I'm gearing up for my classes this fall. I know it's still July, but I can't help it. There is something about teaching that just calls to me. In fact, I am actually putting this together while I am teaching summer school.
Teaching is in my blood, and I wouldn't have it any other way.
In fact, a colleague and fellow coach just posted this on Twitter -
It is true too. As I'm thinking about next fall, I am going to tweak how I teach College Comp I just a bit. In the past I have used Tom Romano's great Write Beside Them as an introductory text. To be fair, though, I have never done it justice. We have piecemealed it and written about it, but it has been too scattered and hasn't had the impact I wish it would.
So this year, we are going to meet every day for the week of class (since it's a PSEO College in the High School class, we have mimicked the college schedule, so we usually meet three days a week like a true college class) and read Romano's book cover to cover and really dive in deep to what it has to say about the craft and beauty of writing.
One thing Romano (as well as my current favorite scholar, Penny Kittle) advises is to journal and write daily. So that is what I'm doing here.
The first topic Romano broaches is why write? We will explore that early and often. Here is my first draft answering that question.
Why I Write: What Else is There to Do?
Why do I write? Great question. Especially since I not only asked it but also came up with it for an introductory prompt. But I’m greedy. I chose this also because now I get to answer it right along with you (my students - my audience).
I write because I love it. I have been writing in various ways since I could hold something in my hand. When my daughter Kenzie was born, I began stockpiling my old books for her to read. Sure enough, when I opened them to check their condition, I saw crude letters and drawings that were my first attempts at mimicking the magic of the words that were on the page, words that I couldn’t even read then, words that were magic spilling from my mother’s mouth as she read to me. When something is that cool, who wouldn’t want to try and make it their own? And that is exactly what I was doing with those clumsy scribbles in the margins of those books.
But why do I love it? Tom Romano, in the book, Write What Matters: For Yourself, For Others, opens with a prologue on how he and a friend are stuck in study hall. To pass the time, each writes a war story with each other (and their group of friends) as characters. Romano realizes something as he passes his story along to his friend a few rows ahead of him: his words have an impact on others. His story resonates with his friend and impresses him. This so inspires Romano that he intends to write more words - so much so that Roman never stops and makes writing (and the teaching of writing) his life’s work. It also makes him realize that the more he writes, the easier it is. There is something magical about the more words he puts down on paper, the more come to mind to jot down. I told you writing was magical.
Okay, so I told you why someone else loves writing, but why do I love it? There are many reasons - it’s a passion of mine, I’ve been good at it, I have the time to write, I love to read and that goes hand in hand with writing, it is a way for me to express myself . . . all of those are great, but really, why do I love writing?
I first fell in love with writing as a way to express myself. Beginning when I was roughly 10 and lasting for another eight years, I wrote song lyrics. I grew up listening to the great metal, hair bands of the 1980’s. It just seemed natural for me to try my own hand and craft lyrics for my own songs. Mind you, I have no musical talent, so playing the drums or guitar was out of the question, and my daughter and wife remind me that I am painfully tone deaf, so singing was out too, but I could write lyrics. And did I ever.
In 1984 my family moved to a farm ten miles south of Red Lake Falls. Being a city kid, moving to the country was torture. But the one thing rural life offered me was a lot of time. Time to be bored. Time to be alone. Time to sit up in my room and crank the classics of the ‘80’s - Van Halen, Iron Maiden, Motley Crue, Metallica, Bon Jovi, and, of course, my all-time favorite band, Def Leppard. While I listened, I sat at my old rickety desk and tried my hand at writing my own lyrics. So what if they were thinly veiled rip offs of the same music I was listening to? The important thing was that I was generating content. Words poured from my pen (and later from my typewriter) onto the paper. And just like what Romano realized, so did I: the more words I put down, the more new words spilled into my own that needed to get out.
It was not until decades later - when I read Malcolm Gladwell’s Outliers - that I realized the importance of this time. Gladwell calls it “getting in your 10,000 hours,” which is the magic number that leads to mastery. All those afternoons, holed up in my room at my desk, inventing song titles, struggling to craft choruses that were engaging, and coming up with verses that rhymed, I was working on my craft, what Gladwell calls “deliberate practice.” I was getting good with using words.
