The Maryland Writing Project Is in My Closet
By: Sarah Abernethy Snyder
Publication:
The Voice, Vol. 9, No. 3
Date: 2004
Summary: A teacher-consultant shares how she uses such props as Lego blocks, fancy paper, seashells, a magic wand, and a kaleidoscope.
The Peabody Institute, where I teach, is in the middle of a large, messy, noisy construction project, which forced me and my colleagues in the Humanities Department to relocate. At the end of May, we had to pack and/or label everything in our office—from dictionaries and packages of blue books to overhead projectors and wastebaskets—in order to move from the second floor of the conservatory building to the first floor of Leakin Hall, the preparatory building. In August, we unpacked everything, and as I put my teaching supplies away, I made a startling discovery: the Maryland Writing Project is in my closet!
The contents of this storage closet include the following.
- Clear package-sealing tape. The first year I was coordinator of the Maryland Writing Project Summer Institute, we had a visitor, Julie Conason, a teacher-consultant from the New York City Writing Project who came as part of a teacher exchange sponsored by the National Writing Project. Julie, who taught middle school in Manhattan, was full of ideas. She showed us how to transform an ordinary composition notebook by covering it with photos, postcards, and other materials and then adding a protective layer of clear package-sealing tape. I now have a whole stack of notebooks that I have personalized this way. My students cover their books in ingenious ways—one young man covered his with purple fake fur—and I provide the tape. I believe that if a student invests time to make an attractive, one-of-a-kind book, she is more likely to write in it, saving her thoughts for the future.
- Fancy paper. When Ginny Anderson presented to the summer institute, she said that she liked to have an appealing cover for her syllabus. Following Ginny's lead, I now do this for my courses. The faculty secretary smiles indulgently—no one else on the faculty does anything so eccentric—as she hands me my stack of syllabi with their brightly colored covers.
- A kaleidoscope. Although I had worked as a writer and editor, extensively revising my work and that of others, I didn't know how to help my students with that process until I went through the summer institute. After that summer, I began to encourage my students to revise their work, and the kaleidoscope has become a symbol of my approach. It is a special one, created by a friend who used ordinary objects such as a paper clip and scraps of ribbon, lace, and paper. Viewed through the kaleidoscope, these ordinary objects become beautiful and fascinating in the viewer's eye, and when the kaleidoscope is rotated, the objects move to create a new pattern. "Revising is re-seeing," I tell my students. "Take a good look at what you have written. What would happen if you shifted things around?"
- Lego blocks. Sets of Lego blocks in paper bags are stacked on the shelf, thanks to Susy Sayre. Each year I have students work in groups to build a Lego creation, name it, write directions for assembling it, and then give the pieces and directions to another group. Susy's activity helps writers practice writing for the reader. Many college freshmen have not yet learned to consider the reader—after all, they have always written for a teacher who is compelled —sometimes by a sense of duty— to read every word they write.
- Cookie sheets. Mary Ann Hartshorn showed me how to create magnetic poetry kits. My students write words on paper-covered magnets and then arrange them on the cookie sheets. I'm sure I am the only Johns Hopkins faculty member who ever requested reimbursement for the purchase of cookie sheets from the Dollar Store. Each year I have some classes in which students experiment with different kinds of poetry, and the corner of the classroom with the cookie sheets is always crowded.
- A box of seashells. When I went through the summer institute, my presentation involved using objects as writing prompts. Terry Mobley took the prewriting strategy I used, called cubing, and used it with seashells. He shared his experience, and I used his idea the summer that I taught in the Student Writers Workshop. Since then, I have amassed a collection of shells. To practice writing based on observation, I ask students to close their eyes. I give students each a shell and ask them to observe the shells without using their eyes, an idea that came from reading about one of the world's foremost experts on seashells who has been blind since birth. Then I collect the shells and ask students to open their eyes and write down what they observed. Next, I ask them to reclaim their shells—which they can do even though they have not seen them—and continue to observe the shells now that they can use their eyes. It's great practice for collecting sensory details.
- Black construction paper. Stored with my pile of construction paper are little plastic bags. Each bag contains a piece of chalk, seven dry beans, and some stickers in the shape of stars. My students love the activity I learned from Jamie Cooper. Each student creates a constellation by dropping the beans on the paper, replacing each bean with a star, and drawing a chalk line to connect the stars. Each then names the constellation and writes a myth to explain how it was placed in the sky.
- A Santa Claus mug, two red pom-poms, and a pair of chopsticks. With these and some other odd items, my students create games, inspired by a presentation by Elias O'Neal, writing the rules and demonstrating how each game is played. Their attempts at rule-writing pave the way for more serious consideration of the rules that they and others follow in the game of writing.
- A magic wand. My magic wand is made of silver cardboard and tinsel. My daughter used it once on Halloween, and it's dented and slightly bent with age. I show it to my students, telling them the good news is that I have a magic wand, but the bad news is that it's a fake. If it really worked, and I could magically transform them into excellent writers, I would not be teaching; I would be lolling on a beach in Hawaii, having made so much money that I could do whatever I wanted. There is no easy way to become a better writer—it takes effort and constant practice.
Did I get the magic wand from the Maryland Writing Project? No, but my experiences with the site have transformed my teaching. Other teachers have given me creative ideas. They have given me confidence so that I can be myself in the classroom. I can take risks. I'm not afraid to be different. No one else at the Peabody Institute uses chart paper and markers with scents like chocolate and blueberry, but college students love them. Since 1993, when I went through the summer institute, I have created three college courses. Each one is different, and each has been nourished by the ideas and information that I have received from my fellow teacher-consultants.
So the Maryland Writing Project is in my closet. More importantly, it is in my classroom: in what I teach and how I teach. The writing project is also part of my life. I write for pleasure and share my work with friends in a writing group. As I write this piece, I'm gathered with other teacher-consultants at a retreat in Sharpsburg, Maryland, where we have come to spend time thinking and writing about teaching. This quiet time is even more valuable to me since the sounds of construction at Peabody still surround me during the week. I am grateful for this weekend. It is one of a long series of opportunities I have had, thanks to the Maryland Writing Project.