Category: writing process (Page 11 of 18)

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.

So I went on a bit of a rant today in my AP Lang class. I brought up the “love boredom” quote from Atomic Habits because a student was wishing/complaining that she wants to be good at things instantaneously. To her credit, she admitted that this was an unrealistic attitude, and she knew that it takes practice and diligence to become good at something. But still, she wants to be good right now, dagnabbit! (I might have added the “dagnabbit” part…)

We were talking about writing, but this could apply to anything, and despite my attempts at sage advice, I can understand where this student is coming from. Several months ago I started a new hobby: naalbinding. I have never knitted before, can barely sew, and I’m not great at spacial reasoning (nor am I nibble of finger). Which means that naalbinding does not come easily. So far I’ve only managed to make a wonky hat that’s too small for anyone in my family to wear (though it fits pretty nicely on a stuffed animal). I am now attempting to make hand-warmers.

It is not going well.

I wish I was amazing at naalbinding. I wish I was good right now. But I know I’ll probably suck for awhile. And what’s hard is trusting the process: trusting that if I practice I *will* get better. It’s the same feeling I’m sure my student has. She knows it takes practice and diligence, but when there’s little-to-no progress — especially in the early stages — it’s hard to trust. It’s hard to put faith in your abilities when the evidence right in front of you is that your abilities stink.

I often wonder what would happen if I practiced naalbinding every day for an entire year. Would I ever be able to make a good hat, or mittens, or socks? If I’m honest with myself, probably not. Maybe. I don’t know. I’m sure I’d get better at it, but “getting better” is not quite the same thing as “getting good.” And I think that’s where my student (and I) both get demoralized. Yes, practice can lead to improvement, but can it lead to mastery? Can it lead to being the kind of writer or naalbinder that we might want to be?

I wonder if sometimes we have to temper our goals. Or better yet, not have any goals. Not to sound defeatist, but if the activity (writing, naalbinding, baking, running, etc.) is something we do for its own sake, then it won’t matter if we master it or not. DOING the activity is its own reward. This mindset is hard to achieve, though. We have to *love* doing the thing, despite our mediocrity. And it can be hard to develop a love for something if we aren’t very good at it.

At some point, we either decide we’re “okay” with mediocrity and keep doing the activity, trusting in the process and knowing that practice will make us better even if it never makes us “good.” Or we give up the activity and move on to something else.

I’m not sure where I stand yet with naalbinding. Part of me wants to “conquer” it: to become really, really good. To prove that I can do it.

But another part of me just enjoys moving the needle through the loops and around my thumb, even if the finished piece kinda sucks.

I’m also not sure where my student stands. Does she want to become a great writer just to say, “I did it!”? Or does she genuinely enjoy moving pen over paper, stringing words together, sharing her ideas through writing?

If it’s only about results, then it’s hard to trust the process. The results may never come — especially if our goals are too high. But if we want to do better — not great or even good, just better — then practice works. The process works. We have to trust it.