Our Antagonists are our Helpers

“He who struggles with us strengthens our nerves and sharpens our skill. Our antagonist is our helper.” -Edmund Burke

Today in class I’m teaching my young novelists how to write effective antagonists. It’s a challenge for young writers. They have a tendency to write good vs. bad. Black and white. Right and wrong.

But what I tell them is that the best antagonists have humanizing motives. Antagonists in our real lives are rarely madmen hell-bent on ruining our lives for no more reason than to see the pleading and fear in our eyes. Monsters in the real world do those awful things we fear. But they do them for a reason.

I keep returning to the awful shootings in Norway this past week. The shooter took out dozens of people in a drug-fueled rage in keeping with a racist diatribe he’d written and published on the Internet.

But why? He wanted to address the media. He wanted more attention for his crazy ideas. And he was afraid that if he didn’t take extreme action, his country would fall victim to anti-Norwegian sentiment. He didn’t just wake up one morning and decide, out of the blue, to go on a rampage. He had a motivation, as all antagonists do.

Now, do I endorse this action? Of course not. But if I were writing an antagonist who was a fictional version of this real-life boogey man, I’d have to spend some time working on his fears. Figuring out his motivations. Making him somewhat sympathetic. Luckily, I don’t want to write a story about this wack-job. Because the more we know about a person, the more likely we are to empathize with them. And honestly, I’d like to go on forever without empathy for this guy.

Of course, I didn’t use this example with my students. But I have been thinking a lot lately about how the antagonists in my own life – often my own fears and worries – sharpen my skill. Theoretically, when I’m faced with a problem that seems insurmountable, I sit down and figure it out. At least, that’s what my protagonists do.

But in reality, before I can figure anything out, I need to freak. Totally and hopelessly. I need to identify the worst case scenario and convince myself that it will happen. I need to alienate my band of loyal and loving companions and stare into the abyss alone. I need to convince myself that I will fail miserably.

Because my antagonist is never just the external bad guy. My real antagonist is myself.

Yesterday, I had a high-noon showdown with myself. I’d made two of my favorite people cry, I could feel the panic setting in, and I knew my own personal duel was just around the corner. In the past, I might have let my antagonist have the upper hand. If I can get myself really hysterical, I have a much better chance of being defeated by the demons within.

But yesterday, circumstances forced me to be even and calm all day. And when I found myself battling with all sorts of phantoms (a hospital administrator, my mother, my husband, a newspaper reporter, the mail lady), I grabbed my pen and started writing.

There on the page before me was the real battle I’d been avoiding all day. Me vs. Me.

And you know what? After much struggling and internal wrestling, I won. No, not the monsters in dark places me. The protagonist me. The one who wanted a plan and needed to be sharper and stronger and better for the big mountain climbing expedition I have ahead of me.

And knowing these challenges are setting me along a path to be better for myself, better for my family,and better for my students is a giant weight off my shoulders.

Thanks, antagonist.

Listening

Ruby was born about seventeen years ago. She was quirky and witty and she spoke in an accent that sounded a lot like my grandmother’s. She had a tough life and didn’t have the advantages that my own kids now enjoy. I loved her take on her small life. I loved her so much that I wrote her for nearly three years, though I never figured out her story. Ruby was my constant traveling companion. I knew what she’d order at a restaurant, or what she’d say if she were insulted, or how she’d handle an awkward conversation. Ruby was my own better half, the girl I always hoped I could become one day.

Ruby stopped talking to me after a number of disparaging comments from a very self-assured group of writers in an advanced fiction class at Tufts University in Boston. They were all juniors and seniors. While I was technically a junior, it was my first semester away from home as an 18-year-old student, and despite my prolific writing career to that point, I was really impressed at how old the other students were. And how curt they were. And how biting their comments could be.

I was also really impressed with their third-person POV stories. And the names of their characters. And the audacity of their bourgeois protagonists. Because they were Yankees, I had decided very early on that they were better educated. Some of them asked if I wore shoes in the summer in Nashville (I said I did, but the truth is that I avoid shoes when it’s hot). Very few would give up their forced façade of elitism to be friends with a girl whose hair and accent were both out of control.

