
est étroitement imbriqué avec les autres et avec le contexte).
- La connaissance du rédacteur (ou du processus rédactionnel), malgré son importance évidente, est longtemps restée en friche. L’essentiel des discours à son propos tenait de l’invocation de l’expérience commune (« Les professionnels veillent toujours à… »), de l’exemple des maîtres (« Flaubert avait l’habitude de … ») ou de remarques pratiques (trucs contre l’angoisse de la page blanche, etc.), auxquelles s’ajoutaient parfois des extrapolations extra-scientifiques, librement inspirées de travaux
scientifiques (Cerveau droit-cerveau gauche, etc.). Toutefois, cette thématique bénéficie, depuis peu d’années, d’un remarquable développement scientifique au sein des
sciences cognitives, qui pourrait conduire à une nouvelle approche de cette question
dans notre champ. Nous en évoquerons plus loin quelques perspectives.
- La connaissance du texte (prise ici dans son sens le plus large) est, à l’inverse de
la précédente, alimentée par de multiples traditions scientifiques, d’ordre essentiellement linguistique et littéraire. De la stylistique à l’herméneutique, le bagage est écrasant. Mais il porte plus que nul autre la marque de la dichotomie savoirs-habiletés.
Constitué « en lui-même et pour lui-même » (pour paraphraser Saussure), son apport
praxéologique demeure très incertain et sa légitimité auprès des professionnels plus
faible encore. Dans les faits, l’essentiel des connaissances sur le texte, telles qu’on les
retrouve dans les manuels, n’a pas vraiment d’origine savante. Il revient à une description normative, voire péremptoire, des formes usuellement pratiquées, dont les
perspectives de développement conceptuel, de même que l’adaptabilité au réel qu’elles confèrent aux étudiants, paraissent infimes. Globalement, les connaissances sur le
texte issues de la communauté savante (dénotation et connotation, morphème et
lexème, métonymie et synecdoque…) et celles construites par les diverses traditions
professionnelles (genres) possèdent une même limite fondamentale. Fondées sur un
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constat a posteriori (le discours tel qu’il a été produit), elles ne peuvent, par définition,
décrire ou expliquer qu’à rebours. Même si les unes et les autres ne sauraient évidemment pas être négligées (au delà du fait qu’elles permettent à toutes sortes d’enseignants de remplir facilement de nombreuses heures de cours…), ce n’est peut être
pas là que la méthodologie de la rédaction trouvera ses perspectives spécifiques de
renouveau et d’approfondissement les plus prometteuses. Même les genres et les formes établis par la pratique ne semblent, bien souvent, enseignés que faute de mieux :
constat a posteriori (le discours tel qu’il a été produit), elles ne peuvent, par définition,
décrire ou expliquer qu’à rebours. Même si les unes et les autres ne sauraient évidemment pas être négligées (au delà du fait qu’elles permettent à toutes sortes d’enseignants de remplir facilement de nombreuses heures de cours…), ce n’est peut être
pas là que la méthodologie de la rédaction trouvera ses perspectives spécifiques de
renouveau et d’approfondissement les plus prometteuses. Même les genres et les formes établis par la pratique ne semblent, bien souvent, enseignés que faute de mieux :
In journalism programs students work primarily with the simplest, most
formulaic forms of writing, forms most of their professors haven’t used
for years and, if truth be told, have no great desire to use again. (Stephens,
op. cit.)
In journalism programs students work primarily with the simplest, most
formulaic forms of writing, forms most of their professors haven’t used
for years and, if truth be told, have no great desire to use again. (Stephens,
op. cit.)
- La connaissance du lecteur, enfin, jouit d’un statut particulier. Elle ne se contente pas d’être nécessaire à la rédaction appliquée, elle la fonde, à la fois en théorie et
dans les faits. En théorie, elle définit un centrage distinct de celui de l’apprentissage
scolaire de l’expression, en permettant à la maîtrise de la relation communicative de
succéder naturellement à la maîtrise de la langue7. Dans les faits, elle constitue le
principal point de convergence que nous avons pu observer en étudiant 50 manuels
de rédaction appliquée (journalistique, scientifique, commerciale et généraliste) issus de six pays8 et en particulier le seul qui, au sein de ce corpus, ne soit contesté par
absolument aucun auteur. Le message essentiel de ce champ — quel que soit le domaine d’application considéré — est bien : « écrivez pour votre lecteur ». Ce point est
notamment confirmé par une analyse bibliométrique : les auteurs les plus cités dans
ces manuels sont précisément ceux qui ont le plus tenté de développer cet aspect. Il
n’en est que plus frappant de constater que les connaissances qui seraient nécessaires
pour tirer vraiment les conséquences de ce paradigme sont globalement très défaillantes : que peut-on dire de sérieux une fois qu’on a énoncé ce principe ? Les indications
données sur le vocabulaire moyen du lecteur (à supposer que cette notion ait un sens)
sous-estiment généralement ce vocabulaire d’un facteur dix, soit une évaluation courante de 1 500 à 3 000 mots contre un minimum probable de 20 000 mots dans la
réalité (Labasse, 2001). Les fondements et les limites des facteurs de « lisibilité »
(Labasse, 1999) sont méconnus ou mécompris par la très grande majorité des auteurs
qui se réfèrent à cette notion (mais pas par tous) et les connaissances scientifiques
actuelles sur les processus de lecture et de compréhension ne sont prises en compte
dans aucun des ouvrages examinés9.
- La connaissance du lecteur, enfin, jouit d’un statut particulier. Elle ne se contente pas d’être nécessaire à la rédaction appliquée, elle la fonde, à la fois en théorie et
dans les faits. En théorie, elle définit un centrage distinct de celui de l’apprentissage
scolaire de l’expression, en permettant à la maîtrise de la relation communicative de
succéder naturellement à la maîtrise de la langue7. Dans les faits, elle constitue le
principal point de convergence que nous avons pu observer en étudiant 50 manuels
de rédaction appliquée (journalistique, scientifique, commerciale et généraliste) issus de six pays8 et en particulier le seul qui, au sein de ce corpus, ne soit contesté par
absolument aucun auteur. Le message essentiel de ce champ — quel que soit le domaine d’application considéré — est bien : « écrivez pour votre lecteur ». Ce point est
notamment confirmé par une analyse bibliométrique : les auteurs les plus cités dans
ces manuels sont précisément ceux qui ont le plus tenté de développer cet aspect. Il
n’en est que plus frappant de constater que les connaissances qui seraient nécessaires
pour tirer vraiment les conséquences de ce paradigme sont globalement très défaillantes : que peut-on dire de sérieux une fois qu’on a énoncé ce principe ? Les indications
données sur le vocabulaire moyen du lecteur (à supposer que cette notion ait un sens)
sous-estiment généralement ce vocabulaire d’un facteur dix, soit une évaluation courante de 1 500 à 3 000 mots contre un minimum probable de 20 000 mots dans la
réalité (Labasse, 2001). Les fondements et les limites des facteurs de « lisibilité »
(Labasse, 1999) sont méconnus ou mécompris par la très grande majorité des auteurs
qui se réfèrent à cette notion (mais pas par tous) et les connaissances scientifiques
actuelles sur les processus de lecture et de compréhension ne sont prises en compte
dans aucun des ouvrages examinés9.
104
104
5. L’expertise en action : que savons-nous de la rédaction ?
5. L’expertise en action : que savons-nous de la rédaction ?
L’approche cognitiviste de l’expertise repose sur une définition de cette notion
discutable en soi mais très fonctionnelle : dans son cadre, l’expert est celui qui, pour
une tâche donnée, réalise des performances supérieures à celle d’une personne ordinaire, ou, a fortiori, d’un novice. A ce prix, les travaux menés depuis la fin des années
60, d’abord sur les performances au jeu d’échec (Chase & Simon, 1973) puis dans un
nombre croissant d’autres situations ont permis de définir diverses caractéristiques
de l’« expertise » qui paraissent relativement constantes d’un domaine à l’autre (Glaser & Chi, 1988).
Les recherches expérimentales consacrées à l’expertise rédactionnelle, plus récentes encore, s’inscrivent donc dans cette ligne, qui, passant de l’intelligence artificielle au jeu d’échec, ne doit épistémologiquement pas grand-chose aux spécialistes
(académiques ou praticiens) de la rédaction. Mais elles compensent cette petite humiliation en leur apportant beaucoup. « Les données recueillies au cours de la dernière
décennie rendent possible un abord renouvelé de la production verbale en général, et de
la modalité écrite en particulier. » (Fayol, 1997 p. 2). Dans la mesure où l’on dispose
aujourd’hui d’excellentes synthèses de ces apports (voir notamment, Levy & Ransdell,
1996, Piolat & Pelissier, 1998), nous n’en présenterons que quelques points saillants.
L’une des principales différences entre « experts » et novices paraît résider dans
le fait que les premiers consacrent un temps important à analyser a priori les difficultés qu’ils vont avoir à résoudre, tandis que les novices tendent à réduire cette phase de
préparation et à tenter d’écrire très rapidement. La première attitude peut être décrite
comme une « problem solving approach » et la seconde (parce qu’elle revient à concevoir chaque phrase en fonction de la phrase précédente, et non d’une vision globale
du texte) comme une « what’s next strategy » (Jeffery & Underwood, 1995). Cette différence ne réside pas nécessairement sur la production d’un plan formel (Hayes &
Nash, 1996) mais plus globalement dans une attitude de recul réflexif, tandis que les
novices « write their texts as a sequence of ideas generated from memory using the provided
title and their most recently generated idea as cues. » (Ericsson & Kinsch, 1995). Ce
point a conduit à constater une particularité intéressante de l’expertise rédactionnelle. Alors que dans tous les domaines d’expertise on a constaté qu’un expert se
montrait toujours plus rapide qu’une personne ordinaire (Glaser & Chi, op. cit) les
« rédacteurs experts » sont souvent plus lents que les autres (Scardamalia & Bereiter,
1991). Ce point n’est surprenant qu’en apparence : cette différence découle logiquement du fait qu’un bon texte demande toujours plus de temps (si l’on voulait raisonner à qualité égale, les novices devraient probablement réécrire leur premier jet, et
mettraient donc in fine plus de temps que les experts).
L’approche cognitiviste de l’expertise repose sur une définition de cette notion
discutable en soi mais très fonctionnelle : dans son cadre, l’expert est celui qui, pour
une tâche donnée, réalise des performances supérieures à celle d’une personne ordinaire, ou, a fortiori, d’un novice. A ce prix, les travaux menés depuis la fin des années
60, d’abord sur les performances au jeu d’échec (Chase & Simon, 1973) puis dans un
nombre croissant d’autres situations ont permis de définir diverses caractéristiques
de l’« expertise » qui paraissent relativement constantes d’un domaine à l’autre (Glaser & Chi, 1988).
Les recherches expérimentales consacrées à l’expertise rédactionnelle, plus récentes encore, s’inscrivent donc dans cette ligne, qui, passant de l’intelligence artificielle au jeu d’échec, ne doit épistémologiquement pas grand-chose aux spécialistes
(académiques ou praticiens) de la rédaction. Mais elles compensent cette petite humiliation en leur apportant beaucoup. « Les données recueillies au cours de la dernière
décennie rendent possible un abord renouvelé de la production verbale en général, et de
la modalité écrite en particulier. » (Fayol, 1997 p. 2). Dans la mesure où l’on dispose
aujourd’hui d’excellentes synthèses de ces apports (voir notamment, Levy & Ransdell,
1996, Piolat & Pelissier, 1998), nous n’en présenterons que quelques points saillants.
L’une des principales différences entre « experts » et novices paraît résider dans
le fait que les premiers consacrent un temps important à analyser a priori les difficultés qu’ils vont avoir à résoudre, tandis que les novices tendent à réduire cette phase de
préparation et à tenter d’écrire très rapidement. La première attitude peut être décrite
comme une « problem solving approach » et la seconde (parce qu’elle revient à concevoir chaque phrase en fonction de la phrase précédente, et non d’une vision globale
du texte) comme une « what’s next strategy » (Jeffery & Underwood, 1995). Cette différence ne réside pas nécessairement sur la production d’un plan formel (Hayes &
Nash, 1996) mais plus globalement dans une attitude de recul réflexif, tandis que les
novices « write their texts as a sequence of ideas generated from memory using the provided
title and their most recently generated idea as cues. » (Ericsson & Kinsch, 1995). Ce
point a conduit à constater une particularité intéressante de l’expertise rédactionnelle. Alors que dans tous les domaines d’expertise on a constaté qu’un expert se
montrait toujours plus rapide qu’une personne ordinaire (Glaser & Chi, op. cit) les
« rédacteurs experts » sont souvent plus lents que les autres (Scardamalia & Bereiter,
1991). Ce point n’est surprenant qu’en apparence : cette différence découle logiquement du fait qu’un bon texte demande toujours plus de temps (si l’on voulait raisonner à qualité égale, les novices devraient probablement réécrire leur premier jet, et
mettraient donc in fine plus de temps que les experts).
Bertrand Labasse
105
Pour le reste, les diverses caractéristiques décrites par Glaser & Chi (op. cit.)
pour l’expertise en général s’appliquent bien au cas de la rédaction, en particulier :
Bertrand Labasse
105
Pour le reste, les diverses caractéristiques décrites par Glaser & Chi (op. cit.)
pour l’expertise en général s’appliquent bien au cas de la rédaction, en particulier :
- Les experts utilisent mieux leur mémoire, notamment parce que l’automatisation de certains processus cognitifs simples leur permet de la consacrer à des aspects plus ardus de leur tâche ;
- Les experts utilisent mieux leur mémoire, notamment parce que l’automatisation de certains processus cognitifs simples leur permet de la consacrer à des aspects plus ardus de leur tâche ;
- Les experts perçoivent les problèmes qu’ils rencontrent de façon moins
superficielle que les novices ; Ils distinguent plus facilement des schémas
généraux (patterns) significatifs leur permettant d’orienter leur tâche ;
- Les experts perçoivent les problèmes qu’ils rencontrent de façon moins
superficielle que les novices ; Ils distinguent plus facilement des schémas
généraux (patterns) significatifs leur permettant d’orienter leur tâche ;
- Les experts ont une forte capacité à s’auto-contrôler (« self monitoring
skill ») tant en termes d’évaluation de leurs stratégies au cours de la tâche (métacognition) que de révision du travail réalisé.
- Les experts ont une forte capacité à s’auto-contrôler (« self monitoring
skill ») tant en termes d’évaluation de leurs stratégies au cours de la tâche (métacognition) que de révision du travail réalisé.
Pour en revenir aux recherches en rédaction stricto sensu, on soulignera aussi
que les rédacteurs experts tendent à réorganiser et transformer ce qu’ils ont appris de
leur sujet dans le but de l’adapter à leurs destinataires, tandis que les novices ont plus
tendance à reproduire ces informations dans l’ordre ou elles se présentent à eux
(Bereiter & Scardamalia, 1987). Plus globalement, l’« expertise » en rédaction — dans
son sens cognitif — apparaît comme très liée à la volonté du rédacteur : réflexion
préalable, gestion du texte, révision, etc. Le rédacteur expert doit ses performances à
ses efforts constants. Cette idée peut sembler décourageante à première vue (à quoi
bon apprendre, si ça ne permet pas de moins peiner), mais elle permet, d’un autre
côté, de dissiper le défaitisme de bien des étudiants : on a en effet montré que ceux
qui perçoivent le talent comme un don qui leur échappe ont plus d’anxiété que les
autres et sont moins susceptibles de progresser (Hayes, 1998).
Ces quelques indications ne sont présentées — très schématiquement — ici que
pour illustrer l’une des voies qui se sont ouvertes au champ des techniques rédactionnelles. On notera par exemple que l’accent mis sur les processus métacognitifs est en
très bon accord avec la définition de la rédaction donnée par Beaudet (voir supra), de
même qu’avec l’importance du travail de réflexion préalable, que la plupart des enseignants prêchent en vain10. Même le fait de recycler dans la rédaction une approche
des processus cognitifs plus ou moins tirée du jeu d’échec (aligner des phrases au
hasard serait équivalent à pousser des pièces au hasard) réveille d’anciens échos : « le
style doit ressembler à ces fins savantes de parties d’échecs, où, à compter d’un certain
moment, tous les coups sont prévus » écrivait Rondelet en 1877 (p. 403).
Pour en revenir aux recherches en rédaction stricto sensu, on soulignera aussi
que les rédacteurs experts tendent à réorganiser et transformer ce qu’ils ont appris de
leur sujet dans le but de l’adapter à leurs destinataires, tandis que les novices ont plus
tendance à reproduire ces informations dans l’ordre ou elles se présentent à eux
(Bereiter & Scardamalia, 1987). Plus globalement, l’« expertise » en rédaction — dans
son sens cognitif — apparaît comme très liée à la volonté du rédacteur : réflexion
préalable, gestion du texte, révision, etc. Le rédacteur expert doit ses performances à
ses efforts constants. Cette idée peut sembler décourageante à première vue (à quoi
bon apprendre, si ça ne permet pas de moins peiner), mais elle permet, d’un autre
côté, de dissiper le défaitisme de bien des étudiants : on a en effet montré que ceux
qui perçoivent le talent comme un don qui leur échappe ont plus d’anxiété que les
autres et sont moins susceptibles de progresser (Hayes, 1998).
Ces quelques indications ne sont présentées — très schématiquement — ici que
pour illustrer l’une des voies qui se sont ouvertes au champ des techniques rédactionnelles. On notera par exemple que l’accent mis sur les processus métacognitifs est en
très bon accord avec la définition de la rédaction donnée par Beaudet (voir supra), de
même qu’avec l’importance du travail de réflexion préalable, que la plupart des enseignants prêchent en vain10. Même le fait de recycler dans la rédaction une approche
des processus cognitifs plus ou moins tirée du jeu d’échec (aligner des phrases au
hasard serait équivalent à pousser des pièces au hasard) réveille d’anciens échos : « le
style doit ressembler à ces fins savantes de parties d’échecs, où, à compter d’un certain
moment, tous les coups sont prévus » écrivait Rondelet en 1877 (p. 403).
106
106
Plus généralement, ces travaux, que les spécialistes de la rédaction appliquée semblent globalement négliger11 (à l’instar des données et modèles actuels sur les processus de lecture, aucun des ouvrages que nous avons analysés ou simplement consultés
ne paraît avoir eu connaissance des recherches sur les processus rédactionnels) illustrent assez bien ce que l’on peut entendre comme des connaissances pertinentes dans
ce champ. Elles sont d’une part, épistémologiquement fondées12 et scientifiquement
fécondes et, d’autre part, riches d’implications directes sur la pratique et son enseignement. L’un de leurs apports les plus immédiats est en effet de donner une prise
plus solide, permettant de réaborder de nombreux préceptes traditionnels afin de les
conforter et de les affiner ou, selon les cas, de les invalider. Elles permettent, en un
mot, de distinguer ce qui peut effectivement constituer un « savoir » en rédactique de
ce qui n’est qu’une recette (sans pour autant sombrer dans un positivisme abusif).
D’un point de vue pédagogique, leur intérêt est double. Le premier profit est de l’ordre de la démonstration. Comme on l’a remarqué plus haut13 l’expertise est également une qualité socialement négociée, et l’est en particulier entre l’enseignant et ses
étudiants. Or, la rédaction est un domaine où la démonstration de la valeur des règles
est essentielle : face à la résistance des habitudes, à la tentation de faire au plus simple
et à la conviction d’en savoir assez sur ce qu’il faut faire (après tout, un étudiant d’université a déjà passé une bonne dizaine d’années à produire des textes, en français mais
aussi en histoire, géographie, etc.), les conseils des enseignants sont souvent entendus
d’une oreille d’autant plus distraite que les notes portent sur le résultat et non sur la
méthode utilisée. Le cas des étapes préparatoires à l’écriture en est un bon exemple :
l’importance de celles-ci est attestée par deux millénaires de préceptes catégoriques,
de la rhétorique antique (qui accordait autant d’importance à l’inventio et la dispositio,
qu’à l’elocutio) aux auteurs modernes14, en passant par une cohorte d’autres, tels que
Buffon15 ou Boileau16. Mais malgré le poids de cette doctrine, et les exhortations des
enseignants, il est manifeste que beaucoup d’étudiants tendent à réduire ce pénible
travail de structuration préalable et à fuir dans l’écriture, espérant trouver au fil des
phrases des solutions aux problèmes conceptuels qu’ils pressentent. Ainsi, le fait de
pouvoir s’appuyer sur des études expérimentales convaincantes, qui démontrent un
lien direct entre la qualité des textes et le soin accordé à leur préparation/planification
apporte-t-il une puissante aide didactique : la question n’est plus de croire ou non à
la conviction personnelle de son professeur mais de choisir son camp entre « experts »
et « novices ». Bien d’autres résultats des recherches sur les processus rédactionnels
gagneraient, de même, à être communiqués aux étudiants. Le second ordre d’intérêt
pédagogique de ces travaux concerne surtout les enseignants eux-mêmes, en suggérant d’accorder une plus grande attention à des aspects souvent mal pris en compte.
On peut mentionner à titre d’exemple la question du rapport entre les opinions des
Plus généralement, ces travaux, que les spécialistes de la rédaction appliquée semblent globalement négliger11 (à l’instar des données et modèles actuels sur les processus de lecture, aucun des ouvrages que nous avons analysés ou simplement consultés
ne paraît avoir eu connaissance des recherches sur les processus rédactionnels) illustrent assez bien ce que l’on peut entendre comme des connaissances pertinentes dans
ce champ. Elles sont d’une part, épistémologiquement fondées12 et scientifiquement
fécondes et, d’autre part, riches d’implications directes sur la pratique et son enseignement. L’un de leurs apports les plus immédiats est en effet de donner une prise
plus solide, permettant de réaborder de nombreux préceptes traditionnels afin de les
conforter et de les affiner ou, selon les cas, de les invalider. Elles permettent, en un
mot, de distinguer ce qui peut effectivement constituer un « savoir » en rédactique de
ce qui n’est qu’une recette (sans pour autant sombrer dans un positivisme abusif).
