Facing the Blank Screen

It is the end of the semester! Yahoo! And although the conversation I have with everyone I meet on campus this week is “I can’t believe the semester is over already! It went by so fast!” January does seem a long time ago. I began this blog at the beginning of the semester with the intent of posting an entry a week. With the help of some guest bloggers (Thanks Mark, Kate, and Deirdre!), I have met that goal. In January I didn’t think writing a post a week would be too difficult. I’m a writer, I like to write, and I have a lot to say. As the semester moved along I began to joke that I didn’t realize what a demanding pace writing a weekly blog was. It wasn’t really a joke.  My plan in January was to write my post early in the week so I would have plenty of time for drafting, thinking, crafting sentences, revising. However around mid-semester I found myself starting my weekly posts closer and closer to the deadline and therefore condensing this writing process.  Regardless of a few stressful nights, I’m not sorry I took on this task and plan to continue—well maybe with the help of a few more guest bloggers. But I’ve learned some things this semester by writing this blog, some things I will take with me into the College Writing classroom in September. 

 Here is what I’ve learned:

 1)     Facing a blank screen /page every week can be daunting.

 2)     Despite the best intentions, things like other work priorities & life obligations can and do get in the way. 

 3)     I don’t always write the best I can.

 4)     I don’t always practice what I teach.

 5)     Sustained weekly writing does make me a better writer. 

 Understanding all this may not make me a better writing teacher in September, but it will help me be more empathic towards my students and hopefully more humble in the classroom.

 

 

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Pen and Trowel

This past weekend we were lucky to have Monday off due to the Patriots Day Holiday and the weather was great. I was able to get outside and start working in my garden. I raked oak leaves, cut away last summer’s plant stalks, and picked up dead branches. I like having a garden for all the usual reasons—the flowers, it’s nice to grow things, a garden makes my yard look better. But having a garden also helps me to better understand the writing process and teaching. Now I know this isn’t anything new. The garden as a writing metaphor is common, and the garden as a teaching metaphor is, well, cliche. But, I’m talking about something different here.

First I need to make two things clear.
1. I love to write. Really—I’m not just saying this because I’m a writing teacher. I love to write. I love working on a piece of writing—working on sentences, working out the structure, revising. I love being absorbed in a writing project. My favorite part of the summer is that each morning after I walk my dogs by the lake, I can go into my study and work out a narrative problem in my novel.

2. I don’t really like working in my garden. I know I should work in my garden. I know I should be out there everyday weeding, moving plants around, cutting things back, watering, fertilizing, dead-heading, spreading mulch. I know my garden would look better if I did all these things, but I tend to procrastinate and avoid getting out there to do what needs to be done. I’m always happy once I’ve made myself weed because the garden does look better, but I must admit working in the garden is something I usually have to force myself to do.

So what I’ve come to realize is that I like having a garden more than I like working in the garden. It is this realization that helps me better understand writing and my teaching.

I think it’s safe to say that most people don’t like writing and most of these people are in my required first-year writing class. Granted I’ll get a student or two who loves writing, but most of the students in my class don’t like to write. I hope this doesn’t sounds too critical or mean. But it’s a fact and I know it’s a fact because most of my students are up front about how they feel about writing, reading and English classes in general. “I never liked English classes,” they will say. “I don’t like writing and I don’t like to read,” they will confess to me in my office. “No offensive, Professor Woods, but I dreaded taking this class.” I like that my students feel they can be honest with me.

I think I’m like most people. Because I love something it can be difficult for me to imagine that other people don’t like what I love. I’m still shocked when people (students and non-students) tell me they don’t like to read. Really? I think to myself. How can anyone really not like to read? My students are also very willing to point this out. “You don’t understand,” they will say.“You’ve always been a good writer because you love to write.” Well they’re wrong about the part that I’ve always been a good writer, but they’re right that I have always loved writing. It’s because I love to write that I work at it and want to get better.

