What if we saw writing as a movement rather than a destination?
Teaching students how to write is inherently teaching them ways to communicate, to think, to learn, and to be in the world. In this way, as Linda Adler-Kassner and Elizabeth Wardle note, writing is much more than “a basic, ideology-free skill” or, as Dylan B. Dryer puts it, a simple “matter of transcribing thought while avoiding error” (Naming What We Know 16, 72). Writing is much more complex!
Writing is a process.
Students and instructors alike often think of “writing” as the essay submitted before the 11:59pm deadline, reducing writing to the forms it takes or the document it produces. But of course writing is everything that comes before we begin to type, and long after we press “submit.” Reading, discussing, thinking, and outlining are all part of the process, as are brainstorming, drafting, revising, sharing, researching, editing and integrating feedback from readers.
It can be helpful to teach writing the same way we practice it–as a process. This approach, as Donald Murray notes, sometimes means shifting our sense of our role as instructors, from being “the initiator” to being “the reader” (5). Changing our understanding of our role can subtly but profoundly change how students understand their role, from novices satisfying requirements to writers engaging in genuinely intellectual, creative, and–above all–communicative acts. Murray explains, “We have to respect the student, not for [their] product, not for the paper we [give] a grade, but for the search for truth in which [they are] engaged. We must listen carefully for those words that may reveal a truth, that may reveal a voice. We must respect our students for [their] potential truth and for [their] potential voice. We are coaches, encouragers, developers, creators of environments in which our students can experience the writing process for themselves” (5).
Writing is thinking.
When we ask our students to write, we are also asking them to think. Whether it’s developing a response to a reading, drafting a literature review, or explaining how textual evidence relates to their claim, writing requires that our students discover what they want to say, how they want to say it, and why. In this way, writing is “more than transmitting existing information, it is…a means of creating new knowledge” (Naming What We Know 108). We too probably often find that we discover our own ideas as we write, at various stages of the writing process, but we might not think about fostering this experience for students. Leaving room in your courses for students to discover through writing, for example by incorporating revision opportunities, allows them to approach writing as a tool for learning rather than as a means to prove what they already know.
As Heidi Estrem explains, “Writing is a knowledge-making activity” that is too “often defined by what it is: a text, a product” rather than the “less visible” dimension of writing: “what it can do: generate new thinking” (19). Estrem goes on to note: “We don’t simply think first and then write….We write to think” (19). “Understanding the knowledge-making potential of writing can help people engage more purposefully with writing for varying purposes,” Estrem explains, noting that “beyond teaching the more visible disciplinary conventions of writing in their fields, faculty [should] also integrate writing assignments that highlight what is less visible but highly generative about writing in many contexts…” such as reflection, brainstorming, revision, and research (20).
Writing is cognitively complex work.
In addition to helping students discover new ideas, writing requires immense cognitive work that activates different brain regions as well as our bodies, nervous systems, and minds in unusual and often exhausting ways. Importantly, it is this cognitive work that allows students to “demonstrate an understanding of the question; deploy accurately and purposefully concepts, knowledge sets, and terms that reveal genuine expertise; meet the needs of their audience; fulfill the requirements of genre; or, exhibit a control of language, grammar, and mechanics” (Naming What We Know 76).
Moreover, the way writers think about the cognitive work of writing can dramatically shape their experiences of writing and the efficacy of their written work. This thinking about writing is called metacognition. Incorporating low-stakes reflective assignments or class discussions into your course cultivates metacognition and illustrates the many choices available to students as writers. Importantly, metacognitive reflective exercises challenge the notion that students are ‘bad’ writers, illuminating instead, the complex cognitive work they undertake when addressing a writing prompt. If our students can recognize where they get stuck (summarizing sources, articulating a claim in one sentence, relating ideas, fighting off anxiety, managing perfectionism), they can practice those cognitive tasks and integrate support as part of their process rather than a remedy for incompetence. Ultimately, developing metacognition, in addition to practicing different writerly cognitive tasks, leads to more successful transfer of writing skills into new rhetorical situations and greater confidence in writing.
Writing is a social and rhetorical activity.
Though writing is an action often undertaken by individuals, it is inherently a social and rhetorical activity. Because writers are involved in the work of making meaning, for specific audiences and purposes, they are, in fact, always connected to other people. This is true not only because writing is often a communicative act, but because writing “encompasses the countless people who have shaped the genres, tools, artifacts, technologies, and places writers ac with as they address the needs of their audiences” (Naming What We Know 18).