D’un point de vue pédagogique, leur intérêt est double. Le premier profit est de l’ordre de la démonstration. Comme on l’a remarqué plus haut13 l’expertise est également une qualité socialement négociée, et l’est en particulier entre l’enseignant et ses
étudiants. Or, la rédaction est un domaine où la démonstration de la valeur des règles
est essentielle : face à la résistance des habitudes, à la tentation de faire au plus simple
et à la conviction d’en savoir assez sur ce qu’il faut faire (après tout, un étudiant d’université a déjà passé une bonne dizaine d’années à produire des textes, en français mais
aussi en histoire, géographie, etc.), les conseils des enseignants sont souvent entendus
d’une oreille d’autant plus distraite que les notes portent sur le résultat et non sur la
méthode utilisée. Le cas des étapes préparatoires à l’écriture en est un bon exemple :
l’importance de celles-ci est attestée par deux millénaires de préceptes catégoriques,
de la rhétorique antique (qui accordait autant d’importance à l’inventio et la dispositio,
qu’à l’elocutio) aux auteurs modernes14, en passant par une cohorte d’autres, tels que
Buffon15 ou Boileau16. Mais malgré le poids de cette doctrine, et les exhortations des
enseignants, il est manifeste que beaucoup d’étudiants tendent à réduire ce pénible
travail de structuration préalable et à fuir dans l’écriture, espérant trouver au fil des
phrases des solutions aux problèmes conceptuels qu’ils pressentent. Ainsi, le fait de
pouvoir s’appuyer sur des études expérimentales convaincantes, qui démontrent un
lien direct entre la qualité des textes et le soin accordé à leur préparation/planification
apporte-t-il une puissante aide didactique : la question n’est plus de croire ou non à
la conviction personnelle de son professeur mais de choisir son camp entre « experts »
et « novices ». Bien d’autres résultats des recherches sur les processus rédactionnels
gagneraient, de même, à être communiqués aux étudiants. Le second ordre d’intérêt
pédagogique de ces travaux concerne surtout les enseignants eux-mêmes, en suggérant d’accorder une plus grande attention à des aspects souvent mal pris en compte.
On peut mentionner à titre d’exemple la question du rapport entre les opinions des
Bertrand Labasse
107
Bertrand Labasse
107
étudiants sur les facteurs de qualité rédactionnelle (effort individuel ou talent « naturel » ?) et la qualité effective de leur production : dès lors qu’il existe un lien entre les
deux, travailler sur ces opinions — en s’inspirant éventuellement du référentiel de
locus de contrôle de Rotter (1966) — pourrait permettre in fine d’améliorer cette production. On pourrait aussi évoquer les capacités d’autocontrôle et de révision des
textes, qui peuvent notamment être approfondies en affinant la méthode d’évaluation des exercices (c’est à dire en notant séparément des facteurs précis plutôt que
d’attribuer une note globale).
Sans plus développer les perspectives ouvertes par la psychologie de la rédaction,
dont beaucoup sont de fait empruntées par les enseignants (mais plutôt de façon
empirique que dans le cadre d’un système cohérent), il faut souligner que ces travaux,
si importants soient-ils, ne constituent pas pour autant un « prêt-à-penser » pour les
sphères (praticiennes et académiques) concernées par la rédaction appliquée. Nous
avons déjà souligné que la notion d’« expertise » telle qu’elle est employée ici est assez
discutable. Mais derrière ce problème de définition se pose celui, plus fondamental,
de la représentativité de ces diverses recherches en conditions effectives, notamment
post-scolaires : « Existing studies of expertise do not address the organisational context,
in fact, some studies argue that the present standing of expertise research seems more
concerned with measuring skilled behaviour than the complexity of ‘true’ expertise. »
(King, 1996). Un beau chantier s’ouvre donc aux spécialistes de la rédaction pour
adapter, valider et prolonger ces indications en fonction de leurs propres connaissances, de leurs propres questionnements, et des pratiques réelles des professionnels.
Cet exemple représente l’une des deux grandes approches qui se proposent à la
(ou aux) communauté(s) des spécialistes de la rédaction : elle part de propositions
épistémologiquement légitimées pour étudier leur perspectives de transposition en
propositions praxéologiquement légitimes. Une démarche du même type s’impose
pour d’autres apports contemporains, en particulier, nous l’avons dit, ceux qui concernent les processus cognitifs liés à la lecture et la compréhension des textes. Mais
qu’il s’agisse du rédacteur ou du lecteur, une grande vigilance s’impose pour éviter de
transformer des notions scientifiques en prescriptions pseudo-scientifiques (le cas
n’est pas rare en matière de communication, où même l’application de savoirs d’origine linguistique ou sociologique aboutit parfois à des affirmations discutables).
La seconde famille d’approches explore également le rapport entre savoirs et
pratiques, mais en prenant le problème dans l’autre sens. Il s’agit, dans ce cas, de
partir de propositions praxéologiquement légitimées — c’est à dire des préceptes techniques — pour étudier dans quelle mesure elles sont épistémologiquement (et
didactiquement) légitimes. Elle est toute aussi importante que la première, mais n’est
pas plus confortable, car le risque est, lui aussi, inversé. Si le terrain est scientifique-
étudiants sur les facteurs de qualité rédactionnelle (effort individuel ou talent « naturel » ?) et la qualité effective de leur production : dès lors qu’il existe un lien entre les
deux, travailler sur ces opinions — en s’inspirant éventuellement du référentiel de
locus de contrôle de Rotter (1966) — pourrait permettre in fine d’améliorer cette production. On pourrait aussi évoquer les capacités d’autocontrôle et de révision des
textes, qui peuvent notamment être approfondies en affinant la méthode d’évaluation des exercices (c’est à dire en notant séparément des facteurs précis plutôt que
d’attribuer une note globale).
Sans plus développer les perspectives ouvertes par la psychologie de la rédaction,
dont beaucoup sont de fait empruntées par les enseignants (mais plutôt de façon
empirique que dans le cadre d’un système cohérent), il faut souligner que ces travaux,
si importants soient-ils, ne constituent pas pour autant un « prêt-à-penser » pour les
sphères (praticiennes et académiques) concernées par la rédaction appliquée. Nous
avons déjà souligné que la notion d’« expertise » telle qu’elle est employée ici est assez
discutable. Mais derrière ce problème de définition se pose celui, plus fondamental,
de la représentativité de ces diverses recherches en conditions effectives, notamment
post-scolaires : « Existing studies of expertise do not address the organisational context,
in fact, some studies argue that the present standing of expertise research seems more
concerned with measuring skilled behaviour than the complexity of ‘true’ expertise. »
(King, 1996). Un beau chantier s’ouvre donc aux spécialistes de la rédaction pour
adapter, valider et prolonger ces indications en fonction de leurs propres connaissances, de leurs propres questionnements, et des pratiques réelles des professionnels.
Cet exemple représente l’une des deux grandes approches qui se proposent à la
(ou aux) communauté(s) des spécialistes de la rédaction : elle part de propositions
épistémologiquement légitimées pour étudier leur perspectives de transposition en
propositions praxéologiquement légitimes. Une démarche du même type s’impose
pour d’autres apports contemporains, en particulier, nous l’avons dit, ceux qui concernent les processus cognitifs liés à la lecture et la compréhension des textes. Mais
qu’il s’agisse du rédacteur ou du lecteur, une grande vigilance s’impose pour éviter de
transformer des notions scientifiques en prescriptions pseudo-scientifiques (le cas
n’est pas rare en matière de communication, où même l’application de savoirs d’origine linguistique ou sociologique aboutit parfois à des affirmations discutables).
La seconde famille d’approches explore également le rapport entre savoirs et
pratiques, mais en prenant le problème dans l’autre sens. Il s’agit, dans ce cas, de
partir de propositions praxéologiquement légitimées — c’est à dire des préceptes techniques — pour étudier dans quelle mesure elles sont épistémologiquement (et
didactiquement) légitimes. Elle est toute aussi importante que la première, mais n’est
pas plus confortable, car le risque est, lui aussi, inversé. Si le terrain est scientifique-
108
108
ment un peu plus sûr (on se rapproche des données scientifiques disponibles au lieu
de s’en éloigner), les conséquences praxéologiques sont infiniment moins flatteuses.
Au lieu d’apporter au champ de la rédaction les mille trésors que peuvent lui prodiguer d’autres disciplines, cette démarche conduit à réexaminer ses propres « acquis »,
au risque de paraître jouer contre son camp. Nous n’en affirmons pas moins que ce
travail d’inventaire est à terme fécond, et en tout état de cause indispensable si l’on
veut que ce domaine puisse se développer sur des bases sérieuses et mieux cerner les
problèmes qu’il a à résoudre.
Pour évaluer les préceptes de la rédactique, il faut d’abord les identifier comme
tels. En effet, au delà du paradigme central de rétro-orientation (écrire pour son lecteur et en fonction de lui), ce domaine n’a pas une cohérence telle que l’on puisse
décliner sans hésitation ses « acquis » majeurs. Au cours de l’étude de corpus évoquée
plus haut, nous avons notamment recherché des universaux17, c’est à dire des notions
ou des conseils formalisés revenant avec une fréquence suffisante d’un auteur à l’autre
pour que l’on puisse réellement les considérer comme des connaissances « déclaratives » de ce champ, au sens indiqué plus haut. Ce travail exploratoire ne saurait naturellement remplacer l’effort qu’il reste collectivement à accomplir à un plus grande
échelle pour structurer ce domaine. Il suggère néanmoins que cette évolution ne sera
pas indolore. Il se pourrait en effet, que certains des préceptes les plus répandus ne
résistent pas à un réexamen systématique ou, en tout cas, s’en trouvent substantiellement amendés.
A titre d’exemple, nous nous sommes intéressé à un bon candidat au statut de
« connaissance déclarative », que l’on pourrait appeler le principe de préséance de l’essentiel (Labasse, à paraître18). Il constitue en effet l’une des rares doctrines qui soit
très largement répandue dans les cours et les manuels de rédaction, et dont les contenus soient relativement formalisés. Si le principe de fond — « dire d’abord l’important » — est plutôt général, son développement associe deux points assez bien définis : le lead en 5W (ou summary lead) et la construction en pyramide inversée. Le fait
que ces deux appellations19 ne soient pas, en elles-mêmes, parlantes pour un néophyte suggère qu’il s’agit bien d’éléments d’expertise, susceptibles d’être enseignés :
elles tiennent simultanément du déclaratif (savoir) et du procédural (savoir-faire).
Or, pour résumer, ces règles apparaissent comme assez mal fondées en l’état. D’un
point de vue historique, leur genèse n’est pas celle que l’on répète généralement. D’un
point de vue didactique, elles tendent à conduire les rédacteurs à une surcharge cognitive et à des biais de présentation considérables. D’un point de vue conceptuel, les
variations, voire les contradictions que l’on peut relever à leur propos d’un auteur à
l’autre montrent qu’elles sont très loin d’être claires et univoques. D’un point de vue
informationnel, elles constituent une stratégie très discutable face aux contraintes
ment un peu plus sûr (on se rapproche des données scientifiques disponibles au lieu
de s’en éloigner), les conséquences praxéologiques sont infiniment moins flatteuses.
Au lieu d’apporter au champ de la rédaction les mille trésors que peuvent lui prodiguer d’autres disciplines, cette démarche conduit à réexaminer ses propres « acquis »,
au risque de paraître jouer contre son camp. Nous n’en affirmons pas moins que ce
travail d’inventaire est à terme fécond, et en tout état de cause indispensable si l’on
veut que ce domaine puisse se développer sur des bases sérieuses et mieux cerner les
problèmes qu’il a à résoudre.
Pour évaluer les préceptes de la rédactique, il faut d’abord les identifier comme
tels. En effet, au delà du paradigme central de rétro-orientation (écrire pour son lecteur et en fonction de lui), ce domaine n’a pas une cohérence telle que l’on puisse
décliner sans hésitation ses « acquis » majeurs. Au cours de l’étude de corpus évoquée
plus haut, nous avons notamment recherché des universaux17, c’est à dire des notions
ou des conseils formalisés revenant avec une fréquence suffisante d’un auteur à l’autre
pour que l’on puisse réellement les considérer comme des connaissances « déclaratives » de ce champ, au sens indiqué plus haut. Ce travail exploratoire ne saurait naturellement remplacer l’effort qu’il reste collectivement à accomplir à un plus grande
échelle pour structurer ce domaine. Il suggère néanmoins que cette évolution ne sera
pas indolore. Il se pourrait en effet, que certains des préceptes les plus répandus ne
résistent pas à un réexamen systématique ou, en tout cas, s’en trouvent substantiellement amendés.
A titre d’exemple, nous nous sommes intéressé à un bon candidat au statut de
« connaissance déclarative », que l’on pourrait appeler le principe de préséance de l’essentiel (Labasse, à paraître18). Il constitue en effet l’une des rares doctrines qui soit
très largement répandue dans les cours et les manuels de rédaction, et dont les contenus soient relativement formalisés. Si le principe de fond — « dire d’abord l’important » — est plutôt général, son développement associe deux points assez bien définis : le lead en 5W (ou summary lead) et la construction en pyramide inversée. Le fait
que ces deux appellations19 ne soient pas, en elles-mêmes, parlantes pour un néophyte suggère qu’il s’agit bien d’éléments d’expertise, susceptibles d’être enseignés :
elles tiennent simultanément du déclaratif (savoir) et du procédural (savoir-faire).
Or, pour résumer, ces règles apparaissent comme assez mal fondées en l’état. D’un
point de vue historique, leur genèse n’est pas celle que l’on répète généralement. D’un
point de vue didactique, elles tendent à conduire les rédacteurs à une surcharge cognitive et à des biais de présentation considérables. D’un point de vue conceptuel, les
variations, voire les contradictions que l’on peut relever à leur propos d’un auteur à
l’autre montrent qu’elles sont très loin d’être claires et univoques. D’un point de vue
informationnel, elles constituent une stratégie très discutable face aux contraintes
Bertrand Labasse
109
Bertrand Labasse
109
censées les justifier (la surabondance des messages et la concurrence entre eux). Enfin
et surtout, du point de vue fondamental du rapport au lecteur, elles reposent sur une
conception mécaniste des destinataires que contredisent clairement les avancées contemporaines en sciences cognitives. Ces remarques ne conduisent pas pour autant à
suggérer d’abandonner totalement le principe de préséance de l’essentiel, ni même
ses développements formalisés (summary lead et pyramide), mais elles confirment
que les préceptes dans ce domaine n’ont de sens et de valeur que dans le cadre d’une
connaissance sérieuse de leurs tenants et de leurs aboutissants. En un mot dans le
cadre d’une expertise réelle.
censées les justifier (la surabondance des messages et la concurrence entre eux). Enfin
et surtout, du point de vue fondamental du rapport au lecteur, elles reposent sur une
conception mécaniste des destinataires que contredisent clairement les avancées contemporaines en sciences cognitives. Ces remarques ne conduisent pas pour autant à
suggérer d’abandonner totalement le principe de préséance de l’essentiel, ni même
ses développements formalisés (summary lead et pyramide), mais elles confirment
que les préceptes dans ce domaine n’ont de sens et de valeur que dans le cadre d’une
connaissance sérieuse de leurs tenants et de leurs aboutissants. En un mot dans le
cadre d’une expertise réelle.
7. Conclusion
7. Conclusion
Quelques millénaires après avoir été mise en cause dans l’expertise qu’elle revendiquait, et alors que sa posture vis-à-vis de la sphère académique et du monde professionnel reste délicate, la méthodologie de la communication pourrait sembler dans
une impasse. Pourtant, l’une des plus anciennes analogies qui soient permet de penser que rien n’est moins vrai. Depuis Socrate et Aristote, en effet, ce domaine est
traditionnellement20 comparé à la médecine, autre domaine « appliqué » s’il en est.
La comparaison a rarement tourné à l’avantage du premier, mais elle mérite qu’on s’y
attarde. Qui n’a pas oublié les médecins de Molière notera que l’ « art de soigner »
n’est devenu ce qu’il est que lorsque la vaine description a posteriori des maladies a pu
s’appuyer sur la compréhension réelle des fondements de ces maladies, la biologie. La
biologie de la communication s’appelle psychologie, et elle l’a toujours accompagnée,
de la Rhétorique d’Aristote (qui est indiscutablement un traité de la psychologie de
l’éloquence) jusqu’à Flesch (« If you want to learn how to write, you need (…) scientific
data about the psychological effects of different styles. » ; 1949 p. 24) et Richaudeau.
Mais les innombrables tentatives de rapprocher l’une de l’autre se sont toujours heurtées à un double obstacle : parfois l’imprudence des auteurs, tirant des conclusions
audacieuses de travaux qui ne le permettaient pas, et, toujours, l’insuffisance des données et modèles scientifiques utilisés. La psychologie n’était pas assez mûre pour répondre aux besoins de la communication. Elle ne le sera probablement jamais si l’on
espère y trouver une source scientiste de recettes mécaniques. En revanche, elle le
devient assez pour offrir à la rédactique, domaine appliqué s’il en est, un référentiel
renouvelé lui permettant de reconsidérer ses savoirs et de les approfondir de façon
cohérente.
Dans cet article, nous avons défendu l’idée selon laquelle le développement de la
méthodologie de la rédaction appliquée ne pouvait esquiver plus longtemps un double examen systématique de la valeur épistémologique et praxéologique des connaissances qui la constituent ou pourraient la constituer (pour ne pas parler de leur va-
Quelques millénaires après avoir été mise en cause dans l’expertise qu’elle revendiquait, et alors que sa posture vis-à-vis de la sphère académique et du monde professionnel reste délicate, la méthodologie de la communication pourrait sembler dans
une impasse. Pourtant, l’une des plus anciennes analogies qui soient permet de penser que rien n’est moins vrai. Depuis Socrate et Aristote, en effet, ce domaine est
traditionnellement20 comparé à la médecine, autre domaine « appliqué » s’il en est.
La comparaison a rarement tourné à l’avantage du premier, mais elle mérite qu’on s’y
attarde. Qui n’a pas oublié les médecins de Molière notera que l’ « art de soigner »
n’est devenu ce qu’il est que lorsque la vaine description a posteriori des maladies a pu
s’appuyer sur la compréhension réelle des fondements de ces maladies, la biologie. La
biologie de la communication s’appelle psychologie, et elle l’a toujours accompagnée,
de la Rhétorique d’Aristote (qui est indiscutablement un traité de la psychologie de
l’éloquence) jusqu’à Flesch (« If you want to learn how to write, you need (…) scientific
data about the psychological effects of different styles. » ; 1949 p. 24) et Richaudeau.
Mais les innombrables tentatives de rapprocher l’une de l’autre se sont toujours heurtées à un double obstacle : parfois l’imprudence des auteurs, tirant des conclusions
audacieuses de travaux qui ne le permettaient pas, et, toujours, l’insuffisance des données et modèles scientifiques utilisés. La psychologie n’était pas assez mûre pour répondre aux besoins de la communication. Elle ne le sera probablement jamais si l’on
espère y trouver une source scientiste de recettes mécaniques. En revanche, elle le
devient assez pour offrir à la rédactique, domaine appliqué s’il en est, un référentiel
renouvelé lui permettant de reconsidérer ses savoirs et de les approfondir de façon
cohérente.
Dans cet article, nous avons défendu l’idée selon laquelle le développement de la
méthodologie de la rédaction appliquée ne pouvait esquiver plus longtemps un double examen systématique de la valeur épistémologique et praxéologique des connaissances qui la constituent ou pourraient la constituer (pour ne pas parler de leur va-
110
110
leur éthique21). Nous avons proposé, et sommairement illustré, deux types de démarches interrogeant l’une la théorie en fonction de la pratique, l’autre la pratique en
fonction de la théorie. Mais les exemples choisis — qui ne représentent qu’une petite
part des chantiers à ouvrir ou développer — posent beaucoup de questions et apportent peu de réponses. C’est là un heureux présage : la méthodologie de l’information
n’est certes pas une science, mais bien des disciplines constituées pourraient envier
les perspectives d’un domaine où tant reste à découvrir, à formaliser ou à comprendre. Peu de chercheurs ou d’enseignants ont aujourd’hui la chance de participer, peutêtre, à un événement rare dans l’histoire des sciences : la (re)naissance d’un champ de
connaissances.
leur éthique21). Nous avons proposé, et sommairement illustré, deux types de démarches interrogeant l’une la théorie en fonction de la pratique, l’autre la pratique en
fonction de la théorie. Mais les exemples choisis — qui ne représentent qu’une petite
part des chantiers à ouvrir ou développer — posent beaucoup de questions et apportent peu de réponses. C’est là un heureux présage : la méthodologie de l’information
n’est certes pas une science, mais bien des disciplines constituées pourraient envier
les perspectives d’un domaine où tant reste à découvrir, à formaliser ou à comprendre. Peu de chercheurs ou d’enseignants ont aujourd’hui la chance de participer, peutêtre, à un événement rare dans l’histoire des sciences : la (re)naissance d’un champ de
connaissances.
NOTES
NOTES
1
Nous nous inscrivons clairement à la suite de la proposition de Beaudet (1998) qui
— à l’encontre d’une tendance répandue mais portant à confusion — suggère
de distinguer de façon plus rigoureuse la rédaction en milieu de travail et la
rédaction en tant qu’activité principale, réservant à cette dernière l’appellation
de « rédaction professionnelle ». Un problème se pose toutefois pour désigner la
première, dans la mesure où l’une et l’autre sont «appliquées » et qu’elles peuvent toutes deux être (ou non) thématiquement « spécialisées », par exemple
consacrées à des thèmes scientifiques. En considérant que la rédaction en milieu de travail est, par définition, liée à l’exercice d’une fonction tierce, « rédaction fonctionnelle » pourrait convenir. Nous désignerons donc ici par « rédaction appliquée » — par opposition à la rédaction scolaire et à la rédaction littéraire — l’ensemble de cette matrice 2x2 (professionnelle - fonctionnelle / spécialisée — non spécialisée) qui nous semble assez bien rendre compte des divers
aspects du champ de la rédactique.
1
Nous nous inscrivons clairement à la suite de la proposition de Beaudet (1998) qui
— à l’encontre d’une tendance répandue mais portant à confusion — suggère
de distinguer de façon plus rigoureuse la rédaction en milieu de travail et la
rédaction en tant qu’activité principale, réservant à cette dernière l’appellation
de « rédaction professionnelle ». Un problème se pose toutefois pour désigner la
première, dans la mesure où l’une et l’autre sont «appliquées » et qu’elles peuvent toutes deux être (ou non) thématiquement « spécialisées », par exemple
consacrées à des thèmes scientifiques. En considérant que la rédaction en milieu de travail est, par définition, liée à l’exercice d’une fonction tierce, « rédaction fonctionnelle » pourrait convenir. Nous désignerons donc ici par « rédaction appliquée » — par opposition à la rédaction scolaire et à la rédaction littéraire — l’ensemble de cette matrice 2x2 (professionnelle - fonctionnelle / spécialisée — non spécialisée) qui nous semble assez bien rendre compte des divers
aspects du champ de la rédactique.
2
En France, elle est même la seule « spécialité » universitaire bénéficiant en tant que
telle d’un recrutement important d’enseignants titulaires (quantitativement plus
important que, par exemple, en astronomie-astrophysique) tout en étant dépourvue de formation doctorale, de société savante ou même d’équipe de recherche conséquente : si on la rapporte (toujours à titre d’exemple) à l’astronomie-astrophysique, la différence en termes de formations doctorales ou de budgets de recherche laisse songeur.
