But what
does it mean to teach writing or, as I like to think of it, to teach writers?
Pat Schneider defines a writer as someone who writes and I won’t argue with
that definition. I typically begin my semester with a discussion about what it
means to be a writer and this is ultimately where we end up. However, even
though they accept this definition, many of my students do not really believe
they are writers even though they write. How do we make our students believe
they are writers or can be? I know most of my students come to me believing
that they are not writers and they cannot become writers. Can we change those
beliefs? Is it important to change those beliefs?
Schneider
describes “not being able to write” as a “learned disability” which is the result
of “scar tissue” or a lack of confidence developed in reaction to unhelpful
responses to your writing in school and at home. This rings true with the
stories that my students tell about their previous experiences with writing. These
students have been told through verbal and written comments as well as grades
that they are not writers. It seems quite natural to me that they would take
that feedback one step further to believe that they cannot become writers. Why
does this matter?
Research
shows that students with high writing apprehension or the scar tissue that
Schneider describes are much less likely to engage in writing activities, are
much more likely to give up when faced with writing challenges, and simply do
not work at writing and learning to write to the same degree as their more
confident peers. Blythe et al argue that for many at-risk students writing
failure becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy as students do not work as hard
because they already believe they are doomed to failure. It is also possible
that this sense of doom and failure has much broader impact as well. Patrick Sullivan writes “Is it possible that the most lasting and significant learning
outcome many students take away from English classes is a lifelong aversion to
writing?” He argues that at least part of our national education challenges,
namely our “college readiness crisis” and “remediation problem,” stem directly
from this aversion.
Sullivan’s
argument struck a chord that reverberated to the core of my teacher soul and
resonates strongly with my own belief that we focus too much on forms and
failures in our writing classrooms. I am not arguing that grammar, spelling,
punctuation, and proper format are not important – they are – but too many
teachers and hence too many students see these as the only measures of good
writing. It is possible to master these skills but only through practice –
which those scarred and scared students will not even attempt unless we can
find a way to break the cycle of defeat.
Among the
arguments that Blythe et al make about teaching writing is that more writing
instruction is not always the answer for these students – at least not until we
have addressed their low self-efficacy. If we do not attend to their
self-beliefs and break that cycle of defeat then writing instruction will
likely be for naught. White and Bruning posit that without considering beliefs,
teachers may view dimensions of writing quality too simply. The authors argue
that explicitly addressing beliefs improves opportunities for students who may
not have been taught adequate writing skills and lack positive beliefs to
support their positive engagement in the writing process. We must spend more
time in our classrooms attending to the self-beliefs of our students as well as
attending to specific writing lessons if we want to break the cycle of despair
and defeat. We must help our students become confident writers or it may well
be that the only things they take away from our writing classes are scar tissue
and a lifelong aversion to writing.
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