“How can I help you?” I asked, bracing myself for whatever would come next. I hadn’t worked with this teacher long enough or often enough to understand what her needs were just yet.

“These kids can’t write,” she spat. “More importantly, they don’t want to. They are completely apathetic. All they really care about is where the next party is. They spend more time texting their friends than paying attention to me in class. Their work is atrocious, too. Not a single one of them can compose a fluent paragraph. They have no clue what the parts of speech are, let alone how to identify them properly. I’ve had it with them,” she admitted.

And I waited a moment before I began any further inquiry.

“Can you explain the topic of the assignment?” I asked.

“It was a critical lens essay. They know how to write them. Or at least they should by now. We’ve been hammering this into them for four years!”

“And how did you define what you wanted them to do?” I wondered.

“I gave them directions. Not that they followed them.”

I asked what kind of models she provided. There were none.

“And did you demonstrate what you wanted them to do or write beside them at all?”

Her eyes rolled dramatically, and then they narrowed. “What on earth does that mean? If you mean did I spoon-feed them the process, then the answer is no. They should know how to do this by now.”

I agreed. Eleventh graders should know how to write a critical lens essay. They didn’t, though. At least, they weren’t able to demonstrate this. And it was clear that their teacher was too upset to consider why or how she might be able to help them better.

“Have you ever been invited to talk with your colleagues about these problems so that you could brainstorm solutions?” I asked.

“We don’t have any common time together,” she replied.

“What about seeking help in other ways?” I offered. “Have you ever received support as a teacher of writing?” She looked at me like I had grown seven heads.

This exchange continues to haunt me, many years later.  I wonder: do seemingly burned-out teachers refuse to use effective practices, or does a teacher’s struggle to adopt effective practices without adequate support and feedback lead to burn out? Similar frustrations are often revealed when we talk with young writers about their work. “I don’t know how to do this,” they will tell us. “I don’t want to do it,” they’ll admit. “I don’t even know what you mean,” some will seethe, moments before declaring their work “garbage” and trash-canning it.

In my experience, the following tools, processes, and interventions have enabled writers to persevere, often against significant odds. As I write this, I realize that teachers tend to persevere when they are provided similar supports.

• When learners of any age are provided choice and invited to learn about and produce things that matter to them for real audiences that they can engage with, they are better able to persevere.
• When learners are invited to make use of the tools and technologies that serve them best and that enable them to connect with their intended audience in purposeful and efficient ways, they are better able to persevere.
• Helping learners reach out to those within and beyond the community who have expertise in areas that they struggle with is a critical part of any facilitator’s work. The potential to network and learn from others online enriches this.
• When learners are invited to investigate models, identify their common elements, and use what they notice to create a vision of what quality looks like, they gain a level of clarity that enables them to establish their own clear targets.
• When learners create rubrics that reflect criteria for each stage of development, they literally design pathways that can, as needed, scaffold them toward success. Once the process is underway, the rubric often functions as a road-map through rough terrain. Learners can define the path they are on, how close it takes them to their ideal, and what actions they will need to take next in order to continue forward. Rubrics also enable learners to pinpoint potential roadblocks with greater precision. This enables them to ask for support in a timely manner.
• Participating in meaningful peer-review processes provides learners with insight, ideas, and strategies that enable them to revise their thinking and their work.
• Criteria-specific feedback which makes clear references to each learner’s work inspires them to persevere, particularly when the feedback that is provided attends to one element of their work at a time.
• Coaching learners to firewall their works in progress, to select effective mentors and coaches, and to advocate respectfully for themselves, for their work, and for the processes that have proven to help them can sustain help them sustain their energies and nurture their own process as well.

This week, I’ll be revisiting the best of what we’ve learned at Studio relevant to perseverance. I’ll be sharing some new strategies, perspectives, and bits of inspiration too. I think this is a perfect topic for the new year, and I’m looking forward to exploring it more in our sessions with writers this month!

We have so much to celebrate!

• Over the last four years, we’ve grown substantially in numbers
• We’ve found a new home for our Erie County writers at Union East Elementary School in Cheektowaga
• We’ve opened our doors at the Kenan Center in Niagara County as well
• We’ve established a mentorship program for middle and high school writers who are interested in becoming teachers
• We’ve begun creating internship opportunities for those interested in using their other talents to contribute to what we do in some way
• We’ve integrated technology with purpose
• Teachers have begun writing themselves and pursuing a variety of action research projects
• We’ve started sharing all that we are learning with others by blogging, presenting at conferences, starting conversations in our schools, and leading mini-sessions at our writing celebration each spring
• We’ve published several annual anthologies
• We’ve established virtual spaces that allow us to connect anytime we want to
• We’ve made space within our program for all who are interested in joining us, including those with significant financial needs
• We’ve problem-solved and persevered and found a way to overcome some significant hurdles in terms of time and space
• We’ve found ways to engage one another in collaborative planning and decision-making
• Sheri Barsottelli and I will be launching the first site-based Studio at Depew Middle and High School this spring. We’re excited to begin helping young writers become mentors to one another there and starting an action research project of our own.
• Most importantly, we’ve seen many of the writers and teachers we began working with during our first season return year after year after year!

