After Brooks and I talked with a student for less than five minutes, he said this:
"Writing is so much easier than people make it out to be."
We told him not to spend all his energy thinking about how hard his class is. We told him to focus on his point. We told him to ask questions to start thinking and to answer those questions in his writing. That's pretty much it.
When I told him that the students who sat at the computer thinking about how much they hate writing should just spend that energy writing, he said I should put that on the wall. When he said that writing is easier than people make it out, I told him I would put that on the wall. I got his name. It's going up later.
Monday, October 26, 2009
Thursday, October 8, 2009
My Job is Awesome
The past two hours have been the best two hours of my week at work. Maybe of my month. Scratch that. Of the semester.
1. I got to bust out the claims sheet that I made to help people write papers analyzing songs. They have trouble with that (they can talk about the song or tell the story in the song, but they don't actually analyze it). The writer who needed it wasn't writing about a song, but was analyzing an ad. She understood the ad and the assignment. She just needed to see how to do the work.
2. I helped a girl with a draft of a narrative essay. The first two paragraphs were boring stuff about working at Jack-in-the-Box. Then it got good. See, the story she was telling was about a lady who removed the meat from her burger and claimed that it had no meat. She wanted a new burger. She wanted her money back. She screamed vulgarities. The writer told me that this happens every now and then. I love learning this stuff. Who knew that there was a whole culture of people who order burgers, remove the meat (leaving little black spots that the burger makers recognize as meat evidence), claim there was no meat, and request new meat. They go to a lot of effort for another patty. If that girl does the work, that essay will be awesome.
3. I helped a lady write about owning a dog. Not that exciting in itself, but I got to use one of my favorite strategies: the bowling alley. Often, people have good things to say. Too many, in fact. Their paragraphs bulge or wander (or both) because they have so so so many things to say. They need boundaries. I asked this writer a bunch of questions about her dog and figured out that everything she had to say came down to dog + work. Those were her boundaries. I drew two parallel vertical lines and said, "It's like a bowling alley. These are your boundaries. You can't go outside them." All she cares about it what is between dog and work. If it relates to dog but not work, it's out. She asked about the brand of dog food. Should she include that? On the surface, it relates only to dog. She only gets to include it if it takes a lot of work to get that particular brand of dog food, but only if that's the case.
4. I got to help a guy who was writing about his first day of school in America after immigrating from Saudi Arabia: September 11, 2001. Talk about a unique perspective. He didn't even know English yet. Just Arabic. The funny thing about working with him was that it was right before class. I asked him what he planned to do because he had to turn in the essay. After he assured me that the essay he was handing it wasn't a final, he did want to work on it, and he would take my comments into account, we had a great conversation about his paper, that day, and the kind of details he could include to really help us understand what it was like. I'm excited to see his next draft. I told him that I wanted to see it not as a part of my job, but as a person who likes writing.
I can't believe all that happened over the time I was supposed to be at lunch on a Thursday. That made my week. Sometimes this job is hard. Sometimes it's unbelievably rewarding. I felt like I was inside an episode of This American Life with the burger and 9/11 stories, and two of my favorite strategies paid off for the other two students.
1. I got to bust out the claims sheet that I made to help people write papers analyzing songs. They have trouble with that (they can talk about the song or tell the story in the song, but they don't actually analyze it). The writer who needed it wasn't writing about a song, but was analyzing an ad. She understood the ad and the assignment. She just needed to see how to do the work.
2. I helped a girl with a draft of a narrative essay. The first two paragraphs were boring stuff about working at Jack-in-the-Box. Then it got good. See, the story she was telling was about a lady who removed the meat from her burger and claimed that it had no meat. She wanted a new burger. She wanted her money back. She screamed vulgarities. The writer told me that this happens every now and then. I love learning this stuff. Who knew that there was a whole culture of people who order burgers, remove the meat (leaving little black spots that the burger makers recognize as meat evidence), claim there was no meat, and request new meat. They go to a lot of effort for another patty. If that girl does the work, that essay will be awesome.
