Two Reflections

2

After reading Anderson’s “Prologue”, compose a post of 500 words in which you comment on specific

details from these chapters that will be beneficial in the development of your

next plan focusing on the teaching of writing. In this post, specifically

reference the prompt by synthesizing ideas regarding writing instruction rather

than sequentially addressing assigned readings.Anderson, J. (2011). 10 Things Every Writer Needs to Know, Stenhouse Publishers.   Prologue  What Writing Instruction Is and Isn’t  As a single footstep will not make a path on the earth, so a single thought will not make a pathway in the mind. To make a deep physical path, we walk again and again.  —Henry David Thoreau    What is writing?  Seriously. What is it?  And how do you do it well? And, as a teacher, just how do you teach writing effectively? If we thought we once knew, perhaps now we are told to teach writing differently. What’s true? What’s everlasting? What actually has changed? What do I need to adjust? And, in making adjustments, what stays? What will always make writing successful?  And what about those students in the back row—arms crossed, no pencil or paper, hair spilling down over their defiant “make me” looks? How do we move them from reluctant to independent writers? Then, how do we move the other students in our classroom, the ones who already want to write, to greater heights? Where do we meet them? How do we light the spark?  Many attempt to define writing, put it in a box, develop a checklist or worksheet, a rubric or analytic, a list of rules or elements of style. They toggle between organizing writing or freeing it. Some have even taken the thicket of theories and experiences and distilled them down to one-way-to-do-it solutions, violating the very research they cite. A good place to start is to define what writing is, and isn’t.  Writing Isn’t in a Kit  We may buy into an oversimplified dream of success. However, when we are faced with a class of thirty-two faces, hour after hour, day after day, anyone who really pays attention knows that all these quick-fix, teach-from-a-kit, premade, one-size-fits-all scripted lessons don’t convert reluctant writers into independent ones. Textbooks don’t make students care about writing, much less revise and polish it. Colorful kits, blossoming with worksheets and activity books passed off as mini-lessons, won’t make our students uncover the power of writing. A writer’s worksheet won’t set them on fire with meaning. Correcting sentences won’t free the voice within that so desperately needs to be let out. None of these “solutions” will help you assess and give meaningful feedback on 150 papers.  But still, the administration warns of newer, ever-higher expectations and standards. The palpable fear of upcoming writing tests permeates the air like cigarette smoke in an old Las Vegas casino. Students must pass, excel, or adequately progress—or else. Well-meaning administrators distribute the latest mandatory quick fix. After all, it worked for another school down the road or across the state.  Often, it is decided that more must be better. We are volun-told to tutor students before, during, and after school, even on Saturdays. In panic and desperation, we don’t always make sound decisions. Instruction is lost. Writing time diminishes in favor of remediation and data mining. Disaggregate data. Data fog. Remediate. Repeat.  Writing Isn’t Test Preparation  I want writing instruction that endures, that gives students steady, irrefutable skills that will be important no matter what they write or will need to write. No matter the purpose or audience. No matter what new way is invented to write in the twenty-first century.  Students lose trust in themselves, in their abilities, in their futures, all because outside test preparation resources, originally designed to help students, pigeon-hole them for remediation, target weaknesses, and remind them, with pages of evidence, of their flaws, their inabilities, and their shortcomings. With the focus on tests, pretests, benchmarks, results, and scores, it appears to students that we care only about raising scores at any cost. Most children have come to believe that the purpose of writing, of school, for that matter, is to pass tests. Getting by until the next test is the goal.  Is this what makes writing successful? Or does it cause more problems in a writer’s development? A New York Times article (Dillon 2010) reported on explicit findings on test preparation and its effects on test scores.  One notable early finding … is that teachers who incessantly drill their students to prepare for standardized tests tend to have lower value-added learning gains than those who simply work their way methodically through the key concepts of literacy and mathematics.  Teachers whose students agreed with the statement, “We spend a lot of time in this class practicing for the state test,” tended to make smaller gains on those exams than other teachers.  “Teaching to the test makes your students do worse on the tests … It turns out all that ‘drill and kill’ isn’t helpful.”    This study is validated by an earlier study (Langer 2000). Everyone touts embracing research-based best practice. As Paulo Freire (2000) laments in Pedagogy of the Oppressed, oftentimes the poor and the underrepresented are subjugated by practices that keep students down. Students who struggle the most academically and economically get more of what we know doesn’t work.  Are we listening?  “From early on, I resisted doing test preparation. I didn’t need research to prove its ineffectiveness. I knew from my experience that test preparation only extinguished my students’ spark and joy and curiosity. Test preparation would only instill in my students that tests are what’s important, product is the end-all, and process is just unimportant fluff. When, in fact, process is most important.  We can prepare our students for tests, but the best way to prepare students for tests is not to prepare them for tests. We’d be better off igniting the truth about what makes writing—any writing—work, so they know what to do when a blank page or screen awaits.  Writing, like life, is an inside-out phenomenon. If our students aren’t trusted to use their own knowledge, their own ability to discover, to find and trace ideas, then they will have difficulty taking a test on their own—for academic or work purposes. Even worse, when writing is seen as an outside-in process of telling and memorizing rules, it robs students of the very beauty of writing as a tool for thinking and discovery. They are denied experiencing the power of writing to capture a time, a place, a face, a feeling, a thought.  What things stay true about writing no matter what? What helps all communication sing?  Writing Is a Transaction  Writing is a transaction between writers and readers. As writers of text—as humans—we desperately want to be heard, to receive a response, or to connect.  We want to elicit certain reactions from our audience when they read our work. An essential power of humanness is communicating with others, thinking about how we say what we say, and supposing how readers will react in their transaction with our text.  Every adolescent longs to be understood, groping about for power. We have it here for them, in the ability to conquer written expression, as they would tackle a video game, challenged at every turn to move to the next level. Writing makes possible whatever we want to do in our lives, helping us with some aspect of anything we can dream of doing, for example, as a scientist, recording and reporting observations. Increasingly, in any career, we may be assigned multiple roles, such as producing newsletters, incident reports, training materials, PowerPoint presentations, Web sites, and brochures. And then there are “fun,” nonacademic strains of writing: blogs, instant messages, texts, tweets, e-mails, and social network posts.  Communication is king.  Writing Is a Skill That Can be Learned  While writing is deceptively complex, at the same time, it is deceptively simple. As I have taught, read, pondered, and written over the past twenty-two years, I’ve come to know some essential, enduring truths about writing. Giving students experience with and an awareness of these building blocks of writing sets them free.  Sure, we can easily photocopy and distribute a prefabricated rubric to students. I’ve done it. We can even tell them to work on voice or sentence fluency or that their ideas are strong but their organization is weak, but is that teaching writing? Or is it just throwing new and perhaps more abstract terms at them? Terms originating from some far-off place outside our classroom?  I aim to show you simple ways to draw out your students’ knowledge and to increase the value of their text interactions. You will be able to show students ways to revise, to draft, and to integrate craft and skill lessons, so that no matter where they are in their learning, they can benefit as writers and readers.  Writing Ignites Passion  We have to ignite students’ passion and let their souls, thoughts, fears, truths, experiences, and arguments shine on the page. We can’t motivate them by deluging them with more terminology or someone else’s bulleted lists. We can’t motivate them to revise their writing by stapling a rubric or checklist to their paper. We can’t motivate them by simply hanging some posters on the wall. We must facilitate writing behaviors.  Students become part of the process as a result of the writing community you co-construct, an environment that brims with possibility, inspiring literature, their voices, and opinions. You will orchestrate the transaction. They will do the work.  As you guide their discoveries through a carefully executed series of experiences and exposures, your facilitation will lead them to an owned language that looks better than any you could have photocopied and distributed. To do this, students must participate in discovering the neural pathways that connect to the concrete and tangible. The meaning-making interaction is the key to this information sticking.  The knowing comes through the flow of student–teacher transactions, through students’ observation and analysis of models, through students’ talking, collecting, imitating, writing, experimenting, revising, editing, and reflecting.  Writing is Freedom and Power  Free your students to demonstrate their hidden potential, often drowned out by cries for help:  “I can’t write!” “I hate writing!” “I can’t think of anything to write!”  Students don’t say, “I can’t think of anything to text to my friends,” or “I can’t think of anything to put in this e-mail, instant message, or note.” They don’t scrounge for topics to talk to their tablemates about when they are supposed to be listening or doing another task.  Let’s plunge into that flow of thinking and passion waiting to be tapped. Writing should be a joyous act, not drudgery, and frankly so should the teaching of it. 10 Things Every Writer Needs to Know is my answer to how we can show students what writing is, and more important, what it can be.  