Writing

I mentioned to my writing group (I like the sound of that, by the way) that I had too many drafts of posts in my “saved” folder. Bud Hunt said, “Hit publish, Susan, hit publish.”

He’s right. But here’s the thing. This one had only a title. “Standards at all?” Nothing else.

That’s because my thinking is still muddy here. Why do we need standards for writing, especially standards that limit and constrict? We are talking about the Common Core Standards in our course, so that’s what I’m referencing here–the writing standards. And, for the most part, I don’t mind them. I like that all writing teachers have some direction and purpose. Rather, I am hopeful teachers feel encouraged to write more often and use writing to learn because we have standards.

But I wrote the title a few days ago, thinking that standards could be too confining, too limiting. As a writing teacher, I’ve found the best writing comes from the inside out, when it matters to the writer. Bud talks about this on his blog today, when he shares his thoughts on personal vs argumentative writing. His point is that students will become better writers when they care (if they care). And I think that’s what I was thinking about when I wrote “standards at all?” Because for me, the caring comes when we start not with standards but with supportive, thoughtful teachers.

I know. That’s a wishy-washy platitude that means little. Unless, of course, we live into that vision. To write is to put a piece of yourself on display, and it’s risky. Beginning writers need to feel support not ridicule, community not criticism. Good writing begins with a safe place to experiment, and I’m not sure the standards help teachers understand that.

So now we’re back to what makes a good teacher, aren’t we? And how do we help students become comfortable and confident learners who care. I don’t have answers for you, Bud, but your last line is a starting point for me:

And what did we do to make that happen?

Who is this person?

People who have been reading my blog for a while must be scratching their heads. She’s turned off comments, she’s not focusing on edtech, and she’s not writing regularly.

That’s all true.

But I am thinking, working, and positioning myself for what’s next. After reading for months about creativity and the brain, I decided I had to venture out, do more than sit in front of my computer all day.

And so I have. I’ve been meeting in an artists’ group with my friend Elizabeth. Don’t you love the sound of that? An artists’ group.

Each Thursday, we gather in Elizabeth’s studio to explore our creative side. One woman is working on miniature oil paintings. Another hauls in a bag of various textures to continue a collage that might help her envision life after retirement. And I, I started to draw.

Using a variety of pens, markers, and papers, I have been working on what it means to sketch. The drawings are rough, but I plug along. I’ve watched myself move from “I can’t do that” to “I’ll try”–and I think of my students.

For a change last week, I decided to switch to a different medium. Elizabeth introduced me to watercolor painting. She explained the difference between wet on dry and wet on wet, and helped me learn how water shapes and moves the paints around on the paper.

Glorious.

As I painted, I kept thinking about my grandmother, a wise woman who left school after eighth-grade. Yet she painted, wrote books, and fished off the Rhode Island coast with my grandfather in the coldest weather. Though she loved her family deeply, she kept a life of her own–a creative life that she shared with her grandchildren. I remember her in the plays we performed in her yard, the books we read on her couch, and the paths we followed in her well-tended garden, searching for treasures she purposely left for us to discover.

These days, I am pushing myself out of my comfort zone working on the Second Journey.

Oh, I’ve also decided to participate in NaNoWriMo, and I’m already behind. I’ve changed the plot line of my novel twice, and now I think I’m starting again–this time a nonfiction piece about letting go.  I’ll get there. No stress.