So I shut Ruby up. Quick-like.

I switched my subjects from dog-fights and messy divorces and front-yard bathtubs to more refined things like women wasting away in domestic solitary confinement. I judged my heroine too simple to describe the finer points of the Italian paintings I was learning in my Renaissance Art History class. She was too full of hollers and hills to ride the subway. I couldn’t scrub the dirt from under her fingernails. So I wrote about high-brow protagonists who were over-educated, under-stimulated, and taken for granted (Hello? Mister Freud?).

For the next seventeen years, if I had tried to write in first person to save my life, I don’t think I could have done it. I missed Ruby terribly, and I thought about her all the time. But I had said some pretty awful things about her when I abandoned her for my glamorous new protagonists. I couldn’t blame her for holding a grudge.

On Wednesday, I was sitting in the dentist’s office waiting for my husband to finish his cleaning. In a flash of inspiration that non-writers might confuse with schizophrenia, I heard a voice in the back of my head. Chills ran down my spine. The hair on my arms stood on end.

It was Ruby.

After a full year of writing again, of working the academic and legal junk out of my creative veins, of teaching kids to write what they know, of pontificating about writing and education and the power of the pen, I think I’ve earned her respect again.

Ruby, I want you to know that I’m listening. Go on and tell me your story, baby girl. I promise I’ll never laugh at you again.

Quit, Already!

Yesterday, a very concerned parent told me that her daughter was overwhelmed with the project, a common issue for any writer reaching 10,000 words in her manuscript.  She might not have spoken to me at all, except that I saw her lurking a little bit in the corner, and I asked if she was ok.  She said her daughter was overextended, overscheduled, and over-stressed. Her mother told me of a grueling weekend where the family wrestled with the thought of taking the student out of class.

In fact, there were divisions among the family.  Groups of people thought that the pressure of writing a novel quickly could break the girl, and other factions thought that if she wanted to write a novel, then this was her opportunity to do so, and she shouldn’t shy away from a challenge simply because it’s hard.

Anything worth doing is hard.

But what struck me wasn’t the conversation, the dialogue between family members, or even the fear in the young woman.  I was struck that at no point did any of the adults involved call me.  Or another student in class.  Or Beth, my co-teacher, who is incredibly approachable.

And it occurs to me that if a parent or student or invested family member cares enough about their young writer enough to argue about whether or not she should learn to express herself in a healthy way, they should reach out to those who are writers as well.

Writers know fear and anxiety and self-criticism better than any group on the planet.  Ok, so maybe I’m a bit biased on this front, but I believe that the introspection and empathy that fully-invested writing necessitates also results in, more often than not, a type-A personality in the writer.

I told the mother to give me two hours with her daughter in class.  If she wasn’t excited about her work and ready to dive back in, she was welcome to walk away.  But I feared a much more impactful consequence of deciding not to finish the task at hand.  I was afraid that her daughter would believe that she was a failure at being a writer, and that her perception would cloud her self-esteem for years to come.  So I did what any self-respecting (and fearful!) writer would do: I talked to her.

And do you know what I learned?  She’s just a teenager. 

There was no murky muck lurking in her brain.  She had no impossible fears to conquer.  She wasn’t racked with guilt or worry or anxiety.  In fact, she’d expressed a little worry after our last class, which sent her parents, family members, and interested parties into the debate of the century.  Am I surprised?  In a word, no.

So I ventured out on a limb at the beginning of class and told everyone to quit, already.

Their shocked faces stared at me in disbelief.  Mouths hung agape.  Brows furrowed.  Someone shook his head slowly.

I said, “This is too hard for you guys.  You’re just kids.  You shouldn’t be burdened with the pressure of writing a novel.  And you’d probably rather just be running around this summer, spending time at the pool, and relaxing.  So why don’t we all quit already.”

“Are you kidding?” one student asked, outraged.

“You need to talk to your doctor and get on some new medications,” one kid said, pointing his finger at me.

The whole class shook their heads, said “no way!”

When I told them that they’d just proven my point, that this project wasn’t too hard, and that they were doing exactly the right thing for their brains, for their hearts, for their minds, and for their dreams of becoming writers, they all cheered.