But I think they are right that I always don’t quite understand why they don’t spend hours and hours thinking about their essays. It is gardening that helps me understand what they are saying. Just like I want to have a garden, but not too keen on the process of getting a beautiful garden, my students want to have an essay, but aren’t too keen on the process of writing it. To put it simply, I like having gardened; my students like having written.

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Early Morning Musings: Teaching at 8:00 AM by Deirdre Vinyard

Deirdre Vinyard is the Deputy Director of the UMass Writing Program. She teaches the first-year writing courses (College and Basic Writing) and directs the Basic Writing Program.

Ok, I’ll admit it. When I ended up teaching a section of Basic Writing last spring semester at 8:00 AM, I hadn’t actually requested that early hour. After I had assigned all the Basic Writing sections based on teacher preferences, the one section left over was at 8:00 AM. A little resentful, I took it and vowed to avoid scheduling classes this early in the future. I was sure that my students would come to class late, or worse, comatose, and that I would be fighting with them all semester about my attendance and late policies. The class I taught was one of five sections of Basic Writing that semester, so the students had little choice, and I thought they would be annoyed about the time. I also feared that discussion would languish at that time of the day, with everyone’s system just barely waking up by the end of class. I pictured myself lugging an espresso machine to my classroom on the first floor of Bartlett just to get through the semester.

The first day of class, I took an extra early bus, to make sure that I arrived on time. That winter (remember winter?) was cold and bright with snow. The sky was still a bit dark as I boarded that Amherst-bound bus in mid January. As we rounded the corner onto Massachusetts Avenue to the UMass campus, the morning sun was just coming into full form, lighting up piles of hard, white snow. It had begun, my 8 AM semester.

I arrived at class that first day prepared to wait for my students, sure they would drag in late. To my surprise, more than half of my students got to class at least 10 minutes early. An even greater surprise was that about half my students consistently arrived at class earlier than I did. As the semester progressed, they took the time before class to chat, listen to songs on each other’s I-pods and amuse each other with tales of dorm life. I found out at the end of the semester that three of them had taken to going to breakfast together after each class. I had assumed that my students would be mute with fatigue. They were anything but.

As the semester progressed and the sky at the bus stop each morning grew lighter, the students in my 8 AM class continued to get to know each other. A few snuck in late on occasion (I did have to talk to one student about lateness) but in truth, my students were tardy no more often than they were when I taught at 11:15 (a time considered very much before his preferred rising time for one of my students that semester). So my fears about the perils of the eight o’clock class were allayed.

But then I realized that something else had happened, having nothing to do with my students. My teaching was over by 9:30, leaving me the rest of the day to work on other things. I find that even though I have been teaching for a long, long time, I still mentally prepare for my class a little bit up until the time I teach. By finishing so early, I felt that I was more focused on my other work (and had longer stretches of time to do it).

So this spring I opted for another 8 AM class, this time a section of College Writing. To my surprise, the section filled up very quickly in the registration period, a sign that students were truly looking for an early class—since many sections of College Writing later in the day filled after my 8 AM section was full. This semester, I have almost no lateness. I have not had to reprimand my class or any of my students individually even once. In talking to my students, I have found that they have a number of reasons for wanting to have an early class. Four of them are on UMass teams and have practice later in the day. Two of my students are roommates and wanted to merge their schedules to make getting up and out of the room a collaborative effort. I even have one student this semester who took my 8 AM class in Spring 2011—clearly a fan of the early morning sky.

I recognize that problems can arise from teaching at 8, particularly if the students have little choice in registration. As I said, the students in my Basic Writing class had only five sections to pick from, and I did have to speak a few times about lateness. I think the 8 AM choice works better for College Writing since students have over a hundred options.

Given the boost to my work schedule (and the nice surprise that I do not face a pile of slumbering bodies twice a week), I am definitely going to go for the early morning class next time I teach College Writing. (I’m even beginning to feel a little nostalgic for the cool light coming from a January sky in the early hours before class.)

