the morning after

The morning after is always the worst.

"Did I do okay? Did I impress her? I'm sure I could have done that better. Was she trying to get me to do it different at the end? I hope it wasn't too long... I really hope it wasn't too short."

You all know what I'm talking about, don't you?

Yes, I'm talking about sending in the memo. No, I wasn't, that's dirty. Sending in that memo was probably the most traumatic experience of law school yet. Client Letter? That was just foreplay. ICW? I could go into detail, but we'll just call it "individual practice." The memo is the first real test, the first indication of how this whole deal is going to turn out long-term. We made the commitment a long time ago, but now we really know what we're getting into. If it doesn't work out? Well, it will be a long and expensive heartache to back out now, but I don't think anyone has any reason to worry.

Haven't done the deed yet? You'll know how it feels when it happens. It will be wonderful and painful at the same time.

And if you have? Don't worry. You did fine. I'm sure someone has done it better, but you did just fine.

rhetoric & heretics

Do you know what I hate?



Unexplained rhetorical questions.

Now, I know what you're saying already, "but rhetorical questions don't really have answers, and are meant to be unexplained!" Hear me out. Do you really think I'd be writing this if I didn't have a point?

Most rhetorical questions are harmless. "Wouldn't it be nice if it wasn't raining 80% of the year?" "Are you ready to party?" "What has he ever done for me?" Answering yes, yes, and no is obvious, but the questioner is not really want a reply. The reason lies deeper. It gets you to think. But of course, are rhetorical questions always this simple?

In the past few hours, days, weeks, and months, I have encountered a new an insidious breed of rhetorical conventions. Normally, when a question is asked in a textbook, there is some sort of analysis, or, at the very least, guidance. Even when there is no help, the writer is usually courteous enough to place such it in a "questions" or "problems" section. Evil conspires against this practice.

To start, these evil constructs are placed innocently enough alongside other explanatory notes. They often begin with a complicated set of facts, either made up, or plucked from an obscure case liked by the writer. He then asks the reader a seemingly simple question. "Is there a duty?" "Are the pigs a nuisance?" "Was the smelly and dirty man insane?" (I'd say no, probably, and obviously) While the answer might be clear to the reader, the reasoning is fuzzy. The point is for the reader to think. Trouble arises when the writer casts the reader adrift.

With no direction on how a court might decide, what reasoning might be applied, or how a motion might survive, the reader is left with doubts: doubts about his understanding of the section, the chapter, or the class, his intellect, his reasons for coming to law school, and his ability to find some measure of worth in the world. When the reader is cast adrift, his very faith is called into question. This is the work of a heretic.

Heretics are ones who attack the faith of others. They challenge beliefs and question established principles. These writers mercilessly do just that. The reader's beliefs and principles are called into question when he is cast adrift and left without guidance. That is the evil of these rhetorical questions.

I hate unexplained rhetorical questions because they are the heretical works of heretics. Do you see my point now?

i have a super power, and that power is passive voice

First (this is a signal, I learned this technique in my legal writing class, it indicates the start of a "road map" which I may or may not continue), it is my (and my guest contributors) first semester at law school.

I became frustrated today with my legal writing final project (an annoying memo involving a whiny mother who may have found a loophole in product liability law and an even whinier teenage son who may have suffered some scratching from a wild water tube ride...like I said...annoying). I became so frustrated, in fact, that I just put my head down on the pages. Hoping that by sheer mind power I would be able to change my paper's clear errors (that seemed to only be clear to my Legal Writing professor and certainly not to me).

I opened my eyes just a tiny squint, enough to see the boxed comments my professor had left trailing along the side of what I thought was really pure gold work. A work of sheer legal beauty. I noticed a phrase that frequently peppers her comments to me: "make sure to have real actors doing real things." This is my professors cheeky and slightly condescending way of telling me to avoid passive voice in my paper. Turns out I am very good at writing in the passive voice. I started to feel sorry for myself, then I realized this may not be so bad. After all, President Clinton almost saved his reputation by passive voice alone. The more I thought, the more convinced I allowed myself to be. This passive voice was not a weakness...it was powerful...much like a super power. And I possessed it. Who am I to turn my back on this powerful gift?

Perhaps tomorrow I'll be less powerful and will be able to employ active voice in my paper then.