Revisiting a Young Writer’s Practice

I think I was born to be a helper – a helper and a writer.  The two roles are so carefully and closely entwined for me.  As a child, I loved to write. The pencil was an extension of my hand and mind.  I found that all the stories in my head could be released onto beautiful blank white paper.  This revelation was exciting to me.  I couldn’t wait to jot down my stories. It took me some time to realize that not everyone in the world finds writing fun and adventurous.  It wasn’t until I became a teacher that I learned that there are children who have trouble getting their stories down on paper.  What thrilled me as a child, terrifies them.  They find so many reasons not to sit down and write.  They don’t know where to start.  They don’t know how to organize their ideas.  And even worse, they often say they have nothing to write about.

Of course, that’s not true!  Children have a lot of stories in their heads.  They tell stories to their friends.  They weave stories for their parents.  They get their teacher’s attention by telling her stories upon stories upon stories.  But when asked to sit down with a paper and pencil and write, suddenly, they have nothing to say.  Yes – they have said it all.  But writing and talking are two different things. And instead of the pencil being their paint brush, it becomes the sword of Damocles hanging over their heads.

Now, it’s my time to enter into the action.  My job is to help young readers and writers.  My job is to be present and listen.  My job is to encourage and open doors to the imagination.  Have I told you?  I love my job!  Sometimes, I forget that I love it.  Sometimes, I forget that I make a difference, that what I do matters.  And then sometimes, a student will remind me, and that’s what happened with my student, M.  When M. was in 1^st grade, I helped her write down her stories, sound out words and stretch out sounds.  You can read my post about my work with M. in “Good Morning, Little Writers.”

I had forgotten about writing with M. in 1st grade until I sat down with her this week. M. is now in 4^th grade.  She was assigned to write a three-paragraph essay on the theme of A Fish in a Tree by Lynda Hunt Mullaly.  M.’s teacher had a page of explicit directions.  M.’s teacher went over each instruction aloud.  She made a flow chart on the whiteboard.  When I turned to M. and said, “What are you going to do?”  She stared at me with her big brown eyes and said, “I don’t know,” as she got up and went to find a pencil.  This  pencil adventure took a long time, until I called her back, holding out a pencil in my hand for her.  I coaxed,

“What do you have to do first?”  Again, M. said, “I don’t know.”  I took a deep breath.  I realized that she was starting to panic, and I didn’t want our writing space being taken over by fight-flight.  I looked at M. and smiled, pointing to the page of instructions.  “Let’s read this,” I said.  M. read silently as I read aloud.  I underlined important words.  Then I asked, “Do you know what to do now?”  M. nodded, “Yes, I start the first paragraph and tell about the video we saw and how it relates to the theme of the book.”  I grinned and nodded, “Great! Go ahead, start writing.”  M. looked up again and asked, “How do I start?”  I took another breath, “Think about how you would talk to me and tell me what we just saw. What are you telling me about?”  M. put her head down and started writing.  Now, at nine years old, she doesn’t need me to stretch out sounds of words to spell.  Now, she’s able to write a first paragraph with minimal assistance, just some good old-fashion cheering from the sidelines.

M.’s first paragraph:

In the film, “The Reflection in Me,”  the mane [main} idea is to always be kind to yourself.  The girl in the story says to herself that she likes her eyes, she likes her smile, and she likes the way she spins.  She also says that she likes her voice.  It makes the girl feel special.  It helped me know that being kind starts with myself.

When M. was done writing, I asked her to read it aloud.  Her spelling (except for one word), punctuation, and sentence structure were perfect.  Of course, she could have included more specific details, but she has a solid start.  Then a frown came over M.’s brow, “It’s not good.  I can’t do it.”  I looked at her a little surprised and then smiled. “Oh M., you did do it.”  She kept her frown, “No, you had to help me.”  Her words almost made me cry.  “M. we just talked it through.  You did all the writing by yourself.  Remember writing is a process. And look, your spelling is almost perfect, you have punctuation, you capitalized properly, and your paragraph makes sense.  You did that all by yourself.”  She smiled and said, “Can we work on the next one together?”  Suddenly, the bell rang to say it was the end of the period.  “Next time,” I said, “You know this reminds me of the time that we wrote together in 1^st grade.  Do you remember that?  We wrote about pumpkins.”  M. smiled and leaned into me, “Yes, I remember.”  I laughed, “I wrote that story down, and I’ll share it with you.  I think you will like it.  It will show you how much you’ve grown.”

After our writing session, I went back to my old posts, and found that story. I took time out of my day and read it.  I was so glad I wrote that writing memory down for both myself and M.  It is a testimony to her growth and resilience. I am lucky to work with children over a span of years, so I can witness the tremendous amount of growth they make, how much they change, and how proud they are of themselves when they work hard and achieve what they thought was unachievable. This year, M. had a psycho-educational evaluation, which confirmed a couple of learning disabilities.  Even though school is hard for her, even though it’s hard for her to filter out background noise, M. keeps going, keeps asking for help.  She certainly has grit and resilience, and she is learning to be kind to herself. 

The major reason I sit down to write these posts every week is to chronicle my teaching life.  I know I can’t teach forever, and I needed a place where I could keep my memories of working with children.  I don’t want to ever forget that I was born to be a helper and a writer.