III  

The Procedural Approach

1. DESIGNING A MODEL

   1.1 Text production has been investigated relatively seldom (Fodor, Bever, & Garrett, 1974: 434; Goldman, 1975: 289; Osgood & Bock, 1977: 89; Rosenberg [Ed.], 1977a: xi; Levin & Goldman, 1978: 14; Kintsch, 1982: msp. 3).¹ [“Msp.” indicates page numbers cited from a manuscript then in press.] It is not easy to control or to sort into component processes. As a task, text production is typically OPEN (adapting to a steadily evolving situation) rather than CLOSED (fixed for all situations) (cf. Poulton, 1957; Gentile, 1972; Schmidt, 1975; I.1.3); and OPEN-ENDED (not terminating definitively at a particular moment) rather than CLOSED-ENDED (with an obvious end) (Horowitz & Berkowitz, 1967: 207; cf. III.1.26; III.3.2.12). Text production is normally SPONTANEOUS (reacting to ongoing context) and EXTEMPORANEOUS (improvised, not previously prepared). When the production of one text follows upon reception of another, the two processing acts may be hard to sort out (Rosenberg, 1977b: 89). For all these reasons, it is unclear how far EXPERIMENTAL conditions can be comparable to the NATURAL conditions of text production (cf. II.2.8, 33; II.3.27; III.2.40; IV.1.9; IV.2.16, 21; V.1. 13f, 19; VI.1.29f; VI.3.20ff).

   1.2 In the experimental literature, most investigators presented test subjects a “stimulus” whose “response” was, or included, producing a text. The most common “dependent variables” whose quantity the experimenters were trying to predict were the test subjects’ (a) latency, also called reaction time (how long they take to get started); (b) time on task (how long they take to get finished); and (c) error count (how often they go wrong).² [Errors were usually defined as failures to follow instructions, or as observable “speech disruptions,” e.g. false starts or ‘uh’s (cf. Mahl, 1956; Maclay & Osgood, 1959; V.3.12).] Some common experimental designs were: {88}

    1.2.1 Duplicating a message. Subjects have to memorize and then utter a whole sentence (Lackner & Levine, 1975). A variant with a shorter span is shadowing, where people immediately repeat an acoustically presented message (Cherry, 1953; Broadbent, 1958; Neisser, 1967). Early research indicated that shadowing worked from a direct auditory trace of the message, but soon, the impact of conceptual content (Treisman, 1969) and personal involvement (Moray, 1959) became evident.

    1.2.2 Using components in a message. The experimenter provides only key words that test subjects are to use in a sentence or utterance (Taytor, 1969; Gosnave, 1977). The sentence may have to define the key words (Reynolds & Paivio, 1968). Or, the experimenter provides key clauses to be combined into sentences (Opacic), 1973; Osgood & Bock, 1977) or completed to make sentences (MacKay, 1966). Or, the experimenter provides key sentences that must be used in a longer discourse (Levin, Baldwin, Gailwey, & Paivio, 1960). The sentence may be required in a particular place, e.g., at the end of the discourse (Osgood, & Bock, 1977; Tetroe, 1981).

    1.2.3 Recasting the presented message. Test subjects are asked to paraphrase presented sentences (Martin & Strange, 1968; Gleitman & Gleitman, 1970; Fillenbaum, 1971, 1974). A less controlled variant is retelling in one’s own words a whole story (Bartiett, 1932; Mandler & Johnson, 1977; Thorndyke, 1977; Mandler, 1978; Stein & Policastro, 1982; cf. surveys in Thorndyke & Yekovich, 1980; Beaugrande, 1982d). At present, these studies mainly concern comprehension and recall. The retelling as an act of production is less often in focus (e.g. Kintsch & Van Dijk, 1978; Beaugrande & Miller, 1980).

    1.2.4 Verifying a message. In the paradigm of “sentence verification, “ subjects must say if the statement conveyed by a sentence is “true” or “false” in everyday life (e.g., ‘Pines have purple needles’) or in a presented picture (e.g., ‘The star is above the plus’) (Trabasso, Rollins, & Shaughnessey, 1971; Clark & Chase, 1974; Carpenter & Just, 1975). Latency and error presumably reflect the processes of comprehending the sentence and then searching out and comparing relevant knowledge in memory (Clark & Clark, 1977: 111f).

    1.2.5 Responding to events or objects in a visual scene (cf. II.2.5).Test subjects describe in words what they see. The scene may be staged (Carroll, 1958; Levin, Silverman, & Ford, 1967; Osgood, 1971), or portrayed in pictures (Goldman-Eisler, 1961a; Fenz & Epstein 1962; Prentice, 1967; Learner Rommetveit, 1967; Tannenbaum & Williams, 1968; Flores D’Arcais, 1974; Kowal, O’Connell, & Sabin; 1975) or in films (Loftus, 1975). Many studies used “TAT” (“Thematic Apperception Test”) cards whose pictures are calculated to invoke particular topics (e.g. Benton, Hartman, & Sarason, 1955; Cervin, 1956; Sauer & Marcuse, 1957; Pope & Siegman, 1964; Martin & Strange, 1968). Most picture-response studies probed text production less than accompanying behavioral effects, {89} e.g., of audiences approving vs. disapproving (Cervin, 1956); of speakers knowing or not knowing that they’re being recorded (Sauer & Marcuse, 1957); of personal stress aroused by the topic (Fenz & Epstein, 1962); of using or not using key words (Martin & Strange, 1968); plus the physiological measures enumerated in III.1.4. More recent studies have probed how picture content is expressed in speech (Nelson, Reed, & MeEvoy, 1977) or writing (Mosenthal, Davidson-Mosenthal, & Krieger, 1981; Mosenthal & Na, 1981).

   1.2.6 Monologues. Test subjects receive a discourse topic and have to produce a monologue (Kanfer, 1959, 1960; Miller, Zavos, Vlandis, & Rosenbaum, 1961; Miller, 1964; Vlandis, 1964; Geer, 1966). These tests also focused on behavioral variables. Kanfer studied stress by applying electric shocks and clocking heartbeat and eye-blink. Miller, Vlandis, and their associates studied the impact of approving vs. disapproving audiences. Reece and Whitman (1962; cf. Reece, 1964) even bizarrely asked for monologues composed of disconnected words.¹ [Evidently Reece preferred free associations (a common notion in the psychology of the times) over syntactic patterns because the latter present difficulties in deciding what counts as a single unit.]

  1.2.7 Dialogues. Test subjects are required to participate in a dialogue with the experimenter or with the latter’s confederates. The most common situation was the interview (Krause & Pilisuk, 1961; Allen, Wiens, Weitman, & Saslow, 1965; Kasl & Mahl, 1965; Pope & Siegman, 1965, 1966, 1968; Cassotta, Feldstein, & Jaffee, 1967; Cook, 1969). Control can be tightened by making subjects answer a list of questions (Turner & Rommetveit, 1967; Fillenbaum, 1968; Ervin-Tripp, 1970). Sometimes, the dialogue is staged in a therapy session (e.g. Mahl, 1956; Panek & Martin, 1959; Drennen & Wiggins, 1964; Pope & Siegman, 1966), especially if the experimenters specialize in treating mental patients. Once more, text production was chiefly a vehicle for studying stress, anxiety, and so forth. However, recent probes demonstrate how interviews help to explore discourse (Laboy & Fanshel, 1977; Wodak, 1981) and writing (Freedman, 1981; Odell, Goswami, & Herrington, 1982). 1.2.8 Self-commentary. Finally, text producers can be asked to report what they do (Lay & Paivio, 1969; Kowal et al., 1975; Daly, 1977; Flower & Hayes, 1980; Caccamise, 1981). Self-commentary suffers the limitations of introspective verbal reports (cf. Nisbett & Wilson, 1977, vs. Ericsson & Simon, 1980; Allport, 1980a).² [Nisbett and Wilson argue that verbal reports are hard to disconfirm, and would be accurate only if “influential stimuli” are salient and plausible causes of “responses.” Ericsson and Simon reply that verbal reports would be reasonably accurate unless the verbalization directs attention to processes that wouldn’t normally receive it, so that people are inferring rather than remembering, and the reports are too general. The debate is inconclusive, since Nisbett and Wilson cling to behaviorist assumptions, while Ericsson and Simon adopt a cognitive approach. Many operations are too intricate and rapid to be consciously monitored and reported, e.g., memory searches for content {90} (cf. III.3. 10ff). Automatic processes are not open to conscious surveillance (III.1.21). The text producer might have an inaccurate impression, or want to make processing appear more orderly than it is (II.3.3). A logical analysis may miss the issues involved in an operational procedure (I.4.13). Producing the report itself adds another layer of organization to the experience (1.2.23.5). For all these reasons, self-commentaries can re-shape or distort the processes they recount.

  1.3 How far the findings from the experiments surveyed in III.1.2.1-7 apply to natural discourse is the main question for future research. At least three prospects seem plausible. Laboratory experiments might be: (a) less complex than everyday actions, because the experimenter requires simple, context-free tasks; (b) more complex than everyday actions, because people don’t have ready-made routines to apply; or (c) complex in a novel way not directly comparable to everyday actions.1 [Persons who act as experimental subjects may develop special skills for that purpose. Compare the differences in findings from psychology students vs. composition students on the same task in VI. 1.29f.] For example, repeating sentences is highly controlled, but also highly unnatural because of excluding normal decision and selection. Key words and paraphrases allow more variation, but are used more often in real discourse, e.g., in discussions or explanations. Monologues and dialogues are quite natural, but also quite complicated, even if the interviewer intervenes. There may be a frustrating trade-off: the more controlled the experiment, the less its findings can be generalized to natural discourse. An experiment that focuses on the syntax of isolated sentences and discounts the meaning and purpose of real discourse is likely to indicate a far more detailed and thorough processing of syntax than is done in normal communication (Johnson-Laird & Stevenson, 1970; cf. II.3.7, 12.2; V.2.16)

    1.4 A battery of physiological, psychological, and social evidence was gathered during (or soon before or after) the act of text production. Physiological measures included: blood pressure (Chappell, 1929; Innes, Millar, & Valentine, 1959); heartbeat (Kanfer, 1958); galvanic skin response (Chappell, 1929; Pope & Siegman, 1964);² [“Galvanic skin response,” a measure of the fluctuation in the electric resistance of the skin, was used as an outward indicator of emotional events; like many such physiological measures (II.2.3ff), it doesn’t specify the details of the cognitive processes involved.] palm sweat (Kasl & Mahl, 1965); eyeblink rate (Kanfer, 1960); pupil dilation (Bernick & Oberlander, 1968); sensory deprivation (denying stimulation of the senses) (Suedfeld, Grissom, & Vernon, 1964); room temperature (Suedfeld, Vernon, Stubbs, & Karlins, 1965); occurrence of noises (like ‘uh’) in one’s speech (Mahl, 1956; cf. V3.12); and age (Kowal, et al., 1975). Psychological measures included: the “emotional responsivity scale” (Cervin, 1957); the “self-consciousness scale” (Levin et al., 1960); the “children’s test anxiety scale” (McCoy, 1965); and the “manifest anxiety scale” (Kasl & Mahl, 1965; Siegman & Pope, {91} 1965). Social measures included: isolation from other people (Suedfeld et al., 1964); audience sensitivity (Reynolds & Paivio, 1968); high or low exhibitionism (Levin et al., 1960; Paivio, 1965); warmth (friendliness, receptiveness, responsiveness) of audience (Reece & Whitman, 1962; Drennen & Wiggins, 1964; Allen et al., 1965; Siegman, 1968); adjustment to other people’s speech rhythms (Jaffee & Feldstein, 1970); deceitfulness (Mehrabian, 1971); and social class standing (Hawkins, 1973; Wodak, 1980).

    1.5 Such a battery of measures may seem impracticable, time-consuming, and exaggerated. However, text production is a complex activity sensitive to (and interacting with) a great variety of circumstances. We can’t tell a priori which physiological, psychological, or social factors might be relevant for language  performance. These experiments suggest that students should write a more stressful, disrupted, brief, and error-prone text if: (a) they write in favor of views they don’t believe in (I.3.16); (b) they are forced to work in isolation for a long time; (c) their teacher has a cold, unfriendly attitude; or (d) they come from working-class backgrounds. Further research on such questions is urgently needed.¹ [In this perspective, Kerek, Daiker, and Morenberg’s (1980) sentence-cornbining project must be lauded for its thoroughness in controlling variables, even room temperature (cf. II.3.27).

    1.6 Because text production is so complex and context-sensitive, observed data are especially open to multiple interpretations (cf. I.1.5; Kowal et al., 1975; Flower & Hayes, 1981). Manifest events in spontaneous, natural text production are in principle hard to trace back to a single cause. The traditional solution was to “factor out” all causes but one or two and to assume that whatever happened was a simple result of manipulating “dependent variables” (in the sense of  III.1.2). Even if justifiable, this view leads to a fragmentation of theory and research: a host of cause-effect chains whose mutual functions within the overall system remain unclear. We would do better to incorporate multiple causes into elaborated models that stipulate their interaction. The effects of manipulating any single cause document a potential causality in natural production, though the cause of real events may still be undecidable. The relative probabilities of such potential causalities would best indicate the correspondence between complex process models and real-life activities.

    1.7 The DESIGN of process models is crucial precisely because of their intricate relationship to concrete events. This issue has not yet received the attention it merits. Much research uncritically accepted a model with an “encoder” sending a message to a “decoder.” These notions from engineering and information theory suited the physicalist outlook and the search for well-structuredness. Yet taken strictly, a “code” is a fixed set of unambiguous, arbitrarily defined symbols; and “encoding” is a mechanical interchange of symbols from one such set to another (e.g., Morse code  {92}  replacing letters with patterns of dots or dashes). No one has shown that the conceptual and planning systems in human communication qualify as “codes” in the same sense. Only the mapping between sounds and letters in spelling can fits the definition (Gough & Hillinger, 1980: 184), and only in part (cf. VI.31ff). The “encoding” model says nothing about the motives, decisions, and contexts of real communication (Shuy, 1981b).

    1.8 Explicit DESIGN CRITERIA can help to classify compare, or integrate possible models of communication and cognition. These criteria are to be operationally, not just logically, defined (I.4.13). UNIFORMITY vs. FREEDOM concerns the allowance a model makes for variations among individual people or processors. Processing can be well-structured without having to run the same way for everybody all the time. Since no one person possesses complete, infallible knowledge of a language, everybody builds a MODEL of it (III.1.28). Different people’s models agree enough for communication, and even for such tasks as revising someone else’s text (cf. III.1.26; V.3.4.8); yet vary enough to allow different skills and styles in speaking and writing. Hence, a theory should not define the norm so narrowly that numerous events appear deviant (cf.II.3.14; VI.3.22), nor so elastically that events appear accidental (I.1.2). Some investigators have eschewed the study of processes in fear that freedom might preclude generalization (I.1.3 — that each event might, at some degree of detail, be unique. However, the processes themselves must constitute a systemic and strategic basis for the “virtually unlimited flexibility, capacity for nuance, and creativity with which novel but appropriate behavior occurs as a function of an infinite number of contexts” (Spiro, 1977: 162; cf. I.1.7; I.4.8).

   1.9 REVERSIBILITY concerns whether the processes of production are the exact reverse (mirror images, so to speak) of those of reception (cf. II.2.22). This thesis would allow us to apply the more extensive research on reception to the less explored issues of production, e.g. reading vs. writing (Meyer, 1982; Shanklin, 1982) and spelling (V 1.30ff). Though logically plausible, reversibility is operationally doubtful. A receiver is partly recording and partly re-enacting the activities of the producer. The receiver can afford considerably more approximation, that is, can treat operations or materials in a provisional, fuzzy, or incomplete way, whereas the producer has to finalize things until the surface text can be executed. Production and reception approach the surface text from fundamentally different perspectives, each with its own implications for processing and decision-making. Hence, strictly reversible models are not likely to be confirmed by future research.

   1.10 SCALE designates the size of elements, ranging from LOCAL to GLOBAL (1.4.5). An operating system can enter either a local MICROSTATE or a global MACRO-STATE. A relation between micro-states yields a MICRO-STRUCTURE, and one between macro-states a MACROSTRUCTURE (cf. van Dijk, 1979). Upon entering a macro-state, the {93} processor expects certain classes of micro-states; conversely, a micro-state can be a clue about the macro-state being traversed. For example, the subject of a sentence requests the syntactic macro-state “noun phrase”; the microstate “definite article” is a clue that “noun-phrase” has been initiated (cf. demonstration in Beaugrande, 1980a: 44ff). On a larger scale, the noun phrase is a micro-state in the macro-state “sentence,” and the latter in turn a micro-state in the macro-state “paragraph,” and so on. As we easily see, a linguistic unit can be a micro-state for one process and a macro-state for another. The processor defines its scale by CHUNKING (treating several items as an operational unit, 1.4.5), and thereby determines COMPLEXITY (the configuration of part-whole relations, III.3.2.7). How much complexity is actually experienced need by no means agree with the complexity uncovered by an abstract analysis of structures (cf. II.3.12.2; 11.3.2iff, 37, 41). A skilled processor can use chunking to control and reduce complexity as needed (III.3.4.3).

    1.11 POWER designates the extent to which a type or definition is GENERAL (based on similarities) vs. SPECIFIC (based on differentiations). The more general, the higher the power (cf. Minsky & Papert, 1974: 59). For example, “event” is a more powerful concept than “motion,” and “object” more powerful than “part” (I.4.11.2). A processor can reduce its load by moving to higher power (III.3.4.4). Comprehension is eased by attending only to the overall gist of the text and discounting details (Kintsch, 1975; Schank, Liebowitz, & Birnbaum, 1978; Masson, 1979). Processing can be divided between ROUTINES applied to everyday requirements vs. SPECIALISTS that monitor and adapt on-line actions to fit unusual or variable conditions (cf. I.4.8; III.1.14, 27; VI.1.6).