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Re-Visiting Adrienne Rich

Adrienne Rich, the poet, essayist, and feminist, died last week. When I learned of her death, I was, of course, sadden, and then her words about revision—“[r]e-vision—the act of looking back, of seeing with fresh eyes, of entering an old text from a new critical direction…”[1] came to mind. It wasn’t too odd that her words came to me, because these words from her essay “When We Dead Awaken: Writing as Re-Vision” are never too far from my mind. It was through Rich’s essay that I really understood the meaning of revision as a continuous process.

Although Rich’s work has influenced my work as a feminist writer on many levels and in many ways, it is this concept of re-seeing or re-visioning that I carry into the writing classroom. I work to move my students away from thinking that drafting and revision are about getting to the perfect text as quickly as possible. I ask them to think of the texts they create as never done; to see their work as ever-changing pieces of writing. I encourage my students to acknowledge, to articulate, to examine the eyes they see, read, and understand with. I do this by writing “revision” on the board as “Re-Vision.” I do this by designing exercises that ask them to re-see what they have written.  I do this by paraphrasing Rich—Remember, revision is not about fixing or correcting. It’s about the act of re-seeing.   

If you haven’t read “When We Dead Awaken: Writing as Re-Vision” (of if you haven’t read it in a while) I encourage you to do so. You will find the piece in many anthologies, but also here at this link: http://www.nbu.bg/webs/amb/american/5/rich/writing.htm.

 As Rich invites us to return to “old texts” with fresh eyes, I invite you to share your “old texts,” here, with all of us. If there is a text that has influenced your work as a writer and a teacher of writing, please share it with us.   

 


[1] From Adrienne Rich’s essay “When We Dead Awaken: Writing as Re-Vision” from On Lies, Secret, and Silence: Selected Prose 1966-1978

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The Do Nothing Teacher

This semester I’m teaching an experimental writing workshop. The class has 12 students and we meet once a week for 2 1/2 hours. The course is divided into three units and for each unit the students complete a writing project. The day the unit projects are due we spend the majority of the class reading one another’s projects. I should clarify here. The students spend the majority of the class reading one another’s projects. I spend the majority of the class doing nothing. I do have a pedagogical reason for doing nothing—since I’m going to collect and comment on all the projects I want to give the students the opportunity to read as many of their colleagues’ pieces as possible. I also find the discussion we have about the projects to be so much more productive because I have yet to read them. The students must carry on the discussion without me interrupting constantly with my 2 cents. So while the students are reading through their projects, I’m sitting there trying to look like I’m doing something. Sometimes I write in my notebook, sometimes I read the book I’ve assigned for the following week. I’ve considered bringing my laptop in order to do get some work done while they’re reading, but I don’t want them to think I’m checking my email or on Facebook (just for the record, I don’t have a Facebook page). I’ve also considered using that time to read, but I thought I would feel funny reading while they are working. I feel I must do or at least look like I’m doing something that is class related.

 This also happens to me when I teach College Writing. I set up the peer review activity or some other kind of revision activity and then I watch the students work. Sometimes I sit at the “teacher” desk in the front of the room, open up my lesson planning book and look at it. Sometimes I stand by the blackboard and pretend I’m gauging their progress with the activity. Periodically I circulate the room under the pretense of checking in with them, but really it’s only to give me something to do while they were working. During these days, like in my experimental writing class, I’ve been tempted to pull out a book to read. But it doesn’t feel right. I don’t want them to look up and see me reading The Hunger Games when I’m supposed to be teaching the class.

 I don’t think I’m alone with this problem. In fact I think this is a common problem in writing classes. When the students are writing in class, doing peer review, doing any kind of activity either in groups or individually, what is the teacher supposed to be doing?

