The Clippings of Mrs. H.R. Burdick

It’s a mystery, the contents of this box. Here’s what I know, so far.

Several years ago, I was cleaning out my aunt’s house. I found a box inside of a larger box, containing stamps from all over: Germany, Cuba, and the United States.

This box was nestled among clippings, hundreds of them, of letterhead(s) from mid-century American hotels, coast to coast: The Taft, the Biltmore, the Roosevelt. Beyond belief, though, were the train lines: the Los Angeles, and the Sunset Limited. The mind reels: there was a time when you could board an American train and write a letter on its personalized stationery.

The elegance of this speaks to an era when time spread out. I just started reading the letters of MFK Fisher and what is startling is simply the use of language for communication. This is no text speak time; this is when thoughts were developed, and full words were used. One pictures the writer, staring out the train window; locales pass by as thoughts come together.

To get back to Mrs. H.R. Burdick. It seems she collected both the stamps and the stationery, but not the letters. Luckily, there are many envelopes with multitudes of beautiful handwriting. Where does my aunt come in? Apparently, one of her many hobbies was stamp collecting, and she purchased these boxes from one David C. Burdick, of Sea Cliff, New York, the town in which she lived. One assumes David was the son of Mrs. H.R. Burdick.

There is no question that this treasure trove wants to become a book, or a museum exhibit. Or both. Stay tuned.

Austen, and Audrey, and Eric, as Well

They loved the letters, as did I.

At the second cursive handwriting workshop I taught this week, I showed the communications of Jane Austen, Audrey Hepburn, and Eric Clapton. Each had their own style. Yet there were similarities.

While Austen’s resembled the classic cursive of the 18th century – slanted and elegant – Hepburn’s was round and vertical, with no slant at all. Then there is Clapton’s, which is so distinctive it stopped me. It was the handwriting of a college friend, raised in England. Not quite cursive, but not just print. It’s a hybrid, and almost resembles calligraphy.

The reason for this? “In Britain, in the early 1890s, Professor John Jackson introduced vertical writing, which he felt had superior legibility, and was easier for students to learn.” (Lynn Diligent, Dilemmas of an Expat Tutor).

We spent most of the class writing letters to friends or family. Participants were so focused you could hear a pin drop.

The best part? One of the letters was addressed to me, thanking me for teaching the class.  

Jane Austen Letters

Audrey Hepburn Letters

Eric Clapton Letters

"You Write Like My Grandma!"

They came. They wrote. They conquered cursive.

This was the first of two workshops I am teaching at the New York Public Library. It was just delightful, connecting with participants ranging from 20- to 60-something, representing at least six nationalities. Only one student had not studied cursive as a child, so that made things easier. We spoke about our cursive experiences and then got hands-on practice, using blank or lined paper with soft lead pencils or Bic ball point pens.

There was lots of talk of which letters are hard to form, such as a lower-case R or V. I would add that long words, especially ones like constitution, declaration, and independence can be challenging when you try to keep all the letters connected. Even those of us who regularly write in cursive often lift our pen in the middle of a word to make things easier.

I briefly spoke about current research, which shows the importance of teaching cursive as well as typing: Efficiency (for notetaking and exams), developing signatures, reading historical documents, and cognitive brain function that is specific to cursive handwriting. Anecdotally, I told the story about my fourth-grade tutoring student who printed so slowly I had no idea how she would take the state exam at the end of the year. 

The two takeaways that fascinated me were the following:

One student spoke about learning cursive first in a French lycée and it seems that, although I have not delved into the research on this, other Western European and Latin American cultures teach cursive first. The U.S. started teaching print first, during the Progressive education era of the early 20th century, so that students would learn to read better.

The other was the kind of handwriting, whether in print or cursive, that seems to come out of adolescence, where letters are round, dots are circles, or perhaps hearts. I would venture a guess on this: if you got the cursive training for several years and did everything the teacher asked, perhaps you wanted to, in classic teenager style, do things your own way, imbue a little personality, stamp it with individuality.

Tomorrow I’ll share my favorite middle school story: a student watched me write on the board and yelled out, “Miss Bushell, you write like my grandma!”

A higher compliment I have never gotten.  

Reuters Article

Psychology Today

Scientific American

Pioneer Institute Article

Transportation Time

Here’s the thing: objects transport.