3. I helped a lady write about owning a dog. Not that exciting in itself, but I got to use one of my favorite strategies: the bowling alley. Often, people have good things to say. Too many, in fact. Their paragraphs bulge or wander (or both) because they have so so so many things to say. They need boundaries. I asked this writer a bunch of questions about her dog and figured out that everything she had to say came down to dog + work. Those were her boundaries. I drew two parallel vertical lines and said, "It's like a bowling alley. These are your boundaries. You can't go outside them." All she cares about it what is between dog and work. If it relates to dog but not work, it's out. She asked about the brand of dog food. Should she include that? On the surface, it relates only to dog. She only gets to include it if it takes a lot of work to get that particular brand of dog food, but only if that's the case.
4. I got to help a guy who was writing about his first day of school in America after immigrating from Saudi Arabia: September 11, 2001. Talk about a unique perspective. He didn't even know English yet. Just Arabic. The funny thing about working with him was that it was right before class. I asked him what he planned to do because he had to turn in the essay. After he assured me that the essay he was handing it wasn't a final, he did want to work on it, and he would take my comments into account, we had a great conversation about his paper, that day, and the kind of details he could include to really help us understand what it was like. I'm excited to see his next draft. I told him that I wanted to see it not as a part of my job, but as a person who likes writing.
I can't believe all that happened over the time I was supposed to be at lunch on a Thursday. That made my week. Sometimes this job is hard. Sometimes it's unbelievably rewarding. I felt like I was inside an episode of This American Life with the burger and 9/11 stories, and two of my favorite strategies paid off for the other two students.
FAQ: You know
I like to talk with the writers that come in. I like to see if how well they know what they wrote about before we look at the works they put on the page. That gives me a idea of the handle they have on their ideas, or if they have one at all.
Inevitably, I get students to tell me about their subject. They start talking and they do this thing that many people do when they talk: they insert "you know" into their discourse.
Sometimes I let one, two, three slide by, and then I stop them. Other times, I just jump right in when they sneak the first "you know" in. I point out the tic, which they rarely notice, and make sure they pause for a second to realize that they just said "you know."
After that, I tell them that I do not in fact know. I don't know anything about their family Christmas gatherings or the time they got a scar while trying to stop a liquor store robbery. I don't know anything about the layout of their room or their choice of study space. I don't know their mothers, friends, teachers, or the other significant people who pop up as the subjects of their essays.
I wasn't there. I haven't spent time with those people. I do not know.
I realize that these students are not consciously referring to my knowledge, but they are subconsciously hoping that I will nod my head, say "uh-huh, I do know," and let them stay on the surface of their subject. I want them to be consciously aware that I have no idea what they are telling me--but I am interested in the details that are buried in their head if they would do a little digging.
After we break down what they know and I do not, they usually have a better understanding of what they need to provide so I can learn. I like to tell them that what is obvious to them is not obvious to others, so they should write what seems obvious. That way we can learn. And know.
Inevitably, I get students to tell me about their subject. They start talking and they do this thing that many people do when they talk: they insert "you know" into their discourse.
Sometimes I let one, two, three slide by, and then I stop them. Other times, I just jump right in when they sneak the first "you know" in. I point out the tic, which they rarely notice, and make sure they pause for a second to realize that they just said "you know."
After that, I tell them that I do not in fact know. I don't know anything about their family Christmas gatherings or the time they got a scar while trying to stop a liquor store robbery. I don't know anything about the layout of their room or their choice of study space. I don't know their mothers, friends, teachers, or the other significant people who pop up as the subjects of their essays.
I wasn't there. I haven't spent time with those people. I do not know.
I realize that these students are not consciously referring to my knowledge, but they are subconsciously hoping that I will nod my head, say "uh-huh, I do know," and let them stay on the surface of their subject. I want them to be consciously aware that I have no idea what they are telling me--but I am interested in the details that are buried in their head if they would do a little digging.