This alone was not that big of a deal, but something else coincided with this that helped me grow exponentially as a writer: I became a voracious reader. In the mid 1980’s, I discovered Stephen King. In 1987 I bought his Tommy Knockers. Read it in a week. After that I tore through Cujo, The Dead Zone, Misery, Pet Sematary, Firestarter, and others. Soon, when I went to pick out a new Stephen King book at Hugo’s or Barnes and Noble in the Columbia Mall, I was spotting other authors next to him. That led me to Dean Koontz. I tore through Watchers, Twilight Eyes, Strangers, Phantoms, Midnight, and Whispers. Then I discovered the Inter-Library Loan system at our local library in Red Lake Falls. What a revelation that was. In fact, in the summer of 1989, I picked up a copy of King's Dance Macabre, his nonfiction analysis of the horror field. At the end was a list of a hundred novels that were instrumental to the horror genre. I made it my personal mission to read as many of those as I could. Our poor little library could hardly keep up with my reading appetite. I tell you when I walked into the old RLF library and saw the librarian bring a stack of books that had just come in, it was like Christmas and my birthday all wrapped in one. In addition to the horror books, I also devoured hard rock magazines - Metal Edge, Circus, and Hit Parader were among my favorites. From the summer of 1984 through 1992 when I graduated, there was not one month I missed any of those magazines.
What that all amounted to was that I devoured a lot of words. Millions of words over close to a decade. That impacted my vocabulary. I recall one key moment in my writing life (actually in my life): 9th grade English with Mrs. Christianson. She was a first year English teacher who changed up the traditional English curriculum I had been used to. She offered more creative assignments, which allowed me to blend my passion for creative writing with school assignments, something I had never experienced before. The results were amazing.
My writing, which I shared with my classmates in small group assignments, impressed many with my large vocab - all thanks to the hundreds of books and magazines I had been reading. On top of that, I found that when I sat down to write one of the very first creative assignments for Mrs. Christianson - writing an alternative ending to “August Heat” by W.F. Harvey - I found - just as Romano had - that the more I wrote down, the more new words filled my mind that - in turn- needed to be written down.
The next day when I turned in my creative ending to “August Heat,” Mrs. Christianson would say 15 words that would transform my life: “On Monday I’m going to read my three personal favorite students samples to the class.”
I froze when I heard that. On one hand, as an introvert, I really didn’t want her to read my work to the class. But, on the other hand, as a young writer seeking an audience, I really wanted her to like my writing!
So on Monday, I showed up early to Mrs. Christianson’s class, eager to see the results. True to her word, Mrs. Christianson walked to the front of the class, where her wooden podium sat upon a small table. There she set three copies. I didn’t try to discern if mine was one of them.
She then said, “And now, this was one of my favorites . . .” and she began reading words that weren’t mine. In fact, as I listened I slunk down in my seat to hide my disappointment, for if she liked this story, there was no chance she would like mine. I deemed this first example as boring and unoriginal.
When she read the second example, I slunk even deeper into my chair and tried to hide my embarrassment and shame as the words were again not mine. This one, though, was a bit more engaging and original than the first example she chose.
Finally, she said more words that I will never forget: “Now, this one is my favorite. This is everything I hoped your examples would be. It is creepy. The atmosphere is brooding and dark. The word choice is great, and the imagery so creepy that I had to go downstairs and read it by my husband.”
I was staring at my palms for I didn’t want anyone else to see my deep disappointment when she read someone else’s words.
But Mrs. Christianson didn’t.
She took a deep breath and then read my words.
And it changed my life.
When Mrs. Christianson finished reading my essay, which I still can’t believe was her personal favorite of the bunch, looked up, smiled at me, walked down my row, and set handed back my paper, which I saw had her notes scrawled all over it, I didn’t really realize the impact of that moment until years later. I think it was at that moment that I realized I wanted to be a teacher. I wanted to do just what Mrs. Christianson did for me. I wanted to read the words of my students, inspire them to create amazing things, connect the work we do in school with their private passions, and, perhaps best of all, help them realize they have talents they didn’t even realize they did. Not bad for a single writing assignment in 9th grade English!
Now you can see why I write: it changed the overall direction of my life and put me on a path to have the greatest job I could ever imagine. But there are so many other reasons why I write.
I write because of my audience. When I wrote that creative assignment for Mrs. Christianson, she was my audience. I crafted that piece with her - and her assignment - foremost in my mind. I believe the best writing I have done has always been when I have had a clear audience in mind. When I was at Northland, I was in a small writing group with another student and three of my professors. When I wrote, I had them all in mind. They welcomed my words and were supportive. That helped my writing take shape and grow. Had they been hostile and stern, my writing would have withered. When I transferred to Bemidji State University, I was blessed to have more excellent professors who supported my writing and inspired me even more. Then years later when I returned to BSU for graduate school and entered the most prolific writing period of my life, it was chiefly due to my fellow graduate students, all of whom would read my writing, as well as my amazing professors, namely Dr. Chirstensen, Dr. Weaver, Susan Hauser, and Dr. Morgan, who would inspire me to write the best prose of my life, which culminated in my graduate thesis, which would go on to be one of the only English graduate thesis that would ever win Thesis of the Year.
