For many students, particularly those at a community college who may be encountering higher-level literary study for the first time, the expectations are immense. They are asked to read complex texts, often for the first time in their lives, while simultaneously learning about the existence of sophisticated literary devices. Then, they are expected to logically describe the effects of these devices in structured, written responses. Professor Rounds argues that this is an overwhelming amount of material to synthesize in a single semester. A course more granularly titled "Literary Appreciation" or "Identifying Literary Techniques" would provide a clearer roadmap, allowing students to understand exactly what skills they are expected to master without the immediate pressure of high-stakes composition.
The disconnect becomes even clearer when examining the specific details that define literary study. Professor Rounds finds immense value in showing students the intricacies of the craft—explaining that while rhythm and rhyme are distinct, they often function in tandem; that meter is a far more complex architecture than a simple syllable count; and that the "line" itself is the defining feature of a lyric poem. These are the building blocks of literary literacy, yet they have almost nothing to do with the mechanics of composing a five-paragraph essay or a research paper.
By decoupling these skills, the anxiety surrounding AI might begin to dissipate. If a professor had the freedom to drill down into the technical details of a text without the constant looming requirement of "pages of deliverables," the incentive for students to turn to AI would be significantly reduced. Professor Rounds compares the current state of English education to a music class with impossible expectations: it is like asking a total novice to not only pass a "drop-the-needle" test on the entire canon of classical music after just fifteen weeks but also to learn how to play an instrument at an expert level simultaneously. It is, she suggests, a "crazy ask."
This debate arrives at a time when the value of the English major is being both questioned and romanticized in the public sphere. Recently, Frank Bruni, an opinion contributor for The New York Times, wrote a glowing defense of the humanities, rhapsodizing about the benefits of majoring in English. Bruni argued that by studying literature, students "better understand the seeds of creativity and how they’re made to flower." He described the experience as swimming in a "borderless sea of thoughts beautifully expressed," suggesting that the more a student immerses themselves in this sea, the more expert they will become at "shaping stories" and "persuading." He concluded that better communicators are inherently better off in any profession.
While Professor Rounds acknowledges the sentiment, she questions the vague definition of a "better communicator." In the modern world, does that mean being a more succinct sender of emails, a more entertaining presenter, or a more precise poet? The answer is no longer clear. More importantly, she argues that understanding the "seeds of creativity" is a fundamentally different cognitive task than "shaping stories" or producing formal written text. While an English department should certainly have the capacity to teach both, it may take much longer than a single fifteen-week semester to create a truly effective feedback loop between reading and writing.