    1.12 Power should not be confused with scale.¹ [1 Units judged by their size (“ranks” in British research), e.g., word, sentence, and paragraph, have often been confusingly called “levels.” As noted in 1.4.14, a processing approach tends to cut the pie differently from abstract structural analysis. ] Local elements can be defined at either low or high power. For example, a single word might be defined at higher power as “modifier” or at lower power as “adverbial past participle.” If the surface text is damaged (garbled sounds, defaced print), the processor might assign only “word” and move on. Conversely, a global item like a book chapter might be labeled at high power: “Bloom goes home”; or at low power: “Bloom walks home through Dublin with Stephen Daedalus, climbs over the wall because the door key wasn’t found, lets Stephen in, lights a fire, makes cocoa,” etc.² [This chapter of Joyce’s (1934: 650-721) Ulysses is in fact an experiment in the extremes of detail a narrative can attain, including a character’s unspoken thoughts, unperformed actions, and so on. Thus, scale and power are mae emphatically distinct.]

     1.13 DEPTH designates the LEVEL (in the sense of 1.4.2) on which processing is dominant (see III.2.5ff). A text can be processed on SHALLOW levels as a sequence of letters and words, e.g., by a young child; or on a DEEP LEVEL, e.g., as a hierarchy of ideas and goals. Deeper processing has more pronounced affects on memory and performance. Disambiguating words is deeper than checking their spelling (Bobrow & Bower, 1969). Finding anomalous meanings is deeper than watching for specified sounds or letters (Treisman & Tuxworth, 1974). Fitting words to context is deeper than finding rhymes for them (Craik & Tuiving, 1975). Making follow-up sentences is deeper than judging the meaningfulness of a sentence as it stands (Mistler-Lachman, 1974). These findings can be correlated with the scheme of “levels” going from the surface (the text as an artifact) to the “deepest” levels of main ideas and goals (III.2.3ff). The results of text processing can vary according to the dominant levels of operation.

    1.14 MEMORY CONTRIBUTIONS subsume whatever is put into the processing act from memory storage. A physicalist trend was to discount such contributions and depict processing as an ABSTRACTION OF TRACES from the input (the “stimulus”) (cf. Gomulicki, 1956; Broadbent, 1958; J. Gibson, 1966; E. Gibson, 1971). More recently, a CONSTRUCTIVE memory actively supplying world-knowledge has been affirmed (e.g. Neisser, 1967; Bransford, Barclay, & Franks, 1972; Bransford & Johnson, 1973; Ortony & Anderson, 1975). More recently still, researchers favor a RECONSTRUCTIVE memory that contributes both to processing the original events and to remembering them later (e.g. Spiro, 1977; Loftus, 1980; Rumelhart, 1980; cf. III.3.9); stored knowledge continues to evolve in memory as the person learns new things.¹ [Evidence from word-association tests (cf. II.2.8) led to Tulving’s “encoding specificity” hypothesis: a reminder works only if it was stored at the time of the original experience (cf. Tulving & Thomson, 1973). This view, often contested as unduly restricting the adaptability of memory and interpretation (cf. Reder, Anderson, & Bjork, 1974), may be an artifact of odd laboratory tasks (pairing up words for a test). Keele (1973) suggests that virtually unlimited traces of experience may contact memory.] Construction and reconstruction are supported by: communities of routines and specialists; defaults and preferences; frames and schemas; and so on (I.4.8, 11.2; III.1.11).

     1.15 INHERITANCE is vital to a large system with a rich base of world-knowledge (cf. Hayes, 1977; Brachman, 1978; Fahlman, 1979). To save duplicating storage, a concept or operation INHERITS from a similar one by transferring specifications. An INSTANCE inherits from its CLASS (Walter Kintsch’s now-famous example was that Napoleon, being an instance of the class ‘people’, must have had toes). Or, a SUBCLASS inherits shared features from its SUPERCLASS (e.g., Frenchmen, Corsicans, etc. have toes because they are subclasses of the superclass ‘people’). CANCELLATION blocks inheritance by stipulating how a concept differs from its class or superclass (e.g., if we are told Admiral Nelson had only one eye). Inheritance can economize and raise power by replacing instances with classes, or classes with superclasses (e.g., by remembering ‘flowers’ after reading ‘tulips’) (cf. de Villiers, 1974; Frederiksen, 1975; Rumelhart, 1977a: 34; Kintsch & van Dijk, 1978); {95} details could be reconstructed if needed. ANALOGY permits inheritance among entities that are made comparable in special contexts (if we hear that Napoleon was a fox, we transfer traits like being quick and crafty); the interest and effectiveness of analogical language is shown by the enduring tradition of rhetorical “tropes” (metaphor, simile, metonymy, synecdoche, etc). Inheritance probably allows more economy than memory actually possesses. Strategic, frequently needed configurations are likely to be standing entries even if they duplicate others (cf. Kintsch, 1977: 290f). The waste in storage is traded for saving the time and effort that would be needed to assemble knowledge on demand (cf. III.3.9).

    1.16 DECOMPOSITION occurs when processing breaks elements down into components, i.e., lowers them in scale. The view that word meanings are made up of “minimal features” or “components” appeared variously in structuralism (Greimas, 1966), behaviorism (Osgood, 1963), mentalism (Katz & Fodor, 1963), and psycholinguistics (E. Clark, 1973; Gentner, 1978). “Each component,” according to Clark and Clark (1977: 509), “can be regarded as a procedure called up whenever that component forms the meaning of a word” (for example, ‘Napoleon’ might be broken down into ‘human’, ‘male’, ‘animate’, and so on). I see little evidence that decomposition is routinely performed during comprehension (Kintsch, 1974: 242; J. Anderson, 1976: 74; Hayes-Roth & Hayes-Roth, 1977). It appears to be a special case when some feature becomes relevant in context (Deese, 1971: 168; cf. Bolinger, 1965). Certainly, context is more essentially an act of assembling than one of disassembling (III.3.14).1 [Nearly all the “semantic feature” schemes look for them in an abstract catalog, like a dictionary run though an atom-smasher. This approach soon bogs down in the problem of how to invent and label the features. In a communicative context, there is no reason why a processor should be concerned with particular labels within a configuration whose meaning results from its coherence.]

    1.17 RESOURCE ALLOTMENT occurs when a processor distributes its capacities, such as memory, attention, and motor control, among the various demands of a system in operation (cf. III.3.2). Resources are nearly always limited, so that a TRADE-OFF between competing demands is frequently called for. Resources may be increased by special efforts (e.g. concentration, strain) or decreased by low motivation (e.g. boredom, lack of interest). Each process draws a LOAD on resources and becomes steadily more DOMINANT as its load becomes greater. The system tends to be heavily loaded by such factors as haste, distraction, emotional tension, uncertainty, and conflict among alternatives (Lashley, 1951: 11); or decision-making, trouble-shooting, novelty, danger, technical difficulty, and conflict with previous habits (Norman & Shallice, 1980: 21f). When the draw on resources becomes too great, the system enters a state of OVERLOAD that requires compensation. Unless resources are increased, operations will be DEGRADED by a decrease in completeness, consistency, or accuracy. {96} Skilled processing entails strategies to counteract overload and restrict degradation (III.3.4ff). For example, resources can be allotted to strategic CONTROL CENTERS within a configuration, and distributed from there (cf. III.2.14, 17; IV.2.6).

    1.18 Whether there is just one main supply of resources for all processes, or specific supplies for the various domains of cognition and action, is unclear (cf. Neisser, 1967; Kahneman, 1973; Allport, 1980b). Norman and Bobrow (1975) contrast “resource limitations” due to the processor against “data limitations” due to the materials to be processed. Granted that any person has a model (not the entirety) of language (III.1.8, 28), your limitations depend on your model. Practice would bring improvement if the model is well-designed and just needs rehearsing; but not if the design itself is unproductive, or unfit for the task at hand. The written modality at first confronts young children with data limitations. Once the new modality is properly acquired, resource limitations appear: how to use writing once you know the system. Finally, proficient writers could optimize their models until data limitations return: you can only write so fast within the mechanics of print, longhand, or type (III.1. 20; IV.1.12). Often, language development hits a BLOCK because one’s model is not able to evolve into a better approximation (cf. I.2.22, 23.3; I.3.6). Learners with so-called “literacy problems” are apparently locked into unworkable models (cf. I.2.22ff). The rote drills for beginning writers and readers may reinforce such models, rather than bringing about their reorganization (III. 1.28).

    1.19 If processing has WEAK SPOTS (characteristically troublesome operations), BOTTLENECKS (points where the quantity of materials needed is greater than can be accessed, stored, or transferred), and BLOCKS (points where operations can’t go on), the next question is where and why: in perceiving the world (Broadbent, 1958; Neisser, 1967); or in taking action upon what has been perceived and registered (Keele, 1973); and on so. Text production, especially writing, seems to operate near the threshold of overload (cf. Scardamalia, 1982), and to be beset by weak spots. In terms of problem-solving, (I.4.16), writing is hard when the problem space constantly shifts (Caccamise, 1981: 92), and the problem itself is uncertain, open only to “tentative solutions” (Odell, 1973: 42). Further obstacles include low knowledge about the topic domain (Voss, Vesonder, & Spilich, 1980; cf. I.2.8.8) and emotional stress (cf. Scardamalia, 1975). Revision can combat overload by focusing selectively on weak spots, and using resources from a longer time span (III.3.4.8f).

    1.20 Some resources are drained away simply by the mechanics of uttering or inscribing the surface text (cf. III.2.31; IV.1.11; V.1.35). Allan Newell (1973, cited in McCorduck, 1979: 265) remarks:

In spontaneous communication with speech, the human  appears not to be speech-limited, but rather thought-limited, whereas with writing the opposite is true. That is, a person knows what he wants to communicate faster than he can write it, but not faster than he can say it. Even when saying predigested material, our speech apparatus is never used at close to capacity.

The differences in rate and timing may affect the transition from speaking to writing (cf. II.2.29; II.3.38; III.3.35; V.3.31). The inscription action brings cognitive processing to bear on the surface text at a slower rate than does an articulation action (cf. IV.2.22). Also, the redundancies that fill out speech might carry over into writing (cf. V.3.10, 35-40).

    1.21 ATTENTIONAL processing conflicts with other operations at the same time, whereas AUTOMATIC processing does not (cf. Neisser, 1967; Kahneman, 1973; Keele, 1973; LaBerge & Samuels, 1974; Posner & Snyder, 1975; Schneider & Shiffrin, 1977; Shiffrin & Schneider, 1977; Allport, 1980b; Norman & Shallice, 1980).¹ [Shiffrin & Schneider (1977: 155) define an “automatic process” as “a sequence of nodes that nearly always becomes active in response to a particular input configuration” coming either from outside or from inside the processor; “the sequence is activated without the necessity of active control or attention by the subject.”] Attentional actions tend to be serial, slow, easy to set up, alter, or suppress, and strongly sensitive to resource loads; automatic actions tend to be parallel, rapid, hard to set up, alter, or suppress, and insensitive to resource loads. Probably, expert performance relies on a strategic intersection and interaction of automatic processes, so that very complex activities can run without conscious supervision. On-line integration would constitute chunking: a stored package of such processes would constitute a schema (cf. Piaget, 1976; Norman & Shallice, 1980). Each mode of processing has its own dangers. Whereas attentional processes interfere with each other, automatic ones may cause trouble if they must be changed or prevented, or if their structures are similar enough to conflate (Norman, 1981). Moreover, a special processing obstacle (e.g., having to spell or pronounce a difficult word) could shift normally automatic processing to attentional, bringing a degradation in skill, fluency, or accuracy.

    1.22 Wherever text production is so complex that its processes cannot be done with attention, automatization is needed. For example, beginning writers must expend attention on the motor activities needed for “mechanics” (e.g., letter formation, spelling, or typing). This load on the system causes a shortage of resources elsewhere: the slow, laborious search and organization of content, including irrelevant associations; the deceptively numerous errors and inconsistencies; and so on (cf. III.3.32; IV.2.30; VI.35). Skilled writers handle mechanics automatically, keeping resources free for deeper, larger-scale concerns.

    1.23 SCHEDULING designates the order in which operations are carried out. An operation that can’t run without the results of another is CONTINGENT upon the latter, unless those results can be predicted. In {98} SERIAL processing, one operation at a time runs to its conclusion; in PARALLEL processing, various operations run concurrently and consult each other’s needs and outcomes. SCHEDULING ROUTINES would stipulate the usual order, while SCHEDULING SPECIALISTS would meet any special demands (cf. I.4. 8; III.1.11, 27). Since an automatic process can run at the same time with others, the transition from attentional to automatic processing demands rescheduling. A new skill could start in a SUCCESSIVE mode (serial processing), and evolve to a SIMULTANEOUS mode (parallel processing) (cf. Das, Kirby, & Jarman, 1979; cf. III.3.4.9). Since a new skill is continually in a process of experimenting with possible schedules, it would be prone to entail a high error rate (cf. I.2.17, 23.8; I.3.8, 11, 22, 24; VI.3.13).

    1.24 Several schemas could be active at once, if only one is dominant (III.1.17).¹[Norman and Shallice (1980: 14) consider the selection of more than one “schema” (1.4.11.2) at a time “unlikely,” but they leave open the possibility of combining “two action sequences concurrently” into “a single, higher-order” schema. Thus, the “schema” itself can be created in context, not just looked up from storage (cf. also Rumelhart, 1980; Rumelhart & MeClelland, 1980).] Increasing skills can “consolidate schemas” (Piaget, 1976: 66), respecting their mutual contingencies. “Packages” of “sub-routines” can be set up to watch for their triggering conditions (III.1.21; III.31; 1V.2.30). Classic Gestalt theory stressed the “simultaneity of processing characterized by organizational laws stemming from the totality as such” (Piaget, 1976: 126ff). Luria’s scheme is similar (Das, Kirby, & Jarman, 1975: 82):

Simultaneous integration refers to the synthesis of separate elements into groups often taking on spatial overtones […] any portion of the result is at once surveyable without dependence upon its position in the whole […]Successive information processing [is] in a serial order […] the system is not totally surveyable at any point in time. Rather, a system of cues consecutively activates the components.

Luria classifies complex intellectual processes, plus perception and trace recovery of experience, as simultaneous; and syntax is taken to be successive. However, syntax is probably the outcome of transforming a simultaneous array into a linear sequence (11.3.16; IV 1.4, 7-9).

     1.25 THRESHOLDS are the criteria that INITIATE or TERMINATE a process under appropriate conditions. PATTERN-MATCHING is used to detect when conditions should trigger a threshold (cf. Morton, 1970, 1980), with a GOODNESS OF FIT ranging from exact to fuzzy (III.3.2.5). For high-speed operations without conscious supervision (“closed skills,” III.1.1), the setting of thresholds is the strongest means of control (Norman & Shallice, 1980).² [In fact, Norman and Shallice (1980: 13ff) suggest that selection of a schema can be influenced only by setting thresholds; once initiated, the schema must run its course. Presumably, they have “closed” skills in mind here. “Open” skills could, for example, have such adaptive mechanisms as forming new schemas on the spot (see previous note).} The processor can consciously set an unusual value {99} (e.g., to suppress a habitual action by raising its threshold of initiation) that reverts to normal when supervision ceases (III.3.4.2). A strongly motivated writer, for example, sets high thresholds and requires exact matches, adapting as context evolves.

     1.26 Writing is plainly an open-ended task with no fixed point of termination           even though the concluding words get put on paper. The text could be always be reconsidered and revised (consolidated, developed, paraphrased, altered in voice, style, and register, etc.). The writer sets a threshold of termination that may be raised after the first draft is done, or may be attained only after several drafts. REVISION apparently entails a resetting of thresholds. A reviser who is not the original producer must re-enact production closely enough to build a model of the intended purpose and meaning and thus infer a strategic threshold (III.1 8) — further evidence that processing is well-structured, not chaotic (1.4.8).

    1.27 INTERACTIVE models have co-operating components, and MODULAR models have independent ones. The structuralist approach, with its isolated levels (II.1.15), and transformational grammar, with its groundings in axiomatic logic (II.3.12), favored modular theories in linguistics; more recently, interactive theories are gaining acceptance (III.2.1-5). However, this whole dichotomy fades if we postulate SPECIALIST COMMUNITIES that monitor ongoing processing and start or stop actions when their threshold conditions are met (cf. III.1.11, 25). Such communities are modules, yet interact wherever the system is motivated to use them (cf. Miller, Galanter, & Pribram, 1960; Newell & Simon, 1972; J. Anderson, 1976; Allport, 1980a). Past research tended to see entire levels as undifferentiated modules; and processing therefore appeared fragmented and diffuse (I.4.14; II.1.15). Power and efficiency would be much greater if similarly structured operations on various levels interact and merge (Woods, 1978), e.g. when word order conforms to the order of perception or memory retrieval (cf. II.2.23; III.3.19; 1V.2.56). Appropriate specialists could be set to detect these similarities and consolidate operations immediately.
     1.28 LEARNING occurs when a processor adapts and refines itself during either one operation or a series of operations (cf. II.2.6). Experiments often include “rehearsal” (intentional repetition to encourage learning, e.g., repeating a word to keep it in memory) (cf. Brown, 1958; Craik & Lockhart, 1972) and “distractors” (tasks that impede rehearsal or compete for resources) (cf. Peterson & Peterson, 1959). Whereas behaviorists believed that rehearsal alone causes learning by strengthening “stimulus-response” associations, it is now plain that the real benefits come from cognitive reorganization (Piaget, 1976, 1977; Greeno et al., 1978; Mandler, 1979). Apparently, one’s process model is impelled to evolve to a more efficient or inclusive version, such that the desired tasks become easier and more compact (cf. I.2.22; III.1.8, 18). For example, feedback can be used more precisely (III.3.2.2); operations can be shifted from attentional to automatic (III.1.21f); and so on. Skills remain OPEN as long as the model is evolving, and become CLOSED when the model becomes stable — thereafter, the rising curve of improvement levels out (becomes “asymptotic,” 1.4.15). Literacy education depends on finding tasks that motivate continual refinement of the learners’ language models. Activities like proofreading and editing will be helpful only if learners can relate shallow-level decisions and discrepancies to deeper-level ideas and goals (cf. III.3.7, 37; V.3.20, 22).

