I'm A Pro At Crastination

In Right #4 of Vicki Spandel’s book The 9 Rights of Every Writer, she talks about the right to personalize one’s own writing process. “No two writers go about the business of discovering, shaping, or sharing ideas in just the same way,” she writes, and I couldn’t agree more. Over many years of writing, both for school and for myself, I’ve developed a process for writing that probably wouldn’t work for anyone else. If I had to break it down, I’d say it’s a three-part process: procrastinate, agonize, and then crank on it. Lather, rinse, repeat.

Like so many writers, I do my best writing at the last minute. That’s because I do all my writing at the last minute. Fortunately, after years of feeling bad about it, I was validated by a college professor who told our composition class that procrastination isn’t necessarily a bad thing. He illuminated the differences between active procrastination and passive procrastination. The former means that even when you’re not doing the actual writing, you’re thinking about the subject, getting ideas, making plans, either consciously or subconsciously – even while you’re playing Guitar Hero. The latter means you’re playing Guitar Hero because, against all evidence to the contrary, you think that if you put if off long enough, that paper really will write itself.

I do both, frankly, and it depends on 1. the assignment itself, and 2. the demands of daily life. After doing laundry, vacuuming, organizing my workspace, and finally facing the facts, I sit down to write. Those first few moments are the agonizing part. If I’ve got a great idea, I want it come out perfectly the first time. If I don’t, then at least I want to write something I won’t be ashamed to put my name on. I sit at my desk and I think. And think. And then I put my name and the date on it. And then I think some more. Three ice ages later, the first word gets typed, and some short time thereafter something just happens – and I’m off. Ah, the magic of writing. The brutal, painful, miserable magic of writing.

So I definitely understand the need to respect each student’s process for writing. I hated drafting in high school and college, because I never really understood the purpose. I remember every teacher I ever had (except that one professor) saying, “Now, don’t wait until the last minute,” never acknowledging that waiting until the last minute works for some people. My version of that would be, “If you’re the kind of person who can wait until the last minute and still do quality work, then by all means. But if you’re not, you should accept that, and try to figure out what kind of writing process will work best for you.” And then I’ll do my best to help them do just that.

This week’s resource link: The Writing Process. This page is a tutorial developed by Jill Haslam that acknowledges the “recursive, rather than linear” nature of writing, and goes through the steps and strategies of each part of the process - I especially found the various prewriting strategies to be useful.

Grammar Geek

It's time for me to admit it: I am a huge geek.

Okay, so that isn't exactly earth-shattering news to those people who know me well, but it's especially hard to deny one's geekiness when one is excited to read an article about teaching the semicolon, thinking to himself, "Yay! The semicolon is my favorite punctuation mark!" Some of us were born to be English teachers, I guess.

In undergrad, my comp professor even told me that I overused the semicolon and that I should use it maybe once per page, at most. (This general idea would later be echoed in my British Lit class, where the T.A. wrote on one of my papers, "Consider using the dash more sparingly.") They're right, of course - overuse of dramatic punctuation makes one's writing unnecessarily...dramatic. Anyway, apparently I'm not alone in my love for the semicolon; Angela Petit, author of the article "The Sylish Semicolon," talks about the effectiveness of teaching grammar within a context, using her lesson on semicolons as an example.

When it comes to grammar instruction, there seems to be two major mindsets out there of English teachers: "Oh dear Lord, this is boring. Even I'm bored. Let's either ditch this altogether or find some fun way to teach it," or for people like me, "I love grammar! The kids will see how enthusiastic I am about it and then they'll give a damn!" Neither attitude is really going to make a positive difference to high schoolers. A grammar geek has no problem discussing and analyzing decontextualized grammar, but the vast majority of teenagers do.

And why shouldn't they? Most of their grammar instruction has been done through worksheets and boring lectures - I spent most of my childhood diagramming sentences. I've talked about this before, but when grammar is learned as a series of complicated, nonsensical and yet ironclad rules, the students' engagement level is going to plummet. But if grammar can be taught with a purpose, within a context, as a way of looking at how language is put together and analyzing the reasons behind a particular usage or punctuation choice, and yes, with enthusiasm, then there may be hope for grammar instruction yet.

Resource link: Teachnology. This page has multiple links to fun and engaging grammar lessons for kids of all ages.

Never Cry Wolf

As teachers of writing, how do we evaluate student work over the course of a composition class? The typical answer is, we take each paper, grade them, and hand them back with feedback for what to do next time. The process may or may not include drafting or revision. With this system, it's hard to assess just how much a given student has learned over time. Using portfolio assessments is probably a better method for this kind of long-term evaluation, and I fully intend to use them for any writing class I might teach, whether it's creative or expository.

But what type of portfolio is the best to use? Kenneth Wolf, in his article "Portfolio Purposes and Possibilities" (gotta love that alliteration!) says there are three main types of portfolios: the ownership portfolio, which emphasizes student choice; the feedback portfolio, which is an ongoing record of the learning process; and the accountability portfolio, which is used for large-scale assessment. Each type has its own strengths and weaknesses, so each one is best suited for different, specific purposes.

