Idea Control, Part 1

In the realm of writing instruction, if we have failed our students (if it can even be called a failure), it is not because we haven't prioritized writing--because we have. It is not because we haven't spent countless hours commenting on papers--because we have. Not because we haven't been diligent in our planning, our reflection, our assessments, our adjustments, our pep talks. Because we have. It is not even because we haven't modeled our own writing because we have been brave enough to do this time and time again.

Where we have potentially failed them is here: we have emphasized form/genre over substance.

We have to teach form. Of course, we must. There are expectations that we do so from our colleagues, college professors, the world of work, the world of writing. Though they resist at times, our students also have expectations that we teach them certain forms--the academic essay chief among them. I will never argue against the necessity of this.

 But what I will argue against is that we often distort writing for students when we emphasize form over idea. We start to lose writers here because they are now destabilized from what they intuitively know to be important, which is the idea, the point, the moral of the story.

Writing makes sense when it is in pursuit of clarity and depth of understanding. When we unravel the deeper significances of the topics that have chosen us, and perhaps even the ones that have been assigned to us. But when we say to them that the paramount mission of a writing assignment is not the idea, but the form, their natural writing and linguistic abilities and talents are suddenly invalidated. The process of writing no longer makes sense to them, and this often leads to temporary paralysis and worse, including a long term disdain for writing.

When students ask the wrong questions, we know that it is the result of what we, their teachers, have emphasized. How long should the paper be? How many paragraphs? How many sentences do I need in each paragraph? Do I need to use quotes? Do I need three body paragraphs? Do I need to use transition sentences at the end of every paragraph? Can I get an A if I write more than I have to? Do I need to have a Works Cited page? And on and on. And while the question to many of these might be "yes," these questions should never precede the more important questions that help them focus on the real work of writing which is the development and pursuit of an idea.

It's a paradigm shift for many students because their writing careers have been form-focused. And as such, their shifts toward more meaningful writing efforts will be filled with a lot of trepidation. They know how to trust in a form of writing because the form doesn't betray them. It is nice and tidy and usually undaunting.

Ask these students to write--to just write--without strict dictates of word length and sentence or paragraph requirements, and they balk, they grow wide-eyed, they grow fearful that they might do the assignment incorrectly. That they might be wrong.

The irony is that they have been doing it "wrong" all along. They have been writing what has amounted to rote, barely-inspired, and usually forgettable stuff. Why? They don't want to write it any more than we want to read it. They're worried more about trivial things than interpretation and revelation.  

The Solution
One way I help them shift their thinking about writing is to not mention form at all for the first few months of school. This unnerves many students, but it also sends the unequivocal message that I don't care about anything except really good ideas. I do not address questions of length, sentence requirements, or any other misguided and fear-based questions they are so apt to ask. I simply ask them to write, to share, to listen to each other read, to comment, to question, to read good mentor texts, to listen to and respond to my writing, to write more.

Simultaneously, we're working to build a community based on trust, respect, high-expectations, love, family.

And more than any modeling or mentor texts I provide, their own writing and the writing of their peers drives this revival of their voices. They rediscover the inherent power--and even joy--that writing provides. They begin thriving as writers in this new clarity and confidence.

And then something beautiful happens: they start asking questions that actually matter. I'm struggling to bridge the gap between these two driving themes; can you help me think about where they might intersect? Is it unreasonable to have multiple subplots in a short story? I have to write about this idea because I can't stop thinking about it, but do you think it would be appropriate for school? I'm not sure if this motif is working for me; what do you think? I have four different ideas for this piece; can we conference to help me sort through them? Do you think this is publishable?

They start expecting each other to bring their best to page, and they soon begin to feel once again that sense of authority and authorship they haven't felt perhaps since early elementary school when they wrote with abandon.

And to create writing that is this good, it has to be writing that transcends what they have previously generated. This means they have to bravely develop and explore what is core to all writing: ideas.  

Potluck
In my classes, I share with my students a metaphorical image of our Authors' Circle as a potluck where everyone brings potato salad. And while I've had some darn good potato salads in my life, if everyone brought potato salad, it would be one sorry shared meal.

I then share with them the image of our metaphorical (and sometimes actual!) potluck as being brilliantly diverse and delicious, with main dishes and sides and desserts that we cannot get enough of.

Of course, their pieces are their contributions to our potluck, and if they have been brave in the writing kitchen, if they have pushed themselves to create the best piece possible, when they read from their pieces, we can't get enough.

