Herding Cats
How to Teach Writing
“You should write because you love the shape of stories and sentences and the creation of different words on a page. Writing comes from reading, and reading is the finest teacher of how to write.” – Annie Proulx
I have been teaching writing for over thirty years. Name a writing class and I have probably taught it. Fiction, nonfiction, AP Literature, many freshman composition classes, a plethora of variations on the theme of writing better, writing to get accepted, writing to heal, writing to critique or record one's life. I don't claim to be a brilliant short story writer or a poet, but I have taught both subjects.
My first class was part of a fellowship while pursuing an MFA in Fiction Writing at Brooklyn College. My students were all Haitian immigrants who had to pass an English exam at the end of the semester that would either grant continued free tuition and acceptance or put them out. This was challenging, and I was inexperienced. The class was all male. I bounced in on our first day with an agenda to help them love writing and reading and, by the way, me. At the end of our first week together, after what seemed to me to be an enthusiastic and articulate group of students, I collected their writing samples and saw how ill-prepared I was to be their teacher. We had read an essay I adore by Annie Dillard called Living Like Weasels. We read the essay aloud, I unpacked the vocabulary, and we had a conversation about what the essay was about. Looking back, I probably told them what it was about, and they nodded and wrote things on their copies. The essay is a metaphor for how to live, a metaphor they took literally. So, their responses, written with many grammar and spelling errors, focused on wild animals they had seen or slain or had feelings about. In short, there was no sign of understanding the idea of a metaphor, and the writing was terrible.
I panicked. I gave them worksheets with sentence combining and grammar exercises. I could see by their faces they felt alienated from these helpful but boring handouts. Then I asked them what they used writing for in their lives. It took a moment, but someone held up his hand and said, “We write letters home.” This statement was greeted with nods and murmurs.
“What do you say in your letters?”
photo by Carl Nenzen Loven
They said they wrote about missing home, looking for a job, trying to pass tests, and several spoke about food, how they longed to find ingredients to make a familiar food. Everyone nodded at that one. I had been reading James Baldwin, and in his essay, Letter to My Nephew, Baldwin lovingly, angrily, and truthfully warns his nephew about racism in America. I shared the essay with them and explained we would write a letter to someone back home, someone they loved, sharing a vital thought or insight. The letter's receiver was younger, forcing my students to avoid using complex vocabulary.
The writing was stunning. Stories poured forth: a put-together bicycle, a warning not to get pregnant, an apology from a brother to another brother because he had hurt his feelings by leaving Haiti. There were few mistakes in grammar and sentence structure. Their connection to the material changed everything. Reading was crucial to this classroom and essential for all writers. They had a purpose and an audience. These are important elements in any kind of writing. In June, the class graduated or stayed to continue their studies.
What I learned from this first experience is the importance of knowing your students. You can offer focused and helpful feedback if they are skilled and experienced writers. If they are recovering from an abusive English teacher, and there are many, help them discover their voice and their hope. I live in fear of silencing anyone. I live in fear of a writer deciding their story is without value. I had a class once where a young man said into the silence of someone having just read their work, “Well, that was cheese ball.” I reminded him of our contract, which asked the class to respect each other and not offer criticism unless it contained a suggestion for the next step. The writer cried; I was furious; the young man acted contrite, but I sensed he was happy to have dealt a crushing blow to his classmate. I told the class about my own experience with cruel comments and how I realized the critic's anger and attempts to shame me came from them, not my work. As a teacher, I insist on a community of creativity and kindness. The writing world has enough ways to wound and discourage.
—Molly Moynahan, author and writing coach