We think that as teachers we are supposed to be doing something in the classroom. And of course we aren’t wrong in thinking this—we are supposed to be teaching the class. But sometimes we think teaching means we should be explaining something, lecturing about something, telling the students something, calling on people, and answering questions. Sitting at the desk, reading a novel is not teaching the class. So while the class is actively engaged in peer review, there can be such a strong temptation to interrupt the students as they work. Sometimes I catch myself interrupting them to further explain something, letting them work for a while and then interrupting again to tell them something else. Sometimes I find myself pacing around the room and hovering over them as they read and write. I don’t think any of this really helps them learn.

 Since this is such a strong temptation and since doing nothing can make me uncomfortable in my own class, I need to keep reminding myself that teaching just doesn’t take place in the classroom. Every teacher knows that all the work we do outside of the classroom – the papers we read and respond to, all the prep work, all the lesson planning is all a part of our teaching. But when I’m in the classroom pretending to be doing something “teacherly,” I have to keep reminding myself that I’ve already done a lot of my work as a teacher before I’ve walked in. The lesson plan I’ve designed for a peer review day or a revision activity is my teaching. And since writing is an activity that is best learned by doing, creating the space for the students to work through the activity and letting them do it is teaching the class even if on the surface it looks like I’m not doing anything.

Of course it’s difficult, and of course I’m not saying I would ever be comfortable with putting my feet up on the desk, drinking coffee, and reading the paper while the students are working. But I’m working at being more comfortable with taking on the role of time manager, being quiet, and getting out of the students’ way so they can learn.

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Teaching texts that seem difficult but are worth the risk by Kate Litterer

This week’s guest blogger is Kate Litterer a second year MFA student who currently teaches in the UMass Writing Program. Kate is a member of our Resource Center staff and serves on the Writing Program Curriculum and Diversity Committees.

 One of my teaching goals is to help students learn to analyze and respond to what they read so that they can ultimately learn to argue and develop their own points for their own purposes.  In order to get them there we read essays from our common reader, Other Words, an anthologized collection of essays by many different writers on and in many different themes, topics, and styles. What I enjoy most about Other Words is the diversity the texts offer to me as an instructor. I don’t mean just in terms of the topics or themes, either; many of the writers are minorities and their being so offers enriching readings of the essays. 

 Before this year I stayed away from essays I felt were too difficult to teach. Indeed, I hope that I can find ways to teach my students how to read and respond critically to texts no matter the theme or topic, but I avoided essays that I felt might spur challenging conversations about race, gender, sexuality, class, etc. This is surprising, as these things motivate me in my own studies as well as my discussions, my friendships, my research, and my writing, but I was nervous to talk about them in my role as an instructor! However, I decided that it was the important thing to do, and starting with “My Memory and Witness” by Dean Spade and Lis Goldschmidt, I breached the topic of a personal essay about transgender identities and class inequalities.

 There is no way to tell how a class will take a text; fifteen different bodies and minds from fifteen individual experiences affects the ways they will read a text. During that particular conversation one of my students spoke for the entire class, stating, “We don’t have experience with [being poor] so we don’t know what to say about the essay.” I was dumbfounded—much of my identity as a scholar (and a person) comes from my working class family background and reading an essay from and about a working-class experience is not only natural but also exciting and powerful. Of course, I didn’t expect my students to all jump on the personal experience as connection train, though; I just didn’t expect them to speak for one another, to assume they could not enter to text, or to give up on their analysis before they had begun.

What I did and do is take a step back and talk with my students. Sometimes this involves asking them questions: Why didn’t they think they could get into the text? Why did Spade and Goldschmidt write about the topic, then, if not everyone could immediately access the text? Who are Spade and Goldschmidt? Why does it matter that we are reading this text? Sometimes we take a break and they write about their response or their ideas before we chat. This has been instrumental in helping my students to enter into texts that are initially difficult, because they feel they don’t fit into the text personally or as a student (difficult texts can include those that are formally challenging, too!).