The portfolio should be used in accordance with class objectives. Were I to teach a creative writing class, I think the ownership portfolio is the way to go, because I want to foster students' ability to assess themselves and experience several different forms and genres of creative writing. For an expository composition class, I'd definitely go with the feedback portfolio. It's the best way to document students' progress as writers, keep an open dialogue with them about their writing, and tailor instruction to meet their individual needs.

The accountability portfolio has its own merits, but not so much within an actual classroom. Rather, it can be used for large-scale student and program assessment - the state of Kentucky, for example, uses portfolio assessments to evalute students' abilities to meet statewide and national standards for writing. It would be great if other states would start to follow that lead, since portfolios provide a much better picture of student writing than standardized tests, but I don't see it happening anytime soon.

Even though I am absolutely pro-portfolio, it's important to keep in mind Wolf's warning: they are "a means, not an end...portfolios are only as good as the curriculum and instructional opportunities afforded to students." Simply having students do portfolios isn't a substitute for engaging and effective teaching, but it can be a valuable component if implemented with care and with a specific purpose.

This week's resource link is to the Center for Teaching, Learning, and Technology's website. On this page, there are multiple links to examples of student portfolios, both print-based and electronic.

Unnecessary Roughness

I recently had a discussion with a veteran English teacher about papers she assigned in her class. I asked if she included a revision process with her writing assignments, and what she told me was really interesting: she didn’t normally include revision because what she’d learned was that if students knew that their paper wasn’t going to be the “final” product, they would turn in crap the first time. Now, this was a literature teacher, not a composition teacher, but I still found it interesting that she assumed the revision process would just consist of students turning in a rough draft, her making corrections, and having the students turn in a final draft a week later. This is actually how teachers often do revision – they give one grade for the rough draft, so the student will actually make an effort the first time around, and then another grade for the final draft (which is usually based on how many of the teachers’ corrections they went and did). The idea of a peer revision process never even came up in this conversation. Neither did the philosophy that students have a “right” to write badly, as Vicki Spandel asserts.

In this case, I think the teacher has a legitimate concern that students will simply not make an effort the first time around if they know they get another chance. Having been one of those procrastinating writers, I can attest that I often phoned in rough drafts if I could do so with no consequences. Of course I think students have the right to not have to be perfect the first time around. But I don’t think they have the right to be willfully lazy or sloppy in their writing if someone else is going to take the time to look over their writing and help them. In this case, the revision process is a waste of time.

But if I had put a lot of effort into that draft, I’d get upset when the draft was graded and I didn’t get full points. “It’s a rough draft,” I would complain. “It’s not supposed to be perfect.” In retrospect, I still think it’s unfair to grade a rough draft as intensely as a final draft. There ought to be some kind of accountability for the quality of rough drafts without unfairly demanding perfection the first time around. I think the best way to ensure students put effort into their rough drafts is to set a minimum quality standard and give each student the same amount of points if they meet that standard (sort of like giving a check mark). It’s not a perfect system…it’s going to take a lot of effort to balance giving students the freedom to make mistakes but not the freedom to get by with a minimal amount of effort.

This is a link to Weekly Reader Online, an online writing magazine for teachers and students. The particular issue linked is all about the revision process, with multiple articles and resources attached.

Have You Driven a Five-Paragraph Essay Lately?

The Ford is a functional car: nothing special, but sturdy and reliable. That's why my mother, a veteran middle-school teacher, compares the five-paragraph structure to a Ford for her students. As she explained it to me, whether or not I want to teach the five-paragraph essay is immaterial; I will probably have to teach it. So the question becomes, how am I going to teach it? In what context should the five-paragraph form be framed for students?

To answer that question, let me refer to this week's readings, which consisted of several articles, each with a different take on the five-paragraph theme, or FPT. On one extreme is Tracy Novick, whose letter to the English Journal praises the FPT, saying that, "taught with creativity and variety, it gives our students a useful tool," comparing it to the sonnet form of poetry, without which we wouldn't be studying Shakespeare. On the other side is Kimberly Wesley, who, in her article "The Ill Effects of the Five Paragraph Theme," eviscerates the FPT, saying that it tends to "stunt students' critical thinking abilities." Wesley would prefer that organizational formats should fit the purpose of the writing, rather than the reverse, which I can certainly agree with.

I don't have a problem with the idea that formal writing needs a structure, and that the FPT is one that people generally agree on. My main problem with the FPT is its emphasis on the number three. We somehow think that three is a magic number, as if it's more important to have three points than for those points to have depth. Of course a paper needs a beginning and an ending, but will every thesis have three equal areas of analysis? Not so much. I have seen (and written) too many essays in which the writer's third point is pretty much tacked-on and irrelevant, or in which one of the points is really two points (because the writer had four points but had to condense it down to three).

I also hate the idea that the FPT is "what they'll need to know for college," because no. As long as there's some organization, college professors (and the TAs who'll actually be grading your papers) care more about the quality of your ideas and the depth of your analysis. They're not counting your paragraphs; they care that you have something worthwhile to say and have put some thought into it. Just like in the real world, the managers who read your memos or the people who read your letters don't care about the format as long as you're comprehensible.

