great for one-third of the children, good for
another third and have impacted the already-
fluidwriters a little, too – they like how I let
themgo off-piste.
At the heart of my newwriting lessons,
and (mark!) mymarking, is something
seemingly forgotten: children need to
enjoy writing, first and foremost because,
when they do, the technical stuff falls into
place accidentally on purpose. Wemay teach
a grammar point for them to include, and
keep the English coordinator happy, but
primarily writing is about expressing
yourself, and if fear keeps you fromdoing this
then the only thing we have to fear is
fear itself. Oh, and clichés.
So anyway, I get in character daily now. I
playme as an adult in themindset of an
eight-year old. And for those children who
give it, “I don’t knowwhat towrite,” or, “I
don’t know how to start,” my response is,
“You want to know something? I know exactly
what youmean.”
S
o anyway. Here I am, at the
coalface, metaphorical pick
and shovel in hand, chipping
away at themine of primary
school writing potential.
Twenty-seven unkempt Year Four faces
pore down at their now-scraggy exercise
books, deploying their eagerminds like an
overused simile.
On the still-new, funky interactive
whiteboard thingy is the stimulus – a
wildHockney painting this time, carefully
chosen by yours truly; on the other board,
themodelledwriting showing howwe
“can start to describe this setting, or
the characters in it…who can think of
something to sharewith the class?”
Yet then, the inevitable, moments later:
“Mr G. I don’t knowwhat towrite.” Or: “Mr G,
I’ve copied your writing off the board, I can’t
think of anything else.” Or, after precisely
38 seconds: “Mr G, I’vefinished, what shall
I do now?”
Hardtimes
As someonewho haswritten all of his life,
andmade a living fromthewrittenword
back before I got the calling, there are a few
things that I know. One is that writers’ block
is real, nomatter who you are. Why, even
sitting down towrite this article - deadline:
tomorrow, if you please – I stared at the
blank page for several moments before
remembering to do that spot of cleaning
behind the fridge. It’s done now.
Two, you usually never finish until
someone else stops you. There are
novelistswhowould have nothing
published, ever, if their editors hadn’t torn
soggymanuscripts fromtheir clammy, self–
critical hands.
And three, most relevantly: formost
human-folk, the fear of genuine creativity
is real, too. Of really opening up, I mean.
The resultant self-censorship is an act of
cruelty and anxiety, not a desire to perfect
anything. Added to this, as a professional
I also fear what the editor of this goodly
magazinewill say aboutmy own humble
scrawlings. What if she shakes her head,
ruminating, “Oh dear, this is not what I
wanted, not at all.”?Or gently returns it, with
some tickled-pink and green-for-growth
marks thereon? The anxiety, even for an old
hand, is palpable.
Letitgo
When I started teachingwriting, I took
the didactic role, thinking I had something
important to impart, some teaching to do.
And, in fact, I have. However, it’s not simply
the technical – inverted commas, fronted
adverbials, subordinating conjunctions…
you know the drill. No, themost important
learning I can impart is that the fearmindset
stops all of us fromdoing our best. Not just
you, Year Four children, butme too.
Perhaps youmight call
it the regressivemindset
– to place oneself in the
shoes ofmy pupils, and
feel the fear that stays
their pencil-holding
hands; their desire
toplease yet terror
of falling short, of
being told, albeit
gently, “no”,
despite their
very, very
best efforts.
In essence, all
of the self-same
anxieties that I
feel, and hopefully
overcome, on a regular
basis. It completely
opensme up to a
whole newapproach to
teaching. I’monsidewith
them, and they like that.
The results have been
ROSS GERAGHTY
teaches Year 4 at a school in Essex
90
TEACH READING & WRITING
Y4teacher
RossGeraghty
knowshowscary itcanbetohavetoproduce
apieceofwritingtoorder–nomatterhowlongyou’vebeendoing it...
Feelthefear
