“To know is nothing at all; to imagine is everything.” —Anatole France Creativity is the metaphoric power of a nine-year-old who calls her unkempt Shih Tzu a “dirty ol’ dust mop.” It’s the vision of a photographer who sees Easter Island sculptures in a series of back-alley shadows.

With the new school year beginning, I've listed what I’d like to see students accomplishing in the writing classroom. I’d like students… To participate in a writing workshop with students and teachers writing and learning together. To feel good about being in the writing classroom because it gives them an opportunity to explore and shape their own thinking. To understand that improvement will come if they regularly put pen to paper or fingers to the keyboard. To interact with, and feel comfortable around, one another in the classroom. To feel that their presence matters, that they have someth

It’s somewhat ironic; just as I was about to post this about helping struggling writers, I read “Best Practices: Students in the Driver’s Seat” by Anthony Cody. Cody promotes inquiry-based instruction and problem-based learning, two practices that give students a great deal of control over their learning. Certainly, struggling writers and learners need to be thoughtfully engaged in learning, but, unfortunately, just giving them the keys to the car isn’t enough. In an extremely enlightening and helpful book, Strategies for Struggling Writers, James L.

“Imagination is more important than knowledge.” —Albert Einstein In one of my recent blog entries—“Just Imagine! Cultivating Creative Minds”—I stressed the importance of creative thinking in the classroom. Since then, I’ve done a bit of research on creativity, focusing mainly on the artistic process. I first turned to “Thinking Like an Artist” in Mind Matters: Teaching for Thinking by Dan Kirby and Carol Kuykendall.

Yesterday I stumbled across an article about college students getting miffed when they didn’t get an “A for Effort”: “Student Expectations Seen as Causing Grade Disputes.” I find it a difficult attitude to understand; it breaks down as soon as it’s applied to the working world. A building doesn’t care whether an architect tried her hardest—the design either stands or falls. A gall bladder doesn’t care that a surgeon did his best—the cholecystectomy is either a success or a failure.

“Your sense of freedom and play will infuse your writing with energy, and that energy will make your words enjoyable to read.” —Jack Heffron, author of The Writer’s Idea Book I still remember, even after all these years, sitting in Ms. Nowitski’s Advanced English class as a high school junior. She was having us develop a research paper following the University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee research guide.

Obviously, school is intended to prepare students for life. But what do we mean by that? On the one hand, we mean that it provides students with the necessary skills to gain a career after graduation and become productive members of society. On the other hand, the teachers most of us remember long after our own schooling are those who encouraged our individuality. Humans are, of course, social animals. We have come to dominate this planet by banding together. In many ways, our societies themselves can be viewed as living organisms.

Last week, I spoke for career day at my son’s intermediate school, telling about the life of a working writer. About fifty kids from the school had signed up to hear me. They were so bright, so attentive, their eyes wide, their brains bubbling. I told them that to succeed, a writer needs three things: Passion—the love of writing and the burning desire to say something Precision—the love of language and the care to get it right Paycheck—the steady money that comes from some other job I told them that writing was the easiest profession to start. To be a writer, all you had to do was write.

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.