2
En France, elle est même la seule « spécialité » universitaire bénéficiant en tant que
telle d’un recrutement important d’enseignants titulaires (quantitativement plus
important que, par exemple, en astronomie-astrophysique) tout en étant dépourvue de formation doctorale, de société savante ou même d’équipe de recherche conséquente : si on la rapporte (toujours à titre d’exemple) à l’astronomie-astrophysique, la différence en termes de formations doctorales ou de budgets de recherche laisse songeur.
Bertrand Labasse
111
Bertrand Labasse
111
3
Il va sans dire que nous faisons ici abstraction des fins de la rhétorique (persuader)
pour n’en revendiquer que la tradition épistémologique, dont la portée est beaucoup plus large puisqu’elle embrasse toutes les formes de communication, y
compris le journalisme : «News writing must observe the rules of rhetoric» (Miller,
1940, p. 40)
3
Il va sans dire que nous faisons ici abstraction des fins de la rhétorique (persuader)
pour n’en revendiquer que la tradition épistémologique, dont la portée est beaucoup plus large puisqu’elle embrasse toutes les formes de communication, y
compris le journalisme : «News writing must observe the rules of rhetoric» (Miller,
1940, p. 40)
4
Note de J. Cousin in Institution Oratoire, op. cit. p.52
4
Note de J. Cousin in Institution Oratoire, op. cit. p.52
5
ou « qui, si nécessaires qu’elles soient, sont loin d’être en vedette », selon la traduction
de Cousin.
5
ou « qui, si nécessaires qu’elles soient, sont loin d’être en vedette », selon la traduction
de Cousin.
6
Rappelons que la connaissance du contexte (communicationnel, sociologique, éthique, économique) dans lequel s’inscrit tout projet d’écriture est évidemment
capital (de même, du reste, que les connaissances sur le fond ou la culture générale), mais que s’y attarder ici dépasserait notre objet. On soulignera simplement que tous ces apports sont, comme les autres, concernés par la double interrogation, épistémologique mais aussi praxéologique, qui, selon nous, conditionne la légitimité dans une perspective fonctionnelle ou professionnelle.
6
Rappelons que la connaissance du contexte (communicationnel, sociologique, éthique, économique) dans lequel s’inscrit tout projet d’écriture est évidemment
capital (de même, du reste, que les connaissances sur le fond ou la culture générale), mais que s’y attarder ici dépasserait notre objet. On soulignera simplement que tous ces apports sont, comme les autres, concernés par la double interrogation, épistémologique mais aussi praxéologique, qui, selon nous, conditionne la légitimité dans une perspective fonctionnelle ou professionnelle.
7
Par rapport au champ du français, celui de la rédactique présente en réalité trois
autres caractères : a) il n’est pas lié à la fiction littéraire ; b) il intervient après le
stade scolaire ; c) il est appliqué (professionnalisant). Mais seule la primauté
donnée à l’adéquation au destinataire — qui fait passer la pratique langagière
de l’expression à la communication — permet réellement de comprendre ses
spécificités, et elle suffit d’une certaine façon à le définir.
7
Par rapport au champ du français, celui de la rédactique présente en réalité trois
autres caractères : a) il n’est pas lié à la fiction littéraire ; b) il intervient après le
stade scolaire ; c) il est appliqué (professionnalisant). Mais seule la primauté
donnée à l’adéquation au destinataire — qui fait passer la pratique langagière
de l’expression à la communication — permet réellement de comprendre ses
spécificités, et elle suffit d’une certaine façon à le définir.
8
Belgique, Canada, France, Grande-Bretagne, États-Unis et Suisse.
8
Belgique, Canada, France, Grande-Bretagne, États-Unis et Suisse.
9
Dont certains, il est vrai, sont assez anciens. Il n’est pas interdit de penser que des
auteurs comme Richaudeau ou Flesch, s’ils écrivaient aujourd’hui, tenteraient
(à leur façon, peu orthodoxe mais du moins concrète), de tirer parti des travaux
de travaux majeurs en sciences cognitives tels que ceux de Kintsch ou de Johnson Laird. Il n’en reste pas moins que le fait que ces derniers semblent à peu près
ignorés dans ce champ, et en tout cas le sont de tous les manuels que nous avons
pu lire (n > 100), y compris de ceux retenus pour le corpus analysé (n = 50), en
dit long sur l’état actuel de la rédactique.
9
Dont certains, il est vrai, sont assez anciens. Il n’est pas interdit de penser que des
auteurs comme Richaudeau ou Flesch, s’ils écrivaient aujourd’hui, tenteraient
(à leur façon, peu orthodoxe mais du moins concrète), de tirer parti des travaux
de travaux majeurs en sciences cognitives tels que ceux de Kintsch ou de Johnson Laird. Il n’en reste pas moins que le fait que ces derniers semblent à peu près
ignorés dans ce champ, et en tout cas le sont de tous les manuels que nous avons
pu lire (n > 100), y compris de ceux retenus pour le corpus analysé (n = 50), en
dit long sur l’état actuel de la rédactique.
112
112
10
Ajoutons que nous y avons personnellement trouvé l’écho de la proposition empirique (non publiée, mais inlassablement répétée) selon laquelle « produire un
mauvais texte n’est jamais subi mais toujours accepté » : en plus d’une décennie
d’encadrement journalistique, et de nombreuses années d’enseignement dans
diverses filières, nous n’avons jamais rencontré de texte défaillant dont les problèmes ne puissent être reliés à une désinvolture consciente de l’auteur, souvent
dans les phases amont (recherche et compréhension des informations, ordonnancement) mais aussi dans l’expression.
10
Ajoutons que nous y avons personnellement trouvé l’écho de la proposition empirique (non publiée, mais inlassablement répétée) selon laquelle « produire un
mauvais texte n’est jamais subi mais toujours accepté » : en plus d’une décennie
d’encadrement journalistique, et de nombreuses années d’enseignement dans
diverses filières, nous n’avons jamais rencontré de texte défaillant dont les problèmes ne puissent être reliés à une désinvolture consciente de l’auteur, souvent
dans les phases amont (recherche et compréhension des informations, ordonnancement) mais aussi dans l’expression.
11
Ce qui n’est pas le cas des didacticiens de la rédaction scolaire, qui sont plus impliqués dans ces recherches et paraissent plus attentifs par leurs résultats.
11
Ce qui n’est pas le cas des didacticiens de la rédaction scolaire, qui sont plus impliqués dans ces recherches et paraissent plus attentifs par leurs résultats.
12
Non pas dans le sens naïf et scientiste de preuves irréfutables, aux implications
également irréfutables, mais simplement de théories compatibles avec les connaissances scientifiques actuelles (encore jeunes, rappelons-le), et susceptibles
de développements prometteurs.
12
Non pas dans le sens naïf et scientiste de preuves irréfutables, aux implications
également irréfutables, mais simplement de théories compatibles avec les connaissances scientifiques actuelles (encore jeunes, rappelons-le), et susceptibles
de développements prometteurs.
13
Voir également Labasse 2001, op. cit., pour un développement des enjeux rhétoricodidactiques des connaissances de type scientifiques (en l’occurrence lexicologiques) dans l’enseignement de la rédaction.
13
Voir également Labasse 2001, op. cit., pour un développement des enjeux rhétoricodidactiques des connaissances de type scientifiques (en l’occurrence lexicologiques) dans l’enseignement de la rédaction.
14
« Asked to identify the most common fault in copy, most editors I know say, “Poor
organization”. But this is a symptom, not a disease. The disease is sloppy thinking,
particularly in the earlier stages of story conception and shaping », note par exemple Blundell, lui-même éditeur pour les sujets magazine au Wall Street Journal
(1988, p. 94)
14
« Asked to identify the most common fault in copy, most editors I know say, “Poor
organization”. But this is a symptom, not a disease. The disease is sloppy thinking,
particularly in the earlier stages of story conception and shaping », note par exemple Blundell, lui-même éditeur pour les sujets magazine au Wall Street Journal
(1988, p. 94)
15
« …c’est pour n’avoir pas assez réfléchi sur son objet, qu’un homme d’esprit se trouve
embarrassé, et ne sait par où commencer à écrire. Il aperçoit à la fois un grand
nombre d’idées ; et, comme il ne les a ni comparées ni subordonnées, rien ne le
détermine à préférer les unes aux autres… » (Discours de réception à l’Académie
Française, 25 août 1753)
15
« …c’est pour n’avoir pas assez réfléchi sur son objet, qu’un homme d’esprit se trouve
embarrassé, et ne sait par où commencer à écrire. Il aperçoit à la fois un grand
nombre d’idées ; et, comme il ne les a ni comparées ni subordonnées, rien ne le
détermine à préférer les unes aux autres… » (Discours de réception à l’Académie
Française, 25 août 1753)
16
« Avant donc que d’écrire apprenez à penser. Selon que notre idée est plus ou moins
obscure, L’expression la suit, ou moins nette, ou plus pure. » (Premier chant de
l’Art Poétique)
16
« Avant donc que d’écrire apprenez à penser. Selon que notre idée est plus ou moins
obscure, L’expression la suit, ou moins nette, ou plus pure. » (Premier chant de
l’Art Poétique)
17
Il s’agit évidemment de pseudo-universaux : si l’on excepte le principe « écrire pour
son lecteur », qui présente bien ce caractère, aucun précepte ou notion ne revient dans la totalité des 50 ouvrages.
17
Il s’agit évidemment de pseudo-universaux : si l’on excepte le principe « écrire pour
son lecteur », qui présente bien ce caractère, aucun précepte ou notion ne revient dans la totalité des 50 ouvrages.
18
Dans le numéro 2 de Recherches en rédaction professionnelle.
18
Dans le numéro 2 de Recherches en rédaction professionnelle.
Bertrand Labasse
113
Bertrand Labasse
113
19
Pour mémoire, le premier consiste à répondre avant toute autre chose aux questions de base « Qui ? (a fait) Quoi ? Quand ? Où ? Pourquoi ? Comment ? », tandis que le second consiste à organiser l’information en paragraphes d’importance décroissante.
19
Pour mémoire, le premier consiste à répondre avant toute autre chose aux questions de base « Qui ? (a fait) Quoi ? Quand ? Où ? Pourquoi ? Comment ? », tandis que le second consiste à organiser l’information en paragraphes d’importance décroissante.
20
« Así como no concebiemos una Facultad de Medicina donde los alumnos sean ajenos
a la ciencia teórica y empírica de un simple praticante, tampoco se comprende una
Facultad de Periodismo donde los alumnos sean solamente sociólogicos, economistas
y jurisperitos. » notait par exemple l’un des fondateurs de l’enseignement du
journalisme en Espagne Graña-Gonzáles (1930, p. 25).
20
« Así como no concebiemos una Facultad de Medicina donde los alumnos sean ajenos
a la ciencia teórica y empírica de un simple praticante, tampoco se comprende una
Facultad de Periodismo donde los alumnos sean solamente sociólogicos, economistas
y jurisperitos. » notait par exemple l’un des fondateurs de l’enseignement du
journalisme en Espagne Graña-Gonzáles (1930, p. 25).
21
Question capitale, mais qui nous entraînerait trop loin du cadre de cet article.
21
Question capitale, mais qui nous entraînerait trop loin du cadre de cet article.
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Graham Smart and Nicole Brown
117
Learning Transfer or Transforming Learning?:
Student Interns Reinventing Expert Writing
Practices in the Workplace
Learning Transfer or Transforming Learning?:
Student Interns Reinventing Expert Writing
Practices in the Workplace
117
L’article rend compte d’une étude qualitative portant sur les expériences de
24 étudiants de premier cycle inscrits à une majeure en rédaction, au moment de leur entrée dans le monde du travail. En exerçant des tâches de rédaction dans une variété de genres discursifs, ces internes ont mis en œuvre et
approfondi des pratiques d’écriture d’experts par le biais de leurs interactions avec leurs collègues de travail et d’artefacts culturellement construits.
Remettant en question la conception cognitiviste du transfert des connaissances, l’étude suggère que la transformation de l’apprentissage a permis la
réinvention des pratiques des experts. L’étude présente aussi une variante du
modèle d’acquisition du savoir en situation de débutant en décrivant comment les internes ont compensé leur manque de savoir-faire sur le terrain par
l’accès aux éléments cognitifs inhérents aux artefacts culturels.
L’article rend compte d’une étude qualitative portant sur les expériences de
24 étudiants de premier cycle inscrits à une majeure en rédaction, au moment de leur entrée dans le monde du travail. En exerçant des tâches de rédaction dans une variété de genres discursifs, ces internes ont mis en œuvre et
approfondi des pratiques d’écriture d’experts par le biais de leurs interactions avec leurs collègues de travail et d’artefacts culturellement construits.
Remettant en question la conception cognitiviste du transfert des connaissances, l’étude suggère que la transformation de l’apprentissage a permis la
réinvention des pratiques des experts. L’étude présente aussi une variante du
modèle d’acquisition du savoir en situation de débutant en décrivant comment les internes ont compensé leur manque de savoir-faire sur le terrain par
l’accès aux éléments cognitifs inhérents aux artefacts culturels.
When I started, I was just a student intern; my name was Martha Smith,
JAI—“Just an Intern.” … [But] by the end, it was different—it was like
being … a real tech writer.
When I started, I was just a student intern; my name was Martha Smith,
JAI—“Just an Intern.” … [But] by the end, it was different—it was like
being … a real tech writer.
Recent research on workplace writing has revealed the extent to which discourse
is enmeshed, in locally specific ways, in the culture, work practices, and technologies
of professional organizations (Dias, Freedman, Medway, & Paré, 1999; Ornatowski,
1998; Smart, 2002; Winsor, 2000). For educators aiming to prepare students for the
writing they will do in their professional careers, a key implication of this research is
the need to reexamine traditional notions regarding the transfer of knowledge and
skills learned in school to the sites, situations, and tasks our graduates will face in the
workplace (Beaufort, 1999).
Traditional cognitive theories of learning transfer portray school-acquired knowledge and skills as commodity-like entities that are acquired by individuals, carried
into new environments, and then applied (Lave, 1996). Reifying knowledge and skills
in this way can limit our understanding of what our students actually experience
Recent research on workplace writing has revealed the extent to which discourse
is enmeshed, in locally specific ways, in the culture, work practices, and technologies
of professional organizations (Dias, Freedman, Medway, & Paré, 1999; Ornatowski,
1998; Smart, 2002; Winsor, 2000). For educators aiming to prepare students for the
writing they will do in their professional careers, a key implication of this research is
the need to reexamine traditional notions regarding the transfer of knowledge and
skills learned in school to the sites, situations, and tasks our graduates will face in the
workplace (Beaufort, 1999).
Traditional cognitive theories of learning transfer portray school-acquired knowledge and skills as commodity-like entities that are acquired by individuals, carried
into new environments, and then applied (Lave, 1996). Reifying knowledge and skills
in this way can limit our understanding of what our students actually experience
118
Learning Transfer or Transforming Learning?
118
when they move from the classroom into professional settings. We need to rethink the
relationship between what students learn in school and the writing practices they will
engage in as novices in the workplace.
The study reported in this article addresses the issue of learning transfer, examining the experience of student interns from an undergraduate major in Professional
Writing as they re-interpret, enact and further develop what they have learned in the
classroom in accomplishing writing tasks in their respective work sites. In what follows, we begin by describing the study, outlining its theoretical orientation as well as
the participants, research sites, and methods of data collection and analysis. We then
present our findings and discuss the implications that we draw from them.
when they move from the classroom into professional settings. We need to rethink the
relationship between what students learn in school and the writing practices they will
engage in as novices in the workplace.
The study reported in this article addresses the issue of learning transfer, examining the experience of student interns from an undergraduate major in Professional
Writing as they re-interpret, enact and further develop what they have learned in the
classroom in accomplishing writing tasks in their respective work sites. In what follows, we begin by describing the study, outlining its theoretical orientation as well as
the participants, research sites, and methods of data collection and analysis. We then
present our findings and discuss the implications that we draw from them.
The Study
The Study
Theoretical Orientation
Theoretical Orientation
To orient our research conceptually, we have drawn on an activity-based
theory of genre. Following in the research tradition prompted by Carolyn
Miller’s (1984) ground-breaking scholarship, we view genre as textually mediated socio-rhetorical action that, in many professional organizations, is
central to the accomplishment of work (Bazerman, 1988; Berkenkotter &
Huckin, 1995; Smart, 1999; Schryer, 1993; Winsor, 2001). In addition to
social conceptions of genre, we have also drawn on activity theory—an extension of the Soviet cultural-historical school of psychology developed by
Vygotsky (1962, 1978), Leont’ev (1978) and Luria (1976)—and its constituent concepts of distributed cognition, expertise, and situated learning.
To orient our research conceptually, we have drawn on an activity-based
theory of genre. Following in the research tradition prompted by Carolyn
Miller’s (1984) ground-breaking scholarship, we view genre as textually mediated socio-rhetorical action that, in many professional organizations, is
central to the accomplishment of work (Bazerman, 1988; Berkenkotter &
Huckin, 1995; Smart, 1999; Schryer, 1993; Winsor, 2001). In addition to
social conceptions of genre, we have also drawn on activity theory—an extension of the Soviet cultural-historical school of psychology developed by
Vygotsky (1962, 1978), Leont’ev (1978) and Luria (1976)—and its constituent concepts of distributed cognition, expertise, and situated learning.
From the perspective of activity theory, discourse can be viewed as part of an
“activity system” (Cole & Engeström, 1993): a local, historically and culturally situated sphere of goal-directed collaborative endeavor, in which cognition—thinking,
knowing, and learning—is diffused, or distributed, across a number of individuals
and their work practices and, at the same time, mediated by culturally constructed
artifacts. The term “artifact” is defined broadly here to include material, conceptual,
and linguistic constructs such as digital technologies, built environments, formalized
policies, analytical methods, systems of classification and standards, as well as discourse genres with their conventionalized texts and patterns of collaboration
(Bazerman, 1994; Bowker & Star, 1999; Engeström, 1992; Engeström & Middleton,
1998; Goodwin, 1997; Hutchins, 1995; Russell, 1997; Suchman, 1987; Wertsch, 1997).
From the perspective of activity theory, discourse can be viewed as part of an
“activity system” (Cole & Engeström, 1993): a local, historically and culturally situated sphere of goal-directed collaborative endeavor, in which cognition—thinking,
knowing, and learning—is diffused, or distributed, across a number of individuals
and their work practices and, at the same time, mediated by culturally constructed
artifacts. The term “artifact” is defined broadly here to include material, conceptual,
and linguistic constructs such as digital technologies, built environments, formalized
policies, analytical methods, systems of classification and standards, as well as discourse genres with their conventionalized texts and patterns of collaboration
(Bazerman, 1994; Bowker & Star, 1999; Engeström, 1992; Engeström & Middleton,
1998; Goodwin, 1997; Hutchins, 1995; Russell, 1997; Suchman, 1987; Wertsch, 1997).
119
119
An activity system, while having a strong cultural-historical dimension, is constituted through the moment-to-moment agency and social negotiations of the people who
participate in it. Such systems change constantly, continuously recreated as their participants respond to internal tensions or initiatives, to the possibilities afforded by newly
available tools, or to external pressures and influences (Smart, 2002).
Within organizational activity systems, written genres—with their networks of
conventionalized texts and discourse practices—often play a key role in distributing
cognition across a group and its work activities, functioning as vehicles of shared
thinking, knowing, and learning (Freedman & Smart, 1997). Further, texts constitute
a significant resource for “organizational memory,” providing an historical record of
work processes, problems/solutions, accomplished knowledge, and decisions.
Activity theory also posits a particular conception of expertise. Traditionally,
expertise has been seen as a personal attribute or property, one that is acquired, possessed, and deployed independently by the individual. The knowledge and skills that
constitute expertise are reified as objects—“furniture of the mind,” as one study put it
(Brown et al, 1993). Activity theorists tend to view expertise quite differently, as in the
position taken by Yrjö Engeström (1992): “Expertise has been understood as a property of a professional or craftsman…. I suggest a radically different perspective. Expertise is [an] interactive accomplishment, constructed in encounters and exchanges
between people and their artifacts” (p. 1). The distinction here, according to Jean Lave
(1996), is between “a view of knowledge as a collection of real entities, located in
heads, … versus a view of knowing … as engagement in changing processes of human activity” (p. 12).
For Lave and Etienne Wenger (1991), the development of one’s ability to engage
in expert practices—or “situated learning”—occurs through participation in a “community-of-practice.” A primary form of such development is apprenticeship—a process in which “newcomers” to a community learns its expert practices through taking
an active part in authentic but ancillary community tasks, under the guidance of
more experienced “oldtimers” and with only limited responsibility for the outcome.
In addition to its focus on active participation, the theory of situated learning also
posits that the development of expertise is intrinsically connected to the growth of a
“knowledgeably skilled identity.” According to Lave (1991), “Developing an identity as
a member of a community and becoming knowledgeably skillful are part of the same
process, with the former motivating, shaping, and giving meaning to the latter, which
it subsumes” (p. 65). (See also Smart, 2000, on this topic.)
From this perspective, learning to write in workplace settings can be seen as part of
a larger process of learning to participate in the culture, and work activities of an organizational community-of-practice. Such learning generally occurs incrementally, as an in-
An activity system, while having a strong cultural-historical dimension, is constituted through the moment-to-moment agency and social negotiations of the people who
participate in it. Such systems change constantly, continuously recreated as their participants respond to internal tensions or initiatives, to the possibilities afforded by newly
available tools, or to external pressures and influences (Smart, 2002).
Within organizational activity systems, written genres—with their networks of
conventionalized texts and discourse practices—often play a key role in distributing
cognition across a group and its work activities, functioning as vehicles of shared
thinking, knowing, and learning (Freedman & Smart, 1997). Further, texts constitute
a significant resource for “organizational memory,” providing an historical record of
work processes, problems/solutions, accomplished knowledge, and decisions.
Activity theory also posits a particular conception of expertise. Traditionally,
expertise has been seen as a personal attribute or property, one that is acquired, possessed, and deployed independently by the individual. The knowledge and skills that
constitute expertise are reified as objects—“furniture of the mind,” as one study put it
(Brown et al, 1993). Activity theorists tend to view expertise quite differently, as in the
position taken by Yrjö Engeström (1992): “Expertise has been understood as a property of a professional or craftsman…. I suggest a radically different perspective. Expertise is [an] interactive accomplishment, constructed in encounters and exchanges
between people and their artifacts” (p. 1). The distinction here, according to Jean Lave
(1996), is between “a view of knowledge as a collection of real entities, located in
heads, … versus a view of knowing … as engagement in changing processes of human activity” (p. 12).