 In my opinion, I can say that students enjoyed and benefited from reading difficult texts…sometimes we just had to have a class discussion in order to help them find their way into the texts. With Jamaica Kincaid’s “A Small Place,” I ask my students to share their responses (which are sometimes, if not often, viscerally harsh) before we look at the style of the text. I recognize that they bring their fifteen different feelings and responses to the text and we/they work together to talk through the purpose, style, and rhetoric of the text. What I love most about these discussions is they way students engage with one another, supporting and building on one another’s points, adventuring into the text together, and eventually hitting on the purpose and importance of the text.

 If I had to say what I have learned about teaching “difficult” texts is that it is entirely worth it. Sometimes it doesn’t go exactly how I had planned and I have to extend discussions or offer prompting questions. Sometimes my students challenge one another, the author, or me. But through all of these sometimes difficult situations I have found that my students and I both appreciate our new knowledge about something that is more than just rhetoric, style, and form; we appreciate that we are learning about the world, about what matters to real writers and audiences, and about how writing can express those powerful voices to larger communities.

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Not All Responders Are Equal

As a teacher of first-year writing I realized something about peer review. I’m a better responder to writing than my students. Now I don’t mean to sound arrogant here, but for a long time I tried to conduct peer review as if I was just like every other responder in the classroom. I would begin peer review sessions in my classes by saying that all writers need multiple readers for their work. I would write a series of prompts on the board and then ask the students to give one another feedback. At the end of the peer review session I would pick up their papers and tell them I would give them feedback just like their peer responders. I would take their papers home, respond and then return them, once again telling them that I was only one responder in this whole process and they needed to examine all the feedback they received, determine what feedback was useful to them and revise accordingly. The students would do this, but usually it seemed to me that they would only use my comments and disregard their peers. When asked about what worked and didn’t work in peer review students would say the following: I really don’t know what to say because I’m not qualified to comment on other kids’ papers.
I never get good feedback from my peers. Peggy, your feedback is always the best!

For a long time I would address these comments by stressing even more the importance of peer review and working even harder to train them to be effective responders. I would work on the prompts I gave them, I would ask them to review and comment on ALL the feedback that they received—their peers and mine. I would try to boost their confidence: You don’t have to be an English teacher to be a good reader! You’re a reader and you know what you think! And I would politely tell them they didn’t have to suck up to me just because I was the teacher.

But of course I wasn’t fooling the students. They knew very well that I was the only responder in that classroom holding the grade book. But I think they also knew something that I wasn’t willing to admit—I really am a better responder to texts than they are. And then I realized that I should be. I have years on my students—not just in age, but I have years of training and experience responding to texts of all kinds. I studied how to be an effective responder. I’ve read and responded to hundreds and hundreds of pages of writing—mostly essays written by first-year students. I am actually a very skilled reader of these texts. Responding to texts is what I do, so I should be “better” at it than a first-year college student.

And then I realized something else. By not admitting I was a more experienced responder than the students in the classroom, I was consistently trumping everyone’s peer response. I would let the students go through the peer review activity, gather their responses, and then I would throw down my response—a response not only from a skilled and experience reader, but a response from the person holding the grade book. Let’s be honest. Whose feedback would you take? I was not only canceling out all the feedback that was given, but I was reinforcing how ineffective they saw peer review. In a sense, I was sabotaging the entire process.

So now I try to think about peer review in a different way. I still work hard at training the students to be effective responders, but now I acknowledge that I am a different responder than they are. I think about how their responses to one another and how my feedback to their work can work together and complement one another rather than compete. I try to structure my peer review sessions so that the peer responders provide feedback to specific things (sometimes very specific things) within the text and when I respond to their drafts, I respond to different concerns and issues. This helps to build the students’ confidence as responders because it enables them to give feedback that will be used by their peers. This also helps to make the peer review sessions more productive—the feedback the students provide to one another is useful and the feedback I provide is also useful. I still stress that all writers need multiple readers, but now I stress that different readers bring different strengths to the text and provide writers with different responses. As writers we don’t need a lot of responders attempting to compete for our attention, but responders whose particular strengths and perspectives will enable us to further develop our texts.