  1.29 A TYPOLOGY OF MATERIALS sorts out and classifies the artifacts upon which processing is carried out. For instance, reading and writing adapt to type of text involved. DESCRIPTION is centered on the properties and relationships of objects. NARRATION features temporal and causal sequences of events. EXPOSITION tells what something is or how it works. ARGUMENTATION tries to make an audience accept a thesis. SCIENTIFIC texts are intended to add to the general knowledge of a field; TECHNICAL texts present current knowledge to special audiences (e.g. technicians, operators, manufacturers); and DIDACTIC texts merely present it to an audience of basic learners. However, these types are only dominances, and actual samples are often complex mixtures of types (cf. Kinneavy, 1980). A typology of texts should be based on processes and contexts, not just on the features of artifacts (Gulich & Raible [Eds.], 1972; Meyer, 1975; Meyer, Rice, Knight, & Jensen, 1979; Beaugrande, 1981a, 1982d; Meyer & Freedle, in press).

   1.30 SIMULATION is the programming of a theory or model to run on a computer in imitation of real human processing. Successful simulation at least forces the investigator to state assumptions in an operational synthesis, and proves that a model is workable in principle¹ [The “systemic grammar” of Michael Halliday (1969; cf. Berry, 1977) proved better for simulation than transformational grammar (Winograd, 1972; Davey, 1978), because the latter was harder to formulate as decision-making procedures. According to William Mann (personal communication), a new computer implementation of Halliday’s grammar is now advancing at the University of Southern California Information Sciences Institute.],  but not that humans act the same way. The human brain has large storage, but difficult access; the computer has instantaneous access, but limited storage (Loftus & Loftus, 1976: 128). The computer is also inept at recognizing useful, but approximative analogies and at commonsense reasoning in lack of knowledge (Collins & Quillian, 1972; Collins, 1978). Still, human brains and computers might ideally interact precisely where the one complements the other. AS the state of the art advances in computer technology, this possibility becomes increasingly attractive.

   1.31 The design criteria described in III.1.8-30are shown in Table l. These criteria can help to compare 

 able I. 

Table 1. Design criteria for process models

reversibility: production vs. reception

 scale: local vs. global

power: general vs. specific

depth: shallow vs. deep level

memory contributions: trace abstraction vs. construction vs. reconstruction

inheritance: class vs. instance; superclass vs. subclass; analogy vs. decomposition

resource allotment attention vs. automatization 

scheduling: serial vs. parallel;

successive vs. simultaneous

thresholds of initiation and termination

interaction vs. modularity

learning: open vs. closed

typology of materials

various researchers’ approaches (Beaugrande, 1981a). Text production is so complex that the design of theoretical models is especially crucial. The latter in turn can provide the rationale for new methods in literacy education (cf. VI.3). Though we can’t predict  which models will gain acceptance, we can agree on some evaluative criteria that help to adjudicate the design of models, not just describe it. I suggest one set of evaluative criteria (listed in Table 2) by way of illustration (cf. Beaugrande, 1981b: 130f):

Table 2.Evaluative criteria for process models

_____________________________________________________________________________________

DIVERSIFICATION

CONSENSUS

ECONOMY

DYNAMICS

PLAUSIBILITY

COMPUTABILITY

INCREASING APPROXIMATION

ECOLOGICAL VALIDITY   v

_____________________________________________________________________________

1.31.1 DIVERSIFICATION: A model should unify the domains relevant to a given human aspect. Diversification retests the model’s plausibility with each added domain; supports clear antecedence relations among disciplines; keeps special cases from being mistaken for general ones; and combats reduction and fragmentation (cf. I. 1. 3, 12).

      1.31.2 CONSENSUS: A model should promote agreement among researchers by providing a clearly defined and consistently applied set of terms and concepts. This consensus would assist both integration of new findings from various directions, and comparison among alternative models.

     1.31.3 ECONOMY. A model should focus on those theoretical constructions

relevant for processing, rather than on all categories and features that could be invented (cf. II.1.6, III.1.16).

    1.31.4 DYNAMICS: A model should deal with processes and operations in natural contexts, not with static objects and artefacts in the abstract (I.1.3 ff).

    1.31.5 PLAUSIBILITY. A model should adduce realistic examples and respect the human resource limitations.

     1.31.6 COMPUTABILITY. A model should allow the statement of discrete procedures and steps that enable simulation (III.1.30).

     1.31.7 INCREASING APPROXIMATION: A model should be able to evolve toward a steadily more exact representation of the human aspects it addresses.

     1.31.8 ECOLOGICAL VALIDITY. A model should be an “account of how people interact with the ordinary world”; this priority does not mean “an end to laboratory experiments, but a commitment to variables that are ecologically important rather than those that are easily manageable” (Neisser, 1976: 7; cf. I.1.15; VI.3.22).

    1.32 These values did not always fare well in the three approaches reviewed in Chapter II. For example, diversification was done more through extrapolation than antecedence; consensus, economy, and dynamics were disregarded by structuralism and mentalism; and the other four standards fared badly in all three approaches. Today [i.e. 1984], research on cognition and communication is expanding so rapidly that it threatens to overwhelm the individual researcher An open discussion of model designs and of the ways to evaluate them could prevent a loss of orientation by reminding us of the larger issues at each step, and consolidating our advances as they occur. We stand the best chance of discovering facts if we inspect and critique the ways in which the design of our models influences what counts as facts, and for what purpose (I.1.4,7). 

2. THE PHASES OF TEXT PRODUCTION

     2.1 A model of text production should be situated within the general processing conditions outlined in III.1. Past research was simplified by relying on serial, modular models whose levels were processed one at a time (III.1.23). This scheme fit the analysis of linguistic artifacts into independent levels (II.1.15; II.3.7), as well as the design of psychological experiments measuring additive time (III.1.2; IV.1.8) (compare and contrast Chomsky, 1965; Lamb, 1966; Fromkin, 1971; Gibson, 1971; Shaffer, 1976; Jarvella, 1977). The popular, metaphoric “black box” model considered only the input and output of each stage, and disregarded internal operations, as illustrated in Figure 2..  

The impulse starts from “pragmatics” (purpose), passes through “semantics” (meaning), then “syntax” (phrasing), and pops out as “phonemics” (sounds) or “graphemics” (letters). Each box, however it may be labeled, carries out only the operations on its own level, and sends on final results. No box consults the others during operations. If failure occurs, the whole series would have to be traversed again from left to right

    2.2 The conventional proofs of experimental psychology depend heavily upon the notion of additive time (cf. Sternberg, 1969).¹[On the controversial details of the “Sternberg paradigm,” see IV.1.8f.] in order to obtain quantitative results. The time on task is calculated to be the sum of the time spent on each component operation. Hence, proving a mental operation means triggering it with a suitable “stimulus” and showing a regular increase in performance time — what Posner (1978) calls “chronometric exploration of mind.” This proof assumes that (a) every mental process takes up real time (clock time), as compared to psychological time (the complex of overlapping, interactive processes); and (b) the experimenter really triggers the postulated operation, and it alone. These two assumptions are themselves debatable, but they are very hard to prove within a method that incorporates them directly into its proof procedures. Natural processing undoubtedly involves some operations, e.g., automatic processes that need not increase total time, because they run simultaneously with others.

    2.3 Recent trends favor parallel, interactive models (e.g. Marslen-Wilson, 1975; Norman & Rumelhart, 1975; Danks, 1977; Levy, 1977; Rumelhart, 1977b, 1981; Woods & Brachman, 1978a, 1978b; Flower & Hayes, 1980, 1981; Gould, 1980; Flood & Menyuk, 1981). Here, processes are able — though not required — to run at the same time and consult each other freely. In such models, serial actions, e.g., linearizing sounds, letters, and words, are the outcome of complex, concurrent processes (cf. Ch. IV). Linearity reflects the organization of the language modalities of speech and writing, rather than one-by-one mental processes. An elaborate parallel system can mimic a serial one if so required (cf. Anderson, 1976). Specialist processes monitor current conditions and become active in appropriate contexts (III.1.27).

    2.4 Interactive processing can streamline the reception and comprehension of texts on the way between the “surface” words or phrases to the “deeper” levels of main ideas and goals. Kintsch (1979: 326) points out that deeper processes can’t afford to wait for the shallower ones to finish. Drewnowski and Healy (1977) opine that parallel processing allows shallower levels to be shut down as soon as deeper levels terminate. Marcel (1980) proposes that processing is automatically and non-selectively carried to the deepest available level of processing (e.g., a word’s meaning could be recovered before its visual shape is fully identified). Such arguments should hold for text production as well: if reception is parallel, production could hardly be serial. But serial models are easy to design, whereas parallel, interactive models confront {105} the practising researcher with a host of difficult questions: (a) How are operations scheduled? (b) What is done simultaneously vs. successively? (c) Which operations are contingent upon others, and how strictly? (d) Which operations dominate others? (e) Which operations are, or can be, chunked? (f) How much is automatic, and how much is attentional? (g) How are thresholds of initiation and termination set or reset? (h) How are special problems resolved? (i) How many skills are open, and how many are closed? (j) How are limited resources allotted? (k) Where are the main control points in text production? (l) What factors contribute to overloading? (m) Does the production process have inherent weak spots or bottlenecks? (n) To what extent must processing adapt to each specific occasion? (o) How are processing strategies acquired, and how do they evolve? (p) What counts as a successful or satisfactory text? (q) How do skilled text producers revise? (r) How can text production be improved by educational training?

    2.5 In a parallel, interactive model, the language levels are processed in concurrent phases defined by their operations. These phases come and go as their thresholds of initiation and termination are met (III.1.25). Probably, the phases constitute functional units rather than temporal ones: the set of operations in a given phase would be done not all at once, but whenever conditions were right for triggering them (cf.III.2.25, 30, 32; III.3.9). Resource limitations should make it natural that processing dominance would be given to just one phase at a time, or to a few at most (III.1.17). Figure 3  illustrates the basic model, with the shallowest phase on top, and the deepest on the bottom. 17 The zig-zagged arrow suggests a gradual migration of dominance from deep to shallow during text production, yet with considerable freedom for strategic shifting up or down.

    2.6 The notion of “processing depth” ¹[“The “deep/shallow” dimension must not be confused with alternative models on a “high/low” dimension: their “high” end is equivalent to the “deep” end here.] was originally advanced to account for differences in the impact of processing on memory and action (III.1.13). GOAL-PLANNING should thus be the deepest phase in the model because of its close ties to goals, desires, and emotions-states that are well remembered and strongly acted upon by most people (cf. Schweller, Brewer, & Dahl, 1977; D’Andrade, 1980). Goal-planning sets up the DISCOURSE GOAL (a future state of the world intended to be brought about via the discourse) plus the PLAN (the set of steps intended to lead to the goal) (1.4.11.3; cf. Larson, 1971). Multiple goals are ranked on a GOAL STACK and wait to assert themselves when conditions are right (cf. Rieger & London, 1977). Multiple plans can be held in reserve in case the first one fails (cf. Beaugrande, 1979d, 1980b, and references there). The participants MONITOR the progress of the discourse to update the status of their goals, and try to MANAGE it so as to attain the latter (1.4.11.5; 11.2.10).

     2.7 Membership in a culture entails approximative consensus about what goals are desirable because they affect one’s well-being (cf. classification in Beaugrande, 1980a: I 8 1). These desires may be physiological (e.g., health vs. illness, or satisfaction vs. deprivation); emotional (e.g., happiness vs. unhappiness, enjoyment vs. suffering, or stimulation vs. depression); social (e.g., acceptance vs. rejection, respect vs. disregard, or solidarity vs. confrontation); character-based (e.g., kindness vs. unkindness, modesty vs. vanity, or honesty vs. dishonesty); and so on. The usual desires are the basis for predicting or inferring other people’s goals from their texts and actions (cf. Schank & Abelson, 1977; Allen, 1979; Wilensky, 1980; Black, Wilkes, Gibbs, & Gibbs, 1982). A common default strategy is self-projection: assume other people have the same desires as you unless there is evidence to the contrary. Though an individual’s desires may deviate from those agreed upon by the society, the norm remains in force at least as a framework that makes us recognize such cases as deviant.

    2.8 The content (meaning) of discourse frequently depends on the presumed goals of the participants. This factor was treated in the literature on “speech acts” (cf. Austin, 1962; Searle, 1969, 1975; Cohen, 1978; Mann, 1980; Steinmann, 1982); and on “conversational implicatures” (Grice, 1975, 1978). Speech-act theory tends to treat language as sentences (Kinneavy, 1979a), due to the prevailing concerns of linguistics (cf. II.1.12; II.3.5, 13). Moreover, well-structured special cases with stable definitions (promising, threatening, thanking, greeting, etc.) have been favored over more common, but diffuse goals (pursuing social solidarity, making a good impression, demonstrating interest, passing the time of day, etc.). Politics could be defined as the domain in which communication and action are dominated by participants’ goals, if necessary at the expense of conventions such as conceptual meaning and consistency, factual truth, stable personal roles, and so on (cf. I.1.2; III.3.15, 30; VI.I.26). Discourse is more often “political” in this sense than most would  imagine.

    2.9 A broad theory of DISCOURSE ACTIONS should incorporate speech-act theory along with general aspects of goal-planning in discourse. An ACTION can be defined as an event brought about by an agent to change a situation in a way that wouldn’t have happened by itself (I.4.11.5), and a BLOCK as a state or event which impedes an action (III.1.20). Whatever bears on the action is termed RELEVANT. A DISCOURSE ACTION would be a discourse event performed to change a situation, and may be impeded by a DISCOURSE BLOCK, a well-known type being WRITER’S BLOCK (III.2.17, 20f; III.3.4; IV.2.50). The changed situation may contain the text producer’s GOAL STATE; or may be only one step on the way; or may prove irrelevant altogether. An INEFFECTIVE discourse action fails to bring the goal nearer. An INEFFICIENT discourse action wastes time and effort, e.g., in trial-and-error applied when goals and strategies are indistinct (cf. Kintsch, 1977: 441; 11.2.6, 9, 11). An INAPPROPRIATE discourse action is considered unfitting, whether or not it is {108} efficient or effective (e.g., a rude request is quick and gets results in some settings). The text producer can evoke cultural consensus to make the goal look worthwhile, e.g., politicians advertising their own goals as the ones any rational, forthright person should want.

    2.10 The goal-planning phase fits the text to the situation in several ways. First, the producer projects a ROLE, i.e. a pattern of actions and discourse expected from a participant. In “political” discourse, this role is carefully adjusted to encourage each audience to support one’s goals. Though consistency within a single situation and within all situations a person enters is considered normal, it is frequently subordinated to immediate goal-attainment. Second, the producer selects a TEXT TYPE that may be predominantly descriptive, narrative, expository, argumentative, and so on (III.1.29). Complex goals may call for a mixture of these types in a single discourse. Third, the PREPAREDNESS of the producer varies according to whether the discourse is important and anticipated. Everyday communication is often spontaneous (reacting to ongoing context) and extemporaneous (improvised) (III.1.1); these two conditions often coincide, but not always. (A practised orator who has a speech ready-made for the occasion speaks spontaneously, but not extemporaneously. A soap-box prophet of doom in a public park may speak extemporaneously, but, having no relevance to the real situation, not spontaneously.) Fourth, INFORMATIVITY varies between the discourse actions of INVOKING predominantly known content vs. INFORMING people of predominantly unknown or newly assembled content (I.4.11.7).

    2.11 Role, text type, preparedness, and informativity influence the producer’s choice of STYLE, operationally defined as a set of parameters that guide the selection among language alternatives (cf. VI.1.6). Audiences use stylistic “markers” (conspicuous choices, VI.I.4, 7) to classify roles and text types. The skilled producer has processing specialists for relating a variety of roles or types to appropriate styles (1.4.8; VI.1.6). Writing offers the advantage over speaking that a spontaneously produced original can be revised to contain consistent, appropriate style markers.

