Welcome to Creative Writing

I started teaching creative writing this week. I was wicked nervous about the whole thing - new class, new students, no real idea about what I'm doing, and anxiety over whether or not they would actually be into writing.

Second block came on Wednesday and it basically made my entire week.

Why, you might be asking yourself, am I discussing this in a post for class? Well, pretty much everything I've done since the Maine Writing Project has prepared me for this class; for teaching this class. We wrote ourselves into the day, we read Write Here, Write Now by Annie Dillard, we talked about reading books, and then we wrote some more. And you know, even though there were 23 bodies in my little classroom, when we were writing it was Silent with a capital S. I could not have asked for a better group of students or for them to be more enthusiastic.

I looked at them and said, "When you are in this room, you are a writer. I'm here to sort of guide you, but I'm learning as well. I'm still finding ways to be a better writer. And, I hope we can all do that together." What I expected to see what I looked up were glazed over or rolling eyes. What I saw instead, were smiles and eyes sparkling. Holy!!!!! Those 80 minutes seriously got me pumped for the rest of the semester; now my anxieties are all about how to fit in everything I want to do.

When I had that class again on Friday, I asked them to write me a letter telling me what they hope to get out of creative writing. Here are a few of the things they said:

1. A better idea of what writers do
2. Practice so that I can be a better writer
3. I want to be creatively stimulated
4. I hope to find the fun in writing again
5. I want to be more confident sharing with people

As tall as those orders are, I'm pretty confident we can do that!

New classes for next year

I found out yesterday that I’m going to be teaching an AP class next year. I’m going to be bringing AP Language and Comp to my school. I’m terrified, and excited, and feel like the work I’m doing on my master’s is perfect for this. Taking a class about writing and teaching writing the semester before I teach AP is pretty awesome timing. I’ve got so many things to think about, so many resources to look at, and so many people to use as resources.

I think that thing I’m scared about most is that I haven’t taught an upper level class since long-term subbing four years ago. I have worked with 8th and 9th graders, and I enjoy that work, but it’s not entirely challenging intellectually. I don’t really leave thinking about the stuff we read or what the kid’s write. They’re at a really basic level. I guess what I’m really scared of is teaching kids who are smarter than I am. With younger grades you almost always have a leg up, but it’s not always like that with an AP or upper-level course. At the same time, though, that’s exciting.

I miss the discussions about literature and writing. I like being presented with new ideas and challenges. I’m going to be a student just as much as the kids in my class will be.

It’s going to be a ton of work, but good work. Work that’s worth it. And, as sad as this might sound, it’s one more thing to put on my resume. I’ve only been teaching for four years, but my career is pretty kick ass already.

The Letter

A piece for my Writing and the Teaching of Writing class, inspired by The Pocket Muse.

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It’s hard to say who failed the friendship; I think in a lot of ways, we both did. We went from best friends to nothing in a little over a year. From planning graduation as class officers to avoiding one another at the theater. I want to say that She failed me, and I think a lot of people would agree. But, somehow, I’m just not sure it’s fair to place all of the blame there.

She went back to school for an extra semester; I looked for teaching jobs. She starred in plays; I drove the two hours to see everyone. She stopped returning calls; I kept making them. She didn’t come to my show; I was disappointed. And then, our friendship came unraveled.

“I never demanded that you attend one of my shows, so I’m offended that you would do that to me,” she wrote.

“I didn’t demand. I just said I would be disappointed if you missed it. I’m sorry,” I replied.

And then there was silence. No emails, no phone calls. Nothing. Until August 31.

A thick envelope came in the mail from Her. Six pages thick, and full of single-spaced typing. Six pages full of words that said, “I love you, and I think you need to know.” Know what?

You’re a follower.

You love theater because I do.

You’re too negative.

I don’t care about looks, but your lifestyle is unhealthy. Maybe if you ate better and exercised more, you’d be happier.

You complain too much.

But, I love you.

I hope you do not choose to sever all ties.

My heart shattered and splintered and burst out of my chest. She loved me? She loved me so much, She wrote down every little flaw? For six, single-spaced pages. But, She didn’t want to cut all ties? Well, I did.