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Error Gone Right

I made a mistake in my class. It wasn’t a big mistake, but it was a mistake. This semester I’m teaching an experimental writing class. Like all classes I teach, I have a notebook where I write out my lesson plans and notes for the course.  I keep these notebooks so that I can refer to them the next time I teach the course. Now I’m going to be honest. I don’t always write out the most detailed lesson plans, but at the very least I do write down the plan for the day, particularly the order of how things will go and a loose time frame to keep me on track. So for the first day of my experimental class, here is what I wrote down in my book:

Roster–attendance
Introductions (introduce one another, recommend a movie)
Go over syllabus & course
Postcard exercise
Write 20-25 mins. read aloud,
Maybe take break before read aloud?
Label – maybe in pairs? maybe in three?
Pass out poems –begin talking about genre
Explain homework – turn postcard ex into another genre

 
So the first day of the semester I went to class, opened my teaching book and began. I introduced myself, went over the roster, and passed out the syllabus.  I talked about the course, about the writing we would be doing, what the grading policy would be for this pass/fail course. Then we began our first writing exercise.  We all wrote and then we began the process of reading our pieces out loud.
 
I like beginning a writing class like this. I think it sets the tone for the type of writing community I want to foster—a community where we write together and share our work.  I also like to use what I call the postcard exercise—I have a box of postcards that I throw on the table, ask each student to select three postcards and then generate a piece of writing that incorporates all three.  I like to begin with this exercise because it reinforces one of the basic assumptions for any writing class that I teach—there is no right way to do an assignment and part of the assignment is negotiating how to do the exercise. Asking the students to read out loud what they have written also helps to break the ice. All their voices get entered into our classroom space on the very first day.  This also gives me the opportunity to show the students that I mean what I say. As they go around and read their pieces I say something to validate each piece. (Just a note this isn’t hard or by any means a stretch. I have done this exercise many semesters with many different students and every writer does something surprising, interesting, beautiful, and great. I am also constantly amazed at how many different ways students find to create a piece of writing out of three random postcards.)
 
As usual when we begin to read what we had written I reminded the students to say their names so we could begin the process of learning everyone’s names. Everyone did, but as we went around the circle I had the nagging feeling that I had forgotten something. It wasn’t until we took our break and I looked down at my teaching book that I realized that I had forgotten to have the students introduce themselves. I introduced myself to them, but I forgot to have them introduce themselves to one another! What an idiot! I thought to myself.  All this talk about building a writing community and I forgot to do the most basic part—have them introduce themselves! Looking down at my teaching book I had to decide quickly. I could skip the introductions and just continue on with the class. That way I wouldn’t look like the absent-minded professor in front of them. I could do the introductions and pretend that was the plan all along, but they might think it was odd since as upperclassmen they know the routine of these small classes. Or I could just fess up and ask them to introduce themselves.
 
I decided to confess my error. When they came back from the break I said, “I just realized I forgot to have you introduce yourselves to one another.  I was so intent on going over the course that I forget to have you do that. So we’ll do it now.”
 
“Yeah,” one of the students said. “I thought you were going to make us do that, but I’m glad you didn’t. I liked that we wrote first.”
 
“Okay, “I said. “Why don’t we go around and introduce ourselves and tell us about a movie you would recommend us to see.”
 