After we break down what they know and I do not, they usually have a better understanding of what they need to provide so I can learn. I like to tell them that what is obvious to them is not obvious to others, so they should write what seems obvious. That way we can learn. And know.
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
You Can't Force This Stuff
ESPN debuts a new documentary series tonight. 30 for 30 is thirty filmmakers making thirty films about sports stories that happened in the thirty years since ESPN started broadcasting--not figures, not people, not big names, but stories that are great stories.
I read an introduction to the series by Bill Simmons today and found it relevant to the way I teach writing. I guess that means this is sort of a dispatch from the Writing Center, but more a dispatch more me as a Writing teacher.
Simmons was the one who came up with the 30 for 30 concept. After the suits at ESPN gave his idea the go-ahead, he and Connor Schnell (who was involved in producing content for ESPN in some way or another) started brainstorming ideas for stories. Then they created a list of filmmakers to tackle those stories. The idea was to play matchmaker, hooking up a filmmaker with the story, finding "the 30 best matches. Period."
That was the plan. What happened* was a little different. The filmmakers already had the stories. They already loved sports in the way that people who tell stories love sports. They weren't so interested in the overwhelming sports obsession with predicting the future. Instead, they recognized what was worth looking back on with a keen eye. The filmmakers already had their matches. They made them themselves.
They just needed the forum, and Simmons and ESPN provided that. Now the stories will be told on Tuesday nights and I could not be more excited.
Here are the parallels between 30 for 30 and Writing instruction:
1. Bill Simmons and Connor Schell = Writing Teachers
They love their subject. They spend time thinking about their subject. They plan things out. They discuss what would be worthwhile for the time they are allotted. The 30 for 30 series is their class time and they want to fill it with the best possible subject matter, so they dive in and try to do the best to fill it well.
But they are not the ones doing the work.
2. The Filmmakers = Writing Students
They are the ones doing the work.
Simmons and Schell couldn't get too attached to their list of desired stories because they couldn't force professional filmmakers to do work they didn't want to do. All they could do was present the framework and let the filmmakers run where they would.
In the case of 30 for 30, the power resides in the filmmakers. This project doesn't gain steam without them. Instead, it's just a couple of guys who love sports dreaming up a show that focuses on stories. They need storytellers to make it happen, so when those storytellers change the plans, the masterminds have to go along.
In the classes, the power resides with the teachers. They give the grades, so the students have to do what the teachers want.
Despite the different loci of power, the two cases are similar in that nothing will get made without those doing the work.
Simmons and Schell loved their idea, but they held it loosely. They developed more than they needed, going so far as to choose stories that they anticipated the filmmakers would tackle. What they really needed was just the framework: the thirty years of ESPN's existence, sports, and stories that "resonated at the time but were eventually forgotten for whatever reason." That is specific enough to provide the necessary boundaries to allow those doing the work to flourish within their limits.
The big difference between the series and the classes is the experience of those doing the work. The filmmakers are professionals who were sought after because of their work. The students and their abilities are unknown.
Sort of. They are able to learn. They are able to think. They have stories buried in their heads.
Students are perfectly capable of taking a loose framework and running with it. They need the forum to tell their story and some direction to learn how that storytelling can be done. They can be guided in the work, but they can most certainly do most of the work.
*As is usually the case with Plans and What Happeneds, they were not the same.
I read an introduction to the series by Bill Simmons today and found it relevant to the way I teach writing. I guess that means this is sort of a dispatch from the Writing Center, but more a dispatch more me as a Writing teacher.
Simmons was the one who came up with the 30 for 30 concept. After the suits at ESPN gave his idea the go-ahead, he and Connor Schnell (who was involved in producing content for ESPN in some way or another) started brainstorming ideas for stories. Then they created a list of filmmakers to tackle those stories. The idea was to play matchmaker, hooking up a filmmaker with the story, finding "the 30 best matches. Period."