For Lave and Etienne Wenger (1991), the development of one’s ability to engage
in expert practices—or “situated learning”—occurs through participation in a “community-of-practice.” A primary form of such development is apprenticeship—a process in which “newcomers” to a community learns its expert practices through taking
an active part in authentic but ancillary community tasks, under the guidance of
more experienced “oldtimers” and with only limited responsibility for the outcome.
In addition to its focus on active participation, the theory of situated learning also
posits that the development of expertise is intrinsically connected to the growth of a
“knowledgeably skilled identity.” According to Lave (1991), “Developing an identity as
a member of a community and becoming knowledgeably skillful are part of the same
process, with the former motivating, shaping, and giving meaning to the latter, which
it subsumes” (p. 65). (See also Smart, 2000, on this topic.)
From this perspective, learning to write in workplace settings can be seen as part of
a larger process of learning to participate in the culture, and work activities of an organizational community-of-practice. Such learning generally occurs incrementally, as an in-
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dividual is assigned increasing difficult writing-related tasks, with guidance and feedback from more experienced members of the community. Aviva Freedman and Christine
Adam (2000) describe this apprenticeship process in their study of student interns from a
Public Administration Master’s program working in government settings. One of Freedman and Adam’s findings, however, was that the interns they observed had interactions
with experienced co-workers that were more “complex, subtle, shifting, and nuanced” (p.
50) than the apprentice-mentor relationship described by Lave and Wenger: while the
interns did have certain opportunities to learn about organizational writing practices
directly from more experienced colleagues, these opportunities often involved various different people as well as fleeting situations and hit-and-miss circumstances.
Situated learning theory also complicates traditional cognitivist notions regarding
the transfer of learning, which depicts a process in which individuals transport previously acquired knowledge and skills, as internalized properties or objects, into new contexts where they are then applied. Lave (1991) critiques this traditional perspective: “The
vision of social existence implied by the notion of transfer … treats life’s situations as so
many unconnected lily pads. This view reduces the organization of everyday practices to
the question of how it is possible to hop from one lily pad to the next and still bring
knowledge to bear on the fly” (p. 79).
For theorists of situated learning, learning is always “embedded in the particularities of specific practices [as] an aspect of culturally, historically situated activity”
(Lave, 1996, pp. 24, 30), so that learning to function in a workplace is not a matter of
transporting knowledge and skills previously acquired in school, and then applying
them, as is, in a professional setting. Rather, the scene is one in which an individual,
with a history of participation in various communities-of-practice, including those
situated in classrooms, enters a worksite and joins a new community-of-practice, with
his or her prior experiences inscribed in body and mind.
A final tenet of Lave and Wenger’s (1991) theory of situated learning relevant to
the present study is that learning is not the unique preserve of newcomers, but rather
is ubiquitous and ongoing within a community-of-practice. All participants—experienced members as well as novices—are continuously engaged in learning as an intrinsic aspect of the “thinking and knowing” that occur as people engage in the everyday “negotiation and renegotiation of meaning” associated with collaborative activity. As Lave (1996) puts it, “People in activity are skilful at, and are more often than
not engaged in, helping each other to participate in, changing ways in a changing
world” (p. 5). Whether bringing new interpretations to routine events or responding
creatively to exceptions and change, participants in a community-of-practice are constantly expanding their “understanding and knowledgeable skills” as they work together
to accomplish their goals.
dividual is assigned increasing difficult writing-related tasks, with guidance and feedback from more experienced members of the community. Aviva Freedman and Christine
Adam (2000) describe this apprenticeship process in their study of student interns from a
Public Administration Master’s program working in government settings. One of Freedman and Adam’s findings, however, was that the interns they observed had interactions
with experienced co-workers that were more “complex, subtle, shifting, and nuanced” (p.
50) than the apprentice-mentor relationship described by Lave and Wenger: while the
interns did have certain opportunities to learn about organizational writing practices
directly from more experienced colleagues, these opportunities often involved various different people as well as fleeting situations and hit-and-miss circumstances.
Situated learning theory also complicates traditional cognitivist notions regarding
the transfer of learning, which depicts a process in which individuals transport previously acquired knowledge and skills, as internalized properties or objects, into new contexts where they are then applied. Lave (1991) critiques this traditional perspective: “The
vision of social existence implied by the notion of transfer … treats life’s situations as so
many unconnected lily pads. This view reduces the organization of everyday practices to
the question of how it is possible to hop from one lily pad to the next and still bring
knowledge to bear on the fly” (p. 79).
For theorists of situated learning, learning is always “embedded in the particularities of specific practices [as] an aspect of culturally, historically situated activity”
(Lave, 1996, pp. 24, 30), so that learning to function in a workplace is not a matter of
transporting knowledge and skills previously acquired in school, and then applying
them, as is, in a professional setting. Rather, the scene is one in which an individual,
with a history of participation in various communities-of-practice, including those
situated in classrooms, enters a worksite and joins a new community-of-practice, with
his or her prior experiences inscribed in body and mind.
A final tenet of Lave and Wenger’s (1991) theory of situated learning relevant to
the present study is that learning is not the unique preserve of newcomers, but rather
is ubiquitous and ongoing within a community-of-practice. All participants—experienced members as well as novices—are continuously engaged in learning as an intrinsic aspect of the “thinking and knowing” that occur as people engage in the everyday “negotiation and renegotiation of meaning” associated with collaborative activity. As Lave (1996) puts it, “People in activity are skilful at, and are more often than
not engaged in, helping each other to participate in, changing ways in a changing
world” (p. 5). Whether bringing new interpretations to routine events or responding
creatively to exceptions and change, participants in a community-of-practice are constantly expanding their “understanding and knowledgeable skills” as they work together
to accomplish their goals.
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In our study, we employed the theoretical perspectives discussed above to “help name,
explore, and explain what [we were] seeing” in our data (Fishman & McCarthy, 2001).
And with our findings, we hope to close the loop by contributing some new texture to
existing theory.
In our study, we employed the theoretical perspectives discussed above to “help name,
explore, and explain what [we were] seeing” in our data (Fishman & McCarthy, 2001).
And with our findings, we hope to close the loop by contributing some new texture to
existing theory.
Participants, Sites, and Research Methods
Participants, Sites, and Research Methods
The 24 interns in our study were undergraduate students, almost all of them seniors, in a Professional Writing major at a large public university in the U.S. Midwest. The
Professional Writing program prepares students for a range of writing-intensive careers
in technical communication, journalism, editing, and public relations. The rhetoricallyframed curriculum aims to help students, through experience in a range of workplace
genres, develop expert practices in areas such as reader-centred writing, research, use of
digital technologies, and collaboration.
The interns were placed in a variety of settings, including high-tech companies,
newspapers, a magazine, nonprofit organizations, a university press, a media and public
relations firm, and an auto manufacturing plant. They spent either ten or twenty
hours a week in their host organizations, depending on the number of credit-hours
taken, over a 15-week period, and also participated in a weekly two-hour seminar at
the university, team-taught by the two authors of this article. In their worksites, the
interns worked in a variety of genres, including print and web-based user documentation, computer-based training materials, newspaper and magazine articles, texts
for museum displays, newsletters, employee handbooks, grant proposals, book manuscripts, websites, and scripts for cable TV features, for university tele-fundraising,
and radio and TV advertisements.
In our study, we gathered data from fourteen interns during the 2001 spring
semester and from ten interns during the 2002 spring semester. The data included
work logs, short reports, field-notes taken at the weekly seminar, messages posted to
a class e-mail listserv, and tape-recorded interviews with selected interns and contact
persons in their host organizations. We analyzed the data as we collected them, identifying and exploring emerging themes. In our analysis, we were particularly interested in the interns’ own perspectives on their workplace experiences. The relationship between data and theory was reflexive: we employed theories in interpreting
data, but our ongoing data analysis frequently prompted us to augment and adjust
our theoretical lenses.
The 24 interns in our study were undergraduate students, almost all of them seniors, in a Professional Writing major at a large public university in the U.S. Midwest. The
Professional Writing program prepares students for a range of writing-intensive careers
in technical communication, journalism, editing, and public relations. The rhetoricallyframed curriculum aims to help students, through experience in a range of workplace
genres, develop expert practices in areas such as reader-centred writing, research, use of
digital technologies, and collaboration.
The interns were placed in a variety of settings, including high-tech companies,
newspapers, a magazine, nonprofit organizations, a university press, a media and public
relations firm, and an auto manufacturing plant. They spent either ten or twenty
hours a week in their host organizations, depending on the number of credit-hours
taken, over a 15-week period, and also participated in a weekly two-hour seminar at
the university, team-taught by the two authors of this article. In their worksites, the
interns worked in a variety of genres, including print and web-based user documentation, computer-based training materials, newspaper and magazine articles, texts
for museum displays, newsletters, employee handbooks, grant proposals, book manuscripts, websites, and scripts for cable TV features, for university tele-fundraising,
and radio and TV advertisements.
In our study, we gathered data from fourteen interns during the 2001 spring
semester and from ten interns during the 2002 spring semester. The data included
work logs, short reports, field-notes taken at the weekly seminar, messages posted to
a class e-mail listserv, and tape-recorded interviews with selected interns and contact
persons in their host organizations. We analyzed the data as we collected them, identifying and exploring emerging themes. In our analysis, we were particularly interested in the interns’ own perspectives on their workplace experiences. The relationship between data and theory was reflexive: we employed theories in interpreting
data, but our ongoing data analysis frequently prompted us to augment and adjust
our theoretical lenses.
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122
Our Findings
Our Findings
On the most general level, what we observed in our study, as the interns moved into
their respective worksites and took on writing tasks in different genres, were novices reinterpreting enacting and further developing expert practices—with the performance
and learning occurring simultaneously. Typically, the interns were not given an opportunity to rehearse the genres in which they were working, nor to gain experience through
inconsequential assignments; rather, they were almost immediately placed in situations
where they were expected to contribute as practitioners competent enough to accomplish
significant work assignments. As researchers, we were not surprised by this expectation,
since the host organizations knew that the interns were seniors in a specialized Professional Writing program; nor, as teachers, were we particularly alarmed, because of the
support the interns received from us and from one another in the two-hour weekly seminar and through the class e-mail listserv. Indeed, perhaps the most interesting aspect of
the study was observing how capably the interns handled the challenges they faced. In
almost every case, the interns were able to meet or surpasse the host organization‚s quality expectations for the specific written genres the interns had been assigned.
If we discount the cognitivist notion of learning transfer—where school-acquired
knowledge and skills are commodity-like entities acquired by an individual, carried
into a new environment, and then applied independently by the individual—then
how are we to explain the interns’ workplace accomplishments? What is the relationship between what the interns learned in their Professional Writing classes and what
they were able to achieve as novice writers in their respective work environments?
Our findings suggest that what occurred might best be characterized, not as the
transfer of learning, but rather as a transformation of learning that made possible the
reinvention of expert practices. The interns, having previously developed the expert
writing practices needed to perform well in academic activity systems (see Brown et
al, 1993, and Dias, 2000, on classrooms as activity systems), were able to resituate and
extend—or reinvent—these practices in their new worksites in simultaneous acts of
performance and learning.
Further, this performance/learning of expert practices was, to borrow from Yrjö
Engeström (1992), an “interactive accomplishment, constructed in encounters and
exchanges between people and their artifacts” (p. 1). It was the interns’ engaged participation in the activity of their worksites—with its interactions among co-workers
and the mediations of cultural artifacts—that allowed them to function and learn,
simultaneously.
On the most general level, what we observed in our study, as the interns moved into
their respective worksites and took on writing tasks in different genres, were novices reinterpreting enacting and further developing expert practices—with the performance
and learning occurring simultaneously. Typically, the interns were not given an opportunity to rehearse the genres in which they were working, nor to gain experience through
inconsequential assignments; rather, they were almost immediately placed in situations
where they were expected to contribute as practitioners competent enough to accomplish
significant work assignments. As researchers, we were not surprised by this expectation,
since the host organizations knew that the interns were seniors in a specialized Professional Writing program; nor, as teachers, were we particularly alarmed, because of the
support the interns received from us and from one another in the two-hour weekly seminar and through the class e-mail listserv. Indeed, perhaps the most interesting aspect of
the study was observing how capably the interns handled the challenges they faced. In
almost every case, the interns were able to meet or surpasse the host organization‚s quality expectations for the specific written genres the interns had been assigned.
If we discount the cognitivist notion of learning transfer—where school-acquired
knowledge and skills are commodity-like entities acquired by an individual, carried
into a new environment, and then applied independently by the individual—then
how are we to explain the interns’ workplace accomplishments? What is the relationship between what the interns learned in their Professional Writing classes and what
they were able to achieve as novice writers in their respective work environments?
Our findings suggest that what occurred might best be characterized, not as the
transfer of learning, but rather as a transformation of learning that made possible the
reinvention of expert practices. The interns, having previously developed the expert
writing practices needed to perform well in academic activity systems (see Brown et
al, 1993, and Dias, 2000, on classrooms as activity systems), were able to resituate and
extend—or reinvent—these practices in their new worksites in simultaneous acts of
performance and learning.
Further, this performance/learning of expert practices was, to borrow from Yrjö
Engeström (1992), an “interactive accomplishment, constructed in encounters and
exchanges between people and their artifacts” (p. 1). It was the interns’ engaged participation in the activity of their worksites—with its interactions among co-workers
and the mediations of cultural artifacts—that allowed them to function and learn,
simultaneously.
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123
We need to add two further points to this overview of our findings. The first is our
recognition, as the study proceeded, of how the interns’ growing sense of themselves as
competent practitioners contributed significantly to their capacity to enact/learn expert
practices. This is not to say that the interns felt none of the initial disorientation reported
in other studies of writing interns (Anson & Forsberg, 1990; Gaitens, 2000)—they certainly did. One manifestation of this disorientation was the affective binary that we observed among the interns when they first perceived differences between workplace genres
and the corresponding school versions of these same genres (as, for example, with user
documentation or the analytical report): while one common reaction was, “I don’t know
anything,” other individuals declared that “they’re [the host organization] just doing it
We need to add two further points to this overview of our findings. The first is our
recognition, as the study proceeded, of how the interns’ growing sense of themselves as
competent practitioners contributed significantly to their capacity to enact/learn expert
practices. This is not to say that the interns felt none of the initial disorientation reported
in other studies of writing interns (Anson & Forsberg, 1990; Gaitens, 2000)—they certainly did. One manifestation of this disorientation was the affective binary that we observed among the interns when they first perceived differences between workplace genres
and the corresponding school versions of these same genres (as, for example, with user
documentation or the analytical report): while one common reaction was, “I don’t know
anything,” other individuals declared that “they’re [the host organization] just doing it
Figure 1.Transforming Learning / Reinventing Expertise
Figure 1.Transforming Learning / Reinventing Expertise
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124
wrong.” Nevertheless, despite such feelings of disorientation, the larger trend among the
interns in our study was a burgeoning sense of professional identity as they succeeded in
accomplishing the writing tasks they had been assigned.
The second point relates to the transformation of learning mentioned above. Operating as writers within the activity systems of their respective worksites, the interns appeared to find new ways of learning, ways that were different from those they had used in
the activity system of the classroom. (See also Freedman & Adam, 2000.) Rather than
depending heavily on other people—as they had with their teachers and classmates in
school—the interns became remarkably resourceful in exploiting the distributed cognition, or “intelligence” (Pea, 1993), embedded in culturally constructed artifacts. Further,
the interns also began to recognize that in the workplace, there is no necessary end-point
for learning, no fixed destination—as in school with the completion of a paper, semester,
or degree. They started to see learning as more of an ongoing, evolving process that encompasses all the participants in a worksite; and indeed they sometimes found themselves assisting other, more experienced co-workers in certain tasks (Freedman and Adam
observed similar situations).
Below we elaborate on these findings in some detail. (See Figure 1 above for a
visual overview of the findings.) While our analysis included data gathered from all
24 interns in the study, for illustrative purposes we will draw on interviews with four
individuals: Sally, Martha, Anne, and Mark, all of whom were seniors in the Professional Writing major when they did their internships.
wrong.” Nevertheless, despite such feelings of disorientation, the larger trend among the
interns in our study was a burgeoning sense of professional identity as they succeeded in
accomplishing the writing tasks they had been assigned.
The second point relates to the transformation of learning mentioned above. Operating as writers within the activity systems of their respective worksites, the interns appeared to find new ways of learning, ways that were different from those they had used in
the activity system of the classroom. (See also Freedman & Adam, 2000.) Rather than
depending heavily on other people—as they had with their teachers and classmates in
school—the interns became remarkably resourceful in exploiting the distributed cognition, or “intelligence” (Pea, 1993), embedded in culturally constructed artifacts. Further,
the interns also began to recognize that in the workplace, there is no necessary end-point
for learning, no fixed destination—as in school with the completion of a paper, semester,
or degree. They started to see learning as more of an ongoing, evolving process that encompasses all the participants in a worksite; and indeed they sometimes found themselves assisting other, more experienced co-workers in certain tasks (Freedman and Adam
observed similar situations).
Below we elaborate on these findings in some detail. (See Figure 1 above for a
visual overview of the findings.) While our analysis included data gathered from all
24 interns in the study, for illustrative purposes we will draw on interviews with four
individuals: Sally, Martha, Anne, and Mark, all of whom were seniors in the Professional Writing major when they did their internships.
Written genres enmeshed in activity
Written genres enmeshed in activity
Bonnie Nardi (1996) argues that “it is not possible to fully understand how people learn or work if the unit of analysis is the unaided individual with no access to
other people or to artifacts for accomplishing the task at hand. Thus we are motivated
to study … relations among individuals, artifacts, and social groups” (p. 69). And
indeed, in observing the interns in our study, we were struck by how deeply the genres in which they were working were embedded in complex sets of relations among
people and culturally constructed artifacts.
For example, one of the interns, Sally, worked in the training department of
AutoBuild, a large automotive plant (the names of the interns and host organizations
mentioned in this article are pseudonyms). Her assignment during her internship
was to produce a computer-based training (CBT) program for AutoBuild employees
on the topic of Statistical Process Control (SPC), a Japanese-inspired approach to
enhancing productivity and quality-control in manufacturing. As a preliminary task,
Sally spent a week using an on-line tutorial to teach herself how to operate ToolBook
Instructor, the computer software she would employ to create the CBT training pro-
Bonnie Nardi (1996) argues that “it is not possible to fully understand how people learn or work if the unit of analysis is the unaided individual with no access to
other people or to artifacts for accomplishing the task at hand. Thus we are motivated
to study … relations among individuals, artifacts, and social groups” (p. 69). And
indeed, in observing the interns in our study, we were struck by how deeply the genres in which they were working were embedded in complex sets of relations among
people and culturally constructed artifacts.
For example, one of the interns, Sally, worked in the training department of
AutoBuild, a large automotive plant (the names of the interns and host organizations
mentioned in this article are pseudonyms). Her assignment during her internship
was to produce a computer-based training (CBT) program for AutoBuild employees
on the topic of Statistical Process Control (SPC), a Japanese-inspired approach to
enhancing productivity and quality-control in manufacturing. As a preliminary task,
Sally spent a week using an on-line tutorial to teach herself how to operate ToolBook
Instructor, the computer software she would employ to create the CBT training pro-
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125
gram on SPC. After gaining a certain competence with ToolBook Instructor, Sally got on
with the work of developing the training program. The sphere of activity and distributed
cognition in which she was functioning was rich with mediating artifacts (as broadly
defined in activity theory) and with co-workers, as she describes below. (The artifacts
Sally refers to are in bold type the first time they are mentioned, and references to her coworkers are italicised.)
gram on SPC. After gaining a certain competence with ToolBook Instructor, Sally got on
with the work of developing the training program. The sphere of activity and distributed
cognition in which she was functioning was rich with mediating artifacts (as broadly
defined in activity theory) and with co-workers, as she describes below. (The artifacts
Sally refers to are in bold type the first time they are mentioned, and references to her coworkers are italicised.)
While researching Statistical Process Control, and also the ToolBook Instructor software itself, I ran into a few problems. Number one, I wasn’t a
bit familiar with the software. After doing a week-long [on-line] tutorial
on ToolBook, I tackled the subject of Statistical Process Control…. Two
Quality Control leaders in the Japanese workplace, Dr. Demming and Dr.
Juran, originally implemented SPC. So I went to the AutoBuild internal
library to research these two doctors. And after getting sufficient information, I compiled my notes and research into a Word file. I then met with my
supervisor, Dave, and a computer expert for AutoBuild, Don. The three of
us came up with a plan for how we wanted the CBT program to look, what
information it would contain, and the time frame for completion of the
program. [Next] after [some] time spent storyboarding, I compiled a presentation on the layout of what the [training] program [in Statistical Process Control] would look like, using PowerPoint. After showing this presentation to my supervisor and Don, I then went to work on importing the
information into ToolBook…. Dick, an SPC guru, agreed to help me with
the SPC details. He provided me with an instruction book for the SPC
classes that he teaches. Don and Dave agreed that I should just use a “cutand-paste” procedure [to take] the information [from] the instruction
book and [put it into] the ToolBook presentation [on SPC]. I’m currently
working on the design and layout of … the content, using ToolBook. And
I’ve been doing usability testing throughout my project on various coworkers.
While researching Statistical Process Control, and also the ToolBook Instructor software itself, I ran into a few problems. Number one, I wasn’t a
bit familiar with the software. After doing a week-long [on-line] tutorial
on ToolBook, I tackled the subject of Statistical Process Control…. Two
Quality Control leaders in the Japanese workplace, Dr. Demming and Dr.
Juran, originally implemented SPC. So I went to the AutoBuild internal
library to research these two doctors. And after getting sufficient information, I compiled my notes and research into a Word file. I then met with my
supervisor, Dave, and a computer expert for AutoBuild, Don. The three of
us came up with a plan for how we wanted the CBT program to look, what
information it would contain, and the time frame for completion of the
program. [Next] after [some] time spent storyboarding, I compiled a presentation on the layout of what the [training] program [in Statistical Process Control] would look like, using PowerPoint. After showing this presentation to my supervisor and Don, I then went to work on importing the
information into ToolBook…. Dick, an SPC guru, agreed to help me with
the SPC details. He provided me with an instruction book for the SPC
classes that he teaches. Don and Dave agreed that I should just use a “cutand-paste” procedure [to take] the information [from] the instruction
book and [put it into] the ToolBook presentation [on SPC]. I’m currently
working on the design and layout of … the content, using ToolBook. And
I’ve been doing usability testing throughout my project on various coworkers.