I wanted to hurt her back. I wanted to make her feel the empty, broken, betrayed way I felt. And, I would have been easy. For every flaw in my, I could have named two in her. But, I didn’t. No. Instead, I tucked the letter in a drawer. Every single day for three months I thought about that letter. About Her. It never got easier and the six pages haunted and daunted me. Until I tore them up and threw them away. Just like She had done to me. Then, I wrote my own, much shorter, letter.

If you love someone, you love all of them. Not just the parts you like.

Don’t sever ties? What did you think about happen by writing this?

The only thing I want from you is an apology, and until you see what you did was wrong, I’m not going to get that.

It’s been a little over 4 years since She sent the letter. I’ve seen her. Tried to be nice and say hello. She moves her seat in the auditorium to avoid sitting behind me. Or, She prances in front of me and runs out the door. What She’s never done is apologize.

I try to see things from Her point of view. After all, how can a friendship so important, just cease to exist? But, no matter how hard I try, I don’t get it. I’m not perfect, but no matter how I spin it, She failed me.

Because Digital Writing Matters

I’m about half way through Because Digital Writing Matters, and have mixed feelings. I remember hoping, when I read it, that Because Writing Matters would be this phenomenal book, and it wasn’t. It was disappointing because it talked all theory and had very few actual examples in it. Just a lot of statistics. So far, BDWM has been a lot better.

It’s a little dry, but I’ve found myself thinking a lot about how I can incorporate digital writing into my classes. Our freshman have 1 to 1 computers this year, so I have every opportunity to add digital writing, but it’s intimidating. The book points outs that digital writing can help kids find authentic audiences, learn what real writers do, and even teach them valuable revision tools. I want all of that for my students, but it also requires so much extra time and instruction to teach digital writing. With all of the things we’re asked to do, I wonder if I can find that time. It’s not something I can do large scale this year, I know that. But, I want to in the future.

I’ve been thinking about having my creative writing class work on a digital portfolio at the end of the semester. Maybe they can choose their favorite pieces and create podcasts or movies. Or, maybe as a final project, they can create movies of extended metaphor about what writing is like. I don’t know, but I know I need to find ways to redefine for my students and myself what writing is.

Curriculum and Writing

So, last spring, the English department at my school was tasked with creating ALL new curricula for every grade level. Essentially, students were not cutting it by the time they graduated. Many schools struggle with students not performing, but in our case it was a disproportionate number. The hope was that in changing things up, we would reach more kids, more effectively.

In terms of 9th and 10th grade, that meant throwing out what we did and starting over. It was amazing! I got to work with my colleague to choose and design and discuss what we WANTED to teach and how we would reach kids best. So far, it's been awesome! For juniors and seniors, well ... we went from year-long surveys to semester-long courses. In the fall, both juniors and seniors have taken Critical Reading and Writing. The concept? Great - they need to read and write critically. In practice? Too much content, too fast. In a week's time, we will move from these courses to electives (everything from Outdoor Lit to Creative Writing).

Today, during our faculty meeting, we spoke as a department about what changes we want to make in the CRW courses. There was basic consensus that instead of worrying about whether a kid has read 1984 or Hamlet, we need to focus on whether they can construct an effective essay. Even though most of us agreed, there was dissension - a few teachers who push for the "classics" to be taught to every kid.

Since I'm taking Writing and the Teaching of Writing, I piped in and suggested that perhaps a focus on writing would be good. In the junior year there is a huge focus on SAT Prep (barf). Rather than focusing solely on SAT essays, why not teach kids how to write effectively in REAL LIFE?? Isn't that the point? What good is it if they can construct a lackluster essay for a test if they can't string together an analysis? Is it important to read the classics or learn to express yourself?

It boggles my mind when we get so focused on content (isn't that what reading one particular title is, essentially?) if kids can't critically write? Don't they need to write to think, solve, educate, communicate, and so on before they can truly read and interact with a text?

Reading and writing go hand-in-hand, and they're both important. But, if writing is a tool for thinking, and we want kids to think about texts, where do we start? What came first, the chicken or the egg?

So much to think about.

