Category: teaching (Page 4 of 5)

Creative = Make

I’m rereading Tom Hodgkinson’s How to Be Free. I find this book, and its companion, How to Be Idle, eminently re-readable. Both Hodgkinson’s style and his philosophies are so buoyant, so carefree and merry, that I always feel emboldened and inspired when I read his books.

So I’m rereading How to Be Free, and this afternoon I read the chapter entitled, “Reject Career and All Its Empty Promises.” This chapter is relevant for me because I’m thinking about just such a thing (i.e.: chucking my career).

Anyway, the thing that struck me was how Hodgkinson implored his readers to do more manual work — not for money, necessarily, but simply for its own sake. For instance, there’s something quite wonderful about gardening or whittling a piece of wood or knitting or whatever. Not all of our work needs to be “mental work,” and not all of our time needs to be spent focusing on our narrow and restricting “careers.”

This whole thing got me thinking about creativity.

In one of the classes I teach, we spend some time trying to define creativity. Most often, my students come up with some variation of this: “Creativity is figuring out a new way of doing something or an original way to solve a problem.” It’s all about “thinking outside the box” (a most unoriginal expression if there ever was one).

I’ve always rebelled against this definition, though I don’t often say so to my students. I might prod them a little bit with Socratic questions, but I never outright dismiss their ideas. But what annoys me about “originality” and “newness” as central pillars of creativity is that it elevates novelty above all else, AND it ignores the root word of creativity itself: CREATE. Not that newness and originality aren’t aspects of creativity, but they aren’t the center of the thing. Creativity means creating.

To create. To make. To bring something into being.

When looked at this way, creativity is less about ideas and much more about THINGS. When we are creating we are making. And if creativity is making, then anyone can do it. It’s not something that only the rarefied among us is any good at. It’s open to all. Anyone can make something. And thus, everyone is creative.

Being creative, i.e.: CREATE-ive, could mean baking a cake, or drawing a picture, or throwing a party. After all, what does throwing a party really mean? It means creating a party. You gather people and food and drinks, you decorate the place, you make up a list of games and activities for everyone to play. Where once there was no party, you have MADE a party. Brought it into being.

Same thing for knitting, or gardening, or dancing. Or making music, or tinkering, or writing, or building something (or making a baby!). Anyone who does these things is being creative: where once there was nothing, something has been made.

I often hear students remark that they “aren’t very creative,” as if it’s a special skill or something. But it’s not a special skill. It’s simply the act of making. A creative person is one who creates.

And everyone is capable of creating. Everyone can make something.

Leave out whether it’s good or bad; that’s not important. The creating is what’s important. The making.

If I could implore my students to consider one thing, it would be to realize they are, in fact, creative. And that they should spend a good chunk of their time making things, whether it’s a cake or a song or a fabulous party. When we are making things, we are imitating our own Creator. I can’t think of a better way to live.

Writing Out Loud

This week in class, I had my students do an exercise to practice writing imagery. After I went over the instructions, I pulled up a blank Google doc and began drafting a brief scene. I wanted to model the exercise for them.

It worked out great because not only was I doing my teaching work, but I ended up writing a scene for my current short story, “Things.” “Things” is a kind of hard-boiled film noir story mixed with Norse mythology/Icelandic saga motifs.

Anyway, I think my modeling of the exercise was helpful for the students. I hope it was.

I try to do this kind of modeling as often as possible. Whatever activity or writing exercise I give to my students I first model for them. I write alongside them to show that these activities have real merit, and that I — a working writer — use them for my own work as well. My modeling also shows them how my drafting process works.

It’s not about showing off. When I write in front of my students — talking as I write, narrating my thought process — I often make mistakes or write clunky sentences. Sometimes I don’t really know what to write or how to start, so I narrate those thoughts too. I tell my students that I’m having trouble starting, or that I can’t think of a good idea. I talk my thoughts out loud, and let them see how my brain approaches the task at hand. When I do start writing, sometimes it’s crappy, sometimes it’s uneven, and then sometimes, it’s pretty good.