     2.12 The composition class is a special situation with elaborate presuppositions about purposes and goals. Writing (particularly in class) is mainly spontaneous, but not in the same sense as real-life discourse. Normally, the teacher is the audience, regardless of the intended addressee (cf. I.4.11.6). The main goal is to demonstrate text production itself, rather than to convey a relevant message (Applebee, 1982: 377; 1.2.13, 17). Since indistinct or unusual goals encourage wasteful trial-and-error, text production is likely to be inefficient and ineffective:

The freshman English theme is most frequently written without an explicit aim, takes no particular view of its subject matter, is oriented to no particular medium, and is preferably done with no serious thought preparetion. {109}In other words, it is aimless, modeless, mediumless, and unprepared. No serious professional writer would dream of producing a text under any of these conditions. (Kinneavy, 1979a: 13)

Larson (1971: 145) concurs that “students are insensitive to plans” and “unfamiliar with the notion of ‘purpose’ in writing”; they exhibit “abrupt changes in point of view, sudden changes in tone of voice, loss of direction midway through an essay, lack of transitions,” and “absence of convincing conclusions” —  common symptoms of trial-and-error. Students must perform under “unmotivating conditions messages that the writer has no impulse to send and that the reader (teacher) probably would not choose to read” without “being paid to be an examiner”; hence “inexperienced writers” will “think of purpose as what someone else wants of them” and will be “cut off from the impulse to say something, or from the sense that anything they might say is important to anyone else” in a “truly communicative situation” (Shaughnessy, 1977: 86). “Novice writers” “display an innocent lack of consideration for what their readers know and do not know, and for what they are or are not interested in” (Malmon, 1979: 364).

      2.13 This deep-level impasse can be resolved only by situating composition instruction in its broader social and psychological context. The sensitivity of text production to audience approval (III.1.4f) indicates that students’ texts will be non-fluent and error-prone if the teacher acts as an unfriendly, negative audience. Learners even imagine such an attitude without valid evidence. Amerindian children (Mesquaki Fox, an Algonquin people) construed the normal intonation of English teachers as “being mean” and “getting mad” (Coulthard, 1977: 49). Errors will increase if teachers are intransigent toward them, and decrease if discourse goals are realistic and clearly defined (cf. Williams, 1979a: 31) — not just to “inform,” “persuade, “ and so on (McCrimmon, 1976: 8). Students can gain some audience sensitivity and purpose by reading papers aloud to the class (Elbow, 1981: 96). By negotiating their own topics, students can assume a role as experts on matters about which they are knowledgeable (cf. I.3.24; III.2.19; VI.2.27).

    2.14 IDEATION is the next-deepest phase of text production and subsumes all activities that create an IDEA: a configuration of conceptual content that acts as a control center for building the text-world model (the total configuration of knowledge activated for processing the text, 1.4.11.2). A framework that regularly guides a person’s ideation can be termed an IDEOLOGY (1.3.16). Thus, “idea” and “ideology” are operationally defined as whatever assumes these control functions in context, rather than logically defined by degrees of abstraction. Wundt (1970 [19001) suggested that the components of an idea exist simultaneously (II.3.16) a view compatible with Gestalt theory (III.1.24). Or, the components of an idea might be successively assembled so rapidly and automatically that they seem to be {110} simultaneously present. According to Kintsch (1982: msp. 14f), memory search creates “ideas” for text production by setting up a “cue” that automatically fetches associated materials from memory storage — a case of spreading activation (I.4.11.2; III.2.20). Since automatic processing is not consciously supervised. this search can bring back irrelevant materials the writer should set aside or ignore (V1.2.26).¹ [The findings of experiments on shadowing (III. 1.2. 1) that even conscious effort does not always enable people to ignore a message (Treisman, 1964) is probably an effect of automatic processing (cf. Posner, 1978: 96).] Selecting what you want to say from among all the materials activated by memory search can be an imposing task, the more so if the text topic is vaguely specified (III.2.18ff).

    2.15 Patterns of prior knowledge participate in ideation. A frame is an array of knowledge components generally associated in world knowledge; a schema is a progression of sequentially ordered components (I.4.11.2). However, these patterns would not normally be transferred intact over into text content, aside from the rare situation of saying or writing everything you can think of about a topic (cf. Charniak, 1972). Once automatic search has activated the whole pattern, the relevance of content must be judged (III.2.9; VI.2.2,11, 32). Often, the text producer has to search out and combine elements from several stored patterns and make a new unit. The proportion of this recombining determines the creativity of ideation (cf. I.3.7ff). On the audience’s side, the same proportion decides if the discourse action counts as invoking or as informing (cf. III.2.10).

     2.16 An idea might remain implicit, i.e., not be expressed (I.4.11.2; III.2.25, 35; V. 3.28); more often, it is made explicit (1.4.9) and thus becomes a TOPIC in the text. In a paragraph, a TOPIC SENTENCE can assume this function (IV.2.8; VI.2.14f, 17, 28). A topic which takes a stand on a problematic issue can be called a THESIS (VI.2. 1). In a series of texts within a discourse (e.g., a conversation or exchange of letters), a recurring topic would be the THEME. Making the idea the topic helps the audience re-enact the organization of content along the same lines used in production (cf. III.1.9). It helps to state the topic or thesis early in the text-the so-called “pyramid format” (Collins & Gentner, 1980: 61, cf. VI.1.15). The audience then has a clear control center for comprehension (compare Bransford & Johnson, 1973; Norman, 1973; Collins, Warnock, & Passafiume, 1974). Or, the producer may postpone the topic statement and invite the audience to infer it provisionally (V1.2.15). An idea that might seem unacceptable or incomprehensible to the audience could be saved until enough details have been presented to make it look reasonable and understandable (cf. VI.2.9f, 24).

     2.17 How ideation is organized and sequenced is thus a strategic issue for producer and audience alike. Both sides would fare best if the main idea came first, followed by the details of content (V1.2.1f, 7, 22). Processing would be roughly comparable on both sides-point of orientation first, {111} then elaboration or support — so that comprehension and learning would be efficient (cf. Horowitz & Newman, 1964; Meyer, Brandt, & Bluth, 1980). Starting content organization with the ideation phase is normal (cf. Grady, 1971: 348), but not compulsory. A producer might start with a flurry of details that only gradually coalesce into an idea. As long as no idea is acting as a control center, such discovery procedures would lack order and direction; writer’s block (III.2.9) could result either from not defining the idea (and bogging down in incoherent details) or else from not recovering relevant materials to develop the idea. Also, text production might be so complex the eventual topic is not the idea the producer started from; or, the latter may want to leave the idea implicit in order to conceal it. The audience may in turn infer an idea which is not the topic (cf. I.4.11.2), but which functions as a good control center for processing. Apparently, audiences are readily convinced by ideas they build themselves (cf. illustrations in Beaugrande & Dressler, 1981: 8, 154, 160, 176).

     2.18 Ideas can vary in scale and power (III.1.10ff). On the scale of dimension, Caccamise (1981: 36ff) found evidence of large “clusters” composed of overlapping “chunks” that in turn subsume groups of “idea units.” This hierarchy revealed how ideation differs according to specificity, familiarity, and writer’s age. On the power dimension, Christensen (1963, 1965) suggested that texts are organized in a hierarchy of generality via “co-ordination” vs. “subordination” (compare also Pitkin, 1969, 1977; Winterowd, 1970; Grady, 1971; D’Angelo, 1974; Nold & Davis, 1980;  and cf. I.3.18; VI.2.22).

     2.19 Like goal-planning, ideation occurs under atypical conditions in the composition class (cf. I.3.18; III.2.12f). In Kinneavy’s (1979a: 13) opinion, many students adopt “no particular view on the subject matter” and perform “no serious thought preparation.” They assume that their own views are not “possible content for academic statements” (Shaughnessy, 1977: 80). Applebee’s (1982: 375f) survey found most school writing to be simply an explicit rehearsal of materials not selected by the writer:

In the typical school situation the student’s body of relevant knowledge is completely circumscribed by the teacher’s knowledge of the subject area […] Marking practices tend to stress the accuracy of information presented, rather than the arguments that can be built up using that information [(cf. I.3.181)] […] We found many examples of essays that were little more than catalogs of “important facts,” related to one another primarily in the teacher’s vision.

Truncating the natural ideation phase leaves students ill-equipped to devise their own topics. They are unable to “gain access habitually to their own responses, their own thoughts” (Shaughnessy, 1977: 8 1). They may also fear their ideology could antagonize a teacher (1.3.16). The solution is often to select topics so banal they could offend no one — and interest no one. {112) Macrorie’s (1970: 12) samples of student “Engfish” markedly demonstrates the wishy-washiness that students assume as protective covering against the risks of cntroversy, individualism, and innovation (cf. I.3. 10; III.3.30f), e.g.:  

(28) I went downtown today for the first time. When I got there I was completely astonished by the hustle and bustle that was going on.

(29) It is hard to realize just how much you miss someone until you are away from this person. It seems that the time spent away from this person is wasted. You seem to wait and wait until you can see this person again.

 Personal experience is either watered down (28), or hidden behind the impersonal (29).

    2.20 CONCEPTUAL DEVELOPMENT is the phase in which ideas are enriched, elaborated, and integrated until the detailed text-world model (III.2.14) emerges. Here also, relevance screens out what is used from among what is available (cf. III.2.9, 15). And again, a writer can select either ready-made configurations, so that text figures in an invoking action, or creative, newly-built configurations, enabling an informing action (11.2. 10, 15). The mechanics of spreading activation (I.4.11.2) recover much trivial commonsense material even devotees of “Engfish” would find too trite to express. No freshman would venture to write (except in defiance):  

(30) “Downtown” isn’t really “down.” It’s the center of town, and has hills going up as well as down, as I learned when I went there today. It is made mostly of streets and sidewalks that help people get to stores, where they can buy the items they need to make their way through life from day to day.  

because every possible audience knows this only too well. Development must continue until less trivial content is recovered (V1.2.26ff, 32). Unfortunately, early results may promote writer’s block (cf. III.2.9, 17) by misleading inexperienced student writers to assume that all their content will be as trivial as the first things coming to mind. Teachers who assign a worn-out topic encourage this trap.

     2.21 Writer’s block also comes from DAYDREAMING: following up chains of association irrelevant to the task at hand. Spreading activation is largely automatic and runs without effort or control (III.2.14, 20; IV.2.30). Writing places a heavy load on processing (III.1.19f). Therefore, when the writer encounters overload, conceptual development tends to be dominated by spreading activation, and daydreaming ensues. The daydream provides a release valve for overload and degrades conceptual development by disregarding relevance (cf. III.2.15, 20). The content of a daydream usually comes from the associations which are best rehearsed or most salient to the writer at the time, e.g., recent experiences, personal well-being, desired goals, and so on. One of the trade-offs in text processing (cf. I.4.15) is between writing too slow vs. too fast. Slowing down may increase the danger of daydreaming; speeding up, as in “free writing” (V1.3.12), leaves little {113} time to develop content and screen for relevance. Thus, writing must be carefully scheduled (III.1.23), so that content is found and used without allowing the train of thought to wander off too far.

     2.22 The content of discourse is related to its REFERENCE in complex ways. Conventional treatments of reference are fond of using words or statements that match immediately visible objects (cf. II.2.5, 9, 11, 17; III.1.2.5; IV.2.56). However, discourse content typically invokes events and situations which are not immediately perceptible to the participants. What is referred to is decided by context: the text-world model is a system of relationships analogous (but not identical) to perceivable states of the experienced world (cf. 11.2.18, 23f) — i.e., organized in terms of time, space, causality, etc. Normally, processing terminates the regress to reality without going to verify the content of every text; situations calling for eyewitness evidence are comparatively rare. Thus, the issue of reference can’t be solved via philosophical speculation, but only by psychological discovery of how far people relate discourse content to real or imagined worlds in order to carry on satisfactory communication.

     2.23 Ideation and conceptual development have figured in composition courses as INVENTION (cf. VI.2.26, 32, 37). In the vitalistic, romantic outlook (I.2.23.7), invention seemed a miraculous, irrational inspiration from a muse; and composition teachers aren’t well armed to perform miracles (though often expected to). In fact, the semblance of irrationality was simply evoked by the recombining of old knowledge into new patterns (1.2.23.7; 111.3.15); true irrationality does not engender new order. Recently, the belief of classical rhetoricians that invention is teachable has been reaffirmed (e.g., Ohmann, 1964a; Gorrell, 1965; Rohman, 1965; Young, Becker, & Pike, 1970; Corbett, 1971; Larson, 1971; S. Miller, 1976; Young, 1976; D’Angelo, 1979a, 1979b; Kinneavy, 1980; Flower, 1981). Skilled text producers doubtless have acquired powerful strategies for discovering and organizing content across a wide range of knowledge domains — “prototypical thought patterns that transcend even the intellectual classifications of specific disciplines” (Shaughnessy, 1977: 257). Aristotle recommended using contrasts, conditionals, gradations, definitions, divisions, inductions, consequences, and so on (Cooper, 1932: 159ff). We need to explore and define invention precisely enough to be usable among contemporary students (cf. VI.2.6-37).

    2.24 Presumably, invention procedures guide MEMORY SEARCH. The strategies proposed by Young, Becker and Pike (1970), for instance, center on basic conceptual relationships: object/attribute, part/whole, class/instance, superclass/subclass, cause/effect, problem/solution, temporal sequence, and so on (cf. 1.4.11.2; VI.2.19-25). Students are encouraged to inquire how an object or event of the topic enters into these relations, e.g., what caused it and what results it will bring. Similarly, Burke’s “pentad” advises specifying “act,” “agent,” “agency,” “scene,”  and “purpose.” Such schemes should not overlook the danger that associative reasoning may be irrelevant or trivial in context (111.2.19ff. VI.2.26). Text producers should screen their materials to find what would excite INTEREST by being problematic, uncertain, or variable (cf. IV.2.11, 49; VI.2.8f, 32). Like goal-planning, ideation and conceptual development are instances of PROBLEM-SOLVING (cf. 1.4.16). The text producer finds and assembles content into an interesting configuration for the audience to re-assemble. Trivial content makes for trivial problems and elicits boredom; outlandish content, on the other hand, may make the audience’s problems too hard and elicit confusion (1.4.15).

    2.25 The EXPRESSION phase subsumes all the operations that map the conceptual configuration of underlying content onto language expressions (words, unitary phrases, etc.). Merely thinking of a concept might bring to mind one or more typical expressions for it (another instance of “spreading activation”). But the expression phase has to make all selections and close all remaining gaps not resolved this way. Hence, this phase is likely to be a distinct unit only in its functions: its component operations may run at diverse times. Some choices among alternatives may be quick and easy, and others protracted and difficult. A processor may have a mental image whose parts are not all equally easy to map onto language.¹ [Apparently, mental imagery is correlated with language, but has its own processing conditions (Paivio 1975, 1978). The visual images of words would be an intermediate domain (cf Titchener, 1909; V.1.19f, 26, 33, 37, 48).] The continuity of experience and sensory impressions may be hard to render in discrete language expressions (cf. III.3.19).

    2.26 Theories of language have long been troubled by the controversy over how farr content (“thought”) and expression are identical or independent. To argue for total identity is to deny the possibility of full synonymity and translation. To argue for total independence is to ignore the speed and ease with which concepts activate expressions and vice-versa. My solution is to regard an expression as an item that activates an ordered set of hypotheses about processing actions on conceptual content in memory (cf. I.4.6). There is a straightforward distinction between instructions (the expressions and the processes and materials involved in carrying out the instructions (content as a cognitive event). We easily confuse things because we carry out the instructions so readily and rapidly that we are not aware of doing anything at all.

    2.27 It wass striking that, according to my experiments, writers who vocalized (talked out what they are writing) often utter something other than what they are putting on paper. Apparently, decision and revision during the expression phase are complicated by having many different ways to express the same content. Two such factors are ASYMMETRY:one expression corresponding to several concepts, or one concept to several expressions; and {115} REDUNDANCY: several expressions in the surface text to represent one concept.1 [The definition of redundancy as the ratio of words vs. different words (“token/type” ratio) is easy to compute, but ignores the context of expectations among participants, and the potential of self-paraphrase (cf. IV.1.2; IV.2.39; V.3.32).] A writer can control memory search with thresholds to watch over STYLE, e.g., by rejecting the initially found trite expressions and waiting for more creative or precise ones; or by adjusting redundancy to fit the audience; and so forth

    2.28 PHRASE LINEARIZATION is the phase that arranges expressions in the sequence required by the modalities of speech and writing. The operational role of syntax is to provide regular formats (slots and possible fillers, (cf. II. 1. 12, 14), and to constrain processing without uniquely determining it. The neutral term STRETCH OF TEXT can apply to any sequence or format. Syntax-based formats include: the PHRASE (a head with at least one dependent element); the CLAUSE (a sequence with at least one subject-verb dependency); and the SENTENCE (a sequence with at least one independent subject-verb dependency). Action-based formats include: the TONE GROUP (a spoken sequence with a recognizable intonation contour and bounded by pauses); the UTTERANCE (a spoken sequence constituting one unit of action); the STATEMENT (the presentation of a conceptual configuration to be considered); the EXCLAMATION (an emphatic or assertive statement); the QUESTION (a request for confirmation or action); and the COMMAND (a direct assignment of an action). The PARAGRAPH is a hybrid between syntax and action (at least in English): a designated stretch of text containing as many statements or sentences as befits the “heaviness” of the materials (cf. IV.2.60; 1V3.17; VI.2.12-25). English recognizes only written paragraphs, marked by indentations; in some languages, spoken signals have a comparable function (Longacre, 1970; Howard, 1978; Hunt, 1978; Strahm, 1978; cf. VI.2.12).