One boy sighed his relief and said, “oh my gosh, I’m so glad.  You scared me to death!”

Read that again.  I scared him to death.

Merely telling a young person that he couldn’t achieve a goal he’d held in his heart for himself was enough to raise his fear level, freak him out, and push his internal panic button.

He wasn’t scared or nervous before class.  He wasn’t unsure of himself.  None of them were!  And then I said they couldn’t do it.

As parents, we teach our children, even when we don’t think we’re teaching.  They overhear our conversations, they intuit our emotions, they soak up our fears and dreams for their lives.  And what my student’s very well-meaning and loving mother did was magnify an emotion in her daughter by discussing it, worrying about it, and projecting her own fears onto her daughter.

During class, this student had marvelous things to say.  I worked her into my lesson plan, using her name as an example character, and by the end of the first half-hour lecture, she was grinning, giggling, and ready to write.

I sent her mom an email after class and I took my own advice.  I told her how proud I was of her daughter for taking on the challenge, how proud I was of her for supporting her daughter, and how excited I was to be a part of this journey.

I’m happy to say that my student has gotten back into her novel-writing groove.  But I have learned an incredibly powerful lesson in this exchange.  Kindness is empowering.  Encouragement can conquer incredible fear.  And communication can both wreck and rebuild a writer’s confidence.

I am so thankful for that parent for helping me redouble my efforts to hug students, stick my hand out for high-fives, and tell them, genuinely, that I’m proud of their work.

Positivity breeds optimism, and optimism feeds our dreams.

Writing What I Know

A writing teacher’s favorite adage: write what you know.

I’ve found that few teachers – or writers for that matter – actually understand what that phrase means.  I know lots of things.  I know about raising two baby boys, I know about being married to my best friend, I know about being abandoned by my father and the heartache of losing grandparents too soon.  I know about hot summer nights in the South, and I know about walking to work in a Chicago blizzard.  I know about being an older student who goes back to law school.  I know about teaching. I know about doing my taxes.  And I know about cooking dinner.  And I know about a million other things that I’ve experienced in my lifetime.

So does that mean that my writing is restricted by those experiences?  Or that I can only create characters who have walked those same steps?

In a word, no.

Because writing what you know isn’t about writing the events that you know as they happened.  It’s actually about emotional truth.

Let me illustrate.  One day before a spelling test when I was in second grade, I was taken to the hospital complaining of chest pains.  My mother panicked, of course, and told the doctor she feared I had heart trouble.  After a few routine checks, he declared me healthy and gave me a new nickname, “Sarah Bernhardt.”  I felt ashamed, and worried that my friends and family members would think of me as the girl who cried wolf.  Or, worse yet, that they would think I was a devious child, prone to dramatic outburst, seeking approval or attention.

For years I carried these worries with me, like a pack animal laden with unnecessary supplies.  I minimized my concerns, buried my worries, and kept my mouth shut more than I would have liked to.  That is, until the day I was riding in a subway car in Chicago and I felt the world crash into my chest and bury me like a corpse.  I grabbed at my heart and panted, felt my head spin in circles, and when I finally reached my stop, I ran up the stairs and all the way home where I collapsed into my husband’s arms, sobbing.

It was a panic attack.  And while I had struggled with anxiety for much of my life, I had never felt the crushing weight of a full-blown panic attack until that moment.  At least, I didn’t realize that I had.  And as I was sitting in the waiting room of the hospital, I recalled the day that I was unprepared for my spelling test in second grade.

Whatever the details of the fictional universes I create, I know I can write honestly and convincingly about the feelings of anxiety, of pressure, and of panic.

And I don’t just have to write about girls whose expectations of themselves are too high.  Or of students who find themselves facing a test that they don’t know how to navigate.  I could, quite convincingly, write about a tiny fairy who is caught in a mason jar by a happy child out collecting fireflies.  I could imagine myself in her place as the lid is screwed on, feel the crushing pressure of the glass walls closing in around her, and balance the weight of my own panic attack on her tiny wings.

Even though I’ve never been a fairy trapped in a jar, I’m writing what I know.

