Uncensored self-expression, fourth-grade style
Schoolchildren find that writing for 10 minutes without stopping is harder than they imagined.
By C.L. Votawfrom the May 30, 2007 edition
Page 1 of 2
"Ms. V., are we gonna write today?"
"Yes," I answer, and the fourth-grade boy pumps his fist in the air and dances around as though he's just made a touchdown. My appearance as a substitute teacher has become a cause for celebration, because I let the students write whatever they want. And then we shred it.
"You mean we can write anything?" they asked at first. Kids are natural lawyers, since they live under a complex set of rules and regulations.
"Yes, anything," I answered.
They're sure that's too good to be true, so they verify the specifics – all the things they would normally get in trouble for. I don't condone most of it, so I simply answer, "Who cares? Because I'm never going to see it, right?"
They nod. It's 10 minutes of uncensored self-expression, and they'll take the deal.
"You have to keep writing for the entire time," I say. "Even if it's nonsense, just keep writing until the timer goes off. Real words, although they don't have be in sentences."
I learned most of this from reading Natalie Goldberg's "Writing Down the Bones, Freeing the Writer Within." She calls it "writing practice," and you don't need a topic or a special format such as persuasive, expository, or narrative writing. You just write nonstop for a certain amount of time.
Using a shredder is my own touch, and I call my version "write 'n' shred."
The students get out a few sheets of paper each, sharpen their pencils, and set up barricades of books between their desktops. I'm sure that the minifortresses aren't necessary, and I tell them so, but they keep on building.
Soon everyone is ready, and I look up at the clock for a dramatic moment to start. The second hand sweeps up toward 12. I set the timer and shout, "Go!"
Every head is bent over, every hand is writing. You could hear a pin drop – or a girl's metal bracelet as it bounces up and down on her desk, along with her writing arm. It seems so loud that I walk over and quietly ask her to remove it. "Huh?" she says. I repeat the question, she complies, and then gets back to writing.
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