Slice of Life: the Value of an Asset-Based Approach

    It's Tuesday, and Tuesdays are for slicing.  Anyone is welcome to join us through Two Writing Teachers, slicing, sharing, and commenting on other slices! 

 

For the first time since the summer of 2019, our live and in-person Summer Writing Academy is up and running, and we have almost fifty young writers showing up each morning. Throughout the spring, the teachers and the brochures are clear; this program is for students who love writing. This year, we seem to have a few who might not be such writing fans. 

"G. and M. don't write," their summer teacher reported to me after the first day. She went on to tell me about all the other things G. and M. do that are disruptive, disrespectful, and disgruntling. 

The summer's writing theme is centered on fantasy, and G. and A are obsessed with the Warriors series. 

"All they want to do is write cat books," the teacher reports. "They're just recreating the Warriors stories."

I took the girls for the first hour of the second day. I had initially planned only a half hour, but their time got extended. I spent the first ten minutes or so talking to them about what their stories could be. What different characters they could invent. What new world they could create. What original conflicts their cats could face. 

These girls weren't budging from their ideas. They had their own vision and language. Try as I might, they were sticking to it. 

So I let them. I sat back and did some relatively mindless work that kept my eyes on my computer and my ears on their conversation. 

They talked about the traits of their characters. 

They asked each other about the setting and if it was clear enough. 

They made up and agreed on friends for their cats. 

They debated whether the cats could have an authentic battle with fish. 

And they wrote. 

A lot. 

And they beamed when I commented on their storytelling abilities and their potential to become the next great series writers. 

And they listened to and incorporated a couple of suggestions I offered. 

At the end of the day when we all debriefed, the teacher again expressed her frustration with the girls' obsession with cats. 

"But what CAN they do?" I asked. 

I went on to point out the value of their writing, even if they were operating within the scaffold of someone else's storyline. They were still drafting-- developing dialogue, creating scenes, and wrestling with the balance of details. 

She nodded, and maybe she appreciated them a little more. We'll see how tomorrow goes...

Happy slicing, 

Melanie

Slice of Life: The Lessons of Silence

   It's Tuesday, and Tuesdays are for slicing.  Anyone is welcome to join us through Two Writing Teachers, slicing, sharing, and commenting on other slices! 

 

For weeks, I've both dreaded and looked forward to the Writing Institute from Teachers College Reading and Writing Institute. Four days of 7 hour zoom sessions is a lot. Today was Day 1. At the opening welcome, Lucy Caulkins greeted all of the participants, and part of her challenge was to think of a story from our own lives, one that happened to us, one that was maybe bad. Tell the story across our fingers. Make it better by thinking about the weather and incorporating details about the weather as we told it. 

Later in the day, our session leader asked us to revisit the same story. Do some oral rehearsal, envision it, use a video she shared as a mentor. Tell the story out loud in a breakout room to people we'd met that morning. 

In the breakout room, I listened to the other participant's stories. I commented. I let them know that I was glad and relieved they were okay. And then I shared my own story. 

My story wasn't one I'd written ever before, and it was more emotional for me than maybe the other participants--or even myself-- realized. Raw with the proximity of Father's Day and acutely aware of my own father's absence, I shared the story of our ill-fated sailing adventure together. I wove in the details of the weather, and I dug into the emotions of the day when our boat tipped, and I as a seven year-old, was scared beyond the point of rational behavior. My oral rendition had emotion, elaboration, and a greater meaning than the importance of swimming underwater even when a life jacket prevents you from doing that. But when I finished, the other two people in the breakout room said nothing. 

Nothing. 

Not one thing. 

Not a comment of wow, our stories were similar. (They were.) Not a comment of wow, I'm sorry about your dad. Not a comment of wow, you tried out some craft moves and I noticed them... 

Nothing. 

A silent breakout room. 

I like the story I told, and I may even write it down. I may work on it and polish it and revise it and share it again with people I trust and respect as writers. 

I also appreciate the realization I had, not for the first time, probably not even for the hundredth time, that writers thrive on reactions and feedback. I so wanted them to say something-- anything-- about some element of my story, be it the content, the craft, the potential next steps... anything! 

Sometimes, I learn the most from silence. 

Slice of Life: Finding the Joy in the Waves

    It's Tuesday, and Tuesdays are for slicing.  Anyone is welcome to join us through Two Writing Teachers, slicing, sharing, and commenting on other slices! 

 

As is the case for many people, I find peace and joy when I walk on the beach. Last week, my daughter and I took a fairly spontaneous trip to South Carolina to visit my aunt and uncle. After dinner and thunderstorms, but before sunset, the four of us headed to the ocean. Low tide meant easy walking and the possibility for finding shells. 

As we walked, we admired some of the day's sand castles that the rain had spared, we filled in holes that could lead to twisted ankles, and they pointed out the various residences. More than anything else, we watched families. 

One little girl had recently turned two. Her mother shared that last year she had been scared of the waves, but that was not the case this year. We cheered along with her as she tried to keep her footing when waves rolled in and then pulled away. More often than not, she landed in the receding water, laughing out loud as it rolled her around, sometimes sideways from her belly to her back. Watchful parents and grandparents were always at the ready to scoop her up before she kicked and pushed her way into the pathway of the next wave. 

Even though I love the ages of my children, and, if truth be told, I found the toddler ages to be the most challenging, I watched the interactions with nostalgia. Her joy in the moment lit up her family, as well as onlookers. This little girls had no worries about homework, relationships, work responsibilities, money, health, social media-- only the discomfort of sand in her clothing which she eliminated by stripping down in between waves. What a beautiful thing to laugh until you can't stand straight because of the power of gentle waves. 

As I reflect, my goal for the summer will be to find the joy in waves this summer. I can't wait for the New England water to get warm enough for some wave-riding laughter. 

Happy slicing,