HWP 2010
Literacy Autobiography
Becky Fields
I’ve been a reader since I can remember. Loved, loved, loved books. Still do. The best ones, or my favorites – I can concede now that those terms, “best” and
“favorite,” are hardly synonymous – I have always read multiple times, and in returning to them, found them ever more satisfying. (I think C. S. Lewis said something about reading books again and again) Those beloved titles – Bambi, Heidi,
The Chronicles of Narnia, Katherine, Gone with the Wind, Pride & Prejudice, King Lear,
A Tale of Two Cities, The Poisonwood Bible, A Christmas Carol, East of Eden – never fail to provide a sort of comfort, like an old and cherished friend; a sort of challenge, like a tough and inspiring teacher; and a sort of delight, like a satisfying steak with dessert thrown in. I’ve known that by reading, I learn – I explore a world far more vast and variable than my own small, though fascinating, corner. But I have rarely considered that I’ve been engaged in substantive learning by writing. As a teacher
(of literature, of course – what else?), I am a bit ashamed to admit that I must have missed the day that they taught us about writing to learn in teacher school. My impression of writing, as presented to me throughout grade school, high school, college, and even through many of my teaching years, has been that we write to demonstrate what we have already learned, not to discover what we think, or even more shocking, to discover what we have yet to learn. As I write, I find some irony, so perhaps all is not as bleak as I fear.
Writing to learn. A unique concept? Decidedly no. When I look back at some firmly established habits that I possess, I recognize a powerful tool that I have long held in my hands – a pen. I am a note-taker. I can’t listen to someone in a speaking role – teacher, preacher, meeting-organizer, principal – without jotting down the salient points. The more engaged I am as a listener, the more likely I am to attempt a verbatim logging of the entire lecture, sermon, or instruction. Actively

participating in listening, and transcribing those words to a separate page makes something wonderful happen in my brain. I retain the presentation more accurately and for a longer period of time. Whether the notes are preserved for later review and thoughtful analysis, or they lie forgotten, left to molder in a notebook somewhere, the act of writing those words down on paper changes me. This habit is so well engrained in my ‘list of acceptable and profitable behaviors for highly effective learners,’ that I cannot remember not doing it. So, who was the genius that taught me the value of note-taking as meaningful writing to learn? I confess, I have nary a clue – but to that person, I owe a rather substantial debt of gratitude. Writing to learn does indeed work, and note-taking is writing. For many years I didn’t consider it to be so.
Writing, defined by Becky, is what other people do. Writing means that significant ideas are under consideration, philosophies are expounded, hearts are stirred, entertainment is underway, delight is making its entrance. Writing matters, of course – in fact, it matters a great good deal – for it has the power to change minds, rouse emotions, start revolutions. I can’t do those things. Those activities are for writers. I’m a reader. Hello? See the difference. And weep. Because, I think lately, I have discovered that I want to be a writer. I don’t know that my goal is to start a revolution (though I might give it a whirl), but I certainly would entertain the notion of entertaining someone, challenging long-held opinions, or defending Truth. So lately, I write. Oddly, I continue to weep. (Perhaps not literally.) But the frustrations and irritations and blockades and continual return to the same old, tired style I’ve employed for far too many years to count keep knocking at my door, and I, fool that I am, rush to answer it. Writing is hard work.
Even writing badly takes some effort. Truth is, I’d rather stop writing badly, and produce something good. But for what purpose? And who is my audience? (see, I wrote those things down in a class recently, and realize the questions are crucial, and the answers to the questions help drive and shape what I am about to write.)
Ah. Learning.

Writing projects, be they academic response papers, longer position papers investigating a substantive literary query, blogs, Christmas letters (don’t laugh – some folks dream of making these once-a-year missives into literary masterpieces), or literacy autobiographies, need some sort of planning. I’ve never been particularly good at the planning part of writing. I’m a bit of a plunger (that’s a risky term, I suppose). This has become a great stumbling block of late, as writing academically – producing an examination of the satire in Ben Jonson’s The Alchemist, for example – does require a rather deliberate and prolonged textual analysis that ultimately posits a rather distinct and provocative answer to a question. So, my lack of planning, lack of skill in formulating interesting questions, lack of ability to sustain a reader’s interest – well, these are daunting ‘lacks.’ I am avidly engaged when reading a text, and often find myself intrigued, affirmed, horrified, challenged – yada, yada – reading works its magic on me. But when it comes to writing about it… crash. boom. Disaster. As Big Bird so eloquently sings in “The Alphabet Song,”
‘somewhere in the middle, it gets awful QR (queer) to me…” – the middles get muddled in most of my writing attempts, and while I want to believe that planning would keep me from jutting off course, I struggle to make myself do it, for, like E. M.
Forster said, “how can I know what I think ‘til I see what I say?” And by the time I figure that out, it’s time to turn the paper in. These are not insignificant obstacles I am facing, but if I begin to view my writing as an extended means of learning, rather than demonstrating what I have already learned, the obstacles may begin to be a bit less daunting, or cease to resemble a ‘lacking’ and instead become my personal quirk. (see, I retained the Q and R, still reigning in the still muddled middle…)
Significantly, my own writing struggles can (and had darn well better) work to my great advantage as I try to teach other writers (most commonly called students) in my classroom. I need to see them as writers every bit as much as I should see myself as one. And, as I continue to try to figure out just what writing is, how it reflects learning, and what we can do to make it good, I will, in fact, be learning. And while I’m doing that, I’ll be writing. Obvi.