There’s an old platitude: Those that can’t do, teach. As a thirty veteran of the classroom, I’ve learned not to rise to such bait whenever I hear it. (Besides, in the next breath, this person usually utters something about “reading, ‘riting, and ‘rithmatic”—the so called “three R’s.”) As much as I hate to admit, in most every trope there lies a grain of truth—however minuscule. In the particular case of teaching writing, I discovered just how large that grain of truth can be.
In every state, school district, and school, there is no shortage of writing committees searching for the next magic pedagogical pill that with transform tetherball playing, hormone crazy, knee scraped students into masterful , inspired authors. A teacher’s book case, including mine, will have at least a shelve devoted to the art/craft/ science of writing instruction. Audience. Purpose. Voice. Specification. Writers workshops. Peer editing. All are part of the English teacher’s lexicon and methodology. Yet, despite one’s best efforts, poor writers marginally improve mechanically, proficient writes gain a modicum of fluency in their prose, and the very good writers by the eighth grade—well, frankly, sometimes their ability is beyond the teacher’s scope and influence. In the Sisyphusian quest of writing instruction, an epiphany lit up my synapses one day in the middle of class: One has to be a writer to effectively teach writing.
It was in early October two years ago when, on a whim, I decided to share a column with my students that I had previously written. I thought that they would find the four short, “true,” eerie tales in the piece entertaining, and hopefully motivating. After their initial questions regarding the veracity of the stories (they were all true, of course), I shared with them a couple of sentences and images I was especially proud of. I invited them to comment on any literary observations they might have. I was astounded at the questions and discussion that ensued. I had rarely seen them so engaged in analyzing writing. From that point forward, whenever we begin a new genre or type of writing, they ask if I have something of my own I can read. I share with them my thought process about things like pacing, rhythm, organization, and the revision process. Most importantly, they have begun to organically discuss those same elements when they share their own writing in small groups or before the class.
Most modern writing instruction methodologies stress the importance of modeling writing for students—much like a math teacher will do with a new problem. There is a substantial difference I discovered between modeling a lesson and sharing authentic writing. The kids can sense the difference. Writing monthly columns for the CBA these last four years has somehow purchased me a certain legitimacy before my students. Assuming that one isn’t hammering at the keyboard shortly before deadline, the writing process is a life and death struggle. Only those that experiences the process upclose, like a war correspondent on the front-lines, can viscerally share the experience. Ideas and metaphor breath their first gulp of air. Some will perish early in their infancy Some will live. One must the find intrinsic worth in the struggle to bring a concept to fruitful life. This struggle can authentically be shared by those who write, and kids, the ultimate truth detectors, are attracted to the contest.
As a side observation (I never allow my students to digress in their writing like I am about to), over the years it has become apparent the girls generally are the more creative writers than boys, in fluency and mechanics. With few exceptions, in every class I can identify a few young ladies that have discovered a fountain expression in their writing. Boys generally are lummoxes, their prose at best clunky and their plots prosaic. It is interesting to note that contrary to the anecdotal evidence by me and most other educators, recent studies analyzing the ratio of publication and reviews of literature between men and woman offer a startling result. Over 70% of research bylines are by men. A 2013 analysis of the New York Review of Books revealed that 306 books penned by men were reviewed as opposed to 59 by women. Studies of other publishers and reviewers indicate results not as glaringly wide, yet significant nonetheless. Take a quick scan of the columns written by gender on our own CBA website. There is a lot of room for hypothesis and conjecture in the numbers, but it strikes me that there is an obvious disjunct between what teachers are seeing regarding authorship when people are 14 years old and what is occurring in adulthood. With all the talented young ladies I see every year in my classes, I am left wondering if there is something I can do to narrow that gap. More importantly, is there something I am doing to contribute to that gap?
Of all the great rewards Rick Cornish offered me (fame, untold wealth, a place assured for me in Heaven) when he sat in my backyard sipping, admiring my snap dragons, and cajoling me to write monthly Welcome Column, little did I realize the greatest reward would be a greater appreciation for writing that I could, in turn, share with my students. Of course, the greatest reward is yet to come: when I get to read something that one of my students has published.