So as they began to go around the table and tell us the usual things about themselves and the movies they like I began to realize that maybe, just maybe this is an error that had gone right. The students seemed a bit more relaxed while giving their introductions, they seemed to be listening to one another a bit more, they seemed to laugh a bit more, they seemed to be a bit more engaged with one another. Although asking the students to introduce to one another seems like a great way to begin a writing class (and I’m not saying that I would ever give it up) maybe it seems to the students a bit artificial. Maybe saying your name, your major, etc. is just the routine way of interacting in a college community. Granted I have tried to break this up a bit by asking to recommend a movie—giving them something else to say as a way to connect to one another. But maybe having shared their writing with one another first gave them something to connect with, something that gave them the sense that they were already getting to know one another.
 
So maybe the way to build a writing community is to actually have them engage together in the process of writing as soon as possible.  Maybe this is a mistake I will make again.

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Confronting the Inner English Teacher

As a writer I believe in peer review. Of course as a writer, I never actually call it peer review; rather I call it “meeting with my writing group,” or “showing my work to my trusted writing friends.” I can honestly say that I read every word of my first novel out loud to my writing group. I can also attest that the members of my writing group read draft after draft of my novel silently to themselves. And I have done the same for them—I have listened and read every word of their projects. So I can safely say that I believe in the process of peer review, the benefits of having fellow writers to work through the steps of the writing process.

So this is why, as a teacher, I want peer review to work in my class. I want my students to reap the same benefits that I, as a writer, reap from being a part of a writing group. I want my students to see that writing is best done in community, with fellow writers giving support, encouragement, advice, and suggestions along the way. I also want them to gain the benefits of being involved in someone else’s writing process. This all sounds great.

So why doesn’t peer review always work in the writing classroom?

I’ve tried a lot things to make peer review work in my class. For one thing I have avoided calling it peer review. Today we are going to work in our revision groups. I’ve also tried disguising peer review as some kind of fun activity. Today we are going to do speed-revising. I’ve also tried designing very specific, concrete activities. Today in our revision groups we are going to exchange papers. Who is the audience for this paper? Why? Only talk about audience. Don’t talk about anything else. Only audience. I’ve also built it reflection as a part of the peer review process. Okay, look at the comments you received from your colleagues (yes, I never call them peer reviewers) What suggestions will you use for revision and why? Which revisions won’t you use and why?

All these things work to varying degrees of success. Some work better than others depending on the usual range of factors—the students, the unit, the time of the semester, etc.

But there seems to be another problem. The inner English teacher. It seems that our students have hidden deep within them an English teacher wielding a red pen. As soon as I put a paper into their hands and ask them to respond, this inner English teacher emerges to find every error, every typo, to fill the margins with abbreviations like “trans,” “awk” and to write comments at the end that say “Be specific,” “Use more examples,”  “Develop.”

Where does this inner English teacher come from?

To be quite honest, I’m as guilty as my students when it comes to “correcting” typos and errors. I find whenever I’m given a paper at any stage of the drafting process, if I don’t stop myself, I’ll go through the paper circling the its/it’s errors, writing awk in the margin of sentences that are unclear to me, and deleting un-necessary words. I do this because somewhere I have internalized that this is the job of the English teacher—to correct and to fix what is wrong.

But this is also how I’ve been responded to throughout my own education. Yes, I’ve gotten insightful comments that have enabled me to revise. Yes, I’ve gotten great feedback that has encouraged me to keep writing and to develop my ideas further. But if I look back, the one thing that English teachers (and really all teachers regardless of discipline who have responded to a piece of my writing) have done consistently is to correct and fix.

So no wonder this is what our students think they are supposed to do. Since this may be the only consistent way of responding to texts they have received, when put in the role that usually belongs to the “teacher” they may feel this is what they are supposed to do as well.

So what can we do besides banning red pens from peer review sessions? What I’ve tried to do in my classes is to acknowledge the inner English teacher in all of us. As responders of texts, I say, we all have this built in reflex to correct an error when we see it. But for this particular revision workshop we want to focus on developing our ideas. We’ll all get a chance to be English teachers later on in the process.