Sally was working in a culturally and historically situated sphere of activity in which
she interacted with various people, both immediate (Dave, Don, Dick, and other coworkers) and historically remote (Drs. Demming and Juran). She also interacted with an
array of mediating artifacts including digital technologies (ToolBook Instructor and its
on-line tutorial, Microsoft Word, PowerPoint, the laptop computer used to operate the
software), built environments (the training area, the library), analytical methods (Qual-
Sally was working in a culturally and historically situated sphere of activity in which
she interacted with various people, both immediate (Dave, Don, Dick, and other coworkers) and historically remote (Drs. Demming and Juran). She also interacted with an
array of mediating artifacts including digital technologies (ToolBook Instructor and its
on-line tutorial, Microsoft Word, PowerPoint, the laptop computer used to operate the
software), built environments (the training area, the library), analytical methods (Qual-
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126
ity Control, and more specifically, Statistical Process Control), procedures (storyboarding,
usability testing, cut-and-paste, the larger procedure of the ‘project’ itself), structured
social interactions (meetings, training classes), and texts in a variety of genres (instructional material in the on-line tutorial for ToolBook Instructor, the instruction book for
previous in-house classes on SPC, the project plan, the PowerPoint presentation, books
and journals from the AutoBuild library).
ity Control, and more specifically, Statistical Process Control), procedures (storyboarding,
usability testing, cut-and-paste, the larger procedure of the ‘project’ itself), structured
social interactions (meetings, training classes), and texts in a variety of genres (instructional material in the on-line tutorial for ToolBook Instructor, the instruction book for
previous in-house classes on SPC, the project plan, the PowerPoint presentation, books
and journals from the AutoBuild library).
Interns drawing on cultural artifacts
Interns drawing on cultural artifacts
What we saw in our study differed in certain ways from Lave and Wenger’s (1991)
model of apprenticeship. Most significantly, the interns in our study were typically
assigned major, rather than ancillary, writing tasks to accomplish, and second, they
were expected to work independently, rather than in an ongoing apprenticing relationship with a mentor. As with Freedman and Adam (2000), we saw that the interns’
opportunities for guidance from more experienced co-workers were “fluid and indeterminate” (p. 49). But we also noticed something else: none of the interns received
regular, intensive coaching from a more experienced co-worker. Indeed, a common
cultural aspect of the interns’ worksites was that novices, when encountering a problem, were encouraged to make every effort to solve it themselves before asking their
supervisors or other colleagues for help—this appeared to be part of an ethos of
professionalism. Sally explains her situation at AutoBuild: “I try as much as I can to
get things done by myself, without having to ask for help. [Sometimes] I’m forced to
ask for help from Dale about certain technical difficulties; however, I make sure that
he knows I’ve exhausted all other avenues of research before [going to him for help]….
This is something we’ve discussed.”
With only limited opportunities for hands-on coaching from more experienced
co-workers, the interns became extremely resourceful in drawing on the distributed
cognition, or “intelligence” (Pea, 1993), embedded in various cultural artifacts in
their respective worksites. A case in point is Mark, who worked as a technical writer
at DataSearch, a high-tech firm whose major product was a sophisticated search
engine sold to other organizations that used it to manage computerized databases.
Mark’s assignment during his internship was to participate in the production of
user documentation for a new version of the search engine, which was under development. While he could at times consult with his co-workers in the Documentation
Department and had some access to engineers and programmers in the Research &
Development Department, he also developed strategies for tapping into the distributed cognition available in artifacts such as texts. Below Mark provides us with an
example:
What we saw in our study differed in certain ways from Lave and Wenger’s (1991)
model of apprenticeship. Most significantly, the interns in our study were typically
assigned major, rather than ancillary, writing tasks to accomplish, and second, they
were expected to work independently, rather than in an ongoing apprenticing relationship with a mentor. As with Freedman and Adam (2000), we saw that the interns’
opportunities for guidance from more experienced co-workers were “fluid and indeterminate” (p. 49). But we also noticed something else: none of the interns received
regular, intensive coaching from a more experienced co-worker. Indeed, a common
cultural aspect of the interns’ worksites was that novices, when encountering a problem, were encouraged to make every effort to solve it themselves before asking their
supervisors or other colleagues for help—this appeared to be part of an ethos of
professionalism. Sally explains her situation at AutoBuild: “I try as much as I can to
get things done by myself, without having to ask for help. [Sometimes] I’m forced to
ask for help from Dale about certain technical difficulties; however, I make sure that
he knows I’ve exhausted all other avenues of research before [going to him for help]….
This is something we’ve discussed.”
With only limited opportunities for hands-on coaching from more experienced
co-workers, the interns became extremely resourceful in drawing on the distributed
cognition, or “intelligence” (Pea, 1993), embedded in various cultural artifacts in
their respective worksites. A case in point is Mark, who worked as a technical writer
at DataSearch, a high-tech firm whose major product was a sophisticated search
engine sold to other organizations that used it to manage computerized databases.
Mark’s assignment during his internship was to participate in the production of
user documentation for a new version of the search engine, which was under development. While he could at times consult with his co-workers in the Documentation
Department and had some access to engineers and programmers in the Research &
Development Department, he also developed strategies for tapping into the distributed cognition available in artifacts such as texts. Below Mark provides us with an
example:
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You need to read the material you’re given. If you’re given a department
guide, it’s probably going to be as boring as watching wallpaper dry, but
you’ve got to read it—it’s amazingly helpful. You don’t want to go to
your manager with a question and have him say, “Well, actually, you know,
that’s on page 2 [in the department guide].” That department guide—
not an exciting document at all, but definitely worthwhile.
You need to read the material you’re given. If you’re given a department
guide, it’s probably going to be as boring as watching wallpaper dry, but
you’ve got to read it—it’s amazingly helpful. You don’t want to go to
your manager with a question and have him say, “Well, actually, you know,
that’s on page 2 [in the department guide].” That department guide—
not an exciting document at all, but definitely worthwhile.
In another case, Mark drew on the “foundation notes” for the project he was
involved in—a detailed written record of weekly meetings of senior managers and
the staff from Documentation and Research & Development. This record—which
constituted a form of organizational memory—included transcripts of all meetings,
which were tape-recorded, as well as copies of any documents or diagrams that had
been discussed. When Mark learned about the “foundation notes” early on in his
internship, he decided to read through the entire record from the beginning of the
project, which had been in progress for a year by the time his internship began.
This reliance on texts, either available in the immediate environment or accessed
through the Internet, was a recurrent strategy among the interns. For example, Anne,
who was working on a major ($40,000) grant proposal for a nonprofit organization,
obtained guidelines as well as samples of previously successful proposals from the
website of the government funding agency to which she was applying. She explains:
In another case, Mark drew on the “foundation notes” for the project he was
involved in—a detailed written record of weekly meetings of senior managers and
the staff from Documentation and Research & Development. This record—which
constituted a form of organizational memory—included transcripts of all meetings,
which were tape-recorded, as well as copies of any documents or diagrams that had
been discussed. When Mark learned about the “foundation notes” early on in his
internship, he decided to read through the entire record from the beginning of the
project, which had been in progress for a year by the time his internship began.
This reliance on texts, either available in the immediate environment or accessed
through the Internet, was a recurrent strategy among the interns. For example, Anne,
who was working on a major ($40,000) grant proposal for a nonprofit organization,
obtained guidelines as well as samples of previously successful proposals from the
website of the government funding agency to which she was applying. She explains:
With grant writing, [the government agency] gives you an information
packet with detailed guidelines that tell what they want in each section,
and even how each section is graded. And they’ll also reference you to
other grant proposals on their website, grants from other organizations.
And you can go and access those grants and use them as a template,
grants that other people have written, that have been successful. And so
you can use [this material]…. They’re basically saying, “These people
gave us what we want, and we want you to do the same thing.”
With grant writing, [the government agency] gives you an information
packet with detailed guidelines that tell what they want in each section,
and even how each section is graded. And they’ll also reference you to
other grant proposals on their website, grants from other organizations.
And you can go and access those grants and use them as a template,
grants that other people have written, that have been successful. And so
you can use [this material]…. They’re basically saying, “These people
gave us what we want, and we want you to do the same thing.”
Similarly, Martha, an intern with ManageWell, a company that specializes in creating computer-run productivity tools for organizations and in offering related training, frequently accessed—via the Internet—product information and on-line tutorials for new-to-her software programs that she needed to use in order to accomplish
her work of producing user documentation and training materials. In other cases,
interns drew on texts such as in-house style guides, policies/procedures manuals, let-
Similarly, Martha, an intern with ManageWell, a company that specializes in creating computer-run productivity tools for organizations and in offering related training, frequently accessed—via the Internet—product information and on-line tutorials for new-to-her software programs that she needed to use in order to accomplish
her work of producing user documentation and training materials. In other cases,
interns drew on texts such as in-house style guides, policies/procedures manuals, let-
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ters, memos, minutes of meetings, document templates, annual reports, newsletters,
websites, and previous samples of the genres they were producing—all with a view to
accessing the distributed cognition embedded in these textual artifacts.
Print and electronic texts, however, were not the only cultural artifacts used in this
way by the interns. Regularly scheduled, conventionally structured meetings, where the
participants in a project met to discuss progress and problems, were another type of cultural artifact that could prove helpful to the interns by displaying patterns of culturally
appropriate social interaction. Below Mark explains how meetings functioned for him as
a theatre of both effective and ineffective social behavior:
ters, memos, minutes of meetings, document templates, annual reports, newsletters,
websites, and previous samples of the genres they were producing—all with a view to
accessing the distributed cognition embedded in these textual artifacts.
Print and electronic texts, however, were not the only cultural artifacts used in this
way by the interns. Regularly scheduled, conventionally structured meetings, where the
participants in a project met to discuss progress and problems, were another type of cultural artifact that could prove helpful to the interns by displaying patterns of culturally
appropriate social interaction. Below Mark explains how meetings functioned for him as
a theatre of both effective and ineffective social behavior:
By watching what goes on at meetings, I saw that there were some people,
who when they stood up to say something, or walked over to the whiteboard
to draw a diagram, they were really holding everyone’s attention. And then
you could see that there were other people who always had to have something to say, and whenever they’d stand up at a meeting, the attention would
just kind of wane, because they always seemed to need to say something, no
matter how irrelevant or redundant. And so just by watching you could see
what works and what doesn’t.
By watching what goes on at meetings, I saw that there were some people,
who when they stood up to say something, or walked over to the whiteboard
to draw a diagram, they were really holding everyone’s attention. And then
you could see that there were other people who always had to have something to say, and whenever they’d stand up at a meeting, the attention would
just kind of wane, because they always seemed to need to say something, no
matter how irrelevant or redundant. And so just by watching you could see
what works and what doesn’t.
Others types of mediating artifacts also served the interns as vehicles of distributed
cognition. We have already seen how Sally was able to draw on various analytical methods, procedures, and technologies in producing a computer-based training program. Mark’s
internship at DataSearch offers another example. The Documentation Department employed an approach for producing software documentation that combined analytical
methods known as “structured writing” and “single-sourcing” with a digital technology
called FrameMaker+SGML. After reading the departmental guide when he arrived at
DataSearch, and getting a sense of what this approach involved and how it defined his
role as a writer, Mark was immediately able to begin collaborating productively with his
co-workers: “They threw me into the fray pretty much right away … ‘Go write that
chapter.’ It was kind of draconian—like a ‘live-fire’ situation. But it worked out OK
because of the system we use.” The intelligence embedded in the different artifacts that
constituted the documentation system—analytical methods and digital technology—
allowed Mark to contribute effectively from very early in his internship, even though he
was a novice in the organization.
Martha’s experience at ManageWell provides another instance of the use of cultural artifacts as well as an explicit example of an intern simultaneously performing
and further developing expert practices. ManageWell’s main product is a software
program called AdminOrganizer, which enables an organization to manage informa-
Others types of mediating artifacts also served the interns as vehicles of distributed
cognition. We have already seen how Sally was able to draw on various analytical methods, procedures, and technologies in producing a computer-based training program. Mark’s
internship at DataSearch offers another example. The Documentation Department employed an approach for producing software documentation that combined analytical
methods known as “structured writing” and “single-sourcing” with a digital technology
called FrameMaker+SGML. After reading the departmental guide when he arrived at
DataSearch, and getting a sense of what this approach involved and how it defined his
role as a writer, Mark was immediately able to begin collaborating productively with his
co-workers: “They threw me into the fray pretty much right away … ‘Go write that
chapter.’ It was kind of draconian—like a ‘live-fire’ situation. But it worked out OK
because of the system we use.” The intelligence embedded in the different artifacts that
constituted the documentation system—analytical methods and digital technology—
allowed Mark to contribute effectively from very early in his internship, even though he
was a novice in the organization.
Martha’s experience at ManageWell provides another instance of the use of cultural artifacts as well as an explicit example of an intern simultaneously performing
and further developing expert practices. ManageWell’s main product is a software
program called AdminOrganizer, which enables an organization to manage informa-
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tion related to functions such as sales, revenues, payments to suppliers, and employee
salaries. In order to write user documentation for AdminOrganizer, Martha needed
to understand how it worked. She found that she could employ the software itself,
with its analytical structure of “modules” and “functions,” as a vehicle for learning.
Further, Martha began the task of producing the documentation for AdminOrganizer
even as she was learning how to use the software. She explains:
tion related to functions such as sales, revenues, payments to suppliers, and employee
salaries. In order to write user documentation for AdminOrganizer, Martha needed
to understand how it worked. She found that she could employ the software itself,
with its analytical structure of “modules” and “functions,” as a vehicle for learning.
Further, Martha began the task of producing the documentation for AdminOrganizer
even as she was learning how to use the software. She explains:
I had to learn to use AdminOrganizer in order to write documentation
for it…. They had two computer-based programs that walked you
through what AdminOrganizer is intended to do. I looked at those, but
after that I was still kind of lost because that just gave an overview. So I
decided to go through it like I was one of our customers, going through
the different modules and functions. I set up a fake company, and set up
my inventory, and started making sales orders and purchase orders, and
accounts receivable, payable; I set up the payroll for the employees—like
I was the head of this company. And so I learned it as I went though it….
And I took notes for the documentation as I went along.
I had to learn to use AdminOrganizer in order to write documentation
for it…. They had two computer-based programs that walked you
through what AdminOrganizer is intended to do. I looked at those, but
after that I was still kind of lost because that just gave an overview. So I
decided to go through it like I was one of our customers, going through
the different modules and functions. I set up a fake company, and set up
my inventory, and started making sales orders and purchase orders, and
accounts receivable, payable; I set up the payroll for the employees—like
I was the head of this company. And so I learned it as I went though it….
And I took notes for the documentation as I went along.
The four individuals quoted above were typical of the interns in our study in
that they simultaneously performed and further developed expert practices in the
course of accomplishing significant writing tasks—without the aid of regular handson coaching from more experienced co-workers, or for rehearsals or trial runs in the
genres in which they were writing. A key factor here was the interns’ ability to draw
on the distributed cognition inherent in culturally constructed artifacts such as digital technologies, print and electronic texts, analytical methods, procedures, and the
social interaction on display at meetings. In doing this, they were learning a new way
of learning.
The four individuals quoted above were typical of the interns in our study in
that they simultaneously performed and further developed expert practices in the
course of accomplishing significant writing tasks—without the aid of regular handson coaching from more experienced co-workers, or for rehearsals or trial runs in the
genres in which they were writing. A key factor here was the interns’ ability to draw
on the distributed cognition inherent in culturally constructed artifacts such as digital technologies, print and electronic texts, analytical methods, procedures, and the
social interaction on display at meetings. In doing this, they were learning a new way
of learning.
Interns reinventing expert writing practices
Interns reinventing expert writing practices
As mentioned earlier, our study suggests that what the interns experienced was not
learning transfer, but rather a transformation of learning that made possible the
reinvention of expert practices. Having developed expert writing practices in previous academic activity systems, the interns were able to resituate and extend—or
reinvent—these practices in their new worksites. As they took on and succeeded in,
the writing tasks they had been assigned, the interns both enacted and further developed expert practices—with performance and learning happening at the same time.
It was their engaged participation in the activity of their worksites—with its interactions among co-workers and the mediations of cultural artifacts—that allowed the
As mentioned earlier, our study suggests that what the interns experienced was not
learning transfer, but rather a transformation of learning that made possible the
reinvention of expert practices. Having developed expert writing practices in previous academic activity systems, the interns were able to resituate and extend—or
reinvent—these practices in their new worksites. As they took on and succeeded in,
the writing tasks they had been assigned, the interns both enacted and further developed expert practices—with performance and learning happening at the same time.
It was their engaged participation in the activity of their worksites—with its interactions among co-workers and the mediations of cultural artifacts—that allowed the
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interns to function in this way. Below we describe this reinvention of expert practices as it
relates to reader-centered writing, research strategies, use of digital technologies, and collaboration.
interns to function in this way. Below we describe this reinvention of expert practices as it
relates to reader-centered writing, research strategies, use of digital technologies, and collaboration.
Reader-centered writing
In the Professional Writing major, rhetorically informed practices of readercentered writing were central to the curriculum. In the academic activity system, the
students’ readers were usually either the instructor or other students, with some infrequent opportunities to write for audiences outside the classroom. In their
internships, the interns were able to draw on these previous experiences with readercentred writing practices to interpret the rhetorical landscape of their worksites. As
Mark put it, describing his experience at DataSearch: “There’s a whole host of cultural and reader-centered stuff that goes on, and being able to recognize it was a big
part of things.” For the interns, this ability to “read” their rhetorical environments
could result in sophisticated, subtle understandings of the multiple audiences for texts
they were producing. Mark, for example, was able resituate and extend his school
experience with reader-centered writing practices in his new sphere of activity as a
technical writer with DataSearch, as we see in the interview excerpt below, where he
describes one of DataSearch’s customers:
Reader-centered writing
In the Professional Writing major, rhetorically informed practices of readercentered writing were central to the curriculum. In the academic activity system, the
students’ readers were usually either the instructor or other students, with some infrequent opportunities to write for audiences outside the classroom. In their
internships, the interns were able to draw on these previous experiences with readercentred writing practices to interpret the rhetorical landscape of their worksites. As
Mark put it, describing his experience at DataSearch: “There’s a whole host of cultural and reader-centered stuff that goes on, and being able to recognize it was a big
part of things.” For the interns, this ability to “read” their rhetorical environments
could result in sophisticated, subtle understandings of the multiple audiences for texts
they were producing. Mark, for example, was able resituate and extend his school
experience with reader-centered writing practices in his new sphere of activity as a
technical writer with DataSearch, as we see in the interview excerpt below, where he
describes one of DataSearch’s customers:
We sell our software [a search engine] to SecuritiesTrader [a financial
services firm], who then [build their own database] around it. And so
when their client, Joe Day-Trader, goes to SecuritiesTrader and uses their
database, he’s not explicitly interacting with our software—he goes
through SecuritiesTrader’ shell and our stuff ’s the core…. So we’re writing our documentation for the people at SecuritiesTrader—the programmers, the [database] administrators, the testers there. We’re not writing
to the everyday guy, Joe Day-Trader. So with the whole concept of readercentered writing—we have to remember that we’re writing for advanced
to expert-level programmers and people like that.
We sell our software [a search engine] to SecuritiesTrader [a financial
services firm], who then [build their own database] around it. And so
when their client, Joe Day-Trader, goes to SecuritiesTrader and uses their
database, he’s not explicitly interacting with our software—he goes
through SecuritiesTrader’ shell and our stuff ’s the core…. So we’re writing our documentation for the people at SecuritiesTrader—the programmers, the [database] administrators, the testers there. We’re not writing
to the everyday guy, Joe Day-Trader. So with the whole concept of readercentered writing—we have to remember that we’re writing for advanced
to expert-level programmers and people like that.
Sally also spoke about her understanding of the readership for her computerbased training program: “First I had to determine who my audience would be. On the
one hand, I was creating this lesson for AutoBuild employees. However, I knew that
this didn’t mean just the plant workers. I was pretty sure that the upper management
of AutoBuild would also be taking more than a cursory glance at it.”
Sally also spoke about her understanding of the readership for her computerbased training program: “First I had to determine who my audience would be. On the
one hand, I was creating this lesson for AutoBuild employees. However, I knew that
this didn’t mean just the plant workers. I was pretty sure that the upper management
of AutoBuild would also be taking more than a cursory glance at it.”
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For the interns, the reinvention of reader-centred writing practices also implied a
different kind of relationship with readers, one that involved a close, personal identification with the readers’ particular needs. We can get a sense of this from Martha’s comments about the customers who would use her documentation for the AdminOrganizer
software program:
For the interns, the reinvention of reader-centred writing practices also implied a
different kind of relationship with readers, one that involved a close, personal identification with the readers’ particular needs. We can get a sense of this from Martha’s comments about the customers who would use her documentation for the AdminOrganizer
software program:
Our goal [in producing documentation] was to bring in more customers,
and for the ones that we already had, to help them better understood how to
use our software, so that they could be successful in their business. With the
new documentation I created, I thought our users were better equipped to
handle the software; if they needed to find something, they could find it and
not have to go through eight pages of text.
Our goal [in producing documentation] was to bring in more customers,
and for the ones that we already had, to help them better understood how to
use our software, so that they could be successful in their business. With the
new documentation I created, I thought our users were better equipped to
handle the software; if they needed to find something, they could find it and
not have to go through eight pages of text.
Mark spoke of a similar relationship with the readers of the user documentation for
the database search engine produced by DataSearch: “When we sell the product, it’s out
there in the world. And we’ve got to make really sure the documentation can support it,
rather than putting our users in a position where they’ve got to call us saying, ‘I need to
talk to one of your programmers.’” And for Sally at AutoBuild, “it [was] neat to know
that the [computer-based training] program I produced is actually going to be used by
people, used by the employees.”
Anne’s task of producing a grant proposal for a nonprofit organization provides
a related example of this sense of connection with people who would potentially be
affected by the writing. The grant proposal aimed to secure funding for a support
program for modest-income single mothers, a group Anne could relate to personally.
She explains:
Mark spoke of a similar relationship with the readers of the user documentation for
the database search engine produced by DataSearch: “When we sell the product, it’s out
there in the world. And we’ve got to make really sure the documentation can support it,
rather than putting our users in a position where they’ve got to call us saying, ‘I need to
talk to one of your programmers.’” And for Sally at AutoBuild, “it [was] neat to know
that the [computer-based training] program I produced is actually going to be used by
people, used by the employees.”
Anne’s task of producing a grant proposal for a nonprofit organization provides
a related example of this sense of connection with people who would potentially be
affected by the writing. The grant proposal aimed to secure funding for a support
program for modest-income single mothers, a group Anne could relate to personally.
She explains:
In a sense, in writing this proposal, I was creating a program for people.
I wasn’t just writing something; I was actually creating a program—I
was setting its goals, so I was creating the program. And that was intimidating. …When I finally found the statistic I was looking for—on the
Internet, on a government website—and that statistic made the case, well,
it was just the best feeling in the world.
