ENC 3314 – Writing & Rhetoric Foundations
This project was created as a multimodal blog post. It explores my early understanding of threshold concepts, writer identity, and the growth I experienced during my first semester at UCF.
It has been a long time—longer than I care to admit—since I last wrote in a formal academic context. I’ve kept a blog, drafted countless professional and personal emails, and even took a creative writing class before applying to UCF, but none of that prepared me for the particular weight of writing an academic paper again. When I enrolled in Foundations of Writing and Rhetoric, my world tilted; during that first week, I genuinely questioned my life choices.
While reading Naming What We Know, the threshold concept that immediately resonated with me was 3.1: Writing is Linked to Identity. The line “the act of writing…is about becoming a particular kind of person” (p. 51) stopped me in my tracks. I had never considered myself “a writer.” Writing was just something I could do— not something that shaped who I was.
I haven’t been the author of anything substantial in quite some time, and I think that’s part of why writing has always felt like something I can do rather than something that makes me a writer. Sitting down with intention—to draft, revise, or simply reflect—isn’t part of my regular routine anymore. I haven’t truly blogged in over a year, and like many people, I’ve shifted most of my expression to social media. My Instagram Stories get daily updates, and most of my conversations happen in DMs rather than through longer-form writing.
Working on this assignment reminded me how much I’ve missed the slower, more deliberate act of writing. Revisiting my blogging voice felt like dusting off a part of myself I’d forgotten. Maybe, with practice—not necessarily every day, but with more openness and intention—I can begin to see myself not just as a student who writes, but as a writer in my own right.
“People often take school-based assumptions with them long after they leave school” (p. 37) from Threshold Concept 2.0, Writing Speaks to Situations Through Recognizable Forms, hit uncomfortably close to home. I came into this semester convinced that anything “school-related” had to be a scholarly masterpiece — polished, academic, airtight — or it didn’t count. And if it wasn’t perfect? Well, clearly, I was about to tank my first semester back.
But the line from Concept 3.1 — “the difficulties people have with writing are not necessarily due to a lack of intelligence or diminished literacy, but rather whether they can see themselves as participants” (p. 51) — forced me to stop and sit with that mindset. I know I’m capable. I know I’m well-read. What I don’t know is how to see myself as a writer. Writing has always been a skill I use when needed, not an identity I’ve claimed.
Self-doubt can be loud. Loud enough that when I registered for four classes this semester, I panicked by the end of week one and dropped half of them. Could I have handled the load? Probably. But in the moment, the syllabi, the word counts, and the expectations felt huge — and I convinced myself I was already in over my head.
That’s exactly why Threshold Concept 4.2, Failure Can Be an Important Part of Writing Development, resonated so deeply. Reading that “students are more likely to avoid risking failure for fear of damaging their grades” (p. 63) felt like someone had written a footnote about my add/drop panic. I’ve wanted this degree for years, but when faced with the possibility of not succeeding, I reacted by retreating. Not because I couldn’t do the work, but because the fear of failing — and the fear of derailing a dream I’ve carried for more than a decade — loomed larger than reality.
As our reading progressed and I reached chapter 4, All Writers Have More to Learn, I realized how hard I was being on myself. “A writer never becomes a perfect writer” (p. 60) is the statement, for me, of the semester. As I sat in my home office trying to write the journal responses, I needed to remember “Writers still struggle to figure out what they want to say and how to say it.” (p. 59). I wasn’t going to just sit at the computer and have a beautifully written piece in 20 minutes. Did I avoid the assignment a few times? Did I “doom scroll” trying to find inspiration? I’d be lying if I told you that I didn’t.
The fear of failing was getting in my way of doing what I know I’m capable of. “A demonstration of one’s ability to write effectively in one context cannot constitute proof of one’s ability to write in other contexts” (p. 60), is another statement that was a standout to me. I have been able to write well in the past. I have been able to write correspondence with little to no effort, but that does not mean that I would write well academically, or so I believed.
That failure feeling really settled in for the first few weeks of class. Every journal assignment I submitted, I’d sit and wonder, “Did I complete the assignment correctly?” “What have I done? Should I even be attempting this?” It’s an uncomfortable feeling and one I wasn’t enjoying. However, all the graded assignments have had great feedback, some good insight, and direction for this assignment, and I may be an okay writer after all. We shall see after this, huh?
Even now, as I’m writing this with a clear vision of what I want the final draft to become, the little failure monster on my shoulder keeps whispering, “You’re doing this completely wrong. This is it; your grades are toast.”
All of this circles back to the idea that failure can be an important part of writing (p. 62). If the feedback on this piece ends up being, “Uh… that’s not what the assignment asked for,” then I’ll start again and try a new approach. I’m learning not to spiral, not to delete everything out of panic, and instead to treat each revision as part of the process. As the authors remind us, “A writer at the end of their first draft now sees things they did not when they began” (p. 66). That’s exactly the perspective I’m choosing to adopt—even when the draft feels like a misstep.
Concept 4.2 resonated with me more than I expected. One line in particular stayed with me: “With experience, writers do discover that some writing habits developed in one context can be helpful in another” (p. 60). I’ve noticed that my environment matters more than I realized. A house full of teenagers, rabbits, a dog, a husband, constant notifications, and general chaos? Not ideal. But a quiet space, my headphones, and low-level instrumental music? That’s when the writing actually flows.
This chapter also encouraged me to look at my habits honestly. My default has always been “word vomit first, edit later”—and yes, it’s exactly how this piece was born. I’ve also discovered that writing under a deadline forces me to focus more sharply than I’d like to admit. As a Type-A person, last-minute anything is not my preference, but sometimes the best work comes from that pressure. I’m trying not to let it become a permanent habit, but I can also acknowledge that it’s part of how I work—and part of the “fear of failure” cycle I’m learning to break.
While the entire text of Naming What We Know offered valuable insights, these were the concepts that shifted something for me. I’m walking away with three major takeaways:
- My identity includes being a writer—not just a student completing assignments.
- Failure is not a verdict; it’s part of growth.
- All writers—even experienced ones—still have more to learn (p. 59).
And somehow, accepting those truths makes writing feel a little less daunting… and a lot more possible.
Sources:
Adler-Kassner, Linda, and Elizabeth Wardle. Naming What We Know: Threshold Concepts of Writing. Utah State University Press, 2016.
Earley, Kate (@plannerandpaper_). Instagram Story, 12 Feb. 2024,
www.instagram.com/plannerandpaper_/.
“Get Motivated.” Reddit, 11 Oct. 2017,
www.reddit.com/r/GetMotivated/comments/75pnav/image_jk_rowling_on_failure/.
Madamemademe. “Failure: ‘The Monster.’” Medium, 12 Feb. 2024,
madamemadeit.medium.com/failure-the-monster-a3b0491cabcb.