First things first: I hate the word thing. Yet here I am using it. My excuse is it’s in a phrase. While I could write a whole paragraph about how unattractive a word it is, that it lacks lyricism, and has that short stop sound of words like pick, quick or rick, I will say I use it, like everyone else, in phrases. Somehow it turns itself on its side and becomes humorous in, let’s say, it’s a thing. Meaning, it – whatever it is -- matters.

Just like objects. The thing about them is that they usually don’t transport. They simply sit. On a shelf, in a drawer, around the house. Until they do. There is that moment when, for example, I am at a piano lesson – as I was, just a few weeks ago -- and I happen to look down. There on a shelf is a book, a large paperback, with a charming cover, called Heritage Songster.

Suddenly, I am a child, in Miss Bachleitner’s music class. She is using a book like this. We are learning American folk songs. I am surrounded by my friends. The room is filled with voices. Miss Bachleitner smiles as she guides us in song.

Perhaps this is my father’s day off. He will pick me up after school. We will go to the Viand Coffee Shop for French fries and hot chocolate. Later my mother will come home, and we will have dinner together.

“Anita?” the piano teacher asks. “Can you try it once more?”

I return. “What were you looking at?” she asks.

“This book.” I hold it up. “I was transported in time.”

I Saw It On TV

Special thanks to Christian for making this one happen.

I have a framed black-and-white photograph of two-year-old me. I am sitting in front of the massive Zenith TV. In terms of composition, is the photograph about me or the TV?

My late aunt took this picture and, while she was a good photographer, what is interesting is that she didn’t angle the snapshot to frame me. All she had to do was stand by the TV. Perhaps that would miss the point.

Mine was the TV generation. Wasn’t it on Mad Men that Don came home the day JFK was killed to find Sally abandoned to the boob tube, alone, while Betty lay in bed upstairs?

My mother might have looked at me and saw that TV had taken over, as well. Consider the Shake-and-Bake moment.

We were standing in a grocery store on Elmhurst’s Roosevelt Avenue. I wanted a box of Shake-and-Bake.

“Why?” my mother asked.

“Because I saw it on TV,” I said.

“But I can make this myself,” my mother answered, incredulous, as she examined the box.

She was a good cook who made simple nutritious meals. Why her silly child wanted bread crumbs in a box was beyond her. Oh, and the added price for the plastic bag to do the shaking in. By the way, this moment took place less than a decade after Desk Set’s Spencer Tracy showed Katherine Hepburn his version of Shake-and-Bake: flour, salt, and pepper in a brown paper bag.

My mother missed the part where the product, to say nothing of the red chicken image on the box, captivated me. Because I saw it on TV.

Has TV, like the image in the photograph taken over? At one time, it did. There’s no question I would have been a better student had I not done my high school homework to The Odd Couple. On the other hand, years later I watched my middle school students beg for music as they wrote their in-class assignments. The teenage brain may need more stimulation. These days, I can’t write unless in total silence. There’s too much surrounding stimulation.

What I love about the Shake-and-Bake moment is that my mother tried to reason with me, as if I understood that there was a connection between her lovely meals and a bag in a box.

She totally missed the point: I saw it on TV.

Calm and Centered

“For the first time in many years, a teacher was correcting my handwriting.” Jenny Gross, The New York Times

And here it is, yet again, another article about the benefits of handwriting. Although the article is focused on calligraphy, the principles of handwriting apply. “With so much digital fatigue, writing elegantly with pen and paper can be a joy.”

Recently, I’ve been drafting articles and blog posts initially in pen. It’s slower, movement based, and ultimately grounding. It leaves me feeling calm and centered.

Then, of course, there’s the research:

“Some preliminary studies suggest that working with your hands — whether by writing, knitting or drawing — can improve cognition and mood, and a study published in January by researchers in Norway found that writing by hand was beneficial for learning and engaged the brain more than typing on a keyboard. Some states, including California and New Hampshire, have begun reintroducing cursive (long regarded as obsolete in a digital age) into their curriculums, citing it as important for intellectual development.” – The New York Times

I briefly studied calligraphy as a child. Maybe it’s time to start again.

Countering Digital Fatigue, Calligraphy Is On the Upswing

“First-Come, First-Served, Cash Only”

These were the words heard at the Film Forum last Friday, when the software went down. “Like it was 1977,” someone said.

The medical office I was in that morning was in a tizzy. Everything was behind because there was no tech.