But no matter what, I share with my students why I wrote what I did, or what I might change later in revision, or what strategies I used to craft the sentences. And I let them ask questions or offer suggestions: “How did you think of this?” or “Why did you delete that one sentence?” or “I think you should change that last word.”

(By the way, I did NOT invent this teaching strategy. I’m not nearly that clever. I stole it from Kelly Gallagher whose books on teaching are invaluable.)

What’s nice about “writing out loud” is that I show my students how writing gets done. I let them SEE the process instead of just telling them the process. And sometimes, when I happen to see the possibilities, I can end up writing something that isn’t just an exercise or a model, but a piece of writing that I can add to my own fiction.

The imagery activity from this week was one such time. Now, having written it in front of my students, I can take that short scene and add it to my current short story in-progress. Pretty cool.

Read while you eat

This weekend, I decided to stop wasting time on the internet.

I HAD been practicing “digital minimalism” very well until Covid hit, and then suddenly I felt compelled to read more news and consume more media on the internet. After all, I didn’t want to miss important, potentially life-saving information. So I fell back into old habits of reading Twitter threads, Reddit threads, and the like. All in the name of keeping up on Covid stuff (and then eventually the election).

Now that the election is over and we have a normal president again, I feel less inclined to check headlines every five minutes. However, my lunchtime scroll through Twitter is still a thing. Until today.

Today I began the first day of a new habit: Reading a book at lunch.

My lunch break is a “me-time” respite from teaching and being around other people. I am an introvert, so being around people can exhaust me.  At lunchtime, my M.O. is to hang out in my classroom, eat lunch, and scroll the internet (mostly Twitter).

The problem was that scrolling Twitter wasn’t making me feel good. It wasn’t enlightening reading; instead, I felt anxious and upset (usually) due to some fresh outrage about MAGA/Qanon insanity or #CatholicTwitter in-fighting. I was only reading these threads because of FOMO (fear of missing out).

This weekend, though, I realized that I wasn’t reading enough books, wasn’t setting aside time to read more books, and wasn’t using my lunch break in a healthy way. I had fallen back into that stupid internet-addicted habit, so it was now time to make a new habit.

My new habit is this: as soon as the lunch bell rings, I close my laptop, take out my lunch, and open my book. Then I read while I eat.

Today I read a chapter in The Golem and the Jinni. It was fantastic. Best lunch break I’ve had all school year. No Twitter-induced anxiety, no dumb outrages, no mindless scrolling. I read a chapter in a book I’m enjoying, ate peacefully, and got some needed “me-time.”

I know it takes several more repetitions before something becomes a habit, but I’m excited to see this one stick. I *want* it to stick.

My lunch-time-book-time plan feels like a game-changer in my reading habits.

Symbols for Me

Last week, a student did a presentation about symbolism, and she had a couple of activities for the class to help them practice using symbols in their writing. One of her exercises was to think of a symbol (or symbols) that represented who we are. I tried my hand at it, since I like to write alongside my students, and started coming up with symbols for myself.

One was a 1970s Ballantine Adult Fantasy paperback with a wild, psychedelic cover.

Even though I was born in the 1980s, I’ve always been a bit of a throwback. I love old black and white movies, swing jazz, Beat writers, 60s psychedelic rock, and old-school fantasy. I don’t try to be strange or outlandish, but sometimes I can’t help it. I’m a weird person. And I often find myself outside the mainstream. I think the Ballantine Adult Fantasy series fits all of these qualities: old and dog-eared but still kinda interesting, weird and psychedelic, and outside the mainstream.

The other symbol I came up with was a wooden sword from the Renaissance Festival.

This one symbolizes me because it’s essentially a toy sword, but way cooler than something you’d find in a Toys ‘R Us, and I’m not the kind of person who wants to wield an actual weapon or be a real knight, but I like to pretend, I like to play, I like to imagine. The wooden sword is a tool for the imagination.

And because the Renaissance Festival only happens once a year (and I didn’t always get a chance to go when I was a kid), the wooden sword holds a special kind of allure: rare and precious, something long sought-for but rarely achieved.