    2.29 Though linearization executes words one at a time, it probably loads a whole stretch into a BUFFER: a transitory store for items one expects to use (cf. III.3.5.4; IV.2.13; VI.34f, 42). The buffer has a representation of the materials, plus a set of execution programs for doing things, such as writing down letters and words in order (cf. Shaffer, 1976). The representation could designate a syntactic macro-state such as a clause or sentence, with micro-states being words or word-parts (cf. I.4.5). Some monitoring is needed to keep track of the various entries in the representation while they are being processed and executed. The execution programs may confuse items within the representation, or bring them out too soon or too late (cf. III.3.32ff; IV.2.45ff; V.2.34).² The “push-down stack” with words all set to go in the proper order (cf. Beaugrande, 1980a: 44) is certainly not the only way the buffer can be organized. The ordering errors discussed later on (III.3.32f; IV.2.45, 47; V.1.44f; V.3.30f) suggest rather that the buffer contains more or less simultaneous arrays, plus ordering instructions that sometimes get lost or confused (cf. Shaffer, 1976; Rumelhart & Norman, 1981).] The resulting inconsistent or {116}

complete sequences (e.g., displacements, shifts, incoherencies) are more readily tolerated in speech than in writing (cf. V3.20ff).

     2.30 Like expression, phrase linearization is probably unified in its function, but dispersed in time (cf. III.2.25). On occasion, phrasings are apparently selected before all the words are available to fill them (cf. Carroll, 1953; Goldman-Eisler 1958b; Chomsky, 1959; Maclay & Osgood, 1959; Boomer, 1965; Johnson, 1966; Nooteboom, 1969). Other times, the reverse seems to happen: words are selected first and only then placed inside phrases (cf. Kowal, O’Connell, & Sabin, 1975; Clark & Clark, 1977). The former findings support syntax-centered approaches and the latter support key-word approaches (cf. II.2.14). The conflict of evidence strongly implies that both procedures are possible (cf. Goldman-Eisler, 1968; Perfetti, 1969; Martin, 1971; Lindsley, 1975). The phases of expression and phrase linearization run in parallel; the processor does word-selection or phrasing depending on when the materials are found, placed in the buffer, and made ready for execution. Pre-activation and post-activation occur when a word or word-part is executed soon or too late for its proper slot in a phrase (III.3.32; 1V2.47; V2.34; V3.30f). Fuzzy phrasing, which strings words along in approximative or undecided patterns, is found in casual speech (31), unskilled slips (32), or language dysfunctions (33):¹ [Sample (32) was collected by Gerald Langford (cf. I.2.7). I am indebted to Leila Hartlry for sample (33) from a patient at the University of Florida clinic. The “/” marks a pause (cf. IV.2.25).]  

(31) they brought a big plate of grapes / these big purple

(32) I got a Go Gator, it is funny to me. It was a thing at go up and down, but with I pull the lever, half a water.

(33) she also took a carton of milk / but is also noticed she the young lady who works as the cou-counthe lunchroom / had to bring in / more / cartons to milk return to more / milk for sale / to the children  

   2.31 SOUND/LETTER LINEARIZATION is the phase that executes the acoustic or visual materials of the actual surface text (cf. IV. 1. 5; IV.2. 1, 6; VI.35). Logically, processing an expression includes processing the sounds and letters that constitute it. But operationally, executing the sounds or letters demands an UTTERANCE ACTION or INSCRIPTION ACTION, a complex of articulatory, scribal, acoustic, and visual acts (cf. Horowitz & Berkowitz, 1964; MacNeilage, 1964, 1970; Fromkin, 197 1; Sussman, 1972; Blass & Siegman, 1975; Gould, 1979; Frith [Ed.], 1980; I.4.11.6; III. 1.20; IV.1.11f). These acts are supported by “subroutines” often called MOTOR PROGRAMS: sequences of stored commands “structured before the movement begins, allowing the entire sequence to be carried out uninfluenced by peripheral feedback” (Keele, 1968: 387). The existence of such programs is indicated by their feedback: responses (e.g. error correction) are more delayed at the beginning and end of an action {117} than during it (cf. Posner & Keele, 1968; Ells, 1973; Schmidt, 1975; Norman & Shallice, 1980). The programs are automatic and efficient, but hard to influence as they run. They are less oriented toward a specific physical result than toward a target action defined within a relational system of sounds and letters (cf. IV1 11f). Therefore, the motor programs need a spatial dimension for the movements of the jaw or hand, and a temporal one for the order of these movements in real time (MacNeilage, 1964, 1970; Sussman, 1972; cf. IV.1.6ff). Some people can adjust these dimensions to produce a new voice-sound or handwriting consistently and intelligibly. Both dimensions are susceptible to errors: confusions either about similarly articulated or inscribed units (spatial), or else about the correct order of units (temporal) (cf. III.3.32ff; IV.2.47; V.1.14ff, 17, 34ff, 42ff).

   2.32 The survey of the phases of text production in III.2.5-31 might clarify the scheme back in Figure 3. The levels are not meant to be separated or fixed with respect to each other. A production act need not work through all the levels, nor follow a set order (cf. III.3.8). Context decides how deep or shallow processing needs to be (cf. III.1.13; III.2.5). The identity and unity of the levels are based on their function, i.e., their contribution to the text processing (cf.  III.25, 30). If we admit that levels and phases interact under natural conditions, our next theoretical step is to DISSOCIATE them (cf. Shallice, 1979; Allport, 1980a). Two processes are shown to be separate if their combination is more than, or different than, either of them taken by itself. For example, one event or task could affect only one of the two, while another event or task could affect only the other.

   2.33 The dissociation of the goal-planning phase from the others is relatively straightforward. The purpose and goals of discourse frequently decide what content and surface structures are intended. Speech-act theory recognizes the separation between the content (“prepositional” aspect) of a text, vs. the producer’s intention (“illocutionary” aspect) and the situational consequences (“perlocutionary” aspect) (Searle, 1969). These last two aspects may be recalled after the first is forgotten (Schweller, Brewer, & Dahl, 1976). Reasoning about goals supplies discourse content left implicit by the text producer, as in the “conversational implicatures” explored by Grice (1975, 1978; cf. M. Cooper, 1982); and alters text content in memory storage as time goes by (Spiro, 1977). Such findings, though still sparse, enable us to single out goal-planning as a very deep level in processing (III.2.6).

   2.34 The ideation phase can be dissociated from that of conceptual development in two ways. First, text reception studies prove that main ideas persist in memory much better than detailed configurations of concepts (Kintsch, 1974; Meyer, 1975). As time passes, this effect increases (Kintsch & van Dijk, 1978). If two texts have the same number of concepts, the one organized around fewer main ideas is read faster (Kintsch, Kozminsky, Streby, McKoon, & Keenan, 1975). Second, main ideas can be differently affected by aphasia than conceptual details. Luria (1979: 284-287) tested {118}  two aphasiacs, and found that  one recalled the main ideas of a story but lost its detailed concepts, and one did just the opposite.

    2.35 The dissociation of concepts from expressions can also be done with findings on memory. Reading time varies according to the number of concepts and relations underlying a text, rather than the number of expressions in the text (Kintsch & Keenan, 1975). Comprehension and recall include conceptual materials not activated by expressions, but supplied by spreading activation, inferencing, and updating (Stein & Glenn, 1979; Warren, Nicholas, & Trabasso, 1979; Beaugrande & Miller, 1980). At most, expressions are operationally very close to concepts: the former are the instructions, and the latter the processes and materials involved in following the instructions (III.2.26).

    2.36 The dissociation of conceptual development from phrase linearization is well documented. Conceptually coherent phrasings like (34) were better perceived through noise (Miller & Isard, 1963) and learned with fewer errors (Marks & Miller, 1964) than incoherent ones like (35):  

(34) Pink bouquets emit fragrant odors.

(35) Pink accidents cause sleeping storms.  

Text receivers noticed changes in conceptual content much better than changes in phrasing (Sachs, 1967; Bransford, Barclay, & Franks, 1972). Ability to recognize exact phrasing was unrelated to ability to recognize conceptual content (Begg, 1971). Memory for phrasing decayed 50% faster than memory for content (Begg & Wickelgren, 1974). Aphasics with short-term memory deficits gave conceptual equivalents for sentences whose phrasing they couldn’t repeat (Saffran & Marin, 1975).

    2.37 To dissociate the expression phase from the phrasing phase, we need to show that the position of an expression in a phrase affects its processing. Expressions appearing in the most recent clause or sentence were favored over earlier ones, both in recall (Jarvella, 1970, 1971) and recognition (Caplan, 1972). More expressions were recalled from sentences than from mere lists (Marks & Miller, 1964). Paired-associate learning (in the sense of II.2.8) was superior for pairs of expressions that had appeared together in a phrase (Ammon, 1968). Expressions were better perceived and learned if presented in normally ordered phrasing like (36) than in disordered ones like (37), both in speech (Marks & Miller, 1964) and in writing (Tulving, Mandler, & Baumal, 1964):  

(36) Pink bouquets emit fragrant odors.

(37) Bouquets pink odors fragrant emit.  

Words in sentences were produced faster and more accurately than words in lists (Lackner & Levine, 1975).

   2.38 Finally, expression can be dissociated from sound/letter linearization by showing that knowledge in the two phases is not always in alignment. {119} Confusion or misplacement of a sound or letter inside a word is a common error (III.2.3 1; V.1. 17, 35f, 42-47). Word knowledge supported the processing of sounds and letters, e.g., by overcoming such disturbances as missing sounds (Warren, 1970) or mispronunciations (Marslen-Wilson & Welsh, 1978). The larger the context, the easier sounds were to perceive (Pollack & Pickett, 1964; Woods & Makhoul, 1973). In exchange, context can lead hearers to misperceive what was actually said (Bond & Garnes, 1980). In writing, letters inside words were better perceived (Miller, Bruner, & Postman, 1954) and recognized (Reicher, 1969) than letters in non-word arrays.1 [IIndeed, Reicher’s tests indicate that the perception of a word leaves a better trace of all its letters than the trace left by the perception of one isolated letter.] Word knowledge helped for recognizing the letter in a specific position inside an array (cf. Johnston & McClelland, 1973; Rumelhart & Siple, 1974; Estes, 1975), especially if a mask (a distractor array shown immediately after the target array) was presented (McClelland, 1976). Since the mask hinders people from consulting a short-term sensory copy of the presentation (III.3.8), word shapes become important memory aids. Extreme time pressure seemed to cancel this advantage by making people switch to very shallow processing where isolated letters were identified better than those in words (Polf, 1976).

   2.39 It is unclear whether sounds and letters belong on one level or two. Evidence reviewed in VI.31-37 indicates that spellers and readers can extract different data from these two modalities, though they don’t have to (cf. Posner, 1978); some people rely more heavily on visual materials, and others on acoustic. The question is whether either sounds or letters, taken separately, suffice to constitute a workable level or phase of processing, in view of their constant interaction. Recognition and recall of words doesn’t seem to hinge upon whether they were presented visually or acoustically (Bray & Batchelder, 1972; Hintzman, Block, & Inskeep, 1972; Kintsch et al., 1975). Pending further evidence, we are fairly safe in treating sounds and letters as one composite level.

    2.40 In III.2.33-39, I reviewed some experimental evidence that the processing phases correspond to individually identifiable levels. In these experiments, specialized tasks and settings detected distinctions that are less clear and controlled in natural communication. Since processing depth was originally defined in terms of memory and performance (III.1.13) (quantity, accuracy, speed, etc.), the same standards should serve to delimit their contributions to communication — once more, an operational, not a logical approach (cf. I.4.13). Communicative experiments can direct processing dominance to a level, making its processes more elaborated and hence more suited for memory (cf. Kintsch, 1977: 233); and more prominent than would be the case in natural communication (cf. III. 1. 3). In the latter, such {120}   unusual dominance would occur only for some strong motivation (e.g., trying to make a good impression with neat handwriting or precise articulation). Hence, literacy education requires both availability of skills plus a realistic motivation to use them for relevant purposes, not just in classroom demonstrations (cf. Sinclair & Coulthard, 1975). Again, we see teaching as one vital means of language research (I.4.17; VI.3.25), as well as a means of improving everyday abilities.

  3. THE RESOURCES OF TEXT PROCESSING

     3.1 PROCESSING RESOURCES include whatever capacities the cognitive and physiological constitution of human beings offers: memory, attention, motor control, feedback, and so on (cf. III.1.17ff). The limitations on these resources are well documented (though not well explained), but can often be eased if processing can re-design itself, or be re-designed via training. The vast potential of human beings in comparison to their performance indicates how unfitting it is to treat the measurement gained on brief, high-pressure tests as an indication of people’s lifetime abilities (I.3.1ff). Many ostensible “findings” of “low intelligence” and “poor aptitude” result from temporary bottlenecks of resources on specific, irrelevant tasks invented by testing services at a time when the nature of intelligence is not even explained by the leading experts. Until such an explanation is forthcoming, there is no evidence to disprove the view that (barring brain damage) every child can learn well enough to succeed in the concerns of personal and professional life (cf. Bruner, 1966; I.2.1). What is clear so far is that contexts have a huge affect on whether performance represents actual knowledge and ability (cf. I.2.8.2; I.3.3, 25 25; II.2.27; III.1.19; III.3.2.2; IV.I.12; V.1.14f, 36, 42ff, 48: V.2.16; VI.3.3, 22); and that creative achievement, by its very nature, elude, standardized criteria (I.2.23.7; I.3.7, 22; III.2.15, 20; III.3.10; IV.3.27; V.2.32; VI.I.9).

    3.2 Each person’s resources constitute a working system whose factor interact in context. Operationally, limitations usually emerge in a TRADE OFF: focusing heavily on one factor tends to weaken or restrict other factors (cf. I.4.15; III.1.3, 15; III.3.16, 42; V.2.27; compare survey in Kerr, 1973). Learners who perform well on tests have devised special strategies to trade off competing factors and minimize DEGRADATIONS (cf. I. 3.3, III.1.17, 2; III.2.21). Other learners have not yet evolved to this stage; they try to save resources non-strategically, e.g., by imposing premature thresholds of term nation and accepting incomplete, approximative, or trivial results as final ones (cf. III.1.25; III.3.17). Hence, we can start by defining a set of RESOURCE GRADIENTS that collectively determine the loading of the human processing system. Twelve gradients are arranged in the scheme in Figure 4, represented the resource gradients.

     3.2.1 MOTOR CONTROL is the extent to which the processor keeps {121) tabs on the formation of sensory traces (e.g. visual patterns) and the execution of motor commands (e.g. formation of letters). Skilled actions are usually supported by largely automatic MOTOR PROGRAMS set up to run without supervision (III.2.31). However, these programs are prone to errors if the task is technically demanding, or if its context is variable (cf. Schmidt, 1975; Norman & Shallice, 1980; Norman, 1981).

     3.2.2 FEEDBACK is the processor’s reacting to what it registers as its own actions. ALERTNESS designates one’s determination to use feedback as efficiently as possible. FEEDBACK LOOPS (i.e., the cycles that report back the results) are OPEN if the processor can intervene in the action, and CLOSED if the processor cannot (cf. MacNeilage, 1980). With closed-loop feedback, errors can be noticed and corrected only after the fact (cf. Schmidt, 1975), so that initial performance may misrepresent one’s potential skills and knowledge (cf. III.3.1). Writing errors suggest some closed-loop actions in both handwriting (Smith, McCrary & Smith, 1960) and typing (MacNeilage, 1964; Rumethart & Norman, 1981).
     3.2.3 ATTENTION has been defined as the resource expenditure that interferes with (i.e. degrades) another task at the same time; AUTOMATIC processing does not create this trade-off (III.1.21f). Retroactive interference affects an earlier task, and proactive interference affects a later one (cf. survey in Kintsch, 1977: 98-116). In the experimental literature, though, “attention” usually concerns interference between simultaneous tasks. So far, attention has been mainly viewed as one unitary factor; but it may instead be the interaction among motor control, feedback, and the storage and access of memory.
     3.2.4 NOISE comprises the extraneous, competing events not related to the task. Originally, the term was a designation for unwanted signals in electronic communication, and for sounds used as distractors in laboratory tests. Intriguingly, the latter kind of noise was actually found to improve performance up to a certain threshold where degradation sets in: people apparently compensate by increasing their concentration and alertness (cf. Wilkinson, 1963). Many college students have no trouble composing a paper in a dorm where a party or a football telecast is in progress.

    3.2.5 GOODNESS OF FIT is the degree to which occurrences or data must match the processor’s specifications, and ranges from very strict to very relaxed. An ACTION must match the corresponding INTENTION to a satisfactory extent, though not perfectly. For example, a writer must decide if a word, phrase, text, etc. conveys the intended content, statement, and purpose.

    3.2.6 THRESHOLDS of INITIATION and TERMINATION are the stipulations that must be met for any process to be started or stopped (cf. III.1.25; III.2.5, 27; IV.2.31; 1V3.12). High thresholds are more taxing than low ones. Thresholds are typically raised if a process is considered crucial, precise, risky, unusual, contrary to habits, and so on (cf. III. 1. 17). {122}

   3.2.7 COMPLEXITY is the organization of a task or configuration in terms of part/whole relationships (cf. II.3.12f, 21ff, 36f, 46; III.1.3, 10; III.3.4.3; IV.2.6, 16, 53; IV.3.17, 43; V.2.35, 41; V.3.37; VI.2.27). The more parts within parts within parts etc. an element contains, or the more diverse the parts are among themselves, the greater the complexity. Whereas descriptive complexity is defined by structural (e.g. grammatical) analysis, experiential complexity is defined by operational actions such as chunking (1.4.5; II.3.37; III.3.4.3).

    3.2.8 FAMILIARITY is the extent to which a task or configuration has already been encountered by the processor. The more numerous the encounters, the greater the familiarity, though it becomes steadily harder to pre serve a distinct trace of each occasion.

     3.2.9 INFORMATIONALITY is the extent to which one part of a task or configuration differs from the other parts. Thus, informationality is internal (inside the task or configuration), whereas familiarity is external (from previous tasks) (1.4.11.7). Informationality entails a trade-off: being high enough to maintain INTEREST, yet without causing overload (cf. III.2.24; VI.2.32).