In a sense, in writing this proposal, I was creating a program for people.
I wasn’t just writing something; I was actually creating a program—I
was setting its goals, so I was creating the program. And that was intimidating. …When I finally found the statistic I was looking for—on the
Internet, on a government website—and that statistic made the case, well,
it was just the best feeling in the world.
Research strategies
In the Professional Writing program, the interns had been trained to do research as
an essential part of invention. With close guidance from their instructors, they had learned
strategies for locating print information in libraries and on the World Wide Web as well
as for generating information through interviews, surveys, and focus groups. In their
Research strategies
In the Professional Writing program, the interns had been trained to do research as
an essential part of invention. With close guidance from their instructors, they had learned
strategies for locating print information in libraries and on the World Wide Web as well
as for generating information through interviews, surveys, and focus groups. In their
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worksites, however, the interns were themselves usually responsible for deciding when
research was needed and what combination of strategies would be most effective in a
particular situation, and they became very adept at doing this.
At the same time, they came to understand that while in academia plagiarizing
other people’s thoughts and language was unethical, it was a different story in the
workplace. The interns quickly realized that appropriating other texts, produced within
or outside of one’s organization, was not only common practice but was viewed as
the most intelligent way to operate. Anne describes how this practice allowed her to
be successful as a grant writer:
worksites, however, the interns were themselves usually responsible for deciding when
research was needed and what combination of strategies would be most effective in a
particular situation, and they became very adept at doing this.
At the same time, they came to understand that while in academia plagiarizing
other people’s thoughts and language was unethical, it was a different story in the
workplace. The interns quickly realized that appropriating other texts, produced within
or outside of one’s organization, was not only common practice but was viewed as
the most intelligent way to operate. Anne describes how this practice allowed her to
be successful as a grant writer:
Another thing I learned, is that you can plagiarize, and that just fascinated me. With grant writing, [the government funding agency will] reference you to other grant proposals. And you can go and access those
grants [via the Internet] and use them as a template, grants that other
people have written, that have been successful. And so you can use [this
material], and why invent the wheel if it’s already been done? … This is
an entirely different set of rules from school.
Another thing I learned, is that you can plagiarize, and that just fascinated me. With grant writing, [the government funding agency will] reference you to other grant proposals. And you can go and access those
grants [via the Internet] and use them as a template, grants that other
people have written, that have been successful. And so you can use [this
material], and why invent the wheel if it’s already been done? … This is
an entirely different set of rules from school.
Use of digital technologies
The Professional Writing program taken by the interns was technology-intensive. All the courses in the program, with the exception of the internship class itself,
were held in a computer classroom, where students had access to a variety of different
softwares, such as Microsoft Office™, FrameMaker™, PageMaker™, Dreamweaver™,
Acrobat™, and QuarkXpress™. In their worksites, however, the interns often found
themselves relating to technology in a new way. Instead of classroom situations where
they were guided by instructors in learning to use new softwares, the interns often
found themselves operating on their own. We have seen how Sally employed an online tutorial to teach herself how to use ToolBook Instructor before beginning the
task of developing a computer-based training program. Martha describes a similar
situation at ManageWell, where she discovered the best approach, for her, for learning to use a new software on her own:
Use of digital technologies
The Professional Writing program taken by the interns was technology-intensive. All the courses in the program, with the exception of the internship class itself,
were held in a computer classroom, where students had access to a variety of different
softwares, such as Microsoft Office™, FrameMaker™, PageMaker™, Dreamweaver™,
Acrobat™, and QuarkXpress™. In their worksites, however, the interns often found
themselves relating to technology in a new way. Instead of classroom situations where
they were guided by instructors in learning to use new softwares, the interns often
found themselves operating on their own. We have seen how Sally employed an online tutorial to teach herself how to use ToolBook Instructor before beginning the
task of developing a computer-based training program. Martha describes a similar
situation at ManageWell, where she discovered the best approach, for her, for learning to use a new software on her own:
Knowing how to go about learning a software on your own was important. I figured out that what works best for me is to actually go through
[the software]. I have to sit down at the computer like I know what I’m
doing and I go through it and produce a document. Like with InDesign™:
first I did some research; I looked on the Internet to find out exactly
what InDesign™ does. Then I just sat down and went through it and
Knowing how to go about learning a software on your own was important. I figured out that what works best for me is to actually go through
[the software]. I have to sit down at the computer like I know what I’m
doing and I go through it and produce a document. Like with InDesign™:
first I did some research; I looked on the Internet to find out exactly
what InDesign™ does. Then I just sat down and went through it and
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produced a flyer. I tinkered until I got it right, and when I got something
right I wrote it down, exactly what I did. I figured out the features [of the
software] and wrote them down.
produced a flyer. I tinkered until I got it right, and when I got something
right I wrote it down, exactly what I did. I figured out the features [of the
software] and wrote them down.
Here, once again, we see an intern learning a new way of learning—with this
transformation of learning enabling her to resituate and extend expert writing practices in her new worksite.
Here, once again, we see an intern learning a new way of learning—with this
transformation of learning enabling her to resituate and extend expert writing practices in her new worksite.
Collaborative writing
Another central feature of the curriculum in the Professional Writing major was
an emphasis on collaborative writing. Students had frequent opportunities to work
together in project teams. Mark describes his experience with collaborative writing in
school:
Collaborative writing
Another central feature of the curriculum in the Professional Writing major was
an emphasis on collaborative writing. Students had frequent opportunities to work
together in project teams. Mark describes his experience with collaborative writing in
school:
When we’d get together as a team, we’d kind of negotiate what would
need to go into the document, and a couple of people would write it and
make sure all the sections would work together. For the most part it was
one or two people writing it and everyone else sitting around and throwing in what they wanted. Somebody would be typing and we’d get to a
section on, say, the colour green. “Well, Jim, you did the research on the
colour green, so tell us what you know about the color green,” and we’d
type it in.
When we’d get together as a team, we’d kind of negotiate what would
need to go into the document, and a couple of people would write it and
make sure all the sections would work together. For the most part it was
one or two people writing it and everyone else sitting around and throwing in what they wanted. Somebody would be typing and we’d get to a
section on, say, the colour green. “Well, Jim, you did the research on the
colour green, so tell us what you know about the color green,” and we’d
type it in.
According to Mark, the collaborative writing practices he participated in at
DataSearch were qualitatively different from those he had experienced at school. The
situation at school was “on one end of the spectrum, and here [at DataSearch], with
collaboration, we’re on the other end of the spectrum.” He elaborates:
According to Mark, the collaborative writing practices he participated in at
DataSearch were qualitatively different from those he had experienced at school. The
situation at school was “on one end of the spectrum, and here [at DataSearch], with
collaboration, we’re on the other end of the spectrum.” He elaborates:
At DataSearch, we do ‘books’ [of user documentation] that can range
from 100 pages to, say, 700 pages. And [a book] will have ‘chapters’; and
within those chapters each section is its own little ‘inset.’ And we do collaborative writing in that I’ll write an inset, Mike will write an inset,
Brad will write an inset. Each of does our part on our own and inputs it
to FrameMaker™. And it’s kind of a leap of faith: you have to say, “Well,
OK, in this chapter I have to assume that Brad will get the job done here,
Mike will get the job done there, and I just have to follow our style guidelines and do my own insets for this chapter—no more, no less—and
then put it into FrameMaker™, and it’ll all work together.”
At DataSearch, we do ‘books’ [of user documentation] that can range
from 100 pages to, say, 700 pages. And [a book] will have ‘chapters’; and
within those chapters each section is its own little ‘inset.’ And we do collaborative writing in that I’ll write an inset, Mike will write an inset,
Brad will write an inset. Each of does our part on our own and inputs it
to FrameMaker™. And it’s kind of a leap of faith: you have to say, “Well,
OK, in this chapter I have to assume that Brad will get the job done here,
Mike will get the job done there, and I just have to follow our style guidelines and do my own insets for this chapter—no more, no less—and
then put it into FrameMaker™, and it’ll all work together.”
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134
The examples above illustrate how the interns were able to draw on expert writing
practices developed in the activity of the classroom and to resituate and extend these
practices in accomplishing writing tasks in the activity systems of their new work environments.
The examples above illustrate how the interns were able to draw on expert writing
practices developed in the activity of the classroom and to resituate and extend these
practices in accomplishing writing tasks in the activity systems of their new work environments.
Growth of professional identity
Growth of professional identity
The development of a “knowledgeably-skilled identity” appeared to be a key factor
in the interns’ reinvention of expert practices. Part of this evolution in self-identity came
from a sense of achieved competence, as defined by the expectations of the organizational
culture. Mark explains what this means for him:
The development of a “knowledgeably-skilled identity” appeared to be a key factor
in the interns’ reinvention of expert practices. Part of this evolution in self-identity came
from a sense of achieved competence, as defined by the expectations of the organizational
culture. Mark explains what this means for him:
For me, being professional means that you get stuff done on your own; no
one has to hold your hand through it. You know what has to be done, you
have a rough estimate of when it has to be done, and you get it done…. Now
I feel much more like a professional than I did when I started. I’m expected
to know what I’m doing next, what I should be working on, what need to
get done by 5:00 o’clock today. And I do. It’s like the kid-gloves are off: “You’ve
been trained; you’ve got the skills to do this—go for it.”
For me, being professional means that you get stuff done on your own; no
one has to hold your hand through it. You know what has to be done, you
have a rough estimate of when it has to be done, and you get it done…. Now
I feel much more like a professional than I did when I started. I’m expected
to know what I’m doing next, what I should be working on, what need to
get done by 5:00 o’clock today. And I do. It’s like the kid-gloves are off: “You’ve
been trained; you’ve got the skills to do this—go for it.”
At the same time, though, developing a “knowledgeably-skilled identity” could also
involve the sense of becoming a recognized member of a team of professionally competent
practitioners. Martha describes how this evolved for her:
At the same time, though, developing a “knowledgeably-skilled identity” could also
involve the sense of becoming a recognized member of a team of professionally competent
practitioners. Martha describes how this evolved for her:
I didn’t know anything when I started at ManageWell. I was just a student
intern; my name was Martha Jones, JAI: ‘Just an Intern’…. I had to figure
out a lot of different things. And part of it was learning how to talk to other
people in our company—the program developers, the trainers, the QA [Quality Assurance] people—and how to work with them…. But by the end of
my internship, though, people were coming to me when they had questions
about the documentation or even about the software itself. And that made
me feel really good…. I eventually got to where I felt like I was really part of
the team…. So by the end, it was different—it was like being … a real tech
writer.
I didn’t know anything when I started at ManageWell. I was just a student
intern; my name was Martha Jones, JAI: ‘Just an Intern’…. I had to figure
out a lot of different things. And part of it was learning how to talk to other
people in our company—the program developers, the trainers, the QA [Quality Assurance] people—and how to work with them…. But by the end of
my internship, though, people were coming to me when they had questions
about the documentation or even about the software itself. And that made
me feel really good…. I eventually got to where I felt like I was really part of
the team…. So by the end, it was different—it was like being … a real tech
writer.
This example also illustrates how the interns, typically, not only came to understand
that processes of learning are inherent in an activity system, as it constantly develops
shared knowing-in-practice, but also to see that they themselves, even as novices, could in
certain situations play the role of mentor for co-workers.
This example also illustrates how the interns, typically, not only came to understand
that processes of learning are inherent in an activity system, as it constantly develops
shared knowing-in-practice, but also to see that they themselves, even as novices, could in
certain situations play the role of mentor for co-workers.
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135
In other circumstances, the growth of professional identity could also involve the
need to negotiate the status of one’s own work. Martha describes an incident in which a
co-worker had taken the credit for a piece of work that had actually been done by Martha:
In other circumstances, the growth of professional identity could also involve the
need to negotiate the status of one’s own work. Martha describes an incident in which a
co-worker had taken the credit for a piece of work that had actually been done by Martha:
I was doing a set of PowerPoints and uploading them to the server for our
virtual classroom. And I did 16 of them in one night, because they needed to
be done the next day for a training session, and I got them late. So I did
them, and I was up until 5:00 a.m. And the next day, George [Martha’s
supervisor] called me and said, “Why didn’t you get those PowerPoints done.”
And I said, “I did them all.” And he said, “Well, Jack says that he did them.”
I said, “No, I did them. You go to the server and find out the IP address for
the computer that uploaded them. And so he did, and found out it was my
computer. So I said, “That’s my computer; that’s my work.”
I was doing a set of PowerPoints and uploading them to the server for our
virtual classroom. And I did 16 of them in one night, because they needed to
be done the next day for a training session, and I got them late. So I did
them, and I was up until 5:00 a.m. And the next day, George [Martha’s
supervisor] called me and said, “Why didn’t you get those PowerPoints done.”
And I said, “I did them all.” And he said, “Well, Jack says that he did them.”
I said, “No, I did them. You go to the server and find out the IP address for
the computer that uploaded them. And so he did, and found out it was my
computer. So I said, “That’s my computer; that’s my work.”
As Martha explains, how she reacted to this situation was very important for her
evolving sense of self as a practitioner:
As Martha explains, how she reacted to this situation was very important for her
evolving sense of self as a practitioner:
I had to do something about what had happened, though I didn’t really
know how to go about it. So I just decided to get them together and let
them know how I felt. I told George I wanted to see him and Jim—to
talk about what had happened. So the next week, we had a meeting—
George, Jim, and John, that’s George’s boss, and me. I told John what
had happened: that it was my work and that somebody else had been
claiming they did it; and that I didn’t appreciate that … I wanted them
to recognize that I do my own work, and I do my work well…. Now I
have experience dealing with these situations, it’s sure to help. I’m much
more confident now. I know I can stand up and say, “Hey, you’re not
going to take credit for this. This is my work.”
I had to do something about what had happened, though I didn’t really
know how to go about it. So I just decided to get them together and let
them know how I felt. I told George I wanted to see him and Jim—to
talk about what had happened. So the next week, we had a meeting—
George, Jim, and John, that’s George’s boss, and me. I told John what
had happened: that it was my work and that somebody else had been
claiming they did it; and that I didn’t appreciate that … I wanted them
to recognize that I do my own work, and I do my work well…. Now I
have experience dealing with these situations, it’s sure to help. I’m much
more confident now. I know I can stand up and say, “Hey, you’re not
going to take credit for this. This is my work.”
Martha was fully aware, however, of the power relations in play in this situation:
“It’s a very delicate situation when you’re dealing with bosses and their bosses; you
got to try to let them know that you’re upset, but still got treat them with respect.”
One of our more striking observations about the interns’ reinvention of expert practices was the synergistic relationship between expertise and a sense of professional identity. The enactment and further development of expert practices appeared to contribute
to the growth of professional identity—though there is nothing really newsworthy about
this. What did surprise us, however, was how a growing sense of personal competence
appeared to make the interns more effective in carrying out their assigned writing tasks.
Martha was fully aware, however, of the power relations in play in this situation:
“It’s a very delicate situation when you’re dealing with bosses and their bosses; you
got to try to let them know that you’re upset, but still got treat them with respect.”
One of our more striking observations about the interns’ reinvention of expert practices was the synergistic relationship between expertise and a sense of professional identity. The enactment and further development of expert practices appeared to contribute
to the growth of professional identity—though there is nothing really newsworthy about
this. What did surprise us, however, was how a growing sense of personal competence
appeared to make the interns more effective in carrying out their assigned writing tasks.
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136
An explanation for this could be that an enhanced sense of competence as practitioners
led the interns to expect to be successful in dealing with challenging situations and thus to
be more resourceful and effective in their work.
An explanation for this could be that an enhanced sense of competence as practitioners
led the interns to expect to be successful in dealing with challenging situations and thus to
be more resourceful and effective in their work.
Implications
Implications
We believe that our study has certain implications for theory, pedagogy, and future
research. On the level of theory, the study adds some texture to our understanding of how
written genres are embedded, in locally specific ways, in the environments and work
activities of professional organizations. Perhaps the key contribution of the study, however, is its support for the challenge that theorists of situated learning have brought to
bear on the cognitivist concept of learning transfer. What we hope to have added to this
critique is a more detailed picture of what it is that occurs, absent the notion of learning
transfer, when students move from the classroom into the workplace: a transformation of
learning and reinvention of expert practices. As well, in describing how the interns in our
study simultaneously enacted and further developed expert writing practices, we corroborate the view that “part of the nature of a shared practice [is] that learning what it is
and enacting it are inseparable” (Barnes, 2001, p. 25). And finally, we offer a variation
on the apprenticeship model of situated learning by describing how the interns in our
study compensated for the lack of hands-on mentoring by accessing the distributed cognition inherent in culturally constructed artifacts.
In terms of rhetorical theory, our study has enriched our own understanding of
praxis, defined as the enactment of discursive practices informed by context-specific
rhetorical, ethical, and political understandings. First, because praxis is always situated in human activity, it is invariably accomplished through interactions with other
people and with material, conceptual, and linguistic artifacts such as digital technologies, built environments, analytical methods, and discourse genres. And second,
since human activity is constantly changing, the nature of praxis continuously evolves,
which in turn requires ongoing learning on the part of those who would deploy it.
With regard to pedagogy, each of the authors redesigned and taught a course in the
Professional Writing program during the time we were conducting our research. In both
cases, we attempted to apply what we were learning from the study to our teaching. Brown
taught a course in Research Methods in which she engaged her students in a single, semester-long research project, with a local nonprofit organization as the client. She shared
with the class the responsibility for defining the specific goals of the project, at the outset
and then stage by stage, and collaborated with them throughout the semester to decide
what work had to be accomplished next and what combination of research strategies
would be needed.
We believe that our study has certain implications for theory, pedagogy, and future
research. On the level of theory, the study adds some texture to our understanding of how
written genres are embedded, in locally specific ways, in the environments and work
activities of professional organizations. Perhaps the key contribution of the study, however, is its support for the challenge that theorists of situated learning have brought to
bear on the cognitivist concept of learning transfer. What we hope to have added to this
critique is a more detailed picture of what it is that occurs, absent the notion of learning
transfer, when students move from the classroom into the workplace: a transformation of
learning and reinvention of expert practices. As well, in describing how the interns in our
study simultaneously enacted and further developed expert writing practices, we corroborate the view that “part of the nature of a shared practice [is] that learning what it is
and enacting it are inseparable” (Barnes, 2001, p. 25). And finally, we offer a variation
on the apprenticeship model of situated learning by describing how the interns in our
study compensated for the lack of hands-on mentoring by accessing the distributed cognition inherent in culturally constructed artifacts.
In terms of rhetorical theory, our study has enriched our own understanding of
praxis, defined as the enactment of discursive practices informed by context-specific
rhetorical, ethical, and political understandings. First, because praxis is always situated in human activity, it is invariably accomplished through interactions with other
people and with material, conceptual, and linguistic artifacts such as digital technologies, built environments, analytical methods, and discourse genres. And second,
since human activity is constantly changing, the nature of praxis continuously evolves,
which in turn requires ongoing learning on the part of those who would deploy it.
With regard to pedagogy, each of the authors redesigned and taught a course in the
Professional Writing program during the time we were conducting our research. In both
cases, we attempted to apply what we were learning from the study to our teaching. Brown
taught a course in Research Methods in which she engaged her students in a single, semester-long research project, with a local nonprofit organization as the client. She shared
with the class the responsibility for defining the specific goals of the project, at the outset
and then stage by stage, and collaborated with them throughout the semester to decide
what work had to be accomplished next and what combination of research strategies
would be needed.
137
Smart taught a capstone course in Advanced Professional Writing in which the students assumed part of the responsibility for designing their individual plans-of-study.
Among the projects the students undertook were these: learning an unfamiliar digital
technology on one’s own, researching the use of the technology in the workplace, and
developing instructional materials for it; participating with the authors of this study in
the design and presentation of a workshop on research methods for practitioners at a
chapter of the Society for Technical Communication in a nearby city; and collaborating
in a team to produce a piece of print or on-line documentation for a non-profit organization in the local community.
In both courses, we aimed to provide our students with experiences that, among
other objectives, would prepare them for what we believe they will encounter in their
careers after graduation. We created spheres of activity in which the students collaborated with classmates, practitioners, and clients in the community and interacted with
cultural artifacts such as digital technologies, project-management methods, and analytical procedures in accomplishing large-scale writing projects that lasted weeks,
months, or even the whole semester. We also provided our students with opportunities and exigencies outside the classroom that would prompt them to reinterpret,
enact and extend expert writing practices they had developed in school.
Looking to future research, we believe that our discipline must continue to explore the relationship between what students experience in our classrooms and what
they experience in the worksites they enter after graduation. To grow as a field, Professional Writing needs ongoing research to develop a larger body of field-specific
“grounded theory” (Glaser & Strauss, 1967; Strauss & Corbin, 1998), that is, theory
derived from the analysis of data that has been systematically gathered in a range of
classrooms and worksites. Such research would allow us to address three issues that
are fundamental to our curricula and pedagogy:
Smart taught a capstone course in Advanced Professional Writing in which the students assumed part of the responsibility for designing their individual plans-of-study.
Among the projects the students undertook were these: learning an unfamiliar digital
technology on one’s own, researching the use of the technology in the workplace, and
developing instructional materials for it; participating with the authors of this study in
the design and presentation of a workshop on research methods for practitioners at a
chapter of the Society for Technical Communication in a nearby city; and collaborating
in a team to produce a piece of print or on-line documentation for a non-profit organization in the local community.
In both courses, we aimed to provide our students with experiences that, among
other objectives, would prepare them for what we believe they will encounter in their
careers after graduation. We created spheres of activity in which the students collaborated with classmates, practitioners, and clients in the community and interacted with
cultural artifacts such as digital technologies, project-management methods, and analytical procedures in accomplishing large-scale writing projects that lasted weeks,
months, or even the whole semester. We also provided our students with opportunities and exigencies outside the classroom that would prompt them to reinterpret,
enact and extend expert writing practices they had developed in school.
Looking to future research, we believe that our discipline must continue to explore the relationship between what students experience in our classrooms and what
they experience in the worksites they enter after graduation. To grow as a field, Professional Writing needs ongoing research to develop a larger body of field-specific
“grounded theory” (Glaser & Strauss, 1967; Strauss & Corbin, 1998), that is, theory
derived from the analysis of data that has been systematically gathered in a range of
classrooms and worksites. Such research would allow us to address three issues that
are fundamental to our curricula and pedagogy:
• Significance – Are the versions of expert writing practices that we build into
our curricula similar to, or at least resonant with, the expert writing practices our students will need to perform in the worksites they enter after graduation?
• Significance – Are the versions of expert writing practices that we build into
our curricula similar to, or at least resonant with, the expert writing practices our students will need to perform in the worksites they enter after graduation?
