Collaboratively Defining Courage

The Dispositions of Practice, first identified and articulated by Communities for Learning: Leading Lasting Change, play a significant role in shaping the culture of our writing community. Our exploration of them happens collaboratively and over time. Their meaning deepens and becomes more refined as a result. Eliza’s story provides one example of courage at work within Studio. There are many others.

For example, during  our early conversations with young writers about courageous writing, behavior, and work, middle school writer Emily shared the story of Christian the Lion by presenting a YouTube video, which was a bookmarked favorite of hers. This prompted others to find video clips that exemplified courage as well, including author John Green’s podcast  I Am Not a Pornographer (a rebuttal to those censoring his book, Looking for Alaska),  and Aimee Mullins’s TED talk, The Opportunity of Adversity.

Defining what made each of these people courageous provided a nice scaffold into what is often a more complex conversation for young writers: what inspires them to behave in courageous ways as writers, and what discourages them? What is the difference between acting with courage and producing courageous writing? What does courage have to do with teaching and learning? What do those pursuits look like when we don’t act with courage?

Considering the role that courage plays in improving teaching and writing practice, several of the adults in our community have taken new and exciting risks as bloggers, sharing their professional expertise online, and in some cases, exploring the personal challenges that life has presented them. Others have recognized that is impossible to call ourselves good teachers of writing unless we are writing ourselves. To that end, they’ve begun trying new forms, seeking publication, and opening themselves up to peer review.

Pam Marchewka-Cornwell entered Studio as a previously published writer. This has not slowed her learning, though. She has begun transforming the writer’s workshop model she uses with her high school students, creating a classroom that is increasingly student-centered. She shares her expertise by leading university classes and by inviting other fellows of our program to watch her teach. Kristin Smith has begun connecting her students to one another online, where they can learn together anytime and anywhere, and Betsy Ernst has forged a relationship between her school district and the WNY Young Writers’ Studio that enables her own students and colleagues the opportunity to write and learn with us throughout the year. Sheri Barsottelli took a substantial risk by assuming leadership roles in her own school and in our organization as well. Doing so inspired her to continue building and sharing her expertise as a teacher, literacy coach, and director of mentors. Their experiences at Studio are informing instruction, shaping curricula, and inspiring changes in how writers and teachers assess their own practice and provide feedback to one another.

So many of us are grappling with uncomfortable shifts in how we think, what we do, and how we create. As we continue our work together, we’re realizing that growth isn’t necessarily about mastering forms, tools, or processes. Writer Anne Lamott tells us that perfectionism is the voice of the oppressor. We try hard to embrace this simple truth. It’s helped us realize that great ideas aren’t the only effect of courageous thinking, teaching, and writing. Change is as well, and while it’s never a clean process that leads to ideal results, we’re okay with that. We know that transformation is just as much about what Lucy Calkins calls “uncovering trouble” as it is about recognizing success.

We must be able to assess our needs, define where we want to grow, and get better over time.

We’re realizing that trouble isn’t trouble and problems aren’t the problem.

Judgment and fear are.

When we let go of those things, we realize our potential.

And when we don’t? We get stuck.

Courageous Writers, Courageous Writing

Eliza had been in Studio for well over a year when she asked to conference with me about her progress as a writer. Like many people her age, Eliza was very devoted to her family. Her adoration for her sister Miranda and her parents wove its way through every piece she wrote. Her work was heartwarming to read. Still, she seemed dissatisfied.

“I’m not really thrilled to have think about these Dispositions,” she admitted, and I understood why. Coming to know what they meant, setting goals around them, and reflecting on our progress was hard work at times. We all longed to be brilliant artists. Immediately. Committing ourselves to the Dispositions made the road to getting there seem so much longer.

Sometimes, new writers stride into Studio giddy with enthusiasm and eager to publish. Exploring the Dispositions for the first time often slows their pace a bit, and soon enough, the glassy idealism in their eyes begins to fade. Their brows furrow in deeper thought. Those who c0me in confident often become less so, temporarily. This makes my heart hurt. And yet, those who thought they couldn’t write well found new hope in the complex definitions of what it might mean to be a writer and what it might take to produce quality work. The Dispositions reinforced the notion that writers are not simply born. They are made. We are growing and learning and writing. And we are also becoming brilliant artists. Slowly, and with great intention.

“This piece needs work,” Eliza admits, handing me a draft that looks nearly finished. I read it. She is right. My inclination is to talk with her about idea development, but I don’t have to. She knows what quality idea development entails, and she has already made a thoughtful assessment of her own. “My ideas aren’t really that unique,” she said. “I always write about my family.”