Today I got news that a friend of mine took a job in a city far away.  She’ll be selling her home and moving away in less than a month.  I’m thrilled for her, of course, because she’s getting exactly what she needs at this point in her life.  But again, I felt the walls closing in, the panic starting to build, the pressure growing.  And I told myself what I tell my students every single day: write it down.

So the character I have created to explore these feelings of loss won’t look like me.  Her loss won’t deal with a friend moving away and getting the job of her dreams in the town she probably never should have left behind.  But I will use the emotional truth that I know to infuse my fiction with honesty, with reality, with the seed of my own knowledge.

Because I know friendship.  And I know love.  And I know yearning.  And I know writing.

Why I Want to Lose the War

Today I was quoted in US News & World Report’s story about the use of technology in the classroom.  From what I understand, approximately 100 educators queried the reporter in the hopes that their use of technology would be featured in his story.

One single solitary educator stepped forward to defend the traditional classroom.  Guess who?

Yep.  Me.

The article was interesting and informative, and while I thrill at the possibilities for using technology as a tool, I’m deeply disturbed by a few of the numbers he reported:

“ IT Opportunities in the Education Market, revealed that 78 percent of K-12 teachers and administrators believe technology has positively impacted the classroom and the productivity of students. Roughly 65 percent of educators surveyed also believe that students are more productive today than they were three years ago due to the increased reliance on technology in the classroom.”

As a word nerd, I’m concerned with the use of the term “productivity” as it is applied to learning.  The reporter, while clearly asking me to respond to this study, returned to this question over and over: “Are your students more productive with the use technology?”

And I asked, “What do you mean by productive?” 

An education system, in my humble opinion, should not be focused on product.  Instead, I believe that a system that seeks to educate students should instead be focusing on developing a love of learning, instilling the wonder of the human imagination, and inspiring students to seek out knowledge as a matter of principle, not because they’re assigned to do so.

For example, if I hand my students a worksheet where their job is to seek the correct answers for the blanks on the page, then their “product” may, in fact, be more correct than if they didn’t have the internet as a tool.  They may also be able to source answers more quickly than they could without high-tech gadgets.

But so what?  Will they remember the answers? 

When I was in law school, a single educator stood out as excellent beyond all the rest.  She was insane, if you asked the students, because she never answered a single question.  In fact, she didn’t even tell us which questions we were supposed to be investigating.  She assigned cases, then led a lively discussion about what the holdings meant in the context of her Contracts class. We hated her.

But the problem was not with her teaching; it was with our expectations.  As students, we expected her to be the source of the information we wanted to memorize.  It was easier, we all agreed, when a teacher taught and a professor professed.

Instead, she insisted that we, the students, were the source of our own knowledge.  How annoying, right?

Wrong.

Great minds are made by other great minds, not by the highest-tech toys we can put in our kids’ hands.  Socrates taught Plato who taught Aristotle, and none of them had an iPad.

My lone voice stood out like a one-room school marm’s at the end of the US News article when a headmaster said that those who resist technology in the classroom are teaching 21^st century students in a 19^th century setting.  He went on to say that those who fight against technology are fighting a losing battle.

This same headmaster has eliminated the library in his school.  I was crushed just thinking of all the students who won’t be able to get lost in the stacks, ask a librarian for advice or, stick her nose into the inky pages of a new arrival and smell the pages, or, shock and horror!, judge a book by its cover.

Because while technology can bring people together who might not get the chance to meet, it can also be a crippling isolator.  Kids may have access to millions of sources in an online database, but in my experience as a college writing professor, the average (no, even the excellent!) college junior does not know the difference between an excellent source and digital junk food.

In my classroom, students write novels.  With pens and paper.  I teach from notes, sit next to them at their desks, coax them through tough decisions, and read between the lines to figure out what’s really going on with them.  I could not do this by way of a videotaped lecture.  Or Skype. And teenagers especially need a personal connection with an educator to make material meaningful.

I hold that if a school system has money, it should invest those funds in teacher training.  Period.  Yes, gadgets are cool.  I own many of them, and my life has been made easier by the implementation of technology into my routine.  But a computer never changed my life.  A teacher, however, did.

