I really do love my job.

That's not at all facetious; today was one of those days in which my interactions with the students were across the board lovely. OK, yes, I was marking logs for the 102 class, and OK, yes, they were generally relatively dull--but the students are learning, and they're doing better, earlier, at getting the hang of what and how they need to log. It was a slog for me (the log slog), but I'm glad to see them finding their feet already. I'm still commenting rather heavily, hoping to affect further adjustments--and deeper thinking--and that's always a bit tedious. I find I'm saying variations of the same thing repeatedly, and eventually my mind rebels and says, "No more." I only have three more to mark for the 102, yet I can't bring myself to do them tonight. Tomorrow. And tomorrow for the reading notes from the Mystery class. Those I'm not marking as much: they count for less toward the students' grades, and I'm using the plus-check-minus system: only three options keeps me in check, so I'm less compelled to ask for adjustments.

But enough about that. That's all the routine stuff (and you, my faithful readers, have heard me go on about those at length often enough). Let me talk about the student interactions.

1.  A young man came into Advisement. I'd seen him my first day advising: he had signed up for a 9:30 class, not realizing it was 9:30 p.m., not a.m. He scrambled to find another class that would fit his schedule, and he ended up in Making of the Modern Mind, taught by one of my more erudite colleagues. He came to Advisement to find out if he could switch to a different class. The aides at the front desk told him no, his only option now is to withdraw--but he was worried about financial aid repercussions, so he was sent to me for more in-depth information.

I told him that he should check with the financial aid office: I believe that if a student stays in a class long enough, he or she is considered to have "made an attempt" at the semester and therefore can keep the financial aid, even if dropping a course drops the student's credits below a full-time load. But, I said, until you can withdraw--or perhaps even instead of withdrawing--while you're in the class, get the most out of it that you can. See your professor during her office hours, or make an appointment to see her: talk to her about your concerns. Work hard on the reading: circle words you don't know, but keep reading, trying to get what you can from context clues. Then, go back and look up the words you didn't know. Read slowly and carefully. Re-read. Truly grapple with the material.

I acknowledged the sense of panic at facing a daunting challenge--and that's why, I said, so many students have already fled the class. But I gave him the "work through frustration" speech, told him to get help (from Education and Retention Counseling, the professor, the Writing Center: wherever he can find it), to buckle down and slog (the word of the day, apparently). You may surprise yourself, I said. You may find that, when you work at it, you start to get it. This is a skill you need to learn, I said. Of course we all read better when we're reading what we like, what we chose, but the crucial thing is to be able to read anything well, no matter how difficult it is: a business contract, a mortgage, neither is fun reading at all, but as adults, we must deal read and understand anyway. Further, I said, imagine the triumph you'll feel if you get through this class, if you meet this challenge and prevail. He left with a sense of possibility and hope, determination even, dare I say. I hate the word, as it is so overused (and badly), but he felt empowered. I'd shown him that he has some power in this situation, things he can do actively on his own behalf instead of feeling helpless and inept.

I am proud of the way I handled that interaction. I did all the things I believe are right to do: I did not dismiss his difficulty, and I let him know he has a possible escape hatch--but I encouraged him to become an actual, real, live student and, perhaps, even something close to an adult.

2.  The struggling student from Fiction Writing came to my office today. I'd suggested that he see me for strategies for effective reading--and to my happy surprise, he did. It took a while for me to understand where his problem lies: it isn't that he loses focus so much as it is that he's reading too fast (trying to get it over with as quickly as possible, certainly--but also because students are perpetually, and incorrectly, told that it is good to read fast). I told him that both my office mates will say that they read slowly, and that there are times when I must, too. Again, I found myself acknowledging that what we read for pleasure is easier than what is "forced" on us.

I don't know what made me think of it, but I wanted to think of something physical he could do, some external behavior to aid his reading. I asked him if he read aloud to himself: yes, but it didn't help much. I scrambled, trying to think of something else, the I suggested he read with a pencil in his hand--not to annotate but simply to slow his eye down. We tried it out: Sitting here in the office, before I came up with that suggestion, he'd read the first few paragraphs of the story for today (which he hadn't yet read). I asked him what he'd gotten and the answer (not surprisingly) was not much. After we'd talked a while, he read them again with a pencil in hand, pointing at the words, and he admitted he noticed a lot more using the pencil. I reminded him that he was also re-reading, and that re-reading is a crucial academic tool. He left my office happier, feeling he had something to hold onto.

Of course, he also told me he couldn't be in class today, but ah well. If he can begin to read even a little bit better, I'll have given him something worthwhile.