“ ‘Blue screen of death’ hits NYC gov computers; jail cameras, arrest software down in ‘unprecedented’ global tech outage,” said The New York Post.

Yet again, another reminder that computers will, from time to time, fail us. Of course, from a truly hypocritical standpoint, it’s easy for me to see this problem firsthand. After all, I wrote last week’s blog about my near miss when I misplaced my laptop.

I’ve been seeing more and more articles by professional writers, especially journalists, who are going back to pen and paper. While their reasons may not be directly related to tech meltdowns, they do speak to us about the need for another way, a tried-and-true method that rarely fails us. What’s the worst that can happen? Your pen runs out of ink?

The following is from a New York Times article from earlier this year, entitled, “Writers: Always Pack a Notebook”:

Pete Wells, the chief restaurant critic for The New York Times, was on vacation this month when he learned that the renowned chef David Bouley had died.

Mr. Wells felt a duty to write about Mr. Bouley’s legacy, but there was one problem: He hadn’t packed his laptop. He did, however, have a stenographer’s pad. So Mr. Wells reverted to the ways of old and wrote an appraisal of Mr. Bouley using pen and paper. For him, it was a refreshing exercise, and for readers, an intimate glimpse into the work of a journalist.

I took a trip to San Francisco last year and, like Wells, didn’t pack my laptop, instead bringing a small notebook and Bic ball point pen. While I’m not sure why Wells didn’t pack his, I can say for myself I was saving weight, both in luggage and my back. Because I write at home, I have the luxury of not having to carry my laptop with me. If I leave home to write, I often do so by hand.

Lightness, however, is not the only reason. The Internet is a major tool and a more-than-minor distraction. While I often use it for research as I write, I find that even the searches in the middle of sentences are interruptions which disrupt the free flow of thoughts. In another article from the Times, “The Case for Writing Longhand: ‘It’s About Trying to Create That Little Space of Freedom’ ”, journalist Sam Anderson says he “…likes that the process slows him down and puts him in touch with his thoughts.”

And, of course, there are the distractions -- the did-I-pay-that-bill, or why-don’t-I-look-at-some-cute-summer-dresses -- which the Internet is there for, simply luring you down the proverbial rabbit hole of industriousness or temptation.

Last week I discovered a new park in the neighborhood – well, actually, a little out of the way – which was precisely why it was so delightful. It was new to me, it was a different destination, and I simply sat with my pen and notebook and wrote for a half hour, completely uninterrupted. I need to be doing this more often. It gets me out of the house, out of my head, and out of the rut of doing the same thing in the same place every day.

There’s also something else: I’ve always felt better when part of my day is spent writing in cursive. There’s a lot of research out there that says we process information differently when we handwrite, possibly because we often type faster than we write. I also love to see other people’s handwriting and have lots of great samples I’ve collected over the years. Boy, would it be fun to see this journalist’s place:

“Sam Anderson’s home office in Beacon, N.Y., is a palace of longhand. There are paragraphs scrawled inside the covers of books. Words are wedged into the corners of ripped-open envelopes. His looping script snakes its way down notepads — and there are piles of filled ones.

On nearly every scrawlable surface, there’s Mr. Anderson’s handwriting. And often, those scraps are the start of a story.” – The New York Times

Searching for Rose

Last week I finished teaching a workshop at the New York Public Library, based on my recent publication, Object Essays. It was wonderful meeting new participants and greeting old friends. Above all, it was lovely, simply having fun talking about objects and how to write about them.

The following is an object essay I began at the start of the new year:

Someone once said, “Transitions are hard.” And the end-of-travel transition? The worst.

I spent the last morning of 2023 working on a novella in the back seat of a rental car home from Virginia. I was, on the one hand, feeling quite productive, and on the other, getting sleepier by the minute. I slipped my Rose, a compact gold Apple MacBook Air I’ve owned since 2018, into its black nylon case and placed it at my feet. After a nap I listened to a podcast, then I indulged in a movie on my phone, reasoning that this was a good way to kill the last two hours of a drive by bare trees and endless grey skies.

Rose and I have become quite close. It has been my trusted friend and daily confidant throughout sleepless nights, and productive days. Rose and I have paid bills, corresponded with corporations, managed family affairs, organized a whole world of post-modern communications, as well as catalogued my writing: articles, novels, short stories, and poems. Feeling that things had gotten a little out of control more recently, I decided it was time to clean the yard and start pruning away, deleting old files and saying goodbye to the clutter I no longer needed.