And at the end of a month, my students have done more reading than the average high school student and more writing than a college graduate completes in four years of post-secondary education.  They’ve also figured out the emotional terrain of being a teenager, they’ve tackled their biggest fears (often abandonment, isolation, and acceptance), and they’ve formed a bond with their parents and other adults who are invested in them.

So if novels written by teenagers are the result of a losing battle, baby, I want to lose the war.

Teaching is Magic

Yesterday, I had a tough day in the classroom. I wasn’t making the connections I had planned ot make, my timing was off, students were confused, and all of this hootenanny led to performance anxiety on my part, compounding the whole problem.

I sent most of the day ruminating on these facts, replaying the difficult moments over and over again in my head, wondering how to change things up today so I didn’t make the same mistakes again.

Before I went to bed last night, I read the following by Kahlil Gibran: “The teacher who is indeed wise does not bid you to enter the house of his wisdom but rather leads you to the threshold of your mind.” It bothered me, this quote, because I didn’t feel like I had led anyone toward the threshold of their imaginations. I’d barely gotten to the doorway of my own.

I spent some time walking the floor, like I imagine Socrates must have paced when Plato hadn’t been paying full attention during their tutorials. I thought about the title I’ve given myself in the classroom – not teacher, but Chief Executive Muse. And during the hundredth trip between the couch and the refrigerator, my brain made the connection I’d been missing all day.

It’s the dancing, not the teaching.

My proudest moments in the classroom have never taken place during a lecture. They have been the rare and magical organic teaching moments where student and teacher engage in joint discovery and, like cloud heavy with rain meeting a low pressure zone, make rain. It’s the dance of learners – first your idea, then mine – that makes education so intoxicating.

And that give and take was what I had missed in the class that felt so flat and ruined my confidence. We hadn’t been dancing together, the students and I.

Today, I came full circle. I thew my lesson plans on the desk, taught from the pit of my stomach, handed out high-fives, and left feeling exhausted, exhilarated, and thrilled. Over the course of two hours, I managed to connect with every single student at least once, tease out their plots one at a time, validate their ideas, and inspire them to rush out into the world to read more, write more, and learn more for the sakes of their characters.

It’s days like today that remind me that teaching is the closest thing to magic that I will ever experience. At times, I can almost see their ideas rising up from the tops of their heads, swirling in deep blues and bright yellows and oranges in a ball of creative energy above the classroom. And then, one at a time, my students eyes light up, they raise their hands, ask questions, and start to hear the music in the classroom, the dance of the creative process.

It takes every ounce of type-a neurosis that I can manage, every quiet moment of empathy, every spare thought, and all my patience to arrive at the place where I can lead a room full of nervous teenagers into the ballroom to dance.

But oh, what beautiful magic lives in those perfect, shining moments when we’re all waltzing in step together.

YA Literature is The Catcher in the Rye

YA Literature: The Catcher in the Rye

“I’m standing on the edge of some crazy cliff. What I have to do, I have to catch everybody if they start to go over the cliff—I mean if they’re running and they don’t look where they’re going I have to come out from somewhere and catch them. That’s all I’d do all day. I’d just be the catcher in the rye and all.” – J.D. Salinger, The Catcher in the Rye.

I’ve been struck lately by the debate that rages in the press about Young Adult Fiction and whether or not it is a detriment to youth, to literature, and to society in its entirety. The commentary has been thorough. But there’s an underlying theme that hasn’t been discussed thoroughly: the literary discourse between adults and young people.

I teach novel-writing classes to teenagers. I’m in a unique position to identify themes in books for young people written by young people themselves. What I find will not be surprising to any of us who consider ourselves avid readers.

Young people want to write about real human emotions. They are themselves in the throws of the most emotionally tumultuous periods of their lives and their writing reflects it. A full 80% of protagonists in my students’ work are orphans, isolated from their childhood homes, or stranded in an inhospitable terrain, searching for meaning. Crunching the numbers another way, nearly half of my students write about a protagonist who has a deformity, disability, or a secret and shameful power that she must guard from a harsh and judgmental world.

The writer in me finds these numbers fascinating. These kids are the audience for an exploding fiction market, and they’re writing the books they would want to read themselves. Regardless of which YA sub-genre they are exploring (sci-fi, fantasy, romance, family saga), they each want to see a kid, fraught with seemingly insurmountable challenges, clamber their way out of their fictional hell to a place that is even marginally better.