I also try not to live by the “do as I say not as I do” motto. In other words, I follow my own directions. When I respond to initial drafts I make a very conscious effort not to write on the draft. This keeps me from circling errors, typos, sentence fragments, subject/verb disagreements that will be worked out for the final draft. This also helps to focus the students’ attention on my comments about how to develop their ideas; reinforcing to the students that revision is about developing ideas not about correcting and fixing.

But most importantly I try to remember that when I am responding to my students’ work, I am not responding as an English teacher to students. Rather I am responding as a writer to other writers. This helps to keep my own inner English teacher at bay and hopefully this enables me to model how writers help one another work through the steps of the writing process.

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The Stack

This was originally posted on the Writing Program’s “It’s a Process” blog on 9/26/2010.

I’ll admit it. All weekend I was dreading it. When I was walking my dogs by the lake, running the usual weekend errands, waking up in the middle of the night, I would remember that on Tuesday I would be picking up the final drafts of my students first papers. In my mind I kept seeing this stack of paper. I kept dividing “the stack” into piles, sorting “the stack” into seemingly manageable piles, cutting the piles into smaller and smaller piles. I began making the usual deals with myself. (Okay, after every fifth paper, you can get a cup of tea or a cookie or check email or take the dogs out for a walk.) In my mind I kept going over my calendar, blocking out chunks of time in order to get through the stack. As the weekend progressed, the stack in my mind grew, became larger and larger. By Sunday night all I could think of was this giant, towering stack of papers covering on my entire desk. “I can’t do it!” I thought to myself. “I’ll never be able to read them all! Never!!”

At the end of class on Tuesday, I collected my students’ papers and carried them up to my office. I arranged them in a neat pile on my desk. Although the stack wasn’t as large or as towering as I had built up in my mind, I could feel a new sense of panic creeping up in me. “How am I going to respond to all these paper?” I thought to myself. “What am I going to say?” Panic gave way to despair. Why did I assign Myself in Words, again? I already saw the quotations they brought in. I already read their first drafts. I really don’t have anything more to say about living life to the fullest, to always be sure to appreciate your family and friends. I really have nothing to say about the importance of working hard. “I can’t do this,” I thought to myself. Glancing through the stack I could already see that many of these essays were the traditional five paragraph essay, many were filled with generalizations, partially developed thoughts and ideas. What was I going to do?

So I did what most teachers faced with a stack of papers do—I checked my email, I sharpened my pencil, I went to get an iced coffee, I checked my email, I sharpened another pencil, I googled something, checked my email again—until the fear of not getting through the stack became so great, I finally sat down at my desk, picked up the first paper, and began to read.

And then I realized what I was forgetting. These papers were written by my students. The students I have been getting to know over the last three weeks, the students I’ve been doing writing exercises with, listening to, talking to. As I began to read, the students’ faces appeared before me. I could hear their voices through their words. Things they had said in class came back to me. I wanted to keep reading. I realized that I wanted to know what they had to say. I wanted to know what they were thinking. I wanted to say something back to them.

As I made my way through the stack of papers I realized I was no longer reading clichéd papers about the importance of friendships, of being nice to your family, and the virtues of working hard. I was reading about Lisa’s* homesickness, Jack’s fears of dealing with the academic challenges of college, Mary’s feelings about being away from her family. The stack was no longer a stack of paper, but the students in my class.

Okay. I’ll admit it. I still sorted the papers in smaller piles. After every paper that I read I counted how many I had left to do. I still took breaks and bribed myself in order to make it through the stack. The panic that I wouldn’t get through them all, never really went away. And I’ll admit it, when I finished the last paper I did get up and dance around my office.

But I realized I was forgetting something else. I was forgetting that these first papers are more than just the first papers that our students write. These papers are just the beginning, the start of what we are going to be working through all semester. These papers are the beginning of us learning more about our students. Our responses are the beginning of the dialogue we want to open up with our students about their writing.

* All student names have been changed.

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