I write because I am a storyteller. My father was a storyteller. Any time we were working in the field, and a neighbor stopped by, I knew things were going to grind to a halt for an hour or so as my dad talked and talked and talked. My mom was a storyteller. Any time we were in the house and the telephone would ring, I knew things were going to grind to a halt for an hour or so as my mom talked and talked and talked. Growing up like that, shaped me into a storyteller too. Unlike my parents though, I tend to tell my stories through prose.
In fact, all my experience writing gave me the best gift of all: Kristie, my wife. I recall the first time we ever really met and talked. We were at a softball tournament in Clearbrook. The game was over and my friend Shane and I were sitting around visiting with several members of the team, which included Kristie. As we talked, I shared some funny stories from my life, which I had honed to perfection in my graduation Creative Writing Nonfiction classes. I marveled as she laughed at my words. This was important because previously, every time I talked to her, I was so in awe of her that I stumbled over my words. But now I had the stories from all those personal essays I wrote in graduation school to share. That alone is enough to keep me writing forever. Let that be a lesson to you: the more interesting stories you have, the more you are likely to win over the person of your dreams!
I write because I love the writing process. Back when I was writing lyrics when I was a teen, I loved tinkering with the words - the rhyme schemes, the imagery, changing the titles, building the choruses, adding in bridges, adding in a third verse . . . I didn’t realize it at the time, but I was falling in love with the process of revision. Too often, revision is mistaken for “copy editing.” But revision is so much more. It is about making my writing better - not just correct in terms of grammar and format. Revision is really about tuning up my writing so it is as sleek and tight as possible.
I write because I love to break the rules. Speaking of “copy editing,” what I love about learning the rules of writing is that now I know how to break them. Like using a sentence fragment for emphasis. Or how about beginning a sentence with a conjunction? Because our teachers told us never to do these things, we often think we can’t. Ever. But we can. It’s called style. Which is all about syntax. Which is all about getting your unique voice out onto the page.
I write because I need to see my thinking take shape in symbols. It sounds nerdy, but I loved writing research papers in college. I literally wrote my way out of ignorance thanks to six hours holed up in the library scrolling my thoughts out on paper. This is how I learned about poor Friar Lawrence in Romeo and Juliet and how fate works to confound every good intention that he has, subverting what is a classic Shakespearean comedy for most of the play into one of Shakespeare’s most famous tragedies. I would never have discovered that, if I had not written a research paper on that. I would never have had that epiphany, had I not spent hours writing about Friar Lawrence and all of his attempts to help Romeo and Juliet. This is how I learned how closely related the books Lord of the Flies by Williams Golding and Heart of Darkness by Joseph Conrad are in terms of the theme of rules and order are vital for civilization. Without them, corruption is inevitable. I would never have discovered that, if I had not written a research paper on that and spent my time digging through the books for examples. This is how I learned how catastrophic the ebola virus was for third world countries who didn’t have access to proper hygiene and sanitation, and how it would not be nearly as serious in a developed country like the United States. As long as it continues to be spread solely through bodily fluids and not the air. I would never have discovered that, if I had not read the book The Hot Zone by Richard Preston, watched several documentaries, and read dozens of articles on the virus in order to formulate that realization. It all comes back to me slowly seeing my ideas emerge in print. If I ever need to discover what I think about something, I need to write about it.
I write to leave something behind. In 2006 my father died from lung cancer. The final six months of his life were difficult. My brother, sister, and I took turns taking him to appointments and spending time with him. What would amount to our final times with him. Luckily, at the time, I religiously kept a blog. After Dad and I would spend a couple hours visiting on the porch waiting for my wife, Kristie, to get home from work, I would write about what we talked about later that night when I posted on the blog. I did the same for our trips to Grand Forks to see doctors and get treatments. I did the same for the road trips we went on to kill time. I did that for the meals we ate, the places we visited, and the people we met. All of this may seem trivial, but, thankfully, I wrote it all down on my blog. For when - several months after Dad died - I read back on my blog to our time together, I realized how much of what we did I had forgotten! Luckily, I saved it all on my blog. In writing. Now I have it forever. If I want to visit Dad or recall a great time we had together, all I have to do is read back on my blog, and there he is. As the author Richard Peck once said, “No one a writer loves is truly ever dead.” And that might be the best reason of all to write. And to keep writing.
