Convicted

I've always found it ironic that teachers can be (or at least were in their younger days) the worst students. I always encourage my students to sit up front, never be late, and always ask questions. But when I am on the other side of the desk, so to speak, I almost always sit in the back, doodle in my notebook, and keep to myself. What's good for the goose isn't always what's good for the composition teacher gander, I guess.

I also have wondered at how little writing actually gets done by writing teachers. Seriously, I've been a professional, full-time instructor of writing for nearly ten years now and yet, how much writing do I do myself? Every semester, I go on and on about writing as a tool of discovery, about how essays are little attempts at figuring out life's questions, about the necessity of daily writing. And yet...how often do I do anything about these frequently spouted beliefs?

Suzy is teaching her first college-level class this semester and, while she is doing great at it, she regularly says that she feels like a fraud. I laugh and tell her that every teacher feels that way at first. (I sure did. When I taught my first classes at Boise State as a TA, I was positive my students were going to see right through me and just stop coming to class because they wouldn't think they should pay to be in a class taught by a dorky know-nothing.) Over time, new teachers come into their own and feel more confident in their body of knowledge, in their capacity to convey the important material, in their ability to address and resolve student concerns. But, for myself, I wonder sometimes if I have become too comfortable in what and how I teach. I happily rattle off my formulas and strategies for writing. I give tips. I describe simple, easy techniques for creating quality writing. I spell it out.

And yet, how often do I use any of the knowledge I'm spreading around like so much fertilizer? How often do I prove that I know what I'm teaching because I actually do it? How often does this writing teacher write? Without the pressure of feeling like I have something to prove, I don't seem to be inclined to engage with the knowledge that I try to convey. I've been thinking about this a lot and, frankly, it has weighed heavily on me. I got some good feedback from my prospectus committee chair a couple of weeks ago, and it has just been sitting on top of my dusty stack of film and religion books since then. I've been thinking about what he wrote - and that's important, don't get me wrong - but I haven't been writing anything.

So a couple of days ago, I assigned my students a reading selection from the new textbook I'm testing out and I read it so I could include material from it on an upcoming quiz. It's called "Ten Tips on Making Writing Work for You" and it's by Michael C. Munger, a former poly sci professor at Duke. His thesis is that even though a lot of academics spend a good portion of their time writing,  many aren't any good at it. Their work habits are too poor too really make room for technical improvement or their mental habits are too narrow to allow for new ideas. I read this thing and felt as convicted by it as anything I've ever read. I felt as though it was speaking directly to me and my sorry, tired writing habits (if not doing something can be called a habit.)

So, as a kind of ten step remedy for the problem of writing-teacher-suck-itis, Munger offers the following:

1. Writing is an exercise. Like any skill or ability, writing takes practice. The more you do it, the more you can do it. Just leave that ability in the proverbial drawer and it will eventually leave you like your childhood ability to hula hoop or your teenage grasp of the piano.

2. Set goals based on output, not input. In other words, make goals for what you will accomplish, not how long you will spend doing it. This is a killer for me. So many times I have said, "I'll work on X from 9-12" instead of saying, "I will produce 3 pages today."

3. Find a voice: don't just "get published." Write about what you care about instead of trying to manufacture something you think the market or your audience will like. If you like it and care about it, chances are others will too. If you don't, they surely won't.

4. Give yourself time. Here he calls out the great lie of "I work better under pressure." No one does. Good thinking and good writing, like anything else worthwhile (a great meal, a good relationship), is the result of time and effort, not some half-hearted last minute scramble. If you are writing something worth reading, doesn't it deserve some time to grow, develop, and improve in your head and on the page?


5. Everyone's unwritten work is brilliant. Talk is cheap. Get it on the page and deal with what you really have instead of always talking about that unwritten novel, that dissertation, that project in airy, abstract terms. An idea is worth is weight in gold - but since ideas don't weigh anything, they're worthless. Write it down.

6. Pick a puzzle. The best writing usually comes from trying to figure something out. If you already know all the answers, why are you bothering to write about it?

7. Write, then squeeze other things in. Don't treat writing as an afterthought or something you manage to wedge in here or there. Like anything else that's really important to you, you make time for it. Otherwise, it just becomes a fun little hobby you do when no one's around - like a crossword puzzle or Tetris.


8. Not all of your thoughts are profound. It's okay to start small. It's okay to not have the Next Big Idea. Writing something small is better than writing nothing at all. If you wait until you have a "profound" idea to write about, you may never write at all.

9. Your most profound thoughts are often wrong. In this step, Munger specifically mentions grad students who think they know what they want to write their dissertation about as soon as they enter the program. He's not mean about it but does suggest that this is the wrong way to go about learning anything. Unfortunately, this was me. While I'm not necessarily sorry that I've stuck so devotedly to my initial dissertation idea of so many years ago, I sometimes wonder what intellectual opportunities I passed by because I was already so certain of my destination.

10. Edit your work, over and over. I have learned the hard way, many times, that my ability to detect errors and areas in need of revision in my work is pretty nominal. Getting a second and third wise, informed opinion on every draft is like getting your oil changed in your car - it takes a little time out of your busy day but it definitely helps avoid complete breakdown later.

The thing about feeling convicted is, it's only any good if you are willing to act on it. Conviction must lead to action. So Suzanne and I talked a lot about it and decided that writing something every day has to become a priority. Finishing my PhD isn't just a matter of being rewarded for the time I've already invested or the money that it has cost. It's not even simply a matter of personal pride and accomplishment. In many ways, it is the gate through which we have to step in order for us to move on with the next phase of our lives. We don't want to stay in Tonica or at IVCC forever. The thing that will most likely enable us to find happy, gainful employment elsewhere will be me being Doctor Brown rather than just "Hey Chubby, did you grade those papers yet?"

So thanks to Dr. Munger for not only helping me to see the error of my ways, but for offering some useful, practical suggestions for how I might do better than I've been doing. He's pretty good at this. He should be a teacher.