   3.2.10 PERCEPTUAL IMMEDIACY is the extent to which operations are more or less directly attuned to input via the sensory organs, e.g., vision, hearing, and touch. PERCEPTUAL SPACE is the totality of things available to be perceived in the situation (cf. III.3.19; IV.2.56). There is usually some MEDIATION of perceptual input: imposition of the processor’s interpretation and organization (cf. I.4.7; I.4.1 1.5f; 11.2.10, 20ff)—at least enough to render the input comprehensible and accountable. More extensive mediation is needed for tasks like envisioning a remote audience, invoking a rich cultural tradition, describing an imaginary scene, and so forth.

    3.2. 11 MOTIVATION includes all the reasons why a task is being done, e.g., personal commitment, possible rewards/punishments, enactment of one’s social role, preservation of well-being, desired goals, and so on (cf. III.2.6ff).

    3.2.12 TIME ALLOTMENT is simply how long the processor has (or believes it has) to get through the task. An OPEN-ENDED task like writing has no obvious moment of completion, and is terminated by the processor’s decision (cf. I.3.28; III.1.1.26). In test situations, on the other hand, time allotment is arbitrarily fixed, and tasks are closed-ended. There is no proof that one’s performance on closed-ended tasks defines one’s potential for excellence on open-ended ones (cf. I.3.8).

     3.3   Conscious effort to keep total resources as high as possible can be termed .CONCENTRATION. A rise on any gradient makes the operation more difficult, but may be neutralised by lowering some other gradient. The ideal compensation for a rising gradient would be a slight lowering of all the other gradients, so that the higher load would be evenly redistributed throughout the system. However, this ideal could be hindered by an interaction among gradients, so that a rise on one could move others along with it. Motor control could interact with feedback requirements; goodness of fit with thresholds of initiation/termination; complexity with informativity; and so on. Perhaps, properly designed education might train people how to offset and redistribute heavy loading, e.g., by making several versions of the task to be done in a planned sequence (III.3.4.8f).

    3.4 In natural human actions, processing seldom degrades to the point where operations break down or results become random. Norman & Bobrow (1975: 45) propose the term “graceful degradation” for the selective pulling back of resources just enough to keep things going and under control. Presumably, this tactic could be expressly learned and rehearsed as a way to combat overload, e.g. writer’s block (cf. III.1.19; III.2.9, 17). As an illustration, we can consider how writing overload might be eased:

    3.4.1 Writers could slow down operations by increasing time allotment. However, slowing down complex processes demands elaborate re-scheduling (cf. III. 1.23). Working memory decays rapidly; and fast, precisely timed motor actions may be disrupted. Or, daydreaming may result if the conceptual development phase is left unattended (III.2.21). Hence, a slow-down is only helpful if its consequences can be suitably monitored (cf. Shiffrin & Schneider, 1977: 167).

    3.4.2 Writers could manipulate thresholds and feedback requirements. The goodness of fit between intention vs. action could be relaxed at first, and then steadily raised as other gradients cease to draw such heavy loads on the overall system. Fuzzy phrasing and careless style, for instance, could be disregarded in notes or early drafts and earnestly controlled later on.

    3.4.3 Writers could lower complexity by choosing smaller units (e.g. shorter clauses or sentences), or by chunking more materials into a single unit (III.1.10; III. 3.2.7). Later on, units could be longer or could have more numerous and diverse components.

    3.4.4 Writers could raise power by dealing with general, rather than differentiated, categories (III.1.I1). Details could be addressed during subsequent revision. Outlining usually works this way.

3.4.5 Writers could increase redundancy by using more expressions to convey each concept or idea (cf. III.2.27), as is typical of conversational speech, where continuous text production is expected (cf. V.3.35ff). The text could be consolidated afterwards (cf. VI.2.28,3 1).

    3.4.6 Writers could extend automatic processing and thereby conserve attention (III.1.21). However, we don’t yet know what kind of intense practice actually attains this result.

   3.4.7 Writers could increase concentration by trying consciously to focus {125}  attention and resources on writing (cf. Kahneman, 1973). This tactic presupposes that one’s strategies aren’t counter-productive to begin with; otherwise, the added investment won’t pay off.

    3.4.8 Writers could repeat some part of the task, using prior results as guidelines. Revision apparently reduces complexity and improves feedback by increasing familiarity and time allotment. Editing could be done in several sub-tasks, each one attending to a specific aspect of the text (cf. V.3.39ff).

    3.4.9 Writers could reschedule operations such that normally simultaneous operations are done successively (III.1.23). Longer time on task would be traded for a lighter load at any one moment, as in the editing depicted in III.3.4.8. This tactic may well be a key to successful learning of all kinds. As a new skill is gradually acquired, successive operations are rescheduled as simultaneous ones. Non-strategic or haphazard rescheduling might endanger or even block learning at a crucial point. The decisive solution would be rescheduling simultaneous operations back into successive ones, and working out a different system. Just as a task becomes possible if we can decompose it into enough sub-tasks (Newell & Simon, 1972), processing might improve if it is dismantled and reassembled (compare Flower & Hayes, 1980; Caccamise, 1981: 85).  

   3.4.10 A variant of III.3.4.6-9 is time-sharing: the processor shifts resources and attention from one operation to another so rapidly that all operations seem to receive simultaneous allotments. Time-sharing works for computers because they need far less time than it takes any one user to state commands (an idea of John McCarthy’s). In cognitive processing, time-sharing would work if slow, attention-consuming processes can set up operations that run quickly and automatically — a reasonable supposition for writing (cf. Bereiter, 1980: 80). The fact that ignored input (e.g. one’s own name) does affect processing on the “shadowing” tasks described in III.1.2.1 offers some evidence for involuntary time-sharing.
     3.5 Nearly all resources are related to MEMORY: the store of knowledge and procedures. Operations depend on the processor’s ability to relate the events of any moment to known and recoverable patterns of action. Several parameters can help to classify memory: SPAN: how long a memory store persists; CAPACITY: how much material a store holds; EXPERIENTIALITY: whether the record comes from personal experience; ACTIVATION: whether contents are active, passive or dormant; and DIRECTION: whether access is current, retrospective, or predictive.

    3.5.1 Span distinguishes (a) SHORT-TERM SENSORY STORAGE, lasting for only a second or two; (b) SHORT-TERM MEMORY, lasting some twenty seconds; and (c) LONG-TERM MEMORY, of apparently unlimited duration (compare Waugh & Norman, 1965; Atkinson & Shiffrin, 1968; Loftus & Loftus, 1976; Kintsch, 1977; Loftus, 1980). The shorter spans can be extended by REHEARSAL (III.1.28). {126}

     3.5.2 The capacities of these three memory stores correlate roughly with their spans. Short-term memory holds more than short-term sensory storage, but is still limited; long-term memory seems to have endless capacity. This correlation is not logically necessary, but is probably an operational consequence of the longer-span stores having more time for CHUNKING (cf. I.4.5; III.1.10).

    3.5.3 Experientiality differentiates EPISODIC MEMORY: a record of what you have personally experienced (cf. Tulving, 1972; Ortony, 1975; Schank & Abelson, 1977; Selfridge, 1980), from CONCEPTUAL MEMORY: what is known about the world at large (cf. Norman & Rumelhart, 1975; & Rumelhart, 1977a; Kintsch, 1981).¹ [On the related idea of “semantic” memory and its drawbacks, see Kintsch (1981).]  Of course, personal experiences constantly influence one’s belief system about the world at large (cf. III.3.18); and the border between what was really experienced vs. what memory supplies is often fuzzy (Loftus, 1980).

    3.5.4 Activation is the process of accessing stored materials and placing them in BUFFERS (brief, transitory stores, cf. III.2.29). These buffers form a functional (though not necessarily organic) unit we can call WORKING MEMORY defined neither by span nor capacity, but by this function. ACTIVE working memory is consciously deployed, while PASSIVE serves only for unconscious identification or recognition (cf. I.2.8.2). The opposite of working memory could be called DORMANT memory, not available to be used. Passive use suffices for RECOGNITION, while active use is for RECALL (cf. J. Brown [Ed.], 1976). In CUED RECALL, people are given some bits and traces to utilize as active control centers; in FREE RECALL, people have to remember whatever they can without reminders. Miller (1956) found active working memory to hold about seven chunks; Kintsch and Poison (1979) suggest that this capacity may be larger at the start of a task than it is later on; if so, working memory evidently competes with other loads on the system. Conflicts or hybrids in between active and passive activation may be the cause of the “Stroop” effect (III.3.6) (where memory supplies too much) and the “tip-of-the-tongue” effect (III.3.12) (where memory supplies too little).

    3.5.5 Direction of memory may be CURRENT for the immediate events; RETROSPECTIVE for past events; or PREDICTIVE for future events. Retrospection is the best-known direction in memory research. But cognitive psychology has recently turned to the role of memory in prediction as well (cf. Bobrow & Norman, 1975; Norman & Bobrow, 1975; Norman & Rumelhart, 1975; Stevens & Rumelhart, 1975; Kintsch  1977; Rumelhart, 1977b, 1980; Rumelhart & McClelland, 1980). Long-term memory supplies most of the content for text production, according to, Kintsch (1982: msp. 33), though the shorter spans are involved in the detailed execution of the text itself (III.3.6ff). Provisionally, I assume that {127} predictive memory mirrors the organization of retrospective: the deeper the level, the further one can look either back or ahead. It is plausible that goals and main ideas can be anticipated far in advance; detailed concepts, expressions, and phrasings a little ahead of time; and sounds or letters only an instant before their production.¹ [Look-ahead also seems to be more sensitive to overload than look-back (cf. IV.2.47, 50f). Thus, the forward spans may all be shorter than their backward counterparts.] But clear evidence of predictive memory+ is sparse and may be hard to gather within the usual research paradigms for retrospective memory (where the experimenter can better control what people have in mind (pun intended).

    3.6 Some early research suggested a division of memory matching the division of language levels in linguistics. Short-term sensory storage would be devoted to sounds (Crowder & Morton, 1969) and letters (Sperling, 1960; Eriksen & Collins, 1967). Short-term memory would be for syntax, and long-term memory for conceptual content (compare the findings by Sachs, 1967; Johnson-Laird & Stevenson, 1970; Garrod & Trabasso, 1973; Anderson, 1974; Begg & Wickelgren, 1974). But the correlation between memory organization and language levels could be a side-effect of quality, scale, and power of the elements and processes involved. Each span is probably specialized for certain processes which dominate given levels, but which can draw on other levels as seems opportune (III.1.27). Long-term memory receives some traces of the surface text, e.g., verbatim recall of a passage (Kintsch, 1974: 257ff); or a record of whether an item was presented visually or acoustically (cf. Bray & Batchelder, 1972; Hintzman, Block, & Inskeep, 1972). Conversely, immediate perception does have some limited access to the deeper levels of content (cf. Raser, 1972; Shulman, 1972; Meyer, Schvaneveldt, & Ruddy, 1974) and goals (Erdelyi, 1974); and working memory has access to main ideas (Spilich, Vesonder, Chiesi, & Voss, 1978). The simple recognition and reading of words already seems to be affected by an instantaneous knowledge of what they mean (cf. Marcel, 1980). For instance, dyslexics have more trouble reading abstract words than concrete words, independent of word frequency (Marshall & Newcombe, 1973; Shallice & Warrington, 1975). In the “Stroop” effect, reading a color name is confounded if the word is printed in another color (Stroop, 1935; Dyer, 1973). Such immediate contact between shallow levels and deep ones makes it unlikely that text processing necessarily works through the whole set of levels in any fixed order (cf. Craik & Lockhart, 1972; III.2.32); at most, a steady trend from deeper to shallower in production, and from shallower to deeper in reception, is presumably normal (cf. III.2.5). The processor consults, selects, or combines levels to keep things going in the current context (cf. III.1.11; III.2.4).

      3.7 Direction of memory determines how any stretch of text is accessed: (a) as the RETROSPECTIVE REPRESENTATION of {128} PRIOR TEXT; (b) as the PERCEPTION of CURRENT TEXT; or (c) as the PREDICTIVE REPRESENTATION of SUBSEQUENT TEXT. Figure 5 suggests the time line, with the actual 

instant (zero) in the middle. The dominant memory spans are shown beneath, and working memory (center) has open ends allowed by its chunking potential. The perception of current text would be limited to the span of short-term sensory storage that holds a sensory copy of the surface text, either acoustic or visual (III.3.6), for about two seconds before and after the instant of production. Hence, the text producer makes only fleeting contact with the surface text, and carries out most activities upon a mental representation. The latter’s format differs from that of the surface text in important ways: being not just linear, but also hierarchical (cf. I.3.18; III.2.18; 1V2.1, 41, 46; V.3.10, 40; VI.2.220.v including materials not expressed in the text (cf. I.4.9, 11.2; III.2.16, 25, 35; III.3.25ff); and containing concepts and goals whose mapping onto expressions and phrasings is often complex and mediated (III.2.5-27). The short-lived direct access to the surface text may cause subtle discrepancies between the text (as a discourse action) and the writer’s intention. The same effect may explain why proofreading, editing, and revising overlook problems and details (cf. III.1.26; III.3.33; VI.22; V.3.21, 24).

    3.8 Figure 6 shows the scheme of levels and phases from Figure 4 (III.2.5) combined with the scheme of directions from Figure 5. The figure is squeezed toward the center into a butterfly shape as an icon for the

differences in capacity (III.3.5.2). Dot shadings indicate which of the span-based stores are specialized toward which levels/phases: short-term sensory storage toward sound/letter linearization; short-term memory toward phrase linearization, expressions, and conceptual development; and long-term memory toward ideation and goal-planning. The levels/phases are not cleanly demarcated in time nor fixed in order (cf. III.2.5, 25, 30, 32; III.3.6). 3.9 The dynamics of human memory have been increasingly acknowledged in recent investigations (e.g. Spiro, 1977; Norman & Bobrow, 1979; Loftus, 1980; cf. III.1. 14) reviving a trend inaugurated by Sir Frederick Bartlett (1932). Due to extensive constructive and reconstructive capacities, memory produces elaborate configurations as needed, without storing them whole (III.1.515); and evolves all the time without express commands. These dynamics refute the commonplace view of memory stores as physical locations (like pigeonholes or warehouses) where material is sent and packed neatly away. Rather, memory is an agglomerate of processing events whose conditions create the parameters of span, capacity, experientiality, activation, and direction (III.3.5.1-5). Whatever the memory does must affect the status of knowledge: constructing, differentiating, specifying, combining, updating, and so on. For example, matching a memory pattern to a new input may alter the stored pattern itself.

    3.10 Text processing demands powerful, elaborate procedures for MEMORY SEARCH. Apparently, humans apply such procedures to a single vast and complex vocabulary listing embedded in turn within their memory for world knowledge. Any search can be run for which the requirements can be approximately specified. This facility allows multiple ways to access and use one’s store of expressions or concepts, creating the illusion of multiple stores where there are only multiple perspectives on one unified store (Norman & Bobrow, 1979). Flexible search procedures are the mainstay of discourse creativity: expressing novel concepts, maintaining a unique voice, and so on (cf. III.2.15, 20). People can specify a search to find an expression that not only conveys a given concept, but also contains special patterns of sounds or letters, e.g., in rhyme, assonance, and alliteration.¹[Fromkin (1971: 48) speculated that mental vocabularies are cross-listed in their entirety. It seems more economical to assume one general store, and searches that can be set to look for variable numbers of features (cf. Treisman & Gelade, 1980).] Even novel lists are not hard to compose, such as expressions that begin with the /s/ sound and designate untrustworthy traits (‘sneaky’, ‘shifty’,  ‘slippery’, ‘scheming, etc.); acquaintances whom you would hate to meet in a bar vs. those you would hate to meet anywhere except in a bar; surnames you wish you had and ones you’re heartily glad you don’t have; and so on. The search may not return every item that fits the specifications; but the fact that such lists can be constructed at all demonstrates the great diversity and skill of search capacities.

   3.11 A text producer can try to find an item by constructing a SEARCH GRID describing the desired specifications (cf. Norman & Bobrow, 1979; and Osgood’s scheme in II.2.22). This grid can accept the stipulation {131} of several concurrent processing phases as suits the occasion, so that an expression can be returned that conveys the concept, is the proper part of speech, fits the style and voice, and so on. The search grid causes partial or complete matches within memory to become somewhat active (to “stand at attention,” cf. Fahlman, 1979). Candidates which match most or all of the specifications accumulate enough activation to enter conscious awareness (compare Morton, 1970). If the text producer is highly motivated, these conscious candidates may be held in the buffer and subjected to considerable review and comparison; if not, one may be readily selected and executed. The candidates normally come from active vocabulary, while passive vocabulary needs an outside cue (e.g., consulting another writer or a thesaurus). However, context can easily make items active that would otherwise remain passive.

    3.12 A grid of parameters seems a more plausible basis for search than a request for complete words. Meanings constructed in context need not match definitions of any known words. Once the grids are composed, a matching word may be available at once; or an elaborate circumlocution or explanation may have to be used. Competing candidates could contaminate each other, e.g., in word blends like Hotopf’s (1980: 294) data ‘in particuly’ for ‘in particular’ plus ‘particularly’ (cf. also III.3.32ff). In the famous “tip-of-the-tongue” phenomenon, the speaker recovers only some sounds or letters of an expression, not the whole item (cf. Brown & McNeill, 1966; Yarmey, 1973; Rubin, 1975). Such occurrences are natural enough if memory searches run on grids. The “semantic features” and the scales measured by “semantic differential” (II.2.22; III.1.16) are possible specifications for memory grids, but not the only ones. Most feature-based schemes were not offered as accounts of meaning being constituted in dynamic contexts, but as static listings in an abstract dictionary (cf. I.4.6; III.1.16; and critique in Bolinger, 1965).

