A few months ago, as students filed into my second period class, one of the freshman in my Pre-AP Literature class asked me if I was good at writing essays. I told him it has been awhile since my writing has been judged, but I thought I was good at essays.
To be honest, for a brief moment I felt flustered by the student's question. Not because he asked, but because his question hit right to the heart of something I've been reflecting on for several months now. This is my eleventh year as an English teacher. I teach reading and writing to 150+ students every year. I model reading and writing skills in class. The advanced 9th and 10th grade courses I've had recently let me share my love of reading classic literature near daily. We all commit to reading books outside the classroom, and I love the days we spend in collective discussion about characters, settings, stories, and themes. This year, I became the advisor of the Creative Writing Club and I am teaching a section of Creative Writing for the first time this semester. I am also starting to work towards National Board Teacher Certification, which includes lengthy essays about my work to develop students as readers and writers. But, am I a writer? Do I adequately model a passion for the craft of writing outside classroom lessons? The current answer is no.
As a child, I loved writing stories. My mom and dad each had an electric typewriter that I could happily sit at, listening to my imagination come to life through the sounds of the keys and carriage return. I'm sure those pages all ended up recycled or trashed, but it didn't matter. Each fresh piece of paper rolled into the machine was a chance to tell a new story and see where it would lead me. My mom would celebrate my stories, encourage my writing and helped build my confidence. My dad would patiently supply paper and help me with the technical skills: how to center a title by counting characters, how to carefully hit the space bar twice between each sentence, and most importantly, how to apply white out with precision to any mistake. These skills were invaluable when teachers started assigning word processed reports or essays.
By late elementary and middle school, my writing style of choice was journaling. Bound in flowery covers, the pages tell of the fears and joys I felt in my formative years. When my mom died, I used these same journals to write letters to her, each entry dated and starting with "Dear Mom". To this day, it helps me feel that her absence from my life is temporary and that someday we'll reunite. While I know some adults who faithfully practice journaling, I only have done so once or twice a year in the last decade or so. I always have a journal in a drawer, but perhaps not the patience to attend to it.
In high school, writing was one of my strengths. I received high marks in my English classes and I know that the practice I had with the typewriters and the journals helped me in the writing craft. My senior year I opted to enroll in the new college-in-the-high-school course my favorite English teacher was starting. The high level analysis challenged my interpretation and writing skills, my greatest obstacle was procrastination and time management. Too many essays were constructed at the last second, without the attention to detail I typically gave my writing. It was informative in rhetorical analysis, but also in college level course expectations. I saved every draft of an essay I wrote in that class, complete with notes from my peers and teacher. While I learned a lot about writing through that course, I think it rattled me a bit to see scores that were not as high as in previous English classes.
I left high school determined to study humanities, but to avoid any degree that required writing a thesis. I don't think I recognized it at the time, but I was worried about having my writing so closely judged. Through college I wrote numerous essays for a variety of courses in Political Science, History, and English, but found very little time for personal writing. As I studied to become a teacher, I took multiple tests in English and Social Studies, I had to write on-demand essays that must have been deemed successful since I passed the tests. Writing not something of personal development or creativity, but a means to an end.
Seven years ago I started this blog as a way to record the new life phase we were entering and share the exciting time of pregnancy with friends and family far from us. I figured it would be a way to record memories for our children. For several years, Jeff and I regularly wrote updates. Sometimes we would work on our own, other times we would help each other brainstorm or revise. Yet, like my journaling, time or patience has put long periods between posts.
As I said at the start, a few months ago I started wondering how I could incorporate writing back into my life. My journal awaits, but perhaps I'll start here. To write about the things on my mind, and practice writing again. Hopefully, to jump back into sharing the adventures and pictures of our family. Even better, Nathan has started to become a story teller. Through loving teachers who encourage him, he is working on personal narratives at school and fiction stories here at home.
Until next time, I found an essay written in high school on John Updike's "The A&P", a story my students read as part of their summer prep work. I think I'll invite my freshman student to read it and perhaps it will build my credibility as an English teacher who is good at essays. Or maybe he can give my some feedback and I will get better; I am a little out of practice.
To be honest, for a brief moment I felt flustered by the student's question. Not because he asked, but because his question hit right to the heart of something I've been reflecting on for several months now. This is my eleventh year as an English teacher. I teach reading and writing to 150+ students every year. I model reading and writing skills in class. The advanced 9th and 10th grade courses I've had recently let me share my love of reading classic literature near daily. We all commit to reading books outside the classroom, and I love the days we spend in collective discussion about characters, settings, stories, and themes. This year, I became the advisor of the Creative Writing Club and I am teaching a section of Creative Writing for the first time this semester. I am also starting to work towards National Board Teacher Certification, which includes lengthy essays about my work to develop students as readers and writers. But, am I a writer? Do I adequately model a passion for the craft of writing outside classroom lessons? The current answer is no.
By late elementary and middle school, my writing style of choice was journaling. Bound in flowery covers, the pages tell of the fears and joys I felt in my formative years. When my mom died, I used these same journals to write letters to her, each entry dated and starting with "Dear Mom". To this day, it helps me feel that her absence from my life is temporary and that someday we'll reunite. While I know some adults who faithfully practice journaling, I only have done so once or twice a year in the last decade or so. I always have a journal in a drawer, but perhaps not the patience to attend to it.In high school, writing was one of my strengths. I received high marks in my English classes and I know that the practice I had with the typewriters and the journals helped me in the writing craft. My senior year I opted to enroll in the new college-in-the-high-school course my favorite English teacher was starting. The high level analysis challenged my interpretation and writing skills, my greatest obstacle was procrastination and time management. Too many essays were constructed at the last second, without the attention to detail I typically gave my writing. It was informative in rhetorical analysis, but also in college level course expectations. I saved every draft of an essay I wrote in that class, complete with notes from my peers and teacher. While I learned a lot about writing through that course, I think it rattled me a bit to see scores that were not as high as in previous English classes.
I left high school determined to study humanities, but to avoid any degree that required writing a thesis. I don't think I recognized it at the time, but I was worried about having my writing so closely judged. Through college I wrote numerous essays for a variety of courses in Political Science, History, and English, but found very little time for personal writing. As I studied to become a teacher, I took multiple tests in English and Social Studies, I had to write on-demand essays that must have been deemed successful since I passed the tests. Writing not something of personal development or creativity, but a means to an end.Seven years ago I started this blog as a way to record the new life phase we were entering and share the exciting time of pregnancy with friends and family far from us. I figured it would be a way to record memories for our children. For several years, Jeff and I regularly wrote updates. Sometimes we would work on our own, other times we would help each other brainstorm or revise. Yet, like my journaling, time or patience has put long periods between posts.
As I said at the start, a few months ago I started wondering how I could incorporate writing back into my life. My journal awaits, but perhaps I'll start here. To write about the things on my mind, and practice writing again. Hopefully, to jump back into sharing the adventures and pictures of our family. Even better, Nathan has started to become a story teller. Through loving teachers who encourage him, he is working on personal narratives at school and fiction stories here at home.
Until next time, I found an essay written in high school on John Updike's "The A&P", a story my students read as part of their summer prep work. I think I'll invite my freshman student to read it and perhaps it will build my credibility as an English teacher who is good at essays. Or maybe he can give my some feedback and I will get better; I am a little out of practice.
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