That was the plan. What happened* was a little different. The filmmakers already had the stories. They already loved sports in the way that people who tell stories love sports. They weren't so interested in the overwhelming sports obsession with predicting the future. Instead, they recognized what was worth looking back on with a keen eye. The filmmakers already had their matches. They made them themselves.
They just needed the forum, and Simmons and ESPN provided that. Now the stories will be told on Tuesday nights and I could not be more excited.
Here are the parallels between 30 for 30 and Writing instruction:
1. Bill Simmons and Connor Schell = Writing Teachers
They love their subject. They spend time thinking about their subject. They plan things out. They discuss what would be worthwhile for the time they are allotted. The 30 for 30 series is their class time and they want to fill it with the best possible subject matter, so they dive in and try to do the best to fill it well.
But they are not the ones doing the work.
2. The Filmmakers = Writing Students
They are the ones doing the work.
Simmons and Schell couldn't get too attached to their list of desired stories because they couldn't force professional filmmakers to do work they didn't want to do. All they could do was present the framework and let the filmmakers run where they would.
In the case of 30 for 30, the power resides in the filmmakers. This project doesn't gain steam without them. Instead, it's just a couple of guys who love sports dreaming up a show that focuses on stories. They need storytellers to make it happen, so when those storytellers change the plans, the masterminds have to go along.
In the classes, the power resides with the teachers. They give the grades, so the students have to do what the teachers want.
Despite the different loci of power, the two cases are similar in that nothing will get made without those doing the work.
Simmons and Schell loved their idea, but they held it loosely. They developed more than they needed, going so far as to choose stories that they anticipated the filmmakers would tackle. What they really needed was just the framework: the thirty years of ESPN's existence, sports, and stories that "resonated at the time but were eventually forgotten for whatever reason." That is specific enough to provide the necessary boundaries to allow those doing the work to flourish within their limits.
The big difference between the series and the classes is the experience of those doing the work. The filmmakers are professionals who were sought after because of their work. The students and their abilities are unknown.
Sort of. They are able to learn. They are able to think. They have stories buried in their heads.
Students are perfectly capable of taking a loose framework and running with it. They need the forum to tell their story and some direction to learn how that storytelling can be done. They can be guided in the work, but they can most certainly do most of the work.
*As is usually the case with Plans and What Happeneds, they were not the same.
Thursday, October 1, 2009
Make It Your Own
I read across a wide spectrum of subjects. One of them happens to be sports uniforms. Uni Watch is a blog that not simply covers sports uniforms ("athletic aesthetics" they would say), but delves deep into the subject.
Here's an essay submitted by a Uni Watch reader named Matt King. He details his decision to own authentic jerseys with his own name on the back. The normal practice (and some would say the only acceptable practice among true uniphiles) is to purchase an authentic jersey with the name of an authentic player on the back.
I think he makes a good case for the practice losing its taboo status. I like that he took it upon himself to defend his Own Name On Back decision. He stops short of championing the movement, but he goes into the context of his own decision (which originated before authentic apparel was widely available) as well as giving us general reasons for putting your own last name on the jersey of your favorite team despite never playing a down/inning/minute for the club (now that authentic apparel is readily available).
Here's an essay submitted by a Uni Watch reader named Matt King. He details his decision to own authentic jerseys with his own name on the back. The normal practice (and some would say the only acceptable practice among true uniphiles) is to purchase an authentic jersey with the name of an authentic player on the back.
I think he makes a good case for the practice losing its taboo status. I like that he took it upon himself to defend his Own Name On Back decision. He stops short of championing the movement, but he goes into the context of his own decision (which originated before authentic apparel was widely available) as well as giving us general reasons for putting your own last name on the jersey of your favorite team despite never playing a down/inning/minute for the club (now that authentic apparel is readily available).
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