    3.13 Words and expressions might be classified according to which search actions recover them (again, an operational, not logical method, (cf. I.4.13). CONTENT WORDS would have conceptually dense search grids, and FUNCTION WORDS would have conceptually sparse ones typically activated as side-effects of content-word grids (cf. IV.2.27). The sensory specifications for CONCRETE WORDS would be more stable among members of a culture than would those for ABSTRACT WORDS (e.g., people’s mental images of “tennis court” agree better than those of “freedom”). CONNOTATIONS would be automatic contextual associations on the peripheries of conceptual patterns. STYLISTIC indicators would match up particular items with style parameters, e.g. “formal.” Items with special “markers” would be selected only if appropriate (cf. VI.1.4, 6f, 9, 3iff); neutral items would suit almost any style (cf. I.2.8.5). 

     3.14 CONTEXT would be the result of the interaction and intersection of memory search grids as discourse is processed by its participants {132} (cf. III.3.11).¹ [On models of conceptual interaction  see Quillian 1968; Brachman 1978); Fahlman 1979).] As each memory entry (concept or expression) is activated, those closely associated with it in a frame or schema are also slightly activated, producing the effect of a coherent context for whatever is being talked about, even after just a few words have been presented. If context changes, this activation fades away unless the entries are reinstated (Kintsch & Vipond, 1979: 348). The continual dynamics of context select the relevant word-meanings from among the total meanings you would find listed in dictionaries. In this way, context engenders transitory preferences for certain processing actions, and places one’s hypotheses and expectations in a plausible order, so that the limited buffer space of working memory is not cluttered with irrelevant entries (cf. I4.6ff; II.2.21ff).

    3.15 Communication succeeds to the extent that its participants attain comparable results from the processing of contexts (cf. I.1.7; I.4.8). People use their social experience to construct a MODEL OF THE WORLD. This model is the basis for their BELIEF SYSTEM: a set of views about what is true of the world. When IDEATION takes place in text processing, this belief system supplies an active IDEOLOGY (III.2.14). Communication may be intended to either confirm or modify the audience’s belief system (cf. Hovland & Janis, [Eds.], 1959; Hovland [Ed.], 1960; Rosenberg et al. .[Eds.], 1960; Abelson et al. [Eds.], 1968; Himmelfarb & Eagly [Eds.], 1974; VI.2. I.). An ATTITUDE can be defined as a predisposition to preserve or change a belief (or belief system) for motive of its value. Single beliefs are much easier to modify than whole systems (cf. McGuire, 1968; Rosen & Wyer, 1972; Wyer, 1974). The audience may record a statement, but ignore its conflict with their prior beliefs. IRRATIONALITY would be the state in which major contradictions or inconsistencies are left unreconciled (cf. I.2.12; I.2.23.7; III.2.23; III.3.28).² [If politics is the domain where personal foals can override ideals we would expect it to be rife with irrational contradictions (cf. III.2.7). For example, opponents of abortion claim to care about human life but don’t care about a human starvation in Africa. Politicians publicly denounce racism and sexism  but practice them in daily life. Religious activists appeal to the Bible’s message of 1ove but spread violent hatred against  their opponents.] Or, the audience might consciously refuse to revise their belief system because they feel threatened by change (cf. Rogers, 1952). Irrationality (e.g. in politics or religion) is natural when cultural knowledge becomes so complex many people can’t integrate it all into a rational model of the world.

    3.16 Communication is a continual negotiation of concepts and goals within the contexts of beliefs and attitudes. The value of a text ultimately depends on its function within this framework. The text producer must not only succeed in presenting the text as an artifact, but must also appreciate the consequences of the total interaction. The text must be efficient, i.e., must be easy to process, and at the same time effective. {133}, .i.e. must accomplish its purpose (cf. I.4. 10; III.2.9). In general, there is a TRADE-OFF: the more effort the producer expends, the less work the audience has to do; and vice-versa (cf. IV.2.67; IV.3.35; VI. 1.25; VI.2.37). Text producers possessing institutional or political leverage, especially bureaucrats (cf. II.3.26, 33; V2.35; VI.I.26), characteristically favor their own convenience and habits over those of the audience. Sometimes, obscurity is used as an intentional means to prevent discussion or challenge. Ordinary citizens are at a great disadvantage in dealing with the law, simply because legal language is so hard to understand (Bond, Hayes, & Flower, 1980; Charrow, 1981). If you are presented with a legal document that carries a designation like (38), you won’t know how to assert your rights. {38} was the opening passage of a restraining order issued by the State of California against the Hell’s Angels plan to hold a picnic on the fourth of July, 1965 (reported by Hunter S. Thompson, 1966: 163). Its questionable legality was deliberately obscured by its language; not even professional lawyers could interpret it, much less the people it was aimed against How could anybody ‘show’ why a document ‘shoud not be issued’?  

(38) Order to show cause why preliminary injunction should not issue and temporary restraining order made. 

More often though, text producers simply want to save themselves trouble and effort. College writers, for example, lack the motivation and skill needed to be clear and precise. Their writing is seldom incomprehensible, but very often inconsiderate. They are constantly confronted with bad writing from successful people in positions of social power, and don’t see why clarity should be worth special effort (cf. VI.1.26ff).

    3.17 Successful writers realize that discourse is part of a broader interaction and negotiation (cf. Shanklin, 1982). An audience must not merely understand, but must have enough resources left after having understood to modify their beliefs, or to carry out the actions the producer desires. The more the audience must strain to understand, the less they will be disposed to co-operate without coercion. Educational institutions seem to encourage lazy writing, devoid of purpose and commitment (cf. Macrorie, 1970: 13; Applebee, 1982: 377; III.2.12). Unskilled student writers typically see the filling of paper with text as the only goal. They are suffering from overload anyway and try to reduce it by leaving the audience either to piece together a badly organized message like (39) or by regaling them with trivialities like (40):  

(39) Other occurences may be sitting down when you’re supposed to be standing

(40) The success of a person entering any field depends on self-motivation and the use of talent to the best of one’s ability.  

An active modification of an audience’s beliefs, on the other hand, demands well-organized, original thesis statements supported by clear evidence (cf. VI.2.1). Obviously, the writer has to work harder and has to recognize the value of doing so. Creating these preconditions is a key task facing composition instruction (cf. III.2.13, 19).{134}

    3.18 To begin with, students need a topic about which they are knowledgeable (I.2.8.8; III.3.2Iff; VI.2.27). Organization is then less arduous, and motivation is stronger to inform an audience, not just to invoke everyday trivialities. Since most students entering college don’t yet command extensive academic or technical knowledge, personal experience makes good content for learning to write (cf. Rohman, 1965; Moffett, 1968; Macrorie, 1970, 1980; Young, Becker, & Pike, 1970; Berthoff, 1972; Miller, 1976; Corder, 1979; D’Angelo, 1979a). Applebee (1982: 379) observes that personal experience puts the student in the rare position of knowing more about the topic than the teacher, and of conveying things not already known (cf. I.3.24; III.2.19). According to my interviews, this situation greatly improves the motivation of unskilled writers to face the hard job of saying something of their own in clear prose (cf. VI.2.32).

    3.19 Some strategies for conveying one’s experiences in a text are shared by the participants in a culture. The MONITORING of experience (cf. I.4.11.6; II2.10) can be supported by NORMAL-ORDERING STRATEGIES for relating situations in the world—one’s perceptual space in the sense of III.3.2.10—to the arrangement of the text (cf. IV.1.10; IV2.56). Earlier events are mentioned before later ones (Clark & Clark, 1968; E. Clark, 1971; Opacic, 1973; Osgood & Bock, 1977). Objects higher up in a scene are mentioned before those lower down (DeSoto, London, & Handel, 1965; Clark & Chase, 1974). A mobile object is mentioned before a stationary one (Huttenlocher, 1968; Olson, 1970; Osgood, 1971; Osgood & Bock, 1977). Concepts that involve the text producer, because they are salient (intruding markedly on sensory perception), vivid (strongly evoking reality), emotional (related to, or eliciting, emotional states), or motivated (crucial for one’s goals) are given earlier mention (Osgood, 1954) (cf. IV.2.56-58). Osgood and Bock (1977: 93) argue that discourse organization obeys a “naturalness” principle and reflects the organization of one’s nonlinguistic experiences; that organization is “naturally” “taken over by the linguistic system” as a child matures (II.2.23). Still, the influence of perceptual space on discourse patterns has some important restrictions. First, these normal-ordering strategies are only defaults or preferences (I.4.8) and can be overridden. Second, the text often is highly mediated from experiential groundings (I.4.7; II.2.20ff). Third, experience may be too complex to be rated on the proposed scales, e.g., continuous perception not being easy to relay to discrete expressions (III.2.25). Finally, the scales may exert conflicting demands (IV.2.64). Due to these restrictions, normal-ordering strategies can affect discourse patterns without strictly determining them.

    3.20 Since personal experience supports the production of longer, better organized texts (Voss et al., 1980), surveys of students’ knowledge and {135} beliefs can be helpful. My student Darlene Logan collected students’ estimations of writing topics assigned at the University of Florida. Responses like these were typical:  

(41) I can apply my full writing ability to something which I have knowledge of.

(42) I do well on papers that deal with my interests and/or past experiences. I feel I need to relate to a topic before I write about it.

(43) I enjoy water skiing very much, so I feel relaxed writing about it.  

Students preferred a topic where they could “promote activities” they “enjoyed,” “make the activity sound enjoyable,” and “get the reader interested.” Conversely, students considered a topic “difficult” if they knew little about it or were not involved:  

(44) I didn’t really know what view I wanted to show in my essay.

(45) I didn’t really have a strong conviction one way or the other.

(46) If I had been interested in the topic, I would have put out a little more effort.  

Students felt less adequate tapping the content of a reading selection than their own personal experience. One said:  

(47) After reading it [an essay by Neil Postman], it became difficult to formulate my own ideas.  

   3.21 The survey bore out the importance of finding topics where the deep phases of goal-planning and ideation help support organization and informativity. My research group worked out a questionnaire with 18 topics that 164 students rated along four parameters: (a) topic is interesting vs. boring; (b) topic is everyday vs. intellectual; (c) student is vs. is not knowledgeable; and (d) student is vs. is not personally involved. The findings were surprising in two ways. First, wide agreement was scarce. Only the following were judged “interesting” by 85% or more of the students:  

(48) Competitive sports are good training for the young

(49) Sex and the single student

(50) How the Reagan budget cuts will affect students

(51) Should we continue to make major investments in the space program?

(52) Should abortion be legalized?  

Favorable ratings on all four parameters were even scarcer. Only (49) received such ratings straight across from over 85% of the students, doubtless for motives unrelated to writing (III.3.23). Other topics, even those we had designed to elicit agreement, got scattered ratings. A third of the students declared the topic “Is there still a need for a college diploma?” to be intellectual and beyond their knowledge; a fifth professed neither interest nor personal involvement in the question! Yet involvement was claimed for topics like “How the telephone book is organized” (20 students), or “The future of abstractionism in art” (16 students). {137}

    3.22 The second surprising finding was that the four parameters did not heavily interact. Knowledgeability and personal involvement had been found to increase interest (III.3.20). But on the questionnaire survey, 85% of the students felt lacking in knowledge about only four topics; at the same time, half the topics were judged by almost all students to elicit no involvement. Interest was voiced for topics despite a lack of knowledge or involvement, e.g., in “Japan’s technological revolution” (89 students) or “American investment in South America” (68 students). More predictably, disinterest was expressed for trivial topics despite knowledge about them, e.g., “The organization of the telephone book,” or “Keeping an accurate checkbook.”

    3.23 The survey indicated a mere handful of topics suitable for assigning to a whole class, for instance, to gather a set of samples for student placement. The sports topic (48) has been the most advantageous. The ideology of sports is seldom controversial in comparison to sex (49). I tested (49) on a class toward the middle of the semester, and found a widespread lowering of writing quality: clichés, stereotypes, dodges, denunciations, and other signs of insincere, trial-and-error writing. The same ideological conflicts that make the topic interesting also make writers insecure about stating a thesis (cf. VI.2.1, 8). Such discrepancies between rating a topic and writing about it indicate the complex relation between statements of attitude and assignable topics.

    3.24 A visual presentation, e.g., a scene, picture, or silent film, is another way to explore the transition from experience to writing (cf. III.1.2.5; V.3.6ff; Irmscher, 1979a: 83ff). Our test groups disagreed widely even about the limited, immediate input of a single scene. Students came up with 22 versions of the “main idea” in three cartoons on auto mechanics. A retest stipulating “the author’s main idea” fared no better; students assumed their idea was also the author’s. The inferred “main ideas” in turn controlled how arrays of lines and spaces were interpreted. A customer’s face in one cartoon was called by various students ‘stupid’, ‘goony-looking’, ‘confused’, ‘frustrated’, ‘irritated’, or ‘flabbergasted’. Two mechanics I thought were about to install an ignition coil were said to be ‘trying to figure out what part they were holding’; ‘playing with a finger trying to balance a nail’; or ‘doing nothing’ — because the students viewed the mechanics as ‘incompetent’ and ‘disorganized’. The spread of interpretations was more limited for films, presumably because the narrative organization of the experience provided a richer, more discriminate context. Seeing events in temporal and causal patterns evidently promoted agreement. All the same, students differed in their tendencies to omit or transport events, supply motives for characters, and offer value judgements (cf. samples (377-378) in V.3.7-9). These results suggest how risky it can be to base a “content grade” on whether the “facts” are accurate (I.3.18).
      3.25 Though adequate to enable communication, cultural consensus {138} allows considerable freedom for personal interpretations. The mental imagery activated by a brief descriptive text is often diverse, though far from random. I had 35 students either read or hear me read the following text by Kenneth Pike about his boyhood home (from Young, Beeker, & Pike, 1970: 122ff):  

(53.1) It was an old New England house directly joined to the barn, so that no space or outside wall came between them—in fact you could not tell where house stopped and barn began.

(53.2) 1 lived in it as a boy. I would come home from school, always to find Mom there, and would run out to the woodshed to get wood for the stove. (53.3) It was hardly a mansion, but it was nicely situated on the common with its lovely maples, and centrally located so Dad’s patients could find him easily. (53.4) It was one of a cluster that included the homes of the preacher and store- keeper, a general store complete with barrels and post-office, a red-brick school-house with its one teacher and thirty pupils in eight grades, and a white clapboard church with spire rising above the pines.

(53.5) Our house was two stories high, my room in the upper story was un- heated, with snow blowing on the bed through the window-open-a-crack on cold winter nights.  

I encouraged the students to “picture the scene in their minds.” Then one of three tasks was performed: (a) answering questions orally for a tape recorder; (b) answering questions in writing; or (c) recalling the scene without prompts. Cued recall was thus elicited on (a) and (b), and free recall on (c) (III.3.5.4). The silent readers were permitted to consult the text if they desired, though most of them didn’t. On all tasks, the students enriched the scene with mental images that were strikingly consistent. Even the diffuseness of details in free recall can be attributed to fairly uniform processes of elaboration and change:

    3.25.1 Specification. The setting was a ‘small town’ or ‘village’. Life in the town was recalled as ‘quiet’, ‘peaceful’, and ‘enriching’, and ‘the small population was heavily wooded and quite friendly’ [sic; a case of selective contamination, III.3.36]. The time was ‘in the early 1800’s’ or ‘earlier than the 1900’s’ (whence the primitive heating) or, still more specific, ‘Saturday’ or ‘Christmas’ (probably to allow people to be out shopping).

    3.25.2 Addition. Students added a ‘barber shop’ to the commons, a ‘picket fence’ to the house, a ‘bell’ to the school, ‘three large arches’ to the church, ‘two lazy storekeepers’ to the store, and a full-blown ‘country with cornfields, cows, horses, and hay’.

    3.25.3 Alteration. The ‘preacher’ was converted to a ‘priest’, and the ‘maples’ to ‘oaks’. The schoolhouse migrated from the ‘common’ to ‘the outskirts of the town’. The woodpile crept from its shed into ‘the barn’, or to ‘the side of the house’. The ‘maples’ marched from the ‘common’ to Pike’s ‘yard’.

    3.25.4 Conflation. Some alterations involved the confusing or combining {138} of text-world elements (cf. III.3.27). The ‘house’ was given a ‘barn-style roof’. The ‘wood’ was fetched by the ‘mother’, not the ‘boy’. The two-story form was transferred from the house to the ‘general store’.

     3.25.5 Causal inferences. The students supplied things that could be caused by or result from text-world elements. The ‘cold winter nights’ brought ‘wool coats’ to the ‘store’, and ‘red cheeks’ and ‘frosty breath’ to the people. The ‘wood’ in the ‘stove’ caused ‘smoke coming out of the chimney’.

   3.26 In free recall, subjects report their remembered versions unsystematically. By cueing recall with probe questions, I hoped to detect consistent variations in content among the whole audience. For example, I asked for the color of the house and then of the barn-buildings that should have been the same (53.1). To match them up, 10 students made the barn white, and 6 made the house red. Other students followed cultural expectations and made the house ‘white’ and the ‘barn’ ‘red’, ignoring the need for uniform color. On another question, 28 students all averred that the ‘maples’ were ‘taller than the house’, perhaps because the town and its trees seemed so antiquated. 24 students clothed ‘Mom’ in an ‘apron’; 21 placed her in the ‘kitchen’, where 18 saw her ‘cooking’ and 8 saw her ‘baking’. 12 students had the storekeeper ‘old’ and wearing ‘glasses’.

