I have a confession to make. The main reason I’m by nature a poet rather than a fiction writer is that I just can’t stand the day-in/day-out slog at one long project. My moods swing too often from self-confidence-bordering-on-foolhardiness to despair-at-ever-amounting-to-anything. On good days, I feel a genius in my words; on bad days, it’s all just so much dust. Undoubtedly I take myself too seriously, but on the other hand, Zen placidity produces little art, and certainly none of any length.

Isn’t it ironic that we ask students to develop argumentative essays, problem-solution essays, and literary analyses because we believe they promote higher levels of thinking? When, in fact, by making these assignments, we may be doing just the opposite. Aren’t argumentative essays, in essence, exercises in following a formula—making a claim, backing it up, countering the opposition, and so on? Of course, there is thinking going on during the writing, but not the kind that is truly mind expanding.

Recently I met a young man who worked his way through college by cranking out research papers for an online term-paper store. The company sells “model” research papers, many made to order, so my young acquaintance might find himself writing about quantum mechanics one week and Stalin’s concentration camps the next. The job gave him lots of practice writing on short deadlines. He also picked up quite a bit of knowledge in many different fields.

When I was a college freshman, grammar was about as important to me as celebrity gossip. Sure, I glanced at the US Weekly headlines in the grocery checkout, and I performed the standard spell checks on my composition papers, but Brangelina? Subject-verb agreement? Who really cared? Then I joined the staff of our campus newspaper, and my attitude towards grammar changed.

The closest I came to a life-changing teacher is someone I knew only through his writing. The name of this teacher is Ken Macrorie, and his books Uptaught, Writing to be Read, Telling Writing, and The I-Search Paper are some of my favorites. What he says in these texts has changed the way I think about writing and learning.

Inquiry is based on questions, but not all questions are created equally. Big questions open up big spaces for information, while little questions open up little spaces. The size of the answer is predicted by the size of the question. Suppose that a bug specialist (an entomologist) comes to speak in your Life Science class. After giving a presentation, the entomologist opens the floor for questions.

If you or your students are new to inquiry and project-based learning—or if you just need some popular-culture inspiration for your program—you should check out the following hit TV shows.

Wil Tilroe-Otte /Shutterstock.com These days, people talk about xenophobia—the fear of strangers. In the ancient world, though, people had xenophilia—the love of strangers. Locals were expected to welcome travelers into their homes and offer them food and entertainment. After all, strangers brought news from far-off places, gifts of precious spices, music, art, and ideas. Five Strangers in the Classroom As we strive to create student-centered classrooms, we need to invite certain strangers into our midst.

Which is more important for today’s students, critical thinking or creative thinking? It’s a trick question. I may as well ask which is more important, breathing out or breathing in? “Whichever one I need to do right now” is one good answer to this last question. Another is “Neither—since I need both to stay alive.” It’s the same with critical and creative thinking. The Thought Exchange Creative and critical thinking are two halves of a cycle: inspiration and expiration. Creative thinking draws in possibilities. It is an expansive process, filling you with new ideas from the outside.

I knelt beside my sons’ toy closet, hauling out a strange menagerie of action figures. Here was a headless Tauntaun from Star Wars. There was the Smog Monster from Godzilla.