The Hero's Journey and Potty Training

Last week I started a unit on the hero's journey with my writing center class. I feel for the kids in it because they are all doubled-up on English this semester. We've written two essays, read Lord of the Flies, and three of my five students have HUGE projects due for senior English. So, I compromised with them and we're using two films to study the hero's journey: The Lion King and Avatar. Brilliant, I know :)

So, anyway, on Thursday of last week we started watching The Lion King. There is something intensely fun about watching such a childhood movie with high school students. It's just amazing when a senior girl and a senior boy can't stop saying, "I love this movie!" So do I. But, watching the movie is not the reason for this post. A story told to me by one of my senior boys is, and it goes something like this:

Student: I was potty trained with The Lion King.

Me: What?

Student: When I was little, my parents bought me Lion King undies and told me that Simba would bite something off if I peed in them.

Everyone in the room: **hysterical laughter**

Me: (after the laughing subsided) What would you have done if they had said Scar would bite something off?

Student: Oh. That would have been traumatizing!

Pretty much one of the best things I've heard as a teacher ... so I needed to share!

Hope Drove Me to School - Conclusion

Here is the last part of the essay from the previous post.

I always know, intellectually, that I’ll survive. I've managed to overcome a lot of terrible things in my life, and I know that I can handle whatever comes my way. I’ve been in situations where I have told myself again and again that I just need to be patient because it will get better. I have told myself to have hope. But, to feel that? To sense in my body, in every fiber of who I am, that I will be OK? I felt empowered and liberated. I stopped feeling frustrated with myself, and just let myself go. I gave up control, and I found hope.

Was I magically cured of these feelings of loss and uncertainty? Absolutely not. They were still very real and very present, but I figured out that was OK. In a day or two, or more maybe, it would get better. It would be more than better because somehow, among this fear of loss, I had gained something powerful.

During my drive to school, I acknowledged that I don't do things half way. Nothing in my life gets less than 100% of my attention and effort. That's who I am, who I've always been, and who I'll always be. Most of the time, this particular quality serves me very well. Emotionally, though, it can take its toll.

It’s easy, and appreciated, to be a person who invariably follows through. It's exhausting to be a person who goes all way with her emotions. For me, being a good teacher means that I have to give all of myself all of the time. For 180 days every year, I let myself fall in love with my job. I work to teach my students about literature and writing, but I try just as hard to teach them about relationships and people, to teach them about life. Teaching them about life means letting myself care in ways that can hurt. It means building relationships with them that can get lost in the end.

When a student in my class deals with death, I don’t just cry for him; I cry with him. When a student succeeds, I don’t say, “congratulations”; I celebrate with her. I open myself up to my students in every way I can, and that makes me a better teacher. It makes me a better person. Letting my students see that I’m a human, and engaging with them in meaningful ways requires me to let myself get attached, even though it might hurt in the end. But, when a student runs up to me at the movies in the middle of July to say hello, or throws her arms around me on the last day of school to say “thank you,” I know it’s worth it.

This ending didn’t feel different than any other I’ve faced. It isn’t different than endings I will face in the future. Endings are sad, and then we move on. And, in the car I realized that my job is perfect for a person who has difficulty with endings.

Every year I get to fall in love with my job and my students all over again. I say goodbye in June, and I mourn that ending every year, thinking that I will never find the same sense of connection; thinking I will never have a class I love that much again. Then, at some point, usually in the late fall, I get that back. I share experiences with students that are different than before, but just as special and just as gratifying and just as important.

I'm not going to say that I'll never feel hopeless again, because I will. There are certain types of pain that take away the epiphany I had in the car because you can't quantify them. However, that old cliché, "this, too, shall pass" became absolutely clear to me in the car that morning.

It brought me hope.

With every chapter we finish, or window or door we close, we hope that the next to open will be provide something brighter. We hope there will be more. We hope it will make us better, make us happier, make us stronger. As teachers, when we close the door of our classrooms in June, we hope for a better class the next year, or that our budgets don’t get cut. The best teachers hope that we are making a difference.

Part of life is recognizing that our desires, expectations, and goals might be unrealistic. Maybe hope is deciding to embrace those expectations anyway. And, if we’re very lucky, maybe hope will carry us through the summer until September, when we walk into class and see a new group of anxious, endearing faces.