In higher education, especially, students have to make choices about their writing based on the discipline, the course, and the professor for their course. Though faculty members are regularly the audience, and fulfilling course requirements are often the purpose for writing, when teaching your first year seminar, encourage students to think about their writing context and the social and rhetorical realities of writing: Why are they writing? Who are they writing for? What do they want to say? Are there genre conventions at play? Do they align with your writerly aims? So, too, can instructors can make the social and rhetorical realities of writing present to students by talking about the writing situation, audience, and purpose of assigned course readings. Understanding the rhetorical work of writing is essential if writers are to make informed, productive decisions about which genres to employ, which languages to act with, which texts to reference, and so on” (Naming What We Know 18-19).
As you design your course, you will have to think about your own disciplinary training as a context that deeply shapes what you believe makes for successful writing in your course. Share these disciplinary contexts with your students. This can help students understand that what constitutes good writing changes based on context, reader, and purpose. Being forthright in your own desires for certain forms, turns of phrase, and citational practices (often derived from your training and expertise in your discipline) will teach students that as they move from course to course and engage in different sorts of writing activities, they succeed not so much by intuiting the idiosyncratic demands of individual faculty members (as they sometimes think!) but rather by learning to understand the new conventions of different disciplines and to apply and develop the skills they already possess.
Writing is personal and political.
Writing is tied up in ideology. The languages, discourses, genres, and forms that we use, simply put, cannot exist independent of culture. This means that when we teach writing, even when we simply ask for writing to be done, we are also asking our students to engage in ideological work, that includes “struggles over power, the formation of identities, and the negotiation, perpetuation, and contestation of belief systems” (Naming What We Know 49).
For students, this manifests as a sense of who they are, what they believe, and how best to communicate their ideas. For many, academic discourse is a new language in and of itself. Writing for academic audiences, then, brings up many personal dilemmas about identity, particularly for students whose social identities are underrepresented in the University like BIPOC, queer students, first-generation college students, low income students, multilingual students, and international students.
Even if students are not thinking explicitly about their complex and intersecting social identities, writing requires them to consider complicated questions such as: “What kind of writer do I wish to be? What are my obligations to my readers? What effects will my words have upon others, upon my community?…What obligations follow from my words? What are the consequences?” (Naming What We Know 31-32). Identity work is inherent in writing.
Additionally, there is a politics to teaching writing in an FYS that is of special importance at Wesleyan, where no composition or writing-intensive courses are required of all students. As a result, the FYS is the primary place where Wesleyan ensures that all students are equipped with the writing skills they will need to succeed in the university. The FYS is our main vehicle for addressing and, ideally, redressing the writing-related inequities in education and preparation that our students bring with them to campus. Fifteen students at a time, we do our earnest best to bring everybody on board. For more on anti-racist and social justice writing pedagogies please see “Anti-Racist Writing Pedagogy.”
As you design your first-year seminar…
Consider how you can make room in your course for writing-focused content and activities. As instructors, we often experience a tension between teaching content and teaching writing. We can feel that the more we focus on writing as a process, whether in assignments or in class discussion, the less time and energy we have to devote to learning the core course material. But remember that a first-year seminar may quite possibly be the only course a student at Wesleyan will take that aims to teach writing. Moreover, first year seminars offer our students the opportunity to grow as writers, readers, thinkers, and reasoners. In a very real way, we are striving to bring them into a community in which their thoughts and ideas matter and to help them feel confident and excited about contributing to that community.
Moreover, as faculty, prioritizing writing frees us to design assignments that invite students to think in new ways, to experiment, and to take risks. They enjoy such assignments, and they are often more enjoyable for us to respond to. Prioritizing writing also gives us permission to play around in class with games and exercises we might not otherwise take time for. And it gives us a reason to ask students questions we might not otherwise ask.
Ultimately, as you develop your learning objectives, assignments, and readings for your FYS, think through the ways you can foster writing as a dynamic process, a way of thinking, a place of discovery, and an entryway into specific discourse communities, whether that means The Argus, biologists, or your student’s favorite meme page. This database is a starting point for being creative about what a writing-intensive course might look like. We have various resources and ways to rethink how to approach writing as a continual, generative process as well as practical tips about assigning 20+ pages of writing. We hope you will add to it, too, as a collective attempt to reshape our understanding of writing.