The end of any trip is the longing, the please-just-get-me-home transition of the plane landing but it’s another ten minutes before you can even get up, or the unloading of the car and the endless trips back for more luggage, or in our case food. Because after the “holiday extravaganza”, as a friend refers to it, or the “Christmas madness”, as I call it, there is always more food. And such food needs to be not only unloaded but immediately refrigerated. At the end of this trip, I found myself in the kitchen, making sure I got everything unpacked before it spoiled, which was perhaps the reason I did not go back for one more luggage-toting trip.

I needed to get outside and walk, so I ran some errands, feeling good about the coming new year, the fresh start, the wondering-if-I-could-do-anything-differently musings of a late day December walk. When I got home, my husband had already left, driving the rental car back to J.F.K. I ran a bath, climbing in with my new stack of Christmas books, thinking that life was, indeed, quite sweet. It was only when I got out and thought about working on a submission that was due on the third of the month, that I felt something was missing.

Rose’s power chord lay on my bed, looking lost and confused, wondering where its mate was. Surely it was nearby, ready to work, helping me finish a piece about the ubiquitous New York chestnut stand of yesteryear. I looked around at piled luggage, and strewn coats. I lifted cushions and investigated the hallway. And then it dawned on me: I hadn’t seen Rose since this morning, when I tucked it in at my feet before that nice long nap. Convinced that I was mistaken and that I’d surely find it within minutes, I consulted my husband, and spoke to my daughter, but multiple searches confirmed my new reality: Rose was gone. This, it seemed, was turning into my Hemingway moment.

The rest of the evening was a swirl of calls to National Car Rental, filing lost property reports, constantly checking such report status, battling my increasing anxiety, and the inevitable catastrophizing questions that come with it. Where was it, who had it, what files had been opened, what was on it, was there financial information, and the inevitable ask from my husband: “It’s locked, isn’t it?”

No, it wasn’t.

Yes, I had gotten a little cavalier about my tech tools. I’d never lost a phone and knew Rose’s whereabouts at all times. Yet recently my husband had reminded me to lock my phone, that my I’ll-never-lose-it-attitude was a dangerous game I was playing that I would eventually pay the price for. And here I was, knowing exactly where my phone was while feeling like I’d lost an arm without Rose. “It wasn’t locked?” my daughter asked.

Shutting down, I also tried to tell myself I had to be resilient, that on the one hand I didn’t know that anyone had gotten their hands on it, and on the other that it might be gone and that I would simply have to deal. What a test of the Buddhist idea on non-attachment this one was going to be. We watched hours of television to take my mind off, then, predictably, I slept terribly, waking every few hours to the nagging thoughts of my own stupidity, lack of awareness, and downright naivete: this kind of thing happened to other people. I was together, I didn’t lose things, I was always checking for my belongings.

But was I? What about the time I left a 35-millimeter Nikon FM on an airplane as a teenager, never to see it again? Or the multiple ten-speeds I’d parted with over the years, or the pockets I’d had picked in the bad old days in New York and on a Paris Metro in the ‘80s? Stop, I demanded of myself. It just happened, I argued. The Buddhists would say the problem is not the loss, but my attitude. That I was attached to my own anxiety instead of the reality that an object had simply gone missing.

Inevitably each recent project started haunting me; did I back everything up? What about all my bookmarked articles on writing, especially my favorite ones, like the piece about Graham Greene’s daily writing practice: 500 words each morning in a black leather notebook, written with a fountain pen, beforecoffee. Or the article that breaks down how The Wall Street Journal does their man-in-the street human interest features. What about all the travel articles, as well as the ones on film, and my short cuts to my own published pieces? It was a little world Rose and I had created, one where I knew the location of all my teammates, ready to comfort me and serve me both at night and during the day. I had even grown accustomed to how dinged up Rose, previously pristine, had become when dropped in the backyard last summer while chasing an errant dog, another test of my ability to accept imperfection. And no comfort was derived from the back-up laptop I received at the end of a recent teaching job. The keyboard was wonky, there was nothing on the desktop and it felt like a blank canvas while I had no idea what to put on it. It was no Rose.

After four hours of sleep, I gave up and went downstairs, making coffee at the ridiculous hour of 5 AM and thinking I would get some writing done. Only I couldn’t. Now the feelings of loss started to flood in; for the past 12 years, I’d had one laptop, then another, my Rose, with her smooth sleek metallic feel, that travelled all over the house with me, always at my side when I couldn’t sleep, helping me find solace in a way-too-early cup of coffee and an hour of writing before heading back to bed.

