Philosophy
Too often, writing is seen as formula, as a scripted act ruled by expectation and attention to instruction. And though formula is important and required for adequate communication, writing is an act of individual expression; and, as such, it more closely resembles those curricula that mainstream education continues to debase, de-fund, and exclude: the arts. Teaching writing is not simply a matter of focusing on structure and form, but of inspiring and encouraging individual work ethic, creative text manipulation, and the effective persuasion required to amply communicate original thought and ideas. Though we focus on structure and process at the beginning, this is simply learning the brushstrokes, the keys and scales, the differing instruments and media by which artists convey elements of the human condition. The goal is that the artist must learn the basics before true expression becomes paramount and supersedes technical ability. The same is true for the effective writer. The rules must be learned before they can be broken, before expression supersedes format.
The Beginning
I've been watching my two year old learning how to run. At first, it was a series of jerky leg movements, a quick time of tiny steps that increased his speed only marginally but perhaps required four times the effort of a simple walk. Since then, he has begun to learn to trust his balance and take longer strides, and he is beginning to become a little dangerous in his speed as his mother and I try to contain him in the yard. There's the haggard phrase "one must walk before he runs" that is thrown around whenever we start something new, something hard, something that requires effort, patience, persistence, and resilience. But really, it's completely true. There aren't that many ten year old writing prodigies in this world; nor are there fifth graders creating masterpieces of sculpture; nor do we really want to listen to a concerto composed by a tween. Like all great art, writing requires that we conquer the basics, and, as teachers, the basics are where we must begin. Sentence Structure, Paragraph Organization, Topic Sentence Construction, Thesis, Detail, Support, Explanation, Introduction, Body, Conclusion, Brainstorm, Outline, Draft, Revise, Edit, Proof, Publish...the vocabulary and process of writing must be internalized, absorbed, mastered before the words are polished, gleaming in musical phrases, and the voice, once hidden and unrefined, fills our inner ear with its unique rhythm and complex tones. And yet, to the beginning, to the process we must bend our efforts. Until writing is not some daunting mountain, but an instinctual process, we have to stay with the bland and necessary beginning, we must teach the basics, instruct the process, facilitate their eventual breakthroughs.
Work Ethic
There are myths out there that our geniuses, our most celebrated minds, casually work toward their ends. That somehow the greatness that has eluded their counterparts for centuries or even millennia simply falls about them and follows their every whim. "Mozart wrote whole symphonies without making an error; Einstein failed math and simply played mind games to come up with his theories; Newton watched an apple fall and suddenly understood gravity." Ridiculous. Mozart drove himself mad due to his obsession and constant work on his music- that had several drafts; Einstein built a machine to wake himself up in the middle of the night so that he could record his dreams in case they should shed light on his work (it is said he slept 4-5 hours night and worked continuously); Newton invented an entirely new type of mathematics in order to explain his theories. Genius is not easy. We are not going to be a janitor one day and suddenly, with little effort, solve extensive and complex geometric theorem left on chalkboards by conceited professors. Success in any endeavor requires practice and effort and, perhaps most of all, stamina and resilience. We so readily accept this when it comes to sports. We are willing to schedule our kids for six or eight hours a week in practices; and yet, we shy away from expecting the same dedication in other pursuits. We would never expect our ten year old to be a master at the piano after a year of once-a-week lessons and little home practice. We'd say, "Well yeah, that's what I expected. He never practiced." We'd say the same if our child missed the free throw in the big game when he only practiced from the three point arc, or if he tried to build a simple chair without ever having held a saw. Though, we still often wonder why his writing skills seem to remain stagnant or are only improving at what seems like a snail's pace. What is acceptable practice for writing? One half that of sports? A quarter? Considering the artistic nature of writing, can gains be as appreciable as they are in sports? Can we see the development in front of us in the same way? Hopefully, the advent of electronic data capture and virtual portfolios will help, but that's definitely not as exciting as watching your daughter finally get that ace in the game when just a few months ago she could barely serve over the net. What does work ethic truly mean, and when it comes to artistic yet academic endeavors, what sort of expectations should we set? I think relying on the geniuses whose examples began this section seems most appropriate. Michelangelo comes to mind: "If people knew how hard I had to work to gain my mastery, it would not seem so wonderful at all."