And there is so much more that we are looking forward to accomplishing in this new year.

Those who have been a part of Studio for some time know that it has never been a for-profit venture. Our fees have ensured that we can cover operating costs, and this is what we’ve managed to accomplish. Many children, parents, and teachers in our program have volunteered their time and talent in dozens of ways that ensured our success. This is how we’ve grown. Studio is what it is because of the incredible people who believe in what we’re trying to do here and who provide us their loving and ongoing support.

Over the years, we’ve worked hard to lower our operating costs significantly. We’ve located more affordable spaces that can support our need for certain technologies, we’ve researched and invested in the unique insurance coverage that we’ve needed, and we’ve built a reputation that has enabled us to scale back our advertising costs significantly.

 Our lowered costs have brought us to a place where we are able to pursue a critical component of our mission with far greater intention. Four years ago, one of my ultimate goals as the founder of the WNY Young Writers’ Studio was to create a place where all who were serious about growing as writers and teachers could find a home, regardless of their personal financial needs. This year, I’m proud to unveil a significant opportunity for all current and future Studio fellows: the shift to a give what you can fee structure.

As you plan to register for our upcoming season, know that if you are able to pay our annual fee of $180.00, we ask that you consider doing so. But if your family is unable to do this, simply consider how you might contribute your time or talent to our community in other ways. We’re most inspired by the children and adults who have thought carefully about what they are good at it and seriously about what they love to do. It has been incredible to watch them give of themselves in that have made Studio an amazing place to be.

So, what can you give? If it’s money, we’ll still take it. We have bills to pay certainly, and we always will. We know that this isn’t possible for everyone though. If you can’t pay the full amount, we will gratefully accept a donation of any kind. If you can’t pay it all, please don’t let this stop you from sending your child to Studio. Increase your involvement. Give what you can of your time and talent. We know that it will be more than enough.

In the coming months, we’ll be sharing more details about the give what you can campaign and information about registration for our new season. For now, let me wish you and your family much love and laughter and joy in 2012.

I’m looking forward to seeing you at Studio!

• Elementary writers Elizabeth Luick and Michaela Fuchs use a rubric to reflect on their development of writer’s craft, taking note of those elements of writing that they are struggling with. This enables them to research new strategies that might help them enhance their work.
• Middle school writer Laura Stockman is excited about starting a photography blog. Uncertain about what she might include in this blog, she begins exploring similar ones online, capturing what they have in common and taking note of qualities that are confusing or less purposeful. She uses this information to shape her own blog design. Then, she shares her first attempts at blogging with a wider audience on the web and asks that they share ideas for how she might improve.
• Third grade writer William Barsottelli devotes himself to daily journaling practice and tracks his daily progress on a calendar. This enables him to pinpoint when it is easier to fit in writing practice and when it is more difficult. When he compares the content of his journal entries to stalls in his practice, he realizes that it isn’t just his busy social calendar that trips him up. It’s the fact that he runs out of ideas as well. He decides to begin researching prompts that might be more interesting.
• High school student Read Maisano decides to write a children’s book. Before she begins drafting, she interviews local young readers to survey their interests. She allows this to guide her decision-making. When a teacher in the program encourages her to tap into a more global population, she considers how she might use the web to accomplish this.
• Before elementary level writers begin writing stories of their own, they explore a variety of published examples together. Using sticky notes, they capture their responses to the following prompt on paper and attach them to the mentor texts that they are studying: Before this writer began writing, what did he or she need to understand first?
• As Tish Albro drafts a novel, she stops at varied points to share her work with different peers, teachers, and family members. Eager to receive feedback on the development of plot, she asks that they use specific criteria and references to her writing to demonstrate strengths and points of potential revision.  After each reviewer composes and submits their feedback to her, she determines trends in the responses. She realizes that if multiple people have provided reinforcement around a particular portion of her text, she may not need to revise it. She makes changes to those parts of the text that multiple people have provided cool feedback around.

Writers who are courageous will often write about important topics that may make others feel uncomfortable. Sometimes, their work will require them to grapple with powerful and conflicting emotions. They will find themselves eager to take a stance, become more transparent about what they think and feel, or reveal their beliefs about something. Courageous writers aren’t afraid to appear unknowledgeable. They try new forms of writing, and they share their works in progress. They also seek out those who are different from them in simple yet fundamental ways. They aren’t as threatened by this as less courageous writers might be, or if they are, they are willing to tolerate those feelings in order to learn more.

