Affective Dimensions of Writing

I really think that I was incredibly blessed to have my second grade teacher, Mrs. Smith. She sparked an interest in writing for me at a young age. She was unique among teachers then in her focus on writing at such a young age. I remember teachers and parents felt like she was trying to teach us things much above our level. We read poetry every day, with Shel Silverstein front and center. (And what child doesn’t love Shel Silverstein?) We “published” several class books that she made, typing up student poems and binding them, and then making them available in our reading corner. She had an after-school writing club that I participated in, and I remember taking a trip to a writing convention where we were able to meet popular children’s authors. I was convinced that I wanted to be a writer when I grew up. In Mrs. Smith’s class, we didn’t write about red apples. We wrote about crimson, vermillion or blood-red apples. We wrote about apples that were as red as Snow White’s lips. She taught us about things like alliteration and onomatopoeia.

I think it was the perfect age to begin writing, because there was no self-consciousness, and we all believed that we were wonderful authors, and likely were for our age because we had such a great teacher that taught us how to use figurative language and descriptive words. I remember one of my favorite writing assignments was one in which we got to make up a story about leprechauns and illustrate it. I guess I loved writing in this class because the writing assignments captured our imagination and we had many opportunities to write about anything that fascinated us. Here is the cover for one of our published books:

Here is one poem I wrote in class:

Lying in the grass,
With the butterflies,
I found something. . .
Guess what it was.
It was a shiny shimmering sun
In a green sky.
It was a golden glowing lion’s mane.
It was a soft duck
Swimming in a green pond.
It was a spider.
It was yellow, oval,
It was a children’s flower.
Have you guessed?
It was a dandelion.


Somewhere along the way, the value of writing fantasy, narration, and poetry in school was lost, and most assignments centered on more “practical” types of writing. I really began to dislike writing assignments as I moved into junior high with formulaic essays on topics that weren’t interesting to me. Luckily, I had a senior English teacher that helped me enjoy writing again (although it was very challenging) as he encouraged us to write on topics that were personally relevant and to write with voice. He helped us see new ways to structure our writing to improve our voice and be more creative that just intro-body-conclusion restatements. I think what I have learned from these teachers is that I will need to hone in on what is personally relevant and interesting to my students, create assignments that challenge them, and also give them positive feedback that can help them see themselves as writers with their own voice. I think everyone is a writer, because everyone has something to say.

I still enjoy writing, but find it is hard to devote time and attention to writing. Now I write in journals and scrapbooks, make posts on facebook or engage in other types of easy, low-risk writing. I also write if I have a real problem I need to think about. Somehow, putting problems into words helps me to clarify my thinking. Some people would be surprised to know that if I am really frustrated at them, I write them a letter. I spill out all of my angry words onto paper, and then I can really define and figure out what's bothering me. Of course, I never send these letters, unless it is something appropriate to write about and after I have gone through several revisions to make it an actually productive communication. Most often, though, I use that writing to figure out just want I want to say or simply to vent and leave it alone. I think I express myself best in words, either talking or writing. When I am given assignments to create visual representations, drawings, art, or other multimedia forms, it is more difficult for me. This has actually been a fun assignment to remind me of how much I actually do like to write.

Here is a more recent poem I wrote a few years ago:

White Out

Some days the earth and sky
Meet in a hazy sameness
As white-covered ground
Blurs with soft, swirling flakes.
All things become bumps
Smothered under a blanket of snow.

Today I punch holes in the blanket
With each footfall forging a trail.
I am surrounded by many,
Yet I am alone in utter stillness.
I am angry at the undisturbed snow.

I welcome, yet despise, the solitude of this place.
I am comforted by the chance to be alone with my baby;
I am bothered by the multitude of lives forgotten.
The snow, barely there now, falls like the
Soft sprinkling of talcum powder.

Today, I, alone, have come
To see one so small and taken
Because snow clings to stone
If there is no one to wipe it off
And I must dig out his headstone
From months of snow.