As I stared into the abyss of my coffee cup, wondering why, on this of all mornings, it wasn’t working its magic, I patiently waited for my husband to get up, so that he could accompany me to National Car Rental. This was not the way to start the new year, I thought, huddled on an A train bound for J.F.K. without any luggage.

I sat on the subway, trying to console myself. Rose was either there or it wasn’t. There was nothing I could do about it. I had done everything I could. When we switched to the AirTrain and pulled into the station, I was greeted by a sea of rental cars below. All I could think was that maybe, just maybe, my little Rose, slumbering away in its black case, was patiently waiting for me to find it and take it home so we could make more words together. On the other hand, what were the odds?

The place was busy. Lots of New Years’ travelers. We finally made it to the agent, and I explained my dilemma. She looked in the lost-and-found system, but no one had turned in a laptop. Beyond that, the issue came down to this: was our rental now rented out to someone else? In which case, there was no hope. The agent looked up our car, and it was miraculously on the lot. Pushing the envelope, something my husband is very good at doing, he kindly asked if someone could check the back of the car to see if the laptop was still there. The agent said she would try.

We sat. We waited. We watched lots of tourists come and go. Forty-five long tick-tock minutes went by. And then, a uniformed National Car Rental attendant approached the agent, carrying Rose, like a tray, just the way I had left it, in its black nylon case.

Back home, I lovingly connected Rose with its mate, the aforesaid power chord, and as it purred back to 100% battery capacity, I gave it a sigh. Relief didn’t cut it, although happiness came quite close. Dozens of thoughts flooded my brain, but the main one, a second chance, said it all.

Never again would I be so careless, so cavalier, and above all else, I would always check for my belongings.

Summer Stories

“The news has gotten grimmer, and the world has gotten grimmer. People need a break from the seriousness of global warming and war and political feuding. These kinds of stories give people that moment. – Steven Kurutz, The New York Times

 The girl was walking the dog. Mom was beside her.

I’d seen them before, going in this direction. My dog is large, her dog is small. Like most small children, though, she is in her world. She has her dog, and I have mine. She is focused on walking hers.

With the arrival of summer and the end of school, the neighborhood has, in places, settled into a summer slumber. The days are long, and time and the sun stretch out. The streets are quiet, there is less traffic, but the playgrounds are full. The neighborhood pool is open. The sprinkler is on; the ice cream truck is parked. A mother and two sons enjoy their cones.

My late mother-in-law once said she loved being with her children in the summer, stress free from schedules, homework, and math. The mother on the street seems to be enjoying her time with her little one, and the girl is taking her job quite seriously, walking the dog, a Fisher-Price beagle that thwacks on the ground as its owner pulls a long cotton string.

There are summer stories everywhere.

Going Out

Last week I went to a concert. And I thought of my dad. He would have been 95 this June.

Central Park’s Naumburg Bandshell had fallen on hard times when I was a kid. Covered in graffiti and simply looking sad, it would be decades before it would see the elegant restoration it recently received.

On the program: the overture to Mozart’s Le Nozze de Figaro, Louise Ferrenc’s Symphony Number Three, and the glorious Pastorale of Beethoven, one of Daniel’s favorites.

I remember the album cover of Daniel’s copy of the Pastorale from when I was a child; I can’t think of how many times I’ve heard it played over the years; but to hear it live in Central Park, of all places, surrounded by lush and leafy elms from the 19th century? Heavenly.

A cloudless sky. Birds accompanied the glorious flute trills, several school-aged children sat in rapt attention, and an older couple planted themselves on the ground with their perfectly poised charge, most likely a grandchild, who listened to the concert while eating a slice of watermelon.

Daniel gave me the gift of music. I could not be more grateful.

On Top of the World

“Catch a wave and you’re sitting on top of the world.” – The Beach Boys

 The boy was talking to the waves, arguing with them, perhaps even trying to fight them.

I was at the beach, my season opener, and I was already in a great mood. The playlist was cued, the sun was out. And then I saw him.