Eliza helped us realize that when courage is absent, the topics that writers devote themselves to are not necessarily meaningful. They don’t feel particularly passionate about their work, and those who read it won’t find themselves moved in any way either. Those who lack courage may hide their thoughts, feelings, and opinions from others. They may be defensive or resistant, particularly when they are invited to work with those who are very different from them or to attempt writing genres or forms that they are unfamiliar with.

One of the important goals of our community is to help one another become more courageous over time, so that we might produce increasingly courageous writing. We’ve found that this is often enabled with the help of another Disposition, our Commitment to Understanding.

Studio writers Matt Nichy and Tish Albro have exemplified this Disposition well in recent years.

“I love the Eragon series,” Matt told me, several summers ago. “The fourth book isn’t going to be out for a while, and I’m thinking that maybe I’d like to try to write it myself,” he smiled.

I admired this. What I admired even more was his willingness to revisit Christopher Paolini’s first three books as a researcher, interested in his development of writer’s craft. Matt knew that studying an author’s work in this way could help him understand more about how to write well.

High school writer Tish Albro was eager to write a story about the seven deadly sins at work inside of a local high school. Realizing her background knowledge was deficient, Tish spent a significant amount of time reading Dante’s Inferno, discussing the text with a family member who had also read it, and researching online. When she was finished, she wrote an article about her efforts to seek understanding in this way, and as a result, various other Studio writers began approaching Tish for support and direction in doing the same.

Often, new writers will begin by mimicking the work of their favorite authors. Sometimes, teachers become frustrated by this. In fact, some of the published writers that I respect discourage beginning writers from doing this. As a teacher, I tend to think that such practice is an indication of growth, though. It reveals that writers are seeking understanding and beginning to play with new forms. We all tend to copy our models until we’ve developed enough understanding and experience to fly solo. We accept ownership of our writing in gradual ways. Writing like others demonstrates that this is beginning to happen.

University of Maryland professor and literacy specialist John O’Flahavan advocates for instructional practices that engage writers in the consumption of forms that they intend to produce. This makes sense. If we want to do anything well, we need to understand what it really is and how to do it first. This pursuit is driven by quality questions. Matt didn’t assume that he could write the fourth installment of his favorite novel series well, simply because he was an avid reader of those texts. He wondered what Christopher Paolini did as a writer that helped him create something that so many others were eager to read. He chased after his questions. The answers inspired new ones.

Seeking understanding prevents us from rushing to judgment as well, providing us greater opportunities to learn, experiment, deepen our knowledge, and sharpen our skills. Valuable understandings are based on specific evidence. It’s not enough to have personal opinions about what quality looks like when it comes to writing or instructional practices. If our work is to be meaningful to anyone other than ourselves, it must be informed by evidence that suggests it is useful to them.

In these instances, data become our friend.

Rubrics are not something we impose on students for a grade. In fact, Studio writers don’t earn grades, and this allows us the freedom to use rubrics as they were intended. They are a reflection of the conversations that we have with one another about quality. They articulate what that means to us, during a specific moment in time, and often, in relation to a particular task or challenge. Most importantly, they enable self-assessment and allow all of us to provide one another with quality feedback. Rubrics remind us of what we value, they articulate targets that help us set and achieve our goals, and they provide us with words that allow us to coach and guide one another in very productive ways.

I was first exposed to the rubrics for the Dispositions of Practice as a learner affiliated with Communities for Learning: Leading Lasting Change. We’ve repurposed them for use with writers in the WNY Young Writers’ Studio, and we ask writers to engage with them in a variety of contexts for different purposes. For instance, while the rubric that follows may not be particularly child-friendly, it can help teachers and parents begin to consider the relationship between courage and powerful learning, behavior, and work. It provides specificity about what quality looks like and how we might notice growth. It can also guide our feedback and recommendations.

Children can be asked to explore these connections in ways that are more accessible and engaging. They should contribute to the design of rubrics that are meaningful to them.

Shaping a Rubric to Guide Courageous Writers Who Take Initiative

Use the rubric below to inform your study of courage and how it is evidenced within your practice, your classroom, or the community that you lead. Compare it to the portraits of courageous writing and work that I shared yesterday or those you may have identified on your own in the past. Write about the ways in which they compare, and then, assess their differences. How might you change the rubric below? How might you change the one taking shape in your own mind?

Writers Strive to be Courageous

• They are willing to discuss things that make them uncomfortable in appropriate ways.
• They are willing to feel the discomfort that comes with needing to change, learn, and grow.
• They seek out new responsibilities and challenges.
• They don’t give up when the writing process becomes hard.

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.

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.

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.

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.