And here’s the kicker: almost none of my students write a separate hero character who saves their protagonist.

So what do these statistics mean to the mother and teacher in me? Kids write what they know. And if they know isolation, alienation, fear, and abandonment, then I see a teaching moment.

Lat month, when I read a snippet of a student’s novel that involved a young woman who was engaging in self-harm, I put down the paper, held open my arms, and hugged that girl. Her writing opened a door to a conversation about scary feelings, terrible choices, and the desperation that she herself was feeling in her life. I asked her during our conversation if she ever had these feelings herself, and she said she didn’t, but she knew plenty of people who did. And she herself had often thought about how to escape her own sadness and isolation.

So what’s the difference between my author, who didn’t cut herself, and her friends who did?

Reading. And writing.

She told me that books were a safe haven for her. She said that even in her darkest moments, she could find a character whose fictional life was worse off than hers, then follow that character as she struggled her way out of her problems and found a way to be better, to be stronger, to be braver because of her experiences.

And then she took her interest in books a step further and became a writer herself.

That young writer’s love affair with the written word might not save her life, but the dialogue it opened with responsible adults very well may.

Kids are looking for the instruction manual for their lives. That’s the overarching theme of adolescence and of literature written for young audiences. And while involved parents who have active, and sometimes difficult, conversations with their children might recoil at the thought, most kids do not share their deep, dark fears with anyone.

Technology doesn’t help their feelings of isolation. Too often, parents are plugged into one device or another instead of being plugged into their children. I want to say to parents who are actually considering censoring their kids that it’s not their job to keep the sadness of the world from ever reaching their children. In fact, sheltering them from the harsh realities of their friends, their neighbors, and even their own psyches will cripple them. Instead, I want parents to turn to their kids and actually talk to them.

When you see a kid reading a book that exhibits themes that make you uncomfortable, imagine a doorknob on the book jacket. Turn the handle and see what might be inside that kid’s mind. You’d be surprised at how many of a child’s insecurities can be tamed and even eliminated by turning an uncomfortable worry into a teaching moment.

My young author was worried about how to talk to her friends who were engaging in self-harm, or if she should bring it up at all. I told her that bad behavior is almost always covering up a fear. And if she could talk to her friends about what scares them, she’d be a wonderful confidant to them, and an even stronger person herself. I also told her that if her friends needed help, she should help them decide which adult in their lives to trust with their worries. And I told her how proud I was of her for using her own communication skills to shine some light in the dark places.

Holden Caulfield decides at the end of Catcher in the Rye that he can’t be the savior for all the little children who might point themselves in the direction of a cliff’s edge and run too hard and too fast toward a deadly fall. But by writing about those emotions, J.D. Salinger told millions of readers that they were not alone in their feelings of alienation, and that we are all capable of saving ourselves.

Technology in the Writing Classroom: A Bad Idea

‘It must be remembered that the purpose of education is not to fill the minds of students with facts… it is to teach them to think, if that is possible, and always to think for themselves.’ — Robert Hutchins

Today I changed something in my teaching.  Enamored of the iPads my students were using in my writing classes, I ran out and bought one.  It’s a really cool gadget that looks swell next to my iPhone and MacBook and iMac.  And it was expensive, so I was invested in making it work to my advantage in the classroom.

I made all my lesson plans into PDF files, emailed them to myself, and stored them on the bookshelf on my iPad.  And today, for the first time, I stood in front of my students holding a blinking, flashing gizmo instead of a stack of rumpled papers.

It was heavy.

I’ll just put that out there first.  About twenty minutes into my lecture, I noticed that my arm was tired,  I kept switching it from hand to hand, wrapping the magical magnetic cover in different ways, but it was so heavy that it distracted me and I eventually laid it on a table nearby.

Then I lost my place.

I was teaching a new group of students today, and the organic part f the lesson kept going off on tangents.  I followed those questions wherever they led, and when I was ready to start again, I looked down at my iPad and it had gone dark.  So I slid my finger across the face of the tablet to wake up the screen, then punched in my password, then flipped through the electronic pages until I found the place where I left off.  This was not only distracting to the kids, but it also added frustration to the problem, making me anxious in front of a crowd.  That was a new experience for me.