    3.27 These responses suggest a fine-tuned memory interaction between commonsense knowledge and text content (III.1.14). Most students made ‘Dad’ a ‘doctor’ because of ‘his patients’ (53.3); but due to other cues in the text (‘wood’, ‘New England’), a few students made him a ‘farmer’, ‘lumberman’, or ‘pilgrim’. The ‘schoolhouse’, built of ‘red brick’ in the origin (53.4), was described by 9 students as built of ‘wood’, painted either ‘red’ ‘white’, or ‘red and white’. Conflation with the ‘white clapboard church’ may have been the cause, especially when the school got a ‘tower’ or ‘tall chimney’ like the church’s ‘spire’ (cf. III.3.25.2). Intriguingly, these alterations were retained even by readers who had a   chance to study the text again (cf. Kay, 1955).

   3.28 Just as cultural consensus promotes unified interpretation and elaboration in text processing, cultural conflicts promote disparities. The photograph in Figure 7 was shown via slide projector by Steven Robitaill and John Pieters to 97 undergraduate students at the University of Florida. The slide either remained in view or was switched off while they answered the question, “What’s going on here?” The photograph, taken by Charles Moore, ¹[The photo appeared in The Best of LIFE (NY: Avon, 1972). The “Black Star” agency of New York was paid $75 for reproduction rights.] documents a racial incident where police deployed weapons as dogs to subdue demonstrators. We thought the picture would be hard to interpret as a police action against a criminal: a crowd is present, the officers are not using their firearms, etc. However, most of the students seeme unable or unwilling to see what my research group found obvious. Whether the slide was left on or switched off made no significant difference: apparently, students formed their opinions at once and stuck by them, unaffected by the chance to inspect the evidence (cf. III.3.27). 77 of the 97 mostly white students supplied some motive(s) for the event. 45 justified the police for capturing a ‘criminal’, ‘rioter’, ‘heckler’, or ‘escaped convict’; the black man, they opined, had  ‘obviously done something’, ‘just committed a crime’, ‘allegedly broken the law’, ‘escaped from the police’, acted ‘irrational and desperate’, or ‘called something obscene at them’. The dogs were exonerated as being ‘very angry’, ‘offended’, ‘scared’, ‘threatened’, or just ‘disliking’ a man that ‘was probably bugging’ them. The entire police action was lauded as ‘controlling a riot’, ‘restraining a crowd of black people’, suppressing violence’, and ‘calming the masses’. Some students cynically suggested it was all a  deliberate staging: a ‘Sunday parade’ for ‘policeman with dogs’; a ‘crowd control experiment’; a ‘test’ or ‘demonstration’; a ‘dog show’; or a ‘movie’. The canine attackers were ‘showing their technique on command’ or at worst ‘being disobedient’. The black people in the background were termed a ‘mob’, or even (irrationally) ‘a small mob’. {140} Some students gave flagrantly implausible accounts of the scene: ‘a new stress test for Levi’s’; a ‘public demonstration of a new doggie biscuit, life-size’; or ‘a Hollywood movie’ in which ‘the torn pants leg of the stuntman’ was ‘torn for effect obviously because no dog is near the leg’.

     3.29 Only 15 of the 97 students sided with the black man as an ‘innocent’ victim of ‘the authorities blatant overuse of power’ and of an ‘uncalled-for act of violence by the police’ against a ‘passive’, ‘peaceful’, or ‘non-violent demonstration’. Robin Baldwin replicated the test with a predominantly black test population. The black students were much better able to identify the real source, though most of them were mild in their evaluations. A few discerned ‘cops using dogs against the blacks to keep them as minorities in the sight of the law’; and ‘cops (probably rednecks) enforcing their law upon black citizens’. It was hard to tell whether racism was no longer considered a major issue, or whether our students had simply resigned themselves to it in the force of current political trends.

    3.30 Ideology poses one more dilemma for composition teachers (cf. I.3.13): how far everyday politics (in the sense of III.2.8) can or should influence literacy education. Few topics are totally neutral in their ideological impact. Even writers who strive to avoid value judgements have to decide what will or will not be mentioned. Merely organizing content demands participation in some ideology without which the relatedness of concepts and ideas could not be reconstructed. For the same reasons, teachers can hardly comprehend or evaluate a text without recourse to an ideology, habitual or assumed. Moreover, pressure is frequently felt from politicians, administrators, parents, and even a few students, to enforce ideologies prevailing outside the schools and colleges. My assistants reported students asking them, “If you don’t agree with my views, will you lower my grade?” Rightly or wrongly, some students suspect composition courses of being exercises in ideological conformity (cf. I.2.19). I have found this impasse difficult to overcome; many students misconstrue a trend toward ideological freedom as merely another ideology they should pretend to articulate.

   3.31 At least, teachers can seek to identify and alleviate ideological tensions that would impede a fair evaluation of writing progress. An intention to express an idea can succeed or miscarry, whether or not the idea is judged to have merit. Teachers can help students learn to achieve intentions by showing how writing is an open and open-ended task, and how content is negotiable and flexible. Enforcing ideologies may hinder or block ideation — a deep, early phase of production — so strongly that contingent actions are also impeded. Conflicts on this level have been a major obstacle to literacy education within traditional institutions.

    3.32 Some types of mishaps in the discovery of ideas and concepts can be clearly recognized. The processes of searching for content in memory, though usually rapid and reliable enough, do have weak spots and bottlenecks. CONTAMINATION occurs when one item or pattern interferes with {141} another so strongly that production is disrupted (cf. III.2.29; III.3.12). In LINEAR CONTAMINATION, search returns its results at the wrong instant, either too early or too late. If a word or word-part is implemented too early, we have PRE-ACTIVATION (III.2.30; IV.1.7; 1V.2.45, 47; V.1. 17, 39, 44). The sequence may be fully cohesive, but not fully coherent, e.g (55-56 and 58-64 are student data):  

   (54) I do not see how the first paragraph follows from the first.  

where the initial ‘first’ was supposed to be ‘second’ (Hotopf, 1980: 293). Or, cohesion may be impaired as well:  

(55) The federal Defense Budget is the only government that program will be increased in spending.  

where the student put ‘that’ before ‘program’ instead of after it. The reverse linear contamination would POST-ACTIVATION, where the item appears late (III.2.30; IV.2.1 1; V.2.34; V3.30f), e.g.:  

(56) Most of us share certain needs or wants (psychological).  

in which the student compensated by placing the post-activated modifier in parentheses after its head nouns (cf. V.3.3 1).

     3.33 An intriguing variant of linear contamination-more frequent than pre-activation or post-activation-is REACTIVATION: an item reappears soon after its first use, sometimes apparently against one’s will. The facilitation or “priming” of a later event by an earlier similar one is well known in psychology: “items that have just been processed” are “privileged in the sense that they are readily available […] recoding is possible without requiring another rematch with the corresponding […]  memory representation” (Kintsch, 1974: 86). Reactivation may result when an item persists in a buffer of working memory and the execution instructions are confused (cf. V 1.35, 35; V2.34). Recently, I dictated (57) to my secretary when I meant to say (57a):  

(57) Recent debates have fanned a debate

(57a) Recent debates have fanned a dispute  

Reactivation is perhaps most likely among expressions that are similar in both meaning and surface shape, e.g. ‘debate’ vs. ‘dispute’. Both items match the search grid and confuse the processor, particularly when the latter is heavily loaded. Reactivation may disturb cohesion either mildly (58) or severely (59):  

(58) There is also a large difference between the two also.

(59) Contrary to belief, losing does have does have a beneficial effect.  

The fact that the writers overlooked these slips during proofreading up to the final copy suggests that reading is subject to the same contaminations as {142} writing. Processing registers the presence of the words, but not their repetition; or relies on the mental representation more than on the surface text (III.3.7; 1V2.36; V.1.45).

    3.34 Some REDUNDANCIES may be a milder form of linear contamination. What was already expressed is reactivated and included again, though often not in the same words; or the first expression may be a preactivation of the concept intended to be dealt with later on. For example, the subject and predicate of a sentence get short-circuited:  

(60) A loss of 100 million lives will be terminated.

(61) The difference between high school and college has many contrasts.

  Redundancies may reflect uncertainty about what has been expressed so far, or about how explicit one needs to be:  

(62) You mustn’t fit the child with a shoe that has too wide a width. If you do, the baby’s foot will tend to spread out and when he or she gets older it might be hard for him to find shoes with that wide of a width.  

Tautologies suggest a partial or contaminated conceptual development that has not yet recovered enough material to make a worthwhile statement:  

(63) Social work will continue to be in demand as long as social interaction takes place in society.

(64) Computer games are so ever-popular that almost everybody likes to play them.  

Redundancies in writing may be due to the influence of speech habits formed under the need for continuous text production (V3.32ff); or to a tactic for lower processing load (III.3.4.5).

    3.35  It is unclear whether linear contaminations occur in memory search, in the buffer where search results are held, or in motor actions working from the buffer — or in all three of these domains (cf. MacNeilage, 1964; Shiffrin & Schneider, 1977: 151; Norman & Shallice, 1980). Hotopf (1980: 296) found that speech errors involved displacements spanning the same number of syllables as writing errors,¹ [Hotopf’s writers were hurrying on an exam. Matsuhashi’s filmed writers were substantially slower; one averaged 13 words per minute], namely about 6.5 — a time lapse of about one second for speech (cf. Lenneberg, 1967), but of close to five seconds in writing. If slips can occur only in the buffer, they could not be restricted to short-term sensory storage: its one-to-two second duration would suffice for the errors in speech, but not for those in writing, unless the errors were situated in the sound execution program and automatically recoded into the letter execution program — assuming that spelling works from an acoustic representation (cf. dispute in VI.33ff). Certainly, linear contaminations are much rarer in writing than in speech, no doubt because {143} of difference in rate. But if slips can occur either during memory search or during execution, their timing could vary considerably.

   3.36 Search also encounters SELECTIVE CONTAMINATIONS: the intended item is entirely displaced by an associated one from memory storage. Here too, surface resemblances co-operate with conceptual ones, as when Charles Fillmore said in a lecture:  

   (65) People don’t leave in trees. [live]  

In speech, selective contaminations are frequently noticed and corrected (Fromkin, 1971: 46):  

   (66) the two contemporary, er-sorry, adjacent buildings  

In writing, these contaminations are less often made, again because of slower rate, but some do persist. Hotopf (1980: 294) found ‘late’ displaced by ‘early’, ‘wife’ by ‘husband,’ ‘lunch’ by ‘breakfast’, ‘black’ by ‘red’, and ‘January’ by ‘Saturday’. These contaminations, in which the implemented item has only a partial conceptual overlap with the desired item, support the contention that search grids look for specifications, not just for whole items (III.3.12).

    3.37 A vital question for future research is whether contaminations in search or action are random, or whether they follow patterns of their own. The latter possibility would explain why slip-ups are so often meaningful. The processes of memory suggest that an item could be unintentionally implemented if: (a) it is conceptually associated with the intended item; (b) it resembles the latter in surface shape; (c) it is frequently or habitually selected; (d) it is prominently recorded as personal experience in episodic memory; or (e) it is closer to one’s goals and ideas than the intended item, but is being suppressed for some reason.” These motives could interact, as they appear to do in Freud’s (1914) famous slips in “everyday life.”² [Freud stressed suppression much more than seems warranted in much of my error sample. Many slips of the tongue simply result from conflicts between competing ways to say the same thing. Still, attempts to go against one’s habits of usage can certainly lead to slips (V.3.23ff, 33).] A slip would be most probable if the processor’s resources and attention are in heavy demand at the time.

     3.38 Everyday communication includes a certain proportion of more or less incoherent statements that are nonetheless approximatively understood. The same fuzzy processing that produces such statements may also make them comprehensible. Commonplace  sayings can get mixed up (reported in Sherwood, 1980: 228):  

(67) He slammed the door at the top of its lungs.

(68) I wouldn’t buy that house if it was given to me.  

because people are accustomed to process them with little attention. In writing, a lack of skills encourages overload and thus favors contaminations {144} and incoherence. Newspapers recently carried wonderful excerpts from accident reports submitted to insurance companies, e.g.:  

(69) I had been driving for forty years when I fell asleep at the wheel.

(70) An invisible vehicle came out of nowhere, struck my car, and vanished.  

Newspapers, being texts composed in great haste and read with little concentration, are beset by similar incoherence:  

(71) He called on the Kentucky Legislature to clarify the state abortion statute to define whether it applied to pregnant women. (Newsday, Aug. 31, 1978)

(72) Half of U.S. High Schools Require Some Study for Graduation (Los Angeles Times, Aug. 10, 1981)

(73) Two innings later, Jefferson was beaned in the back of the head by a line drive [... I Jefferson was not injured in the play; the baseball, which ricocheted all the way to right field, was taken to hospital for X-rays. (Toronto Globe and Mail, Aug. 21, 1979)  

Student writers overlook the same sort of oddities:  

  (74) Suicide leaves its victims unable to view their problems objectively.  

     3.39 Some cases of incoherence arise from a contamination—both linear and selective—among alternative phrasings:  

  (75) The disadvantage that I have against the university is that it is very large.  

may be a mixture of ‘the disadvantage of’ plus ‘the objection that I have against’. A contamination of grammatical roles such as agency is common:  

(76) An alligator hunter has been hired by the state to pick up the gator, and to be taken to another area to be killed.

(77) Even if the person did not commit the crime, it has been known to be unfairly convicted, sentenced to death, and executed.  

The omission of agents-enforced by the old-fashioned proscription of first and second person pronouns (I.2.14; VI.I.12, 19ff) can foster incoherent statements:  

(78) Tennessee is a small state when travelling vertically.

(79) Several minutes passed, establishing the intricate network of bloodlines within the county.  

It was the writers who actually ‘traveled’ and ‘established’ (explained), but who shied away from saying ‘I’ or ‘we’.

     3.40 Other cases of incoherence are found in the alternative statements allowed by ambiguities. Such statements attract attention because of their interest value, and divert an audience away from the text producer’s intended message and purpose (IV.2.68; V.3.35). Newspapers are again a rich source: 

(80) Navy Finds Dead Pilots Flying With Hangovers (Washington Post, Sept. 18, 1981)

(82) City To Add 12 Foot Cops (The Trentonian, March 24, 1977)

(81) Dad wants baby left on airliner  (Boulder Daily Camera, July 16, 1988)  

My students turn out some gems as well:  

(83) Men who are only children show 5.72 times the average in the number of divorces.

(84) Doug B., the representative for mentally disordered sex offenders, urged participation on many levels.  

The ambiguous pronouns common to speech may carry over to writing (V.3.25-29), allowing implausibly incoherent alternatives:  

(85) His father weas killed by an elephant before he was born.

(86) I hated grapes, but these people were so hospitable, I had to eat them.  

The nefarious “dangling” or “misplaced” modifiers reflect the students’ unskilled control of phrasing:  

(87) Being a nice, fairly hard dirt road, I decided to do a couple of doughnuts.

(88) When first discovered, Dr. Li could find no use for the protein. […] After being tested on mice, Dr. Kline tried the protein on psychiatric patients.    

3.41 Several issues here require empirical research. Is processing so organized that lapses in coherence lead to an unintentional, sometimes outrageous, coherence? If so, what is the nature of this mode, and how is it controlled? How does it happen that a writer or reader fails to notice the lapse, though another person does? An extreme case is when a writer whether for a newspaper or a college assignment says just the opposite of what was intended:  

(89) Nicaragua sets goal to wipe out literacy. (The Boston Globe, Oct. 1, 1979)

(90) Our overriding defense manpower objective is to increase the shortage of personnel.  

Less striking, but still puzzling, are the bizarre, unwittingly witty statements of student writers:  

(91) Fraternities believe that if fraternity men go out for extra-circular activities, they will be more well-rounded. 

(92) The day begins at 7:00 a.m. when revelry blows. [(91) and (92) appeared as “bona fide boners” in CCC, 1950, 1, 14, reproduced from the “Rhet as Writ” section of The Green Cauldron. Sadly, CCC did not continue the column.]

(93) When these recent rock songs sing about love, it is usually in its bare maximum, sexual intercourse.

(94) If you have a nice determined personality, you might get a head.  

I know my students well enough that I would not expect them to deliberately work out elaborate puns like (93) and (94), or sly misspellings worthy of the later James Joyce, e.g., ‘Munday morning’, ‘wedding engagment’, {146} ‘President Reagun’, and ‘job poopertunities in our economy’. Cognitive processing is so accustomed to seek for coherence that contaminations and errors seem to involuntarily drift toward making sense, though in a rougher, less constrained mode than is normally approved with conscious attention. That mode seems to relax the usual standards of coherence to admit interesting configurations — a curious side-product, perhaps, of operating in an enormously complex and dynamic system.

    3.42 However these questions may be resolved, the need for careful control and investment of resources in text processing is clear. The transition from the deepest phases to the final execution of the surface text is no forgone conclusion ensured by abstract rules. Learning to speak or write well cannot be divorced from learning to think well, and to judge how well one’s discourse actions match one’s intentions. The producer’s effort is traded against the audience’s (III.3.16). By appreciating how processing resources can be distributed and managed, the producer can feel confident that slip-ups or failures, though natural and predictable, can be monitored and remedied. In this activity, the producer can attain an organization that not only eases the audience’s task, but also meets his or her own need to understand and portray the world, and take stock of knowledge (cf. I.2.23.5). This task is particularly vital in writing, whose results provide an enduring record of discovering and enacting one’s peculiar role in the human scheme.

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