• Learning – If the answer to the first question is yes, are our students successfully learning these expert writing practices in our classrooms?
• Learning – If the answer to the first question is yes, are our students successfully learning these expert writing practices in our classrooms?
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138
• Reinvention of practices – If the answer to the questions above is yes, how
do our students fare when faced with the challenge of resituating and
reconstituting, in the activity of new worksites, the expert writing practices they have learned in our classrooms?
138
• Reinvention of practices – If the answer to the questions above is yes, how
do our students fare when faced with the challenge of resituating and
reconstituting, in the activity of new worksites, the expert writing practices they have learned in our classrooms?
With the study reported in this article, we hope we have made a useful contribution
to addressing these issues at least in part, and, in the context of this special issue, to have
cast some light on the expertise of professional writers and its development.
With the study reported in this article, we hope we have made a useful contribution
to addressing these issues at least in part, and, in the context of this special issue, to have
cast some light on the expertise of professional writers and its development.
NOTES
NOTES
1 We want to express our sincere thanks to the participants in our research: Kate
Brisbane, Amy Brown, Jessica Burdge, Laura Cascella, Alicia Cray, Jillian
Fairchild, Matt Francois, Megan Graves, Susan Hazel, Jeff Heiliger, Jean Hurley,
Sarah Johnson, Steve Lopes, Rachel Mack, Carmen Morrissey, Kristi Newhouse,
Shivaun Owen, Jessi Petrelli, Misti Pinter, Vanessa Renderman, Lauren Scharnak,
Melissa Scurlock, Samantha Topliffe, and Erika Watkins. We also wish to
acknowledge the support of a Faculty Incentive Grant from Purdue University.
1 We want to express our sincere thanks to the participants in our research: Kate
Brisbane, Amy Brown, Jessica Burdge, Laura Cascella, Alicia Cray, Jillian
Fairchild, Matt Francois, Megan Graves, Susan Hazel, Jeff Heiliger, Jean Hurley,
Sarah Johnson, Steve Lopes, Rachel Mack, Carmen Morrissey, Kristi Newhouse,
Shivaun Owen, Jessi Petrelli, Misti Pinter, Vanessa Renderman, Lauren Scharnak,
Melissa Scurlock, Samantha Topliffe, and Erika Watkins. We also wish to
acknowledge the support of a Faculty Incentive Grant from Purdue University.
2 The quotations from the interns have been edited for false starts, hesitations,
fillers, and redundancy. As well, a space with three periods (…) indicates that
verbal material from an utterance has been omitted in the quotation.
2 The quotations from the interns have been edited for false starts, hesitations,
fillers, and redundancy. As well, a space with three periods (…) indicates that
verbal material from an utterance has been omitted in the quotation.
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142
Review: Worlds Apart: Acting & Writing in Academic & Workplace Contexts
142
Review/Compte Rendu
Review/Compte Rendu
Worlds Apart: Acting & Writing in Academic &
Workplace Contexts
Worlds Apart: Acting & Writing in Academic &
Workplace Contexts
Russ Hunt
St Thomas University
Russ Hunt
St Thomas University
Patrick Dias, Aviva Freedman, Peter Medway, Anthony Paré, Worlds
Apart: Acting and Writing in Academic and Workplace Contexts.
ISBN: 0805821481 - Paperback - List Price: $29.95 Publisher: Erlbaum,
Lawrence Associates, Incorporated - Published Date: 03/01/1999
Patrick Dias, Aviva Freedman, Peter Medway, Anthony Paré, Worlds
Apart: Acting and Writing in Academic and Workplace Contexts.
ISBN: 0805821481 - Paperback - List Price: $29.95 Publisher: Erlbaum,
Lawrence Associates, Incorporated - Published Date: 03/01/1999
It’s not all that often that folks in literary fields get a chance to live through a
classical paradigm shift. I would argue that one such chance occurred in the early
eighties when it suddenly became possible to attend to writing which was neither
produced nor studied in school — that is, writing which could not broadly be termed
either school writing or “belles lettres.”
Before that, most people involved in studying the development of what we might
call the later, or higher, stages of literacy, especially writing (and, less explicitly, reading), at the postsecondary levels, generally assumed that such writing was hardly worth
study. Not only was it smeared with toil and bleared with trade, it was so obviously
simple as to be unworthy of serious attention. Compared with what one might find
to say about a sonnet or an essay, it seemed clear there was almost nothing of interest
to be said about an insurance case report, a memorandum of agreement, a call for
proposals or a letter of intent. Once you’d pointed out how clichéd and uncreative
the language was, and how conventional and formulaic the organization of the text,
the work of analysis and understanding seemed to be over.
Suddenly, however — primarily with the work of Lee Odell and Dixie Goswami
— the comfortable wall between the writing we could take seriously and the writing
we could ignore broke down. Acknowledging the central importance of the intimate
connections between texts and the social situations in which they are inextricably
embedded, their “Writing in Nonacademic Settings” (1981) demonstrated the sophisticated level of intentional rhetorical choices at work in the most mundane business
communications. In doing so, it raised the possibility of comparison with the kinds
It’s not all that often that folks in literary fields get a chance to live through a
classical paradigm shift. I would argue that one such chance occurred in the early
eighties when it suddenly became possible to attend to writing which was neither
produced nor studied in school — that is, writing which could not broadly be termed
either school writing or “belles lettres.”
Before that, most people involved in studying the development of what we might
call the later, or higher, stages of literacy, especially writing (and, less explicitly, reading), at the postsecondary levels, generally assumed that such writing was hardly worth
study. Not only was it smeared with toil and bleared with trade, it was so obviously
simple as to be unworthy of serious attention. Compared with what one might find
to say about a sonnet or an essay, it seemed clear there was almost nothing of interest
to be said about an insurance case report, a memorandum of agreement, a call for
proposals or a letter of intent. Once you’d pointed out how clichéd and uncreative
the language was, and how conventional and formulaic the organization of the text,
the work of analysis and understanding seemed to be over.
Suddenly, however — primarily with the work of Lee Odell and Dixie Goswami
— the comfortable wall between the writing we could take seriously and the writing
we could ignore broke down. Acknowledging the central importance of the intimate
connections between texts and the social situations in which they are inextricably
embedded, their “Writing in Nonacademic Settings” (1981) demonstrated the sophisticated level of intentional rhetorical choices at work in the most mundane business
communications. In doing so, it raised the possibility of comparison with the kinds
Russ Hunt
143
Russ Hunt
143
of writing being produced in the academy — especially the kind being produced by
students. It also opened up new methods for attending to the circumstances under
which texts are produced, how their authors act and think in immediate circumstances, and how the texts influence those circumstances.
Worlds Apart is a powerful and thought-provoking report of an ambitious and
meticulous seven-year study of writing in workplaces and in academic contexts, conducted by a team of researchers based at Carleton and McGill universities. In many
ways it represents the culmination of the ensuing two decades’ worth of attention to
kinds of writing activity that once passed utterly undetected under the academic radar screen.
The Carleton-McGill project’s most important contribution to our understanding of writing and literacy generally may be the way it allows us to see how Russianbased “activity theory” and North American “genre theory” afford us a new, binocular understanding of the nature of writing and the contexts in which it’s learned. I
won’t attempt to offer here an account of either of these rich and complex theoretical
perspectives. The book itself does this brilliantly, which is one reason it is absolutely
indispensable for anyone who wishes to understand the functions, development and
learning of literacy now. It represents a thorough and useful handbook to what’s
known now, how we’ve come to know it, and what the current disputes about it are.
To summarize very briefly, the book shows us how considering writing as a
contextualized “activity” rather than a linguistic object allows us to see that, in the
almost complete absence of direct, explicit instruction, social workers (for example)
learn, on the job, how to write the kinds of reports that actually benefit their clients
by persuading someone to take appropriate action, and to suggest some of the reasons that learning is so effective. The authors show us how this process is rooted in
the relations among the people and texts engaged in a human activity, and how that
understanding of patterns of activity allows us in turn to understand in a richer way
the patterned linguistic actions that evolve typically out of repeated rhetorical exigencies and produce the forms of discourse we have (following, among others, Carolyn
Miller) come to call genres.
The book is organized into four sections: an extremely important introductory
one on method, one reporting investigations of “university writing” (by which is
meant writing done in connection with formal classes and explicit learning situations), one reporting on investigations of workplace writing (in contexts such as a
children’s hospital social services department, the Bank of Canada, or an architectural firm), and a final section titled “Transitions,” which addresses the question “How
can students move successfully from the academic writing described in Part II … to
the complex rhetorical environments of the workplace?” The central insight of the
of writing being produced in the academy — especially the kind being produced by
students. It also opened up new methods for attending to the circumstances under
which texts are produced, how their authors act and think in immediate circumstances, and how the texts influence those circumstances.
Worlds Apart is a powerful and thought-provoking report of an ambitious and
meticulous seven-year study of writing in workplaces and in academic contexts, conducted by a team of researchers based at Carleton and McGill universities. In many
ways it represents the culmination of the ensuing two decades’ worth of attention to
kinds of writing activity that once passed utterly undetected under the academic radar screen.
The Carleton-McGill project’s most important contribution to our understanding of writing and literacy generally may be the way it allows us to see how Russianbased “activity theory” and North American “genre theory” afford us a new, binocular understanding of the nature of writing and the contexts in which it’s learned. I
won’t attempt to offer here an account of either of these rich and complex theoretical
perspectives. The book itself does this brilliantly, which is one reason it is absolutely
indispensable for anyone who wishes to understand the functions, development and
learning of literacy now. It represents a thorough and useful handbook to what’s
known now, how we’ve come to know it, and what the current disputes about it are.
To summarize very briefly, the book shows us how considering writing as a
contextualized “activity” rather than a linguistic object allows us to see that, in the
almost complete absence of direct, explicit instruction, social workers (for example)
learn, on the job, how to write the kinds of reports that actually benefit their clients
by persuading someone to take appropriate action, and to suggest some of the reasons that learning is so effective. The authors show us how this process is rooted in
the relations among the people and texts engaged in a human activity, and how that
understanding of patterns of activity allows us in turn to understand in a richer way
the patterned linguistic actions that evolve typically out of repeated rhetorical exigencies and produce the forms of discourse we have (following, among others, Carolyn
Miller) come to call genres.
The book is organized into four sections: an extremely important introductory
one on method, one reporting investigations of “university writing” (by which is
meant writing done in connection with formal classes and explicit learning situations), one reporting on investigations of workplace writing (in contexts such as a
children’s hospital social services department, the Bank of Canada, or an architectural firm), and a final section titled “Transitions,” which addresses the question “How
can students move successfully from the academic writing described in Part II … to
the complex rhetorical environments of the workplace?” The central insight of the
144
144
book is embodied in its title: the world of school writing is utterly different and apart
from the world of workplace writing, where texts have functions and serve purposes
beyond the “epistemic” ones of learning, evaluation and grading.
In one sense, of course, this seems obvious (this is “just school”; that’s “the real
world”) but the implications of this sort of exploration of these differences at this
level are crucial for our understanding of the nature of texts, text production, and
learning about texts. And though it may seem obvious, it hardly goes without saying.
Among English departments, for example, models of text are, in general, profoundly
and radically unhooked from action. Not only all student essays, but most professional texts, have as their central function not participating in a task by means of
what they say, but rather demonstrating the author’s expertise or skill so that others
will judge the work and its author positively. It is, in fact, often very difficult to make
clear the distinction between writing which has, and writing which does not have,
what the authors of Worlds Apart call “authenticity” or “rhetorical reality” to people
who have spent their careers working almost exclusively with either aesthetic texts or
texts that exist primarily to exhibit their authors’ skill (or betray their lack of it).
The authors make this distinction very clear in Chapter 11, “Contexts for Writing: University and Work Compared.” There they say, among other things:
book is embodied in its title: the world of school writing is utterly different and apart
from the world of workplace writing, where texts have functions and serve purposes
beyond the “epistemic” ones of learning, evaluation and grading.
In one sense, of course, this seems obvious (this is “just school”; that’s “the real
world”) but the implications of this sort of exploration of these differences at this
level are crucial for our understanding of the nature of texts, text production, and
learning about texts. And though it may seem obvious, it hardly goes without saying.
Among English departments, for example, models of text are, in general, profoundly
and radically unhooked from action. Not only all student essays, but most professional texts, have as their central function not participating in a task by means of
what they say, but rather demonstrating the author’s expertise or skill so that others
will judge the work and its author positively. It is, in fact, often very difficult to make
clear the distinction between writing which has, and writing which does not have,
what the authors of Worlds Apart call “authenticity” or “rhetorical reality” to people
who have spent their careers working almost exclusively with either aesthetic texts or
texts that exist primarily to exhibit their authors’ skill (or betray their lack of it).
The authors make this distinction very clear in Chapter 11, “Contexts for Writing: University and Work Compared.” There they say, among other things:
Because most of the purposes and necessities of work are absent from
the classroom, there are numerous functions that academic writing is
never called on to serve. First, students have no need to produce legally
valid records, nor occasion to perform acts for which they will be held to
account…. Nor do their texts have performativity, in the sense of realizing speech acts such as orders or requests. (226)
Because most of the purposes and necessities of work are absent from
the classroom, there are numerous functions that academic writing is
never called on to serve. First, students have no need to produce legally
valid records, nor occasion to perform acts for which they will be held to
account…. Nor do their texts have performativity, in the sense of realizing speech acts such as orders or requests. (226)
They are aware that many readers, especially in English departments, will say
that students are, in fact, “held to account” for their writing, or argue that comments
on student papers are not, as the authors say they ar e, merely rationalizations for
grades, but are — or can be — Dialogic responses to what students are saying. Thus
they are at pains to make the radical differences in the two situations apparent, and to
make the implications of these differences for learning as explicit as possible. Students who have been taught to write in traditional ways, they demonstrate though
case study after case study, are not only not helped to learn how to w rite in authentic
professional contexts, they are often seriously handicapped by their expectation that
there is only one way to learn, and that it is by being told explicitly. In fact, one of the
salient characteristics of the workplace learning situation as described in this book is
that learning is not an explicit goal; they report that both novices and experienced
They are aware that many readers, especially in English departments, will say
that students are, in fact, “held to account” for their writing, or argue that comments
on student papers are not, as the authors say they ar e, merely rationalizations for
grades, but are — or can be — Dialogic responses to what students are saying. Thus
they are at pains to make the radical differences in the two situations apparent, and to
make the implications of these differences for learning as explicit as possible. Students who have been taught to write in traditional ways, they demonstrate though
case study after case study, are not only not helped to learn how to w rite in authentic
professional contexts, they are often seriously handicapped by their expectation that
there is only one way to learn, and that it is by being told explicitly. In fact, one of the
salient characteristics of the workplace learning situation as described in this book is
that learning is not an explicit goal; they report that both novices and experienced
Russ Hunt
145
Russ Hunt
145
mentors regularly deny that it is a goal at all. Consequently, many novices do not
recognize the opportunities for learning implicit, for example, in having a text rejected or edited. The authors point out, for example, the common occurrence of
mentors regularly deny that it is a goal at all. Consequently, many novices do not
recognize the opportunities for learning implicit, for example, in having a text rejected or edited. The authors point out, for example, the common occurrence of
the inference from their previous learning patterns that suggests that
anything written in response to a draft by a grader is evaluative and final. For these novices entering the workplace, then, the comments written on their drafts often meant negative evaluation and evoked resistance, rather than being recognized as opportunities for learning (and
further collaborative performance). (196)
the inference from their previous learning patterns that suggests that
anything written in response to a draft by a grader is evaluative and final. For these novices entering the workplace, then, the comments written on their drafts often meant negative evaluation and evoked resistance, rather than being recognized as opportunities for learning (and
further collaborative performance). (196)
One of many reasons to welcome the publication of Worlds Apart is that we no
longer have to mount the argument that there are profound differences between writing in these two situations: we can simply refer people to the book, as we can refer
people who really want to know what we mean when we say marks and evaluation
are poisonous to learning to Alfie Kohn’s Punished by Rewards.
There are also, though, some ways in which the book is a disappointment. There’s
a kind of narrowness involved in seeing the central issue as “the performance of universities in preparing their graduates for the changed writing demands of professional workplaces.” For those of us primarily concerned with postsecondary education, this focus on what can seem to be job training, while understandable, renders it
both conceptually narrow and less likely to influence postsecondary education in
general, and writing instruction specifically, than by rights it should. Many of the
members of English departments and composition faculties who’ll deny that there’s
any significant or radical difference between classroom writing and workplace writing will also argue that they not only aren’t, but shouldn’t be, judged by whether their
students are “prepared for the realities of the workplace situation.” And here I might
well agree with them.
I might, for instance, say that I believe that it’s crucially important for students
to become “better” (in the broadest conceivable sense of that word) writers — but
not because they’ll have to write in their workplace, but rather because writing is our
most powerful tool for thinking and learning anything, and because it is through
writing (and reading — and they are no more separable than speaking and listening)
that we can participate effectively in almost any sophisticated intellectual activity or
society. I do not mean to suggest that the authors are unaware of this — but I would
say that focusing the book so thoroughly on the transition between university writing
and workplace writing has two damaging consequences, one methodological and one
rhetorical.
One of many reasons to welcome the publication of Worlds Apart is that we no
longer have to mount the argument that there are profound differences between writing in these two situations: we can simply refer people to the book, as we can refer
people who really want to know what we mean when we say marks and evaluation
are poisonous to learning to Alfie Kohn’s Punished by Rewards.
There are also, though, some ways in which the book is a disappointment. There’s
a kind of narrowness involved in seeing the central issue as “the performance of universities in preparing their graduates for the changed writing demands of professional workplaces.” For those of us primarily concerned with postsecondary education, this focus on what can seem to be job training, while understandable, renders it
both conceptually narrow and less likely to influence postsecondary education in
general, and writing instruction specifically, than by rights it should. Many of the
members of English departments and composition faculties who’ll deny that there’s
any significant or radical difference between classroom writing and workplace writing will also argue that they not only aren’t, but shouldn’t be, judged by whether their
students are “prepared for the realities of the workplace situation.” And here I might
well agree with them.
I might, for instance, say that I believe that it’s crucially important for students
to become “better” (in the broadest conceivable sense of that word) writers — but
not because they’ll have to write in their workplace, but rather because writing is our
most powerful tool for thinking and learning anything, and because it is through
writing (and reading — and they are no more separable than speaking and listening)
that we can participate effectively in almost any sophisticated intellectual activity or
society. I do not mean to suggest that the authors are unaware of this — but I would
say that focusing the book so thoroughly on the transition between university writing
and workplace writing has two damaging consequences, one methodological and one
rhetorical.
146
146
The methodological consequence is that there are kinds of writing which simply
do not occur here. Lots of writing that isn’t academic in their sense isn’t a function of
the workplace, either: not only “aesthetic” writing , but writing of the kind you are
reading right now: writing which, from my point of view as writer, is “workplace”
writing, but exhibits very few of the earmarks of the workplace writing described in
this book. What is the workplace task it is intended to accomplish? Who are the colleagues who are participating in its creation? This review, I would argue, hasn’t a lot
in common with either the classroom writing or the workplace writing described in
Worlds Apart. Much other writing exists, it would seem, out there between those
planets. The authors, of course, don’t pretend to account to for all possible forms of
writing, but there seems to be a consistent, and usually tacit, assumption that a given
text pretty much has to fall into one category or the other, and this means that discourse models that might have implications for the way they think of learning get
lost.
The rhetorical consequence I’m concerned about is that the audience whom I think
most directly needs to hear what this book has to say will find themselves alienated from
reading it — not only because of its professional context (how many English professors
regularly read Erlbaum books?), but because its focus on the consequences of education
for futures in the workplace, for careers, is not of much interest to them. A specialist in
eighteenth century literature (of which I am one) will find it difficult to see how her
interest in deepening students’ literary understanding should be judged by its relevance
to their possible futures in investment analysis or social work.
I would have been happier to see more attention paid to the ways in which the
modes of learning exhibited in the two worlds might be brought together. Indeed,
When Worlds Collide might be a good title for the next book — and a way of characterizing what seems to me mostly missing here. These worlds are certainly apart —
no question about that — but it strikes me it might make more sense to connect
them then to talk about better ways of jumping from one to the other.
The methodological consequence is that there are kinds of writing which simply
do not occur here. Lots of writing that isn’t academic in their sense isn’t a function of
the workplace, either: not only “aesthetic” writing , but writing of the kind you are
reading right now: writing which, from my point of view as writer, is “workplace”
writing, but exhibits very few of the earmarks of the workplace writing described in
this book. What is the workplace task it is intended to accomplish? Who are the colleagues who are participating in its creation? This review, I would argue, hasn’t a lot
in common with either the classroom writing or the workplace writing described in
Worlds Apart. Much other writing exists, it would seem, out there between those
planets. The authors, of course, don’t pretend to account to for all possible forms of
writing, but there seems to be a consistent, and usually tacit, assumption that a given
text pretty much has to fall into one category or the other, and this means that discourse models that might have implications for the way they think of learning get
lost.
The rhetorical consequence I’m concerned about is that the audience whom I think
most directly needs to hear what this book has to say will find themselves alienated from
reading it — not only because of its professional context (how many English professors
regularly read Erlbaum books?), but because its focus on the consequences of education
for futures in the workplace, for careers, is not of much interest to them. A specialist in
eighteenth century literature (of which I am one) will find it difficult to see how her
interest in deepening students’ literary understanding should be judged by its relevance
to their possible futures in investment analysis or social work.
I would have been happier to see more attention paid to the ways in which the
modes of learning exhibited in the two worlds might be brought together. Indeed,
When Worlds Collide might be a good title for the next book — and a way of characterizing what seems to me mostly missing here. These worlds are certainly apart —
no question about that — but it strikes me it might make more sense to connect
them then to talk about better ways of jumping from one to the other.
147
147
148
CARLETON UNIVERSITY
School of Linguistics and Applied Language Studies
Composition and Rhetoric
CARLETON UNIVERSITY
School of Linguistics and Applied Language Studies
Composition and Rhetoric
The School of Linguistics and Applied Language Studies at Carleton University invites applications for a tenure-track position in composition theory and rhetoric. An interest in professional
or technical writing would be an asset. A Ph.D. and significant evidence of ability in research and
teaching are required. The level at which the appointment is made will depend on the successful
applicant’s qualifications and experience. Duties will include teaching courses in the applicant’s
area of specialization, as well as general courses in rhetoric and composition at the graduate
level; supervising graduate students; teaching undergraduate courses in composition theory; and
possibly developing a program in professional and technical writing, depending on the successful applicant’s interests and the needs of the School. Starting date, July 1, 2003.