I might point out that had I been holding a wad of heavily noted papers in my hands, my thumb would have noted the place where my students changed directions and I could have picked up right where I left off.

Then I lost my students.

The magic of having a fully engaged class of writers all sharing the same physical space is the snowball effect that ideas have on one another.  My fancy gadget got in the way of that flow, and I noticed that they, too, were using their fancy gadgets.  A few were texting in class.  One of them left the room to make a phone call.  And I should point out that these are middle school students in an elective private writing seminar.

I realize that part of this is a new technology learning curve, but my irritation goes way beyond that.

I believe that while technology can bring people together, it does more to separate us.  My husband and I have been known to text each other while we’re in the same room if we want to say something the kids shouldn’t hear (like “I bought cheesecake and hid it in the downstairs freezer).   I have friends who come over to visit and spend most of the night browsing the web on their phones, emailing, or updating their Facebook statuses instead of engaging me – and others! – in conversation.

Introducing technology into my classroom today invited my students to disengage.  When I’m standing before them as a crazy red-haired woman on a mission, they have no choice but to look me in the eye.  They have to listen to me, and I have to read their cues.

That iPad felt like the weight of the world in my hands today.  And it erected a barrier between my students and my message.  I’m telling them with my words that their pens and their paper will bring them big ideas and personal fulfillment, but I was kneeling at the altar of the Apple myself.  I looked like a high-tech hypocrite.

I learned a lot in class today.  I learned that my old-school teaching methods are still the best way to engage my students, and I learned to trust my own instincts over the shiny new toy I really want to play with.  And even though I’ve invested the money in the new iPad, that doesn’t mean that I can let it derail my teaching.  I’ll just appropriate the iPad for on-the go blogging and email instead of using it in my classroom.  I learned an expensive lesson, but at least I learned it.

Taming the Fear

A college freshman sits paralyzed in her seat during her First Year Writing class.  On the syllabus she sees a dark monster looming: a 2,500 word paper.  It’s not the research that scares her; shes done plenty of that in high school.  And it’s not the language that scares her, either; shes always had a good grip on grammar and syntax.  No, its that big number.  Two-thousand, five-hundred words.  Minimum.  “No way I can worry about that today,” she thinks, and decides to put off thinking about it until tomorrow.

In my freshman and junior-level college writing classes, this is exactly the scenario I observe in my students at the beginning of each semester.  When they reach college, students have rarely ever written anything longer than 1,000 words.  Their understanding of grammar is fairly good.  Their understanding of technology-based research is generally excellent.  But their confidence in producing a long work of sustained academic argument scares them silly.  So they put off the task until later, often procrastinating until the very last minute and facing the long-paper monster in the wee hours of the morning the assignment is due.

I have often thought about what I would do if I could rewind these students’ lives to the point where they developed this fear of the longer-form writing project.  I’ve spoken to my freshmen and asked them when it happened, this trauma that impacted the way they view themselves as writers.  Unanimously, they say in high school.  And, when pressed, they admit that they didnt really have the confidence they needed to face the more difficult curriculum that high school studies demanded.  So what would I say to that student before her big fear erupts?

I’d say, “write a novel.”

Crazy?  Not in the least.  Teenagers have an enthusiasm for their lives and an aptitude for words that is unmatched at any other point in their development.   Generating large volumes of text about subjects that matter to them is easier and more thrilling than any research paper will ever be.  And the completion of a manuscript (a feat that most literate adults aspire to but never realize) creates a confidence in them like no other project can.

That’s exactly what students enrolled in A Novel Idea experience.  After a month-long diet of writing over 1,000 words per day, they truly fear no paper.  They trade anxiety for real confidence, and they throw off the chains of self-doubt before they become so heavy that they’re paralyzed by their own inhibitions.

And if my students are any indication of the long-term benefits of writing large volumes of text, they’ll apply the “I am a novelist” mentality to any big challenge that seems, at first blush, to be too daunting for them

Now if only we could all rewind our own lives to our fragile teenage years and give ourselves a confidence that could endure for decades.