Seriousness is in the air. Perhaps it’s the last vestige of winter before the coming playfulness of spring (also known in central ny as "mud season"). I’ve been thinking about two types of seriousness, or perhaps two angles.

1. Serious consequences: by which I mean an externally determined seriousness–a test, a judgment of some kind. Our students are familiar with this kind of seriousness: exams, portfolios, grades, graduation requirements, SATs, and so on. This is seriousness as an obstacle, a challenge to overcome, but the activity of meeting the challenge is not meaningful in itself or to the challenged individual. E.g., I want to get an "A" on the test, in the class, etc.  The paper I write and the test I take don’t mean anything to me. In fact, the class doesn’t mean anything to me; I am just required to take it (another serious obstacle). All that matters to me is the result, which I seek to acheive by the shortest possible route.

In my view, this antagonistic relationship describes the general commerce between students and colleges. The college is an obstacle, or series of obstacles, that are meaningless to the student except inasmuch as they must be overcome to reach a desired, meaningful goal. Perhaps there are a few advanced courses in one’s major, mostly at the end of one’s college experience, that start to feel differently. And perhaps, idiosyncratically, a few courses might be entertaining or interesting. But that’s not the same as being seriously meaningful.

2. Serious meaning suggests an experience to which the individual attaches singular value. This is the type of seriousness reflected in the phrase "serious musician" or "serious writer" for that matter. For example, a student says "I want to become a novelist" (something many of my students say). But this student writes everyday, rewrites, studies the craft, and so on. It is not a matter of "how can I become published by the shortest possible route?" The activity of writing itself becomes its own focus and reward.

One of the challenges of being a professional writing major, in my view, is distinguishing between these two types of seriousness. The first type is rightfully addressed with pragmatism. The second is where you discover if you really want to be a professional writer. Being serious at 19 or 20 is often difficult. But that’s what it takes to become a writer.

I know you can get through our program or any program thinking about it in pragmatic terms, doing what needs to be done. You might even end up with a high GPA. If you manage it, you deserve congratulations for working the system. It’s certainly an accomplishment of sorts; it’s the type of accomplishment most undergraduate degrees designate.

But have you become a writer?

This is an issue that comes up often with students. I try to avoid sermonizing. Becoming or not becoming a writer is not a moral issue. If someone wants to be a professional writing major and do well (or not) on the assignments and graduate without every being "serious" about writing, I really don’t have a problem with that. I would just have them know that unless you become serious about writing in this way (i.e. make the activity, the practice itself, meaningful), I don’t think you’ll have much success as a professional writer, and more importantly, I don’t think you’ll find work that is meaningful and rewarding.

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