The five-paragraph form is a tool, not a dogma, and it's a pretty limited tool at that. But it can be useful for those writers who don't know how else to organize their thoughts. As long as it's not presented to students as the only way to write (and that alternate forms of writing are taught alongside it), I can live with having to teach it in my class. Since, you know, I won't really have a choice.

Resource link: The Five-Paragraph Essay. This site explains the five-paragraph form and breaks it down using a sample essay. It can be a guide for those students who know the very basics of the form but need more assistance with it.

Write What You Want To Know

It would appear that the writers of two of our textbooks are at odds with each other regarding writing assignments. One, James Williams, asserts that students should not merely "write what they know", since they haven't lived long enough to to have interesting stories to tell. But Vicki Spandel, author of The 9 Rights of Every Writer, devotes an entire chapter as to why students should pick topics that are important to them: "Writers who discover their own topics write with voice and commitment."

Essentially, Williams's argument is that students need to learn skills such as argumentation, so teachers need to give very detailed writing assignments with a functional purpose. Spandel, on the other hand, is more concerned with fostering students' creativity and passion. Who's right here, in my opinion? Honestly, they both are.

The first thing to realize is that Spandel isn't saying that students should "write what they [already] know," i.e. themselves. She's saying that students should write about what interests them, what they want to learn more about. Meanwhile, Williams is right that students need to learn specific writing skills for different situations. However, I feel that his examples of good writing assignments are pretty narrow. Also, his statement that young people don't have anything interesting to say is both incorrect and unbelievably condescending for many reasons, not the least of which is the assumption that everyone under a certain age has the same life experiences and thinks the same way as everyone else his or her age.

There's a way to strike a balance between these two ideas, to give students structure in order to make sure they're learning what they need to be, while still allowing them the freedom to write about what they want to. In my college Expository Writing class, our professor gave us a series of essay assignments to write - Personal Narrative, Alternative Voice, Metaphorical Application of a Concept, Culture Criticism - but didn't dictate to us what our topics would be. I did the best non-fiction writing I've ever done for that class. Similarly, in some of my college literature classes, we were allowed to write about whatever aspect of a studied text we wanted to. This not only forced us to come up with our own thesis (instead of being handed one), we had to really think about what aspect of the literature intrigued us. Even if the text was awful (let's say, Nathaniel Hawthorne's The Blithedale Romance), you had to find something about it worthwhile enough to write for several pages about - a character, a theme, a symbol, anything (Hollingsworth as Jim Jones/David Khoresh, sexual politics, the narrator as a cipher, the struggles of power in a supposedly egalitarian setting, what have you).

Many teachers probably believe that high schoolers can't handle that kind of choice, and I'll admit that it will take a 10th-grader a lot more time and thought to come up with her own topic than it would a senior English Lit major. One of the teachers I did my original observations for gave his 9th-graders a seemingly simple essay assignment: Write about your passion. For some of them, this was something they hadn't ever thought about before, and they had no idea where to start ("I don't have a passion," or "I don't even know what mine is."). But that's precisely why these assignments are so important, because they force the student to think and make choices for himself instead of having his hand held by the teacher until he reaches his predetermined destination. Yes, the skills are important, but freedom of choice gives students the motivation to do their best writing.

Related link: The Essay Writing Center. Although intended for college writers, this site has many useful tips for writing all kinds of different essays, from Argumentative to Scholarship. The linked page offers help in choosing topics for writing, which should be helpful for just about any writer.

Writing Myths

In Chapter Three of his book, Preparing to Teach Writing, James D. Williams talks about the "writing myths" that hold back young writers. For example, students often believe that they cannot begin sentences with a conjunction or end a sentence with a preposition. I believe that a lot of these myths are taught by teachers in language arts classrooms, often because it's easier to teach what not to do than what to do. Unfortunately, once a student learns these myths, it can be very difficult to un-learn them.

Here's an example. I had been taught throughout my schooling that one can never begin a sentence with "because." It wasn't until I took a junior-level composition class in undergrad that I learned that this was a myth. There are complete sentences that start with "because": "Because John was late to work, he was fired." The reason we were taught not to begin a sentence with "because" was to avoid fragments, like: "John was fired. Because he was late to work." However, instead of taking the time to explain the difference between complete sentences and fragments and under what circumstances it was allowable to start a sentence with "because," most teachers just simplify it by telling students that they can never begin sentences with "because."

Myths like these are one reason that students can become turned off to writing. They learn that the English language is a labyrinthine maze of "dos" and "don'ts", and instead of being taught that language is ever-evolving, they learn that language consists of The Rules, and if they don't learn The Rules, they can't be good writers. "Rule #5076: No split infinitives." Well, the truth of the matter is that no one cares about split infinitives, and it's okay to end a sentence with a preposition, and if the tone of the writing calls for it, even fragments can be okay. For real.

Related link: The Myths of Writing. This page is part of a larger writing website hosted by Rutgers, called WIRE. The site has many useful links, including suggestions for creating effective assignments and tips for first-year writing instructors. On the Myths of Writing page, they address several common misconceptions about writing (such as "writing is a linear, tidy, left-to-right process and should be same for everyone").