Revise, Revise, Revise
Great writers improve their work. This cannot be understated. Most spend far more time (years even) revising their efforts than the initial drafting of them before finally relinquishing them into the world. Hemingway's unfinished work,
Islands in the Stream, is a great example of a master's work before the process of revision. It is said that he would go through his novels striking out every unnecessary adjective and adverb, every description that seemed superfluous, every turn of phrase that he deemed too cute, that muddled the truth he wished to express. This process was unrelenting, personal, and time consuming.
Islands never completed this process, and the novel is singularly distinct in his body of work. Personally, I find it un-Hemingway-like in many respects. There is a reason: he wasn't finished yet. Of course, as I remind the students, writing -as art- cannot be finished. Calling once more to the artist for support, I lean on Leonardo da Vinci who once penned, "Art is never finished, only abandoned." And so it is. We improve, we can always improve. And this is the thrust of the process, where one must spend that energy, that time. Revision, as taxing as it can be, as humble as it requires us in accepting our own fallibility, is the most necessary step in the writing process. There should be appreciable improvement from draft to draft; there should be major changes- the questioning of one's own abilities and arguments; there should be mental capital expelled onto the page.
Let it Go
"If you truly love something, let it go. If it comes back to you, it is yours forever." I remember hearing this said about a variety of wounded animals my brother and I would find foundering in the tall grass of the field behind the house where we grew up. If somehow it survived our makeshift hospital and constant poking, if by instinct or force of animal will it grew strong enough to survive on its own once more, then we we be told to let it go. And every artist must go through the mental struggle of letting go of something that represents hours, weeks, years of effort, refinement, and personal investment. My brother (a talented artist working out of Richmond and VCU) describes it as giving away his children, hoping they find good homes. --Here's his
gallery's website if you're interested. His work is amazing-- But, he has to let it go at some point. And writing, like all art, is only truly art once it is shared with the world. With written work, we call this the Publishing stage. And, after multiple revisions, even though the work could be improved, even though it is not finished, because it is now a part of you or at least part of you is in it, you must let it go- you must send it out into the world. As we endeavor to teach writing, even though this stage of the process is not time consuming or mentally taxing, we must continue to encourage writers to take pride in their work, to feel something for it, to understand the investment in it was purposeful and individually distinctive. The work should be cherished by the artist. Perhaps it is not to the degree of parental love and concern that my brother posed as analogous, but our students should feel something when looking at that finished piece. They should see it as an overcoming and a becoming: the next step on their journeys as writers, as artists, and as learners.
The End
Well, there isn't one. Like a novel series that always leaves one wanting more and willing to spend $19.99 on the next new release, we're left hanging from a cliff. We can take steps every day to become better writers, practice with letters, emails, journals, editorials, etc., or revise everything into polished glass; but, that's not the end. Every artist learns from every piece of his own work; every artist improves. And, there is no real end. I tell my students that their endings, their conclusions, should leave the reader thinking, not hanging. I'm definitely still thinking about how to teach writing even as I close up this brief entry. Unfortunately, perhaps from my earlier mention of him and his revision methodology, I am only able to think of the ending of
For Whom the Bell Tolls- a novel in which Hemingway, knowing the rule, completely breaks it. Though we can assume what happens next, we never really know; we are left on the cliff, in a very similar place as the opening, our hearts pumping along with the protagonist: "Robert Jordan lay behind the tree, holding onto himself very carefully and delicately to keep his hands steady. He was waiting until the officer reached the sunlit place where the first trees of the pine forest joined the green slope of the meadow. He could feel his heart beating against the pine needle floor of the forest."