Writers need to be heard: let’s model and inspire. With ten things every writer needs to know, let’s show them ways to communicate their passions to real audiences and to know writing’s freedom and power.  Writing is waiting for a place to happen. Let’s create that space.  Overview  What Does Every Writer Need to Know?  It’s no surprise that what every writer needs to know doesn’t change much over time. I am not talking about dangling modifiers or split infinitives; I mean the basic art of expressing ourselves so we are understood and validated. Expressing ourselves is an innate human desire. The more we write, read, and talk, the more we have to say. That’s what writers do. We orchestrate our classrooms to support writing behaviors.  We know what kills the creative impulse: focusing on test preparation, offering harsh feedback, and assigning rather than teaching concepts. Now it’s time to talk about what works. It goes back to what the writing process is based on—what writers do.  What every writer should know are the elements that help writers think deep and wide. Depending on the context, purpose, and audience, we find an appropriate mix and measure of any of them to find writing success. (See the following table.)  Ten Things Every Writer Needs to Know          Motion         Writing is not magic.   It’s work. Splashing the words on the page or across the screen is much   easier than fretting about whether what we have to say is good enough. Start   writing, and the rest comes. Most of what students hate (and writers for that   matter) is the struggle, the procrastination, the pain of being stuck. In the   movie Field of Dreams, a whisper echoes, “If you build it,   they will come.” if you write it, more ideas will come.   When the pen hits the   page or the fingers tap the keys, words flow. Indeed, they won’t all be   perfect. But knowing that is freedom.             Models         Models   are our mentors—supporting and inspiring. Mentor texts offer a vision of what   writing is and can be, acting as anchors for writers to learn any of the ten   things. Like scientists, writers observe. Through active analysis of texts   and experimentation, you integrate what you learn from the study of models   into your own writing. Reading like writers, every encounter with text is a   writing lesson.              Focus         Clear   and steady writing is built upon an appropriate scope for the topic or form.   The breadth of the writing is neither too large nor too small. The writing is   a just-right slice, which allows room for appropriate depth. Whether called a   main idea, a controlling idea, a central idea, or a thesis, it all comes down   to this: What’s your focus?             Detail         Detail   should be plentiful without being flowery or overdone. Writers find   well-selected details—evidence, sensory images, or support. Powerful detail   illuminates without overwhelming, explains without boring to death. Somewhere   between enough and too much is a necessary and concrete place. This element   clearly relates to all of the other ten things. Because without the right   detail, your writing falls flat as the air hisses out of it.             Form         Any   form should be easy to follow and should reflect the purpose and the audience   the writer wants to address. This can be done singularly or, more likely, in   a mix of patterns, arranged and rearranged until the perfect structure is   found. Form not only shapes the message in orderly, sensible, and sometimes   surprising ways but also enhances the message.             Frames         An   introduction and a conclusion frame our message. The frame limits the edges   of how far our writing can go, keeping our focus within its borders. The lead   invites the reader on a journey, promising what is to come. The conclusion is   the finishing touch that, in the end, leaves the reader satisfied or hopeful   or not.             Cohesion         Cohesion   holds writing together. Cohesion is unity and transition, moving clearly from   point to point, scene to scene, or paragraph to paragraph. Cohesive writing   appears to a effortless connection. A connection and a progression that,   while not obvious, is evident and clear.             Energy         Writing   that sizzles or gets straight to the point embodies energy. Writing can be   emotional or removed. Energy moves in rhythms appropriate for the audience or   farm, but it is always alive. The up and down, the lilt, the rhythm of   writing that makes meaning; the flow, the personality that creates mood and   brings variety to the eye and ear. Directions on how to play a game may have   a different energy than a novel, but every text still needs a modicum of   life—if it is ever to be read.              Words         The   words we choose. The words we combine. Not just any old words, but deft   diction. Crisp language brings our thoughts to the page. Without obscuring   meaning with needless jargon, we use only enough specific nouns and lively   verbs to carry the message clearly and cleanly to the reader. Fresh metaphors   and comparisons are creative—not tiresome—and help the reader visualize or   understand.             Clutter         Clutter   is removed from writing so the message shines through. A careful second or   third revision removes words, phrases, or passages that needlessly repeat or   don’t move the writing forward. Delete any words or phrases that don’t   clarify the overall message or story. Rephrase, combine stances, take away   anything that isn’t doing new work.        