Thanks for reading,
Steve

You might be interested in this Related Article: Writing Control

Is High School Nothing More Than a Hoop to Jump Through?

Fifty-six percent. That was the percentage of my high school students who said that the grade matters more to them than what they learned. To be honest, it felt like a punch to the gut. After forming meaningful relationships this year, after giving them tons of choice, after having them focus on student agency, fifty-six percent still view what we did as a hoop to jump through to get to the next--and in their perception--more meaningful step: life after high school.

How could this be? How could almost sixty percent of my students reject my entire year's efforts to convince them otherwise? I don't know what the emotion was. Befuddlement mixed with a tablespoon or two of something that felt like incredulity. So I read their explanations, searching for something to explain my failure.

Here is a sampling of the student responses I read:

High school is just a hoop to get to what you really want to do in life.

[School] used to be fun and now it's just tests tests tests and no fun, and when the teachers try to make things fun they can't because the district has banned fun (sic)

I feel that I view school as something I have to do but don't want to do.

If you don't meet a certain criteria your grade drops or it makes you think of yourself like your (sic) not good enough or smart enough but we all have different and unique ways of expressing what we learn and how we write it or read or do our work. We can't do what we like to do.

To clarify, my district hasn't "banned fun"; in fact, the district I work for is quite eager for students and teachers to push the boundaries of educational reform. But the negative perception lingers, clouded perhaps by the high stakes state testing environment in which many of these students have grown up with and within which we still are required to function.

And as I read, I found something unexpected: myself.

Minus the testing issue, these had been my exact thoughts about high school. It just was what it was: something I had to do. Even though I loved to read and write, I remember only really wanting to do the work in my wood shop classes. And though changes in the education world have shifted expectations for what school looks like now, and though I went to a small rural high school, I had some fantastic teachers who tried their best within the context of the educational expectations of the day. Interesting that I find myself thirty-some years later looking in the mirror and seeing them and wondering if I had been the source of the same frustration.

Ironically perhaps, serving in the Army taught me that I might have a few more smarts than all my years of schooling convinced me of. Personally, I didn't really become hungry for learning until well after high school. Truly hungry, that is. So...

Does High School Really Matter?

High school matters. I know it does. It has to. We meet them where they're at and we try to push toward something new and hopefully more important. But I'm wondering in what ways it does matter, and how for my students I can make it matter more in the moment?


There have been many studies over the years about whether or not high school matters. (Does high school matter? Does High School Determine the Rest of Your Life?) One longitudinal study of 25000 students even disputes the current belief that AP and advanced classes better prepare students for college work. The authors write that "the courses that students took in high school had very little impact on college grades" (When the Value of High School Is Exaggerated).

But, they're in college, right? So that door, at least, was open for them.

Regardless of the percentages, I think that's what we have to hold onto--that it is our job to help open doors for students and to convince them that they're worth walking through.

Next year, I'll keep doing what I think is the right thing for students: to connect, to inspire, to convince them that the work can be important not just for now but for the long term if we make the right decisions, if we focus on truly meaningful topics and projects, if we write like our life depends on it.

I'll keep opening the door to this opportunity, and keep hoping that more and more of my students will choose to walk through it.

I'd love to hear your comments on this.

Thanks for reading,
Steve

You might also be interested in these posts about writing with voice and authority.

Mastering Messiness: Rethinking Project Criteria

As we enter the homestretch of our school year, many of us are undoubtedly ending our courses with some form of project. Whether it is the culmination of a year-long social justice research project (as is the case with our students), a scientific inquiry, or a literary or historical study, our students are creating a product to demonstrate their learning.

For most students, their primary concern is the product itself. And, rightly so since our grading criteria often emphasize elements of the product's parameters (length, number of research sources, professionalism of the presentation, etc.).

Mastering Messiness is the Key to Growth

But as teachers, we often care much less about the product itself than about the journey the students took to create the product. It matters less that the student had five sources for her research, and matters more about her knowing how to inquire deeply, how to mine meaning from these sources, how to synthesize, refine claims as new information transforms her thinking. It matters that she desires disequilibrium because she knows this is the launching point for profound thinking and creating.

And for her own growth.

Process Over Product
If a student is committed to her project, the grade will be largely irrelevant; she'll know its worth regardless of any grade we assign to it. It'll mean something so far beyond any letter grade or number on a 4-point scale.