He was about eight years of age, and he was having some kind of communication with the waves, part dance, part karate. If I had to interpret, I’d say he was getting up the nerve to go in. I finally stuck my toes in and stopped paying attention, thinking about the sensations of the moment – the visual (sun, open sky); the sound (waves crashing); the feeling (sand, water); and the smell (salt). What have I left out? Oh, taste. We’d just had bagels, and everything somehow tastes better at the beach.

If I wrote about this, it would be the perfect sense memory moment. Then I turned and I saw the boy, having plunged in, happier than he was – if this was possible – mere moments before.  

And in that moment, I was on top of the world.

Walking Away

“Nature had come into her own again and, little by little, in her stealthy, insidious way had encroached upon the drive with long, tenacious fingers ....” (Rebecca, Daphne du Maurier)

I always think of those words when gardening, especially in Virginia, where the wisteria has taken over, having a mind of its own, simply laughing at those of us foolish enough to think we can control her. Luckily, the hot weather prevents me from doing more than a little work in the morning, then perhaps a bit at the end of the day. The sun saves me.

A term I only learned recently was being in the weeds, which while perfect for gardening is also apt for writing, in which you can sometimes find yourself tangled and confused. This is when walking away, one of my favorite ideas, comes into play. Before you get to the point of utter frustration, try walking away and taking a deep breath. Go outside. Think about something else. Come back when ready.

I first heard of the Pomodoro Technique when I taught middle school. In this method, you work without distraction (hide that phone) for 25 minutes (I use 30), then you stop, take a break, and return. I cannot tell you how much I have achieved, using this approach, not only for writing, but for a multitude of daily living tasks, as well. It is the “without interruption” part that is crucial, the total focus, and grounding in the moment, that is the key here.  

In case you’re wondering, pomodoro comes from the tomato-shaped kitchen timer Francesco Cirillo used when he was a student at Rome’s Luiss Business School in the late 1980s.

Breaking It Down, Part II

The great Italian cookbook author, Marcella, Hazen once wrote, “Words are capable of mysterious chemistry. Taken singly, the three common words [Good Italian Cooking] appear plain enough in their meaning. We can use any one of them in ordinary conversation, confident we’ll be understood. But put just two of them together and you can set off a debate.”

Last week, I wrote about focusing on fun words before creating “perfect” sentences. But I love Hazen’s idea of word chemistry and mixing and matching as we come up with different meanings.

Here’s an example from my walk the other day: electric green field. It was early and the sun drenched the field, giving the new growth a bright green quality as if it had been electrified.

You can put green and field together; this meaning is clear. What about electric and green? How about switching? Green electric. And then there is electric field…

So many choices, yet not a sentence to be found…

Breaking It Down

The Week In Writing is Back! I’m thrilled and grateful for a coffee conversation with a friend about writing and all its myriad challenges.

Here’s a story that illustrates one of the many of these myriad challenges. Years ago, I was in Boston, visiting friends, and I had a knitting project with me. My host suggested that we go to the local yarn shop, where I got into a great conversation with the manager about the challenges she sees with beginning knitters. She said that it’s rare that students want to start at the beginning and make something achievable, like a scarf. More often, they want to make a sweater, which is an advanced project that you have to work your way up to. Her point was that you have to go through the stages of learning a new skill and that, most importantly, you have to learn to tolerate the frustration of the learning curve.

I’ve seen this over and over with writing students of all ages. They want perfection, and don’t want frustration. Of course they don’t. Who does? Yet, as we all know, you can’t get to at least better writing without frustration.

That said, here’s an idea: before writing sentences, write down words. Words you like, words that please you, words that conjure images you’d like to write about. Why do this? Because you’re just coming up with words, not trying to write the perfect sentence.

Here’s another idea: write down the word perfect. Now write down a few words about its meaning.

See where this takes you…

Full Circle

I’ve always wondered why my uncle and my dad, both products of the New York City public school system, turned out to be fine writers. They knew how to write well, and they understood the mechanics of writing.

Turns out they had been taught. A 2012 article in The Atlantic perfectly outlines the problem: recent writing teaching focuses more on engaging students with fun assignments in fiction and memoir rather than instructing them in the nuts and bolts of sentence structure and grammar. Now the backlash has begun.

My argument is that you can do both: embed the spelling and grammar in the fiction assignment and you can show students that they can have fun while writing and learn how it all comes together.

Next week, I’ll be starting a new job as a middle school writing support instructor. I am so excited about learning with my students about writing at this level.

https://www.theatlantic.com/magazine/archive/2012/10/the-writing-revolution/309090/