To one degree or another, all ten things are essential to writing. 10 Things Every Writer Needs to Know discerns, in digestible chunks, what makes writing work, whether it’s fiction or nonfiction, a brochure or a literary analysis, or any task a writer tackles.  We can, for a time, put the ten things every writer needs to know into discrete categories, which will help students access concepts and patterns of success. However, the lines between the ten things every writer needs to know will always be blurred.  These things writers need to know come alive through models found in literature and discussions grounded in inquiry. We don’t get lost in abstract labels. Powerful literature starts the conversation. In one piece of good writing, many of the ten things may surface. For example, in this opening passage from The Lightning Thief by Rick Riordan, many attributes could be discussed:  Look, I didn’t want to be a half-blood.  If you’re reading this because you think you might be one, my advice is: close this book right now. Believe whatever lie your mom or dad told you about your birth, and try to lead a normal life.  Being a half-blood is dangerous. It’s scary. Most of the time, it gets you killed in painful, nasty ways.  If you’re a normal kid, reading this because you think it’s fiction, great. Read on. I envy you for being able to believe that none of this ever happened.  But if you recognize yourself on these pages—if you feel something stirring inside—stop reading immediately. You might be one of us. And once you know that, it’s only a matter of time before they sense it too, and they’ll come for you.  Don’t say I didn’t warn you.    The first thing I see is how Riordan toggles between the first-person point of view—“I-voice”—and directly addresses the audience with you—the second-person point of view. This sets a casual tone—a conversation between writer and reader. It would be an entirely different story if he had chosen the third-person point of view instead: Look, one doesn’t want to be a half-blood.  What a difference words—and a point of view—make. And the narrator, Percy Jackson, uses short sentence patterns, continuing this conversational tone, creating a fast-paced directness and energy. Since this passage is the lead to The Lightning Thief, we can’t help but notice how the passage frames the beginning of the novel, making promises. In a strong text, many aspects of successful writing can be addressed—the things every writer needs to know.  However, our purpose is to help students develop and own concepts. We can’t instruct, spewing layer after layer of information and expect it to stick. The brain overloads, shuts down, and nothing is learned. The information is merely presented, not taught. Without interaction, no analysis or active processing occurs. No meaning is made. As writing teachers, we find a focus, just like writers do. Sometimes we simplify, breaking concepts down, distilling key points, and delineating different strategies a writer uses to successfully communicate an idea or tone.  Several principles will come in handy as we explore all ten things throughout this book, but the most consistent principle across chapters is the use of literature as models. These models give writers a vision of what writers can do. Writers slow down and notice, spurring meaningful talk and collaboration, while embedding it all in the writing process.  Embedding the Ten Things in the Writing Process  There is a writing process, but there isn’t the writing process. When Donald Graves (1984) warned “the enemy is orthodoxy” early on in the writing-process movement, he was ensuring that, even though he was attempting to define the process in words and order, he noted that process, by definition, cannot be statically defined.  You already know this as a writer. Your process isn’t mine. You might learn from hearing mine. I might learn from hearing yours. But in the end, with every piece, my writing process may be a little different. When the research report Writing Next (Graham and Perin 2007) says that writing process works, most teachers say, “Yeah, I do that.” But when I look around at what some people call process writing, I wonder whether we need to remain in a constant state of doubt, so we never get too sure. The minute we think we know the writing process in an exact way is the moment we have lost contact with the writing process.  That’s what writing process is—a collaborative exploration that grapples with and constructs meaning. We don’t have to reinvent the wheel. A basic writing process path exists; we may dip into it and roll around. When we read a model text and freewrite, we’re drafting. We may take what we learned from reading and drafting and revise or edit some of our other writing. Of course, we know the basics of a writing process—generating ideas, drafting, revising, editing, and publishing. Although it looks predictable, it’s not. We don’t teach writing process as if it is a process. It’s recursive, messy, ever changing, and flexibly used as needed.  Part and Process: The Ten Things  Structuring each lesson to move through the entire writing process is beyond the scope of this book. Instead, I will share some ways students experience the essential elements of writing: how I motivate students to write, and what model texts I use to demonstrate writing’s power and inspire imitation. What motivates them to look again, revise, edit, and write more? What first steps do I take in any concept-building lessons of the ten things every writer needs to know? It’s all part of the writing process.