Just to be clear: I’m not saying that I’m “rare and precious” or “something long sought-for but rarely achieved.” Instead, I mean that my desire to get one of these swords symbolizes so much of my life: wanting things that are hard to find, desiring something that seems just out of reach. The Renaissance Festival sword is every longing of my heart, every wish I wished as a kid.

My last symbol symbol for myself is this:

A cup of black coffee.

Why? I’m bitter and make people jittery.

Avoid Cliche

Today in class the students learned about cliche: what makes something cliche and how to avoid using cliche in one’s writing. The activity we did to practice avoiding cliche involved looking at a photo of a starry night sky and writing descriptions that avoided the obvious cliched descriptions like, “The stars shone like diamonds.”

(This lesson and activity, by the way, was taught by one of my students. They’ve all been taking turns teaching the class about literary/rhetorical terms and facilitating writing activities to reinforce the lessons.)

Since I try to write alongside my students, I too participated in the activity. My attempt was as follows: “The stars were flecks of milk painted on the faded gray of an old barn.”

I’m not sure I like this description, but it does make me laugh to think of the stars as flecks of milk. It’s definitely a weird way of describing something we typically think of as beautiful.

Anyway, I avoided using a cliche.

Three metaphor poems

Today I worked with my students on writing metaphor poems. The activity was as follows:

  1. Make a four-column chart.
  2. In the second column, write at least five concrete nouns (ex.: horse, star, hat, lamp, feather).
  3. In the third column, write at least five action verbs (ex.: ride, laugh, play, dance, stroll).
  4. Then in the first column, write a body part (facial body parts work well here). Ex.: hand, lips, eye, cheek, heart.
  5. Using the three columns, write the beginning of a sentence that includes a metaphor. It should follow the pattern “My _________ is a __________ __________ing…” Ex.: My hand is a feather dancing…
  6. Then complete the sentence with either a word or phrase that completes the metaphor. Ex.: My hand is a feather dancing over the clouds.
  7. After doing this several times with different words from the chart, choose one metaphor sentence to extend into a poem. Write ten to fifteen lines that answer when, where, what, why, and how. Use concrete sensory details to extend the metaphor and paint a vivid picture for the reader.

(N.B.: I did not invent this writing exercise, but I don’t remember where I found it. My apologies to whomever created this activity. If anyone knows where this exercise comes from, please let me know so I may give credit.)

I taught this lesson several times today, and each time, I modeled the activity for my students. I tend to do my modeling in front of the students; I draft my writing up on the board and talk through my process as I go. As a result, I wrote three metaphor poems today. They’re all quite strange, a bit nonsensical, but I’m hoping their strangeness might give the students permission to also do weird and experimental things in their writing.

Here they are:

#1

My eye is a hat reading beside a lamp,

A fuzzy hat, made of wool, soft and warm in the shelter of my bedroom.

The book is an old favorite, something with mysteries,

And love, and adventure. Something that never gets tired or stale.

It’s night, and the time for reading has come — a time to forget,

To put aside urgent cares, to rest, to relax.

The lamp is yellow light, a soft sun in the presence of darkness.

My eye fits down over my head, covers my cares, floats atop

The pages.

 

#2

His mouth is a garbage can strolling around the museum.

It can’t help dropping its filth onto the marbled floors.

It’s after hours, the night watchman gone, the whole place silent.

But his mouth is hungry, looking for more trash, looking for more

Forgotten things.

The museum is filled with empty frames: artwork dismissed by the masses.

The garbage falls on the walkways and on the walls. Hunger is insatiable.

His mouth searches for the cafeteria but finds only Cubists.

Opening his tin lid, he devours a Monet, then a Warhol, then a Basquiat.

Genius is compacted into a landfill.

The garbage can burps.

 

#3

My heart is a computer singing along with the radio.

It’s a pop song, old school, Hanson or maybe NSYNC.

The 16-bit melody screams out of the computer’s speakers,

Unnatural but in tune. There is no strain on the processor.

Programmed to obey, my heart paid extra for more memory.

Uh oh, 403 error. Bad code. Forbidden. Blue screen of death.

Time to go to the Apple Store.

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