3.  In class, I did tried to model the approach of looking at a piece of writing to notice what the author is doing and how, rather than to summarize or analyze thematically. The story was very short (W. P. Kinsella's "Horse Collars"), but it is a good example of "show, don't tell"--and of how much can be conveyed in a simple, well chosen detail. I thought the exercise was a bit of a bust, but the students seemed happy with it, and I let them go early. However, the one serious writer in the bunch stayed to talk. He's taken every creative writing class NCC offers; in fact this is his second time with Fiction Writing. But, he said, the more workshops he participates in, the less he writes and the less he likes what he writes. He knows all about how self-judgment stops us, how fear of others' judgment stops us--but he's more concerned that the other students just say, "I thought it was good" without giving him anything he can hold onto.

The main thing I got from listening to him was that he needs to shake himself up, so I suggested that he deliberately try to write really badly: try to produce the most unbelievably bad shit he can possibly come up with--and as much of it as he can. I told him he could even submit that for one of his assignments, because it would be very valuable to the whole class to focus on what doesn't work, to have a negative model instead of a positive one. I also suggested that I could instruct the other students to switch the usual practice in providing feedback to him: I could tell them to focus on what's wrong first, then tell him what works. I said he may be judging himself too harshly: we may see more good in his work than he can--but it could be very useful for all of us to sharpen the knives. He seemed not just willing to be the sacrificial goat but happy at the prospect. Yes, please: flay me alive! I didn't get any sense of masochism: I think he is mature enough, serious enough, that he's tired of being treated with kid gloves. In addition to shaking himself, I think he feels he needs a metaphoric slap in the face--or kick in the butt.

I told him that, in fact, I might give everyone the assignment to write something truly crappy. (Paul had a good caveat: it needs to be crappy on the sentence level; it defeats the exercise to simply come up with a stupid and implausible plot.) Even if we don't workshop it, the exercise might be very valuable for all of us. If I do that, however, I need to find some brief examples of truly dreadful writing. There are plenty out there--and plenty that aren't even spoofs but are produced in all seriousness and published with nary a sneer or wink; the problem, as always, is how to locate them and how to limit the choices. But even the spoofs might be useful: so overblown that even an untutored reader/writer can see the badness.

Back to Mr. Writer, however: we talked for about ten minutes, and he left feeling happier, comforted, supported--heard. He told me that he likes the way I've set up the class: read, write, workshop, revise, repeat. In other classes, the front part of the semester was loaded with reading, and all the workshopping happened in a concentrated push at the end. There is, he noted, an advantage to that, too, as it does force uninterrupted focus on the writing, but he likes having it broken up, breathers between the workshop sessions. (Me, too.) I'm very grateful to him for helping me see what the students need from a different angle; I think he's grateful that I'm so willing to work with him to try to give him what he needs as an individual. Win-win.

I glanced at their stories, by the way, and oy, gevalt. I have never liked the advice "write what you know," as it suggests writers are unable to imagine themselves into something very different from what they have experienced, which is patently untrue. However, their next story assignment may be much more close to home--because they all (or almost all) have done what inexperienced writers do, which is to overdramatize and overwrite like mad. It makes complete sense that they don't have much feel for voice yet--haven't developed their own and can't assume someone else's--but the wince factor just in the bits I've scanned is pretty significant.

I am grateful that my colleague Mary reminded me that all we can grade them on is their ability to incorporate feedback and revise. I need, too, to remember my own undergraduate attempts at fiction, which were wildly romantic and overwrought--and no doubt induced a gag reflex in the sweet professor who had to read them (and who was gracious enough not to tell me what unbelievable bilge I had produced). These students are just starting, and many of them also don't have much grasp of the intricacies of the English language. (Yeah, I know: hard to imagine budding writers who are profoundly deficient in awareness of the material of their craft, yet there it is.) But I do think I'll ask them to write the story of something very ordinary--a trip to the laundromat, or an afternoon with a friend--but to convey that experience as richly and with as much sensory detail as possible. (Could I do it? I should try it out before I assign it.) I've pointed out to them that often the most poignant moments in the stories we've read are expressed in very spare language, simple and unadorned--but the stories we've read have just enough heightened emotion that they encourage the tendency toward drama.

I'm hoping that the next reading assignments help counteract that tendency, but I do need to find other ways to address the issue. The problem really is that because the drama is overblown, it falls flat. So, how to get them to see that reining it in is actually more effective? Hmmm.

Obviously I'm very wound up about this (ye gods, woman, are you never going to end this post?). But I'm loving this. This is a juicy, rich, peach-nectar-down-the-chin semester. So far. But I'm not going to worry about what might go south: I'm just going to revel in this enjoyment.