When I was in third grade, I wrote a series of mystery stories. At home. On my own. It wasn’t an assignment. I just loved reading Encyclopedia Brown, Nancy Drew, and The Hardy Boys so it made sense that I would want to write my own version. My stories centered around a trio of friends, the Super 3, who solved mysteries that happened at school.
After finishing the latest installment, my best one yet, in my mind at least, I decided to share it with my teacher. She smiled as she took my stapled pages and placed my writing on the pile of other papers and books on her desk. That was the last time I ever saw that piece of writing. I waited each day, hoping to hear about how my teacher liked my book (or not). But each day came and went and I heard nothing. As a third grader, I interpreted my teacher’s non-response as a criticism. She must not have liked it if she didn’t say anything to me about it. (Of course, as a teacher, I now think she probably just didn’t have the time or bandwidth to give me any meaningful feedback.)
The lack of feedback coupled with more years with little actual writing instruction (assigning isn’t the same as instructing) led me down a path of disengagement and lack of confidence. I would write what was required of me in class and nothing else. By the time I got to high school, I could write well enough to get by, but I didn’t take risks, and my writing lacked originality. I’ll never forget going to take the test to get into Honors English, something I should’ve been able to do as an avid reader and proficient-ish writer. The prompt was to write an essay explaining the best piece of advice you had received and how you applied it to your life. I wrote something very cliched about never giving up. One of my friends, on the other hand, wrote about brushing her teeth. She got in. I did not.
While I was already a reluctant writer, this was just one more blow that kept me from putting pen to paper.
I have another friend who often wrote poetry when we were in middle and high school. We actually became friends in 8th grade when she walked by my desk and dropped a carefully folded note that held a poem that she had written with all the emotion and angst of a middle schooler. I was immediately drawn to her. Other friends often wrote in their diaries or journals, pouring their feelings out to themselves or sometimes to those of us that were close enough to be trusted with these words. I was so envious because I had become so self-conscious that I couldn’t even write to myself without cringing, embarrassed by my lack of creativity.
It wasn’t until I became a teacher that I slowly made my way back into writing. I knew early on that I wanted to create the conditions for my students to love writing, but it took some time to rekindle that spark for myself. One thing that helped me get started was a coach saying to us, “You only have to write a little better than your kids.” At the time that meant writing at about a 4th or 5th grade level. I could do that. Another thing that helped was being taught strategies to help my students write better; those were the same strategies I could use. Finally, getting the feedback I needed as a kid, has fueled my confidence and willingness to write.
I still often look at an empty page with dread. I still get those pangs of discomfort around sharing my writing with others. I still hear that voice inside telling me that my writing isn’t good enough. But for myself and my students, I will keep opening up that new doc or new page and write.
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