The School of Linguistics and Applied Language Studies at Carleton University invites applications for a tenure-track position in composition theory and rhetoric. An interest in professional
or technical writing would be an asset. A Ph.D. and significant evidence of ability in research and
teaching are required. The level at which the appointment is made will depend on the successful
applicant’s qualifications and experience. Duties will include teaching courses in the applicant’s
area of specialization, as well as general courses in rhetoric and composition at the graduate
level; supervising graduate students; teaching undergraduate courses in composition theory; and
possibly developing a program in professional and technical writing, depending on the successful applicant’s interests and the needs of the School. Starting date, July 1, 2003.
All qualified candidates are encouraged to apply. The applications of Canadian citizens and permanent residents will be given priority. Carleton University is committed to equality of employment for women, aboriginal peoples, visible minorities and persons with disabilities. Persons
from these groups are encouraged to apply.
All qualified candidates are encouraged to apply. The applications of Canadian citizens and permanent residents will be given priority. Carleton University is committed to equality of employment for women, aboriginal peoples, visible minorities and persons with disabilities. Persons
from these groups are encouraged to apply.
This position is subject to budgetary approval. Applications should be submitted to Professor
Dulcie Engel, Director, School of Linguistics and Applied Language Studies, Carleton University,
Ottawa, Ontario K1S 5B6. Letters of application should be accompanied by a curriculum vitae
and names and addresses of three referees, and a concise dossier that includes two samples of
scholarly work and written evidence of teaching effectiveness (a teaching portfolio would be
preferred). The deadline for applications is December 1, 2002, or when filled.
This position is subject to budgetary approval. Applications should be submitted to Professor
Dulcie Engel, Director, School of Linguistics and Applied Language Studies, Carleton University,
Ottawa, Ontario K1S 5B6. Letters of application should be accompanied by a curriculum vitae
and names and addresses of three referees, and a concise dossier that includes two samples of
scholarly work and written evidence of teaching effectiveness (a teaching portfolio would be
preferred). The deadline for applications is December 1, 2002, or when filled.
148
Announcing
Business Communication Quarterly
Announcing
Business Communication Quarterly
Business Communication Quarterly is a refereed journal devoted to the teaching of
business communication, which is a broad, interdisciplinary field. It is also international, and thus the journal aims to present the field from that international perspective. The journal publishes the following types of articles:
Business Communication Quarterly is a refereed journal devoted to the teaching of
business communication, which is a broad, interdisciplinary field. It is also international, and thus the journal aims to present the field from that international perspective. The journal publishes the following types of articles:
• discussion of issues and methods for teaching business communication in a variety of settings: two-year college, technical institute,
four-year college, university, corporate or agency training program,
and the like
• discussion of issues and methods for teaching business communication in a variety of settings: two-year college, technical institute,
four-year college, university, corporate or agency training program,
and the like
• case studies of specific classroom techniques
• case studies of specific classroom techniques
• tutorials on business communication processes or products, especially innovations in electronic technology that need to be introduced into the classroom
• tutorials on business communication processes or products, especially innovations in electronic technology that need to be introduced into the classroom
• research on classroom teaching or assessment
• research on classroom teaching or assessment
• summary reviews of literature on teaching business communication
• summary reviews of literature on teaching business communication
• book reviews — reviews of both textbooks and other items of interest to teachers
• book reviews — reviews of both textbooks and other items of interest to teachers
• reports on strategies for program development
• reports on strategies for program development
The Business Communication Quarterly is published four times each year (March,
June, September and December) by the Association for Business Communication.
Regular ABC membership is us $60 annually; membership for full-time students is
us $20. Membership includes subscriptions to the Business Communication Quarterly and the Journal of Business Communication. The library subscription rate for
the Quarterly is us $60.
The Business Communication Quarterly is published four times each year (March,
June, September and December) by the Association for Business Communication.
Regular ABC membership is us $60 annually; membership for full-time students is
us $20. Membership includes subscriptions to the Business Communication Quarterly and the Journal of Business Communication. The library subscription rate for
the Quarterly is us $60.
Further publishing and subscription information for Business Communication
Quarterly can be found at this website: www.bcq.theabc.org
Further publishing and subscription information for Business Communication
Quarterly can be found at this website: www.bcq.theabc.org
Editors’ note: Technostyle and BCQ editors wish to share information about the other’s publication with the hope of benefiting both readerships.
Editors’ note: Technostyle and BCQ editors wish to share information about the other’s publication with the hope of benefiting both readerships.
149
149
Announcement/Annonce
What is the CSSR? Qu’est-ce que la SCÉR?
What is the CSSR? Qu’est-ce que la SCÉR?
Are you interested in current ideas about language and communication? Or perhaps you are currently working or studying in one or more of these specialized
fields:
Are you interested in current ideas about language and communication? Or perhaps you are currently working or studying in one or more of these specialized
fields:
Vous intéressez-vous aux idées actuelles sur la langue et la communication? Peutêtre êtes-vous actuellement engagé dans des travaux ou des études portant sur l’un
ou l’autre des domaines spécialisés suivants:
Vous intéressez-vous aux idées actuelles sur la langue et la communication? Peutêtre êtes-vous actuellement engagé dans des travaux ou des études portant sur l’un
ou l’autre des domaines spécialisés suivants:
rhetorical theory and criticism théorie et critique de la rhétorique
rhetorical theory and criticism théorie et critique de la rhétorique
history of rhetoric histoire et rhétorique
history of rhetoric histoire et rhétorique
political and social discourse discours politique et social
political and social discourse discours politique et social
sociolinguistics and discourse analysis sociolinguistique et analyse du discours
sociolinguistics and discourse analysis sociolinguistique et analyse du discours
composition theory and pedagogy théorie et pratique de la composition
composition theory and pedagogy théorie et pratique de la composition
professional communication communication professionelle
professional communication communication professionelle
semiotics sémiotique
semiotics sémiotique
media and communications médias et communications
media and communications médias et communications
critical theory and literature théorie et littérature critiques
critical theory and literature théorie et littérature critiques
Then you may find a friendly scholarly home in the Canadian Society for the Study
of Rhetoric. Our purpose is to promote the study of the theory and practice of
rhetoric in all periods and languages, and its relationships with other fields of enquiry and realms of practice.
Then you may find a friendly scholarly home in the Canadian Society for the Study
of Rhetoric. Our purpose is to promote the study of the theory and practice of
rhetoric in all periods and languages, and its relationships with other fields of enquiry and realms of practice.
Vous trouverez à la Société canadienne pour l’étude de la rhétorique un forum
d’échanges érudits dans une atmosphère accueillante. Notre objectif est de
promouvoir l’étude de la théorie et de la pratique de la rhétorique à toutes les
époques et dans toutes les langues, ainsi que l’étude des rapports de la rhétorique
avec d’autres domaines de recherche et de pratique.
Vous trouverez à la Société canadienne pour l’étude de la rhétorique un forum
d’échanges érudits dans une atmosphère accueillante. Notre objectif est de
promouvoir l’étude de la théorie et de la pratique de la rhétorique à toutes les
époques et dans toutes les langues, ainsi que l’étude des rapports de la rhétorique
avec d’autres domaines de recherche et de pratique.
This bilingual Society is open to anyone involved in the teaching and research of
any aspect of rhetoric. Our membership regularly includes scholars from Canada,
the United States, and Europe. Our conferences often include joint sessions with
other societies as a natural reflection of the interdisciplinary interests of our members.
This bilingual Society is open to anyone involved in the teaching and research of
any aspect of rhetoric. Our membership regularly includes scholars from Canada,
the United States, and Europe. Our conferences often include joint sessions with
other societies as a natural reflection of the interdisciplinary interests of our members.
150
150
Cette société bilingue est ouverte à toute personne oeuvrant dans l’enseignement et
la recherche dans l’un ou l’autre des aspects de la rhétorique. Nous comptons dans
nos rangs des universitaires canadiens, américains et européens. Nos congrès
comportent souvent des séances conjointes avec d’autres sociétés savantes, reflétant
ainsi naturellement les intérêts interdisciplinaires de nos membres.
Cette société bilingue est ouverte à toute personne oeuvrant dans l’enseignement et
la recherche dans l’un ou l’autre des aspects de la rhétorique. Nous comptons dans
nos rangs des universitaires canadiens, américains et européens. Nos congrès
comportent souvent des séances conjointes avec d’autres sociétés savantes, reflétant
ainsi naturellement les intérêts interdisciplinaires de nos membres.
We sponsor an annual conference where members can meet and share their research and ideas. We publish regularly a volume of papers presented at our conferences. We also publish a newsletter, Rhetor, to enable members to keep in touch
informally. Nous tenons un congrès annuel où nos membres ont l’occasion de se
rencontrer et de partager le fruit de leurs recherches et de leurs réflexions.
We sponsor an annual conference where members can meet and share their research and ideas. We publish regularly a volume of papers presented at our conferences. We also publish a newsletter, Rhetor, to enable members to keep in touch
informally. Nous tenons un congrès annuel où nos membres ont l’occasion de se
rencontrer et de partager le fruit de leurs recherches et de leurs réflexions.
Nous publions régulièrement un volume réunissant les textes des communications
présentées lors de ces congrès. Nous publions également un bulletin d’information,
le Rhetor, afin de permettre aux membres de maintenir entre eux des contacts
informels.
Nous publions régulièrement un volume réunissant les textes des communications
présentées lors de ces congrès. Nous publions également un bulletin d’information,
le Rhetor, afin de permettre aux membres de maintenir entre eux des contacts
informels.
Comments / Commentaires : [email protected]
Comments / Commentaires : [email protected]
<mailto:[email protected]>
<mailto:[email protected]>
http://uregina.ca/~rheaults/cssr/index.htm
http://uregina.ca/~rheaults/cssr/index.htm
A Message from the President, CSSR:
A Message from the President, CSSR:
Just a reminder to everyone that it's time to think about submitting your proposals
for the 2003 CSSR conference. The deadline for submissions has been extended
from 15 November to 15 December to allow all interested parties to get their submissions in.
Just a reminder to everyone that it's time to think about submitting your proposals
for the 2003 CSSR conference. The deadline for submissions has been extended
from 15 November to 15 December to allow all interested parties to get their submissions in.
The CFP can be found at http://uregina.ca/~rheaults/cssr/info/call2003.htm
The CFP can be found at http://uregina.ca/~rheaults/cssr/info/call2003.htm
In addition to papers contributing to the themes identified in the call, we are particularly interested in hearing from graduate students for our roundtable on the
graduate experience. If you know of graduate students in your department who
would be willing and able to contribute to this roundtable, please pass on this call
to them.
In addition to papers contributing to the themes identified in the call, we are particularly interested in hearing from graduate students for our roundtable on the
graduate experience. If you know of graduate students in your department who
would be willing and able to contribute to this roundtable, please pass on this call
to them.
See you in Halifax!
See you in Halifax!
Jennifer MacLennan
Jennifer MacLennan
151
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Call for Papers
Call for Papers
Technostyle invites manuscripts dealing with subjects of interest to readers involved
in business, technical, academic, professional, scientific, and governmental communication, as teachers, practitioners, or researchers. A wide range of approaches to
the study of nonliterary communication is entertained by Technostyle — rhetorical,
linguistic, sociological, cultural, ethnographic — but all submissions should be securely situated in relevant research. While manuscripts addressing pedagogical issues are welcome, authors should avoid describing lessons without explaining their
significance to broader theoretical concerns. In addition to the criterion of relevance to the teaching, practice, and research of technical writing, suitable submissions for publication are as follows: articles based on sound empirical research, the
significance of which is explicated in terms of relevant and current theory, or articles that make a contribution to a current, developing rhetorical framework.
Technostyle also welcomes articles that place these concerns in a context specific to
relevant scholarship in Canada.
Technostyle invites manuscripts dealing with subjects of interest to readers involved
in business, technical, academic, professional, scientific, and governmental communication, as teachers, practitioners, or researchers. A wide range of approaches to
the study of nonliterary communication is entertained by Technostyle — rhetorical,
linguistic, sociological, cultural, ethnographic — but all submissions should be securely situated in relevant research. While manuscripts addressing pedagogical issues are welcome, authors should avoid describing lessons without explaining their
significance to broader theoretical concerns. In addition to the criterion of relevance to the teaching, practice, and research of technical writing, suitable submissions for publication are as follows: articles based on sound empirical research, the
significance of which is explicated in terms of relevant and current theory, or articles that make a contribution to a current, developing rhetorical framework.
Technostyle also welcomes articles that place these concerns in a context specific to
relevant scholarship in Canada.
Manuscripts should be addressed to:
Manuscripts should be addressed to:
Fay Hyndman, Gloria Borrows, and Nadeane Trowse
Writing Centre
33844 King Road
Abbotsford, BC V2S 7M8
Writing Centre
33844 King Road
[email protected]; [email protected]; [email protected]
Guidelines for Contributors
Guidelines for Contributors
Manuscripts should be no longer than 6,500 words (25 double-spaced typed pages)
and should follow these guidelines:
Manuscripts should be no longer than 6,500 words (25 double-spaced typed pages)
and should follow these guidelines:
■
On the first page, indicate the title, author’s name and institutional affiliation,
mail and e-mail addresses, and phone and fax numbers
■
On the first page, indicate the title, author’s name and institutional affiliation,
mail and e-mail addresses, and phone and fax numbers
■
On the second page, include an informative abstract of the article (100-150
words) in which you provide the gist of your article from the writer’s point of
view. Also include a 75-100 word biography for the Contributor’s page indicating author’s name, position and department, and institutional affiliation, and a
brief dossier.
■
On the second page, include an informative abstract of the article (100-150
words) in which you provide the gist of your article from the writer’s point of
view. Also include a 75-100 word biography for the Contributor’s page indicating author’s name, position and department, and institutional affiliation, and a
brief dossier.
152
152
■
On the third page, begin the body of the manuscript; manuscripts should be
free of any internal identifying marks. Double space the manuscript throughout and number the pages; a running head is not preferred.
■
On the third page, begin the body of the manuscript; manuscripts should be
free of any internal identifying marks. Double space the manuscript throughout and number the pages; a running head is not preferred.
■
References must conform to the APA style guide, fifth edition, in citations,
headings and references page.
■
References must conform to the APA style guide, fifth edition, in citations,
headings and references page.
■
Authors are asked to submit two hard copies of their manuscript to the address above as well as an electronic file sent as an attachment in Word,
WordPerfect, or Rich Text Format to [email protected]
■
Authors are asked to submit two hard copies of their manuscript to the address above as well as an electronic file sent as an attachment in Word,
WordPerfect, or Rich Text Format to [email protected]
All manuscripts will be externally reviewed and authors may be asked to undertake
revisions in response to reviewers’ evaluations. The editors also invite book reviews
as well as 500-word submissions that respond to articles published in Technostyle.
Publication is subject to editorial decision. Technostyle invites manuscripts in English and French.
153
All manuscripts will be externally reviewed and authors may be asked to undertake
revisions in response to reviewers’ evaluations. The editors also invite book reviews
as well as 500-word submissions that respond to articles published in Technostyle.
Publication is subject to editorial decision. Technostyle invites manuscripts in English and French.
153
Appel d’articles
Appel d’articles
Technostyle accepte des manuscrits portant sur des sujets d’intérêt pour les lecteurs
— professeurs, praticiens, ou chercheurs — dont les activités touchent la communication (commerciale, technique, professionnelle, scientifique, gouvernementale,
etc.). La revue accepte diverses approches (rhétorique, linguistique, sociologique,
culturelle, ethnographique) de la communication non littéraire, mais les études
proposées doivent s’appuyer sur des recherches pertinentes. Les auteurs d’articles
traitant de questions pédagogiques doivent dépasser le cadre purement pratique et
placer les enseignements proposés dans un contexte théorique. Technostyle évalue
les propositions d’articles reçues à partir s’un ensemble de critères : pertinence du
sujet en regard de l’enseignement et de la pratique de la rédaction technique ainsi
que de la recherche empirique sous-jacente prenant son sens dans un cheminement
théorique d’analyse propre au domaine d’intérêt de la revue. Technostyle accueille
aussi voluntiers des articles qui situent ces questions pédagogiques dans le cadre de
la recherche pourcuivie au Canada dans ce domaine. Prière d’envoyer les articles à
l’adresse suivante :
Technostyle accepte des manuscrits portant sur des sujets d’intérêt pour les lecteurs
— professeurs, praticiens, ou chercheurs — dont les activités touchent la communication (commerciale, technique, professionnelle, scientifique, gouvernementale,
etc.). La revue accepte diverses approches (rhétorique, linguistique, sociologique,
culturelle, ethnographique) de la communication non littéraire, mais les études
proposées doivent s’appuyer sur des recherches pertinentes. Les auteurs d’articles
traitant de questions pédagogiques doivent dépasser le cadre purement pratique et
placer les enseignements proposés dans un contexte théorique. Technostyle évalue
les propositions d’articles reçues à partir s’un ensemble de critères : pertinence du
sujet en regard de l’enseignement et de la pratique de la rédaction technique ainsi
que de la recherche empirique sous-jacente prenant son sens dans un cheminement
théorique d’analyse propre au domaine d’intérêt de la revue. Technostyle accueille
aussi voluntiers des articles qui situent ces questions pédagogiques dans le cadre de
la recherche pourcuivie au Canada dans ce domaine. Prière d’envoyer les articles à
l’adresse suivante :
Writing Centre
33844 King Road
Writing Centre
33844 King Road
Protocole de présentation
Protocole de présentation
Les articles soumis ne devraient pas dépasser 6500 mots (soit 25 pages à double interligne) et ils devraient satisfaire aux exigences ci-dessous.
Les articles soumis ne devraient pas dépasser 6500 mots (soit 25 pages à double interligne) et ils devraient satisfaire aux exigences ci-dessous.
■
Première page : indiquer titre, nom de l’auteur, affiliation institutionnelle,
adresse et courriel, numéro de téléphone et numéro de télécopieur.
■
Première page : indiquer titre, nom de l’auteur, affiliation institutionnelle,
adresse et courriel, numéro de téléphone et numéro de télécopieur.
■
Deuxième page : fournir un résumé de type informatif (100 à 150 mots) indiquant l’essentiel du sujet traité selon le point de vue de l’auteur, ainsi qu’une
biographie — qui sera publiée dans la section de présentation des auteurs —
indiquant : nom de l’auteur, poste occupé et département, nom de l’organisme
et un bref résumé bio-bibliographique
■
Deuxième page : fournir un résumé de type informatif (100 à 150 mots) indiquant l’essentiel du sujet traité selon le point de vue de l’auteur, ainsi qu’une
biographie — qui sera publiée dans la section de présentation des auteurs —
indiquant : nom de l’auteur, poste occupé et département, nom de l’organisme
et un bref résumé bio-bibliographique
154
154
■
Troisième page : commencer le corps de l’article ici. Les textes soumis ne doivent pas contenir d’indications de nature à permettre l’identification de
l’auteur. Utiliser un interligne double et numéroter les pages; on demande
d’éviter les en-têtes répétitifs.
■
Troisième page : commencer le corps de l’article ici. Les textes soumis ne doivent pas contenir d’indications de nature à permettre l’identification de
l’auteur. Utiliser un interligne double et numéroter les pages; on demande
d’éviter les en-têtes répétitifs.
■
Les références (citations, renvois, etc.) doivent se faire selon un modèle adéquat utilisé dans les publications scientifiques (modèle suivi pour les textes
anglais : APA guide style, 5e édition).
■
Les références (citations, renvois, etc.) doivent se faire selon un modèle adéquat utilisé dans les publications scientifiques (modèle suivi pour les textes
anglais : APA guide style, 5e édition).
■
Les auteurs doivent faire parvenir deux versions papier de leur texte à l’adresse
ci-dessous, ainsi qu’un fichier électronique, à fournir sous forme de pièce
jointe, en Word, WordPerfect ou RTF, à [email protected]
■
Les auteurs doivent faire parvenir deux versions papier de leur texte à l’adresse
ci-dessous, ainsi qu’un fichier électronique, à fournir sous forme de pièce
jointe, en Word, WordPerfect ou RTF, à [email protected]
Tous les textes soumis seront évalués par des personnes externes et les auteurs
pourraient avoir à réviser leur texte à la demande de ces dernières. La rédaction
vous invite également à lui soumettre des compte rendus d’ouvrages ou des textes
de 500 mots en réponse à des articles publiés dans Technostyle. La publication de ces
textes demeure du ressort de l’équipe de rédaction. De plus, Technostyle vous invite
à soumettre des textes en français ou en anglais.
155
Tous les textes soumis seront évalués par des personnes externes et les auteurs
pourraient avoir à réviser leur texte à la demande de ces dernières. La rédaction
vous invite également à lui soumettre des compte rendus d’ouvrages ou des textes
de 500 mots en réponse à des articles publiés dans Technostyle. La publication de ces
textes demeure du ressort de l’équipe de rédaction. De plus, Technostyle vous invite
à soumettre des textes en français ou en anglais.
155
Canadian Association of Teachers of
Technical Writing
Canadian Association of Teachers of
Technical Writing
President/Présidente: Natasha Artemeva
President/Présidente: Natasha Artemeva
Past President/Présidente sortante: Pamela Grant-Russell
Past President/Présidente sortante: Pamela Grant-Russell
Vice-President/Vice-Présidente: Celine Beaudet
Vice-President/Vice-Présidente: Celine Beaudet
Secretary-Treasurer/Sécrétaire-trésoriére: Robert Irish
Secretary-Treasurer/Sécrétaire-trésoriére: Robert Irish
Bulletin: Bill Bunn
Bulletin: Bill Bunn
Annual membership dues are $25 for students, $40 for individuals and $50 for
institutions and include a subscription to the association’s publication,
Technostyle. Dues should be sent to:
Annual membership dues are $25 for students, $40 for individuals and $50 for
institutions and include a subscription to the association’s publication,
Technostyle. Dues should be sent to:
Les frais d’adhésion sont de 25 $ pour les étudiants de 40 $ pour les membres
individuels et de 50 $ pour les membres institutionnels et comprends l’abonnement à Technostyle, la revue de l’association. Prière d’adresser votre règlement à :
Les frais d’adhésion sont de 25 $ pour les étudiants de 40 $ pour les membres
individuels et de 50 $ pour les membres institutionnels et comprends l’abonnement à Technostyle, la revue de l’association. Prière d’adresser votre règlement à :
Dr. Robert Irish
Dr. Robert Irish
Language Across the Curriculum
Language Across the Curriculum
Applied Science and Engineering
Applied Science and Engineering
University of Toronto
University of Toronto
Sandford Fleming b670
Sandford Fleming b670
Winnipeg, Manitoba r3b 2e9
Winnipeg, Manitoba r3b 2e9
Telephone: (416) 978-6708
Telephone: (416) 978-6708
Email: [email protected]
Email: [email protected]

Vol. 18, No. 1 2002 Fall - Software @ SFU Library

Transcription

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