“What do you think you need to do?” I ask her, uncertain if she knows how to move forward.

“Well, I need to be more courageous,” she tells me, plainly. “If my ideas were more courageous, my piece might interest a reader more.” This realization helps me guide her process better, and she is able to arrive at a topic that is far more meaningful for her and far more interesting for her audience.

Twenty years ago, I would have sat beside Eliza and walked her through a brainstorming activity intended to deliver her a topic that was relevant to interests. Exploring courage as a critical component of a powerful writer’s practice enabled her to regard it as a helpful tool. This allowed her to diagnose her own needs and set her own goals. As a young teacher, I often rushed to writer’s process and the development of craft in my planning, and then found myself frustrated when students remained unchanged by all of my hard work. Regardless of how I taught writing, they continued to struggle with even the basic elements of writer’s craft, and they took far less ownership of the process than I wanted them to. I transformed my classroom into a writer’s workshop, took the time to confer with students and formatively assess their progress, and yet, something was missing.

This moment with Eliza reinforced my hunches about what it was.

Growing as learners and writers isn’t merely about the what or the how. It’s about the why as well. My students needed to see how writing could help them achieve their own purposes, and they needed tools that would help them assess and set goals around more than the writing itself.

This week, I’ll be sharing more about courage as Disposition of Practice, how we approach the development of it in Studio, and which resources support that work.

A Cancellation

We are sad to announce that our Studio session for tomorrow, November 19th, is cancelled. A policy glitch at Cheektowaga is preventing us from using the space that we have reserved. Emails and calls were made to all, but I wanted to post here as well in case someone does not see! We will be in touch soon about rescheduling.

Flip the Script

This sign usually sits high on a shelf in my living room, above a tidy row of windows. I bought it years ago, at a craft show. At the time, I wanted it as a reminder for myself. Over the years, it’s become something of an anchor for me as a parent and a teacher, too.

I believe that home is where our stories begin, but it certainly isn’t where they end, and we get to direct the plot. Whenever I’m grieving the loss of something, whenever I’m angry or frustrated or feeling alone, I try to remember this. I try to ask myself:  what stories are you telling yourself about your life?

Don’t you wonder what stories the kids we serve are telling themselves about their lives?

Where do we want to flip the scripts of our lives?

Where do they want to?

How can this happen?

Writers are often compelled to use their words to tell the stories of their lives. What would happen if teachers asked young writers to shape that story with intention and to mold it into something different from current reality, when needed? Over the summer and throughout the fall, I found myself so inspired by those involved in the Reclaiming Buffalo project, and when we visited the Writing with Light Exhibition at the CEPA Gallery this fall (which featured the work of several Studio writers), I was blown away by the projects that emerged from each young person’s vision of what could be (scroll to see examples of that work here).

I began realizing that we could be doing more than simply asking young writers to tell their stories at Studio.

We could be helping them realize that they can change their stories, too….when necessary.

They can rewrite the endings. They can flip the script, and when they’ve finished using their words to serve themselves in all of these important ways? They will know more about their purposes as writers too. They can use their experiences and what they’ve learned from them to be of service to others. More on what it means to “make a difference” in that way next week.

 

 

 

Beyond Venting: Journaling for Solutions

Young people often use their journals to write about their struggles and the disappointments they face in life, and while I don’t ever want to discourage someone from writing or from facing their pain, I have to wonder if this practice is always a good thing.

I often wonder: when does venting our frustrations help us, and when does it begin to exacerbate the pain and prolong the problem?

And if the words we’re using aren’t serving us well, then why are using them?

How can we write about our problems in productive ways?

One strategy that I began exploring with Studio writers this fall involves journaling for solutions. Rather writing to merely capture the emotions we have about stressful events (a practice often known to intensify anxiety, deepen depression, and obscure potential solutions), I’m finding it important to help young writers understand how they might use their words to process their experiences in more productive ways. For example, rather than simply venting, writers can explore what they need and how they might get it. They can use their journals to brainstorm solutions, and as they test different approaches, their journals can become places where they reflect on their results and if necessary, determine how to advocate for themselves better or engage the help of others who have greater expertise than they do.

Reframing and journaling for solutions are two different approaches that enable young writers to use their words in service to themselves which is a bit of a theme here this week. Tomorrow, I’ll share another strategy– I call it flipping the script.