So, what if we shifted our emphasis away from the product itself to more greatly emphasize the attitudes and approaches that will not only help them create this project, but the many others they will undoubtedly be required to complete over their academic and work careers?

 Here are the Indicators of an Excellent Project that I use to assess my students approaches to their products:

• Messiness (disequilibrium defines the initial efforts; dynamic and wide-ranging thinking progressing toward unity)

• Intrepidness (an embracing of intellectual risks, an eagerness to think creatively, a willingness to take skills risks; innovative)

• Intimacy (devotion to the project; an embracing of complexities/nuances/depth)

• Clarity (effective/authorial delivery in your chosen form; you move us)

Yes, it takes some convincing for students to want to get messy (and it needs to be explicitly said that we're not talking about crumpled papers shoved into a binder--not that kind of messy). In fact, messiness is the indicator they are most unsettled by. But, messiness is the single most important indicator because it is the most realistic starting point for any profound and transformative work.

Ask kids about the cellphones they can't seem to remove from their hands. Ask them how many cellphone iterations, how many failures, approximations it took before tech companies were able to produce the one they're currently holding. I tell them about the brick of a cellphone my father used to carry around when he worked for the phone company years ago. For its time, it was quite advanced, but when I tell them that he had to carry the phone's giant battery in a separate case, they understand that our first attempts are only starting points for further refinement.

Authorial Attitudes
And when these mindsets are emphasized over the product, the students start asking the right kind of questions. Just today, several students wanted conferences because they sensed their early thinking wasn't "messy" enough. Ironically, perhaps, when they're in these messy conceptual situations where there are a million different directions they could go, they begin to feel more in control. They begin to evaluate, to inquire further, to prioritize, gain traction and ultimately, they begin to work their way out with a more intimate understanding of what their project is really about.

They can now write, produce, create, dance, act, debate, present with authority that comes only from having struggled toward ownership, toward growth, and toward meaning.

Thanks so much for reading. I'd love to hear your thoughts about how you encourage students to own their work.

You might also be interested in these posts that talk about authorial voice and control in writing: Writing Control,  Idea Control.

Writing Control

One of the most empowering things we can do for students is to allow them to make decisions about the course of their own learning. It instills a sense of ownership, increases engagement, and amplifies learning.
 

We know this.

Then why has so much of writing instruction been about removing decisions from students? We've told them in a variety of ways that they are incapable of making sound and effective decisions about their own writing, and then we chastise them for writing poorly and for not understanding the huge implications in their future academic and actual careers for not being able to write effectively.

Is there a solution to this? Yes, and it is something we're already experts at. When we teach kids to ride a bike, drive a car, dance, play an instrument, or dribble a basketball we're trying, ultimately, to teach them to control what they're doing. So, let's teach them to control what they're doing on the written page.

What "Real" Writers Do

If you look at what writers do, there are three areas they have to control if they're going to effectively communicate their ideas to their readers.

Whether it's a novel, a play, a poem, a scholarly article, an email, an essay, a letter, or a blog, these three areas need to be effectively controlled: Ideas. Structure. Style.
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First and foremost, is control of ideas. It has to be, for without an idea, there is no reason to write. And this is how students naturally come to writing because they have ideas bursting forth. They are enthusiastic writers of fantastic things, and we reward them for this. But too soon, we alter their conceptions of their approach to writing by proposing to them that they need to consider structure first and foremost.

As a classic example, consider how we teach them to write essays (three- or five-paragraph). We begin by handing them an outline of the structure and ask them to fill it in section by section--or even line-by-line. The hollow equivalent of a paint-by-numbers picture that looks pretty from a distance, but that possesses no originality or evidence of transferable skill.

Structure is important, but only in service to an idea worth writing about.

All three areas are vitally, vitally important. Without an effective structure, meaning begins to unravel. Without style, the writing will be lifeless and unread. But without an idea, there is no impetus to write.

But they have to earn a grade, isn't that impetus enough? Yes, for some. And these few will write dutifully, and without any real commitment--and most significantly, without any sense of control or authority.

Author-ity

The word "author" has its roots in the word "authority." In all writing endeavors, we must instill this in our students. We must allow them to make decisions about their writing so that they can begin to assert themselves, begin to sense and develop a sense of control over their writing.

So they can become authorities and authors.

Thanks for reading,
Steve

Upcoming articles will detail the pedagogical implications for the three areas of writing control, beginning (of course!) with Control of Ideas.

Please leave a comment or ask a question. I'd love to hear your thoughts.