It never fails – sign up to teach or speak on some subject related to self-discovery or personal development, and BAM some person or circumstance shows up in your life to challenge you and remind you that you still have much to learn on the subject. It keeps a teacher humble – and humility’s a good thing.
I was teaching on 4 different topics this week (business writing, effective listening, creative writing for self-discovery, and emotional & social intelligence). Needless to say, I got lots of lessons. (It’s a bit of a relief that Monday’s session on community-building got canceled – I need a break from the lessons!)
The biggest lesson came on Monday, just before launching into 4 crazy-full days of teaching. It was a lesson I needed to learn not only about emotional intelligence but about my identity as a teacher.
In the middle of madly prepping for my classes (after traveling for a week and not getting much advance work done), I received the evaluations students had submitted after the business writing class I’d taught throughout the summer. The evaluations were worse than any I’d ever received before. Several students were not happy. One student didn’t think he/she learned anything new, at least one felt my marking system left something to be desired, some were annoyed that they were forced to take a writing course as part of the HR certificate, and one didn’t like my teaching style.
In the mix were some glowingly positive ones, but of course, the insecure part of my mind focused solely on the negative. And that’s when the gremlins began to dance in my head, taunting me with put-downs.
“You’re too wishy-washy with your marking system. You try too hard to be liked. You’re not really teaching them what they need to learn for the program they’re in. Someone else would do a better job. You’re failing… no, scratch that… you ARE a failure. Just WHY are you teaching? You’re not cut out for this.” And then there were the more friendly gremlins who weren’t putting me down, but were SURE I was in the wrong place. “You shouldn’t be teaching business writing. Your heart is in creative writing and you’re bringing too much of that into a business writing class. Why waste your time encouraging innovative thinking when most of your students just want to be handed a formula for getting top marks without really internalizing any of the learning?”
Only minutes into the gremlin dance (thankfully), the teacher part of my brain said, “Hey – wait a minute! Aren’t you teaching a class in emotional intelligence later this week? And aren’t you planning to tell people that they can choose the way they interpret and internalize situations and stories and can actually shift the pathways their brains take after something negative happens to them? And what about that story of Jill Bolte Taylor that you intend to share, about how she learned (after a stroke) that her brain was capable of over-riding the negative stories her left brain makes up when there are gaps in the data?”
Gulp. It’s true. I have a choice. I am not a victim of these negative stories playing in my brain.
And so I did what I planned to teach my students – asked a series of questions about what had just happened to reveal whatever truth I needed to take from it.
What are a few different ways I can interpret this story? 1. I’m a failure at teaching in general. 2. I didn’t do as well as I could have in this particular class. 3. I wasn’t an ideal match for some of the students in the class. 4. These students have emerged from an education system in which they are taught to think mostly with their logical left brains and search for formulas and empirical facts and I pushed them out of that comfort zone into a more ambiguous, creative, right-brained way of thinking and working. 5. There is already some negative energy at play in this group that has nothing to do with me and they are, unfortunately, feeding off each other and making it worse. (A version of the story that was corroborated by an email from the administrator.) 6. There is too much pressure (internally and externally) on these students to get high grades and so they’re taking that out on the teacher. 7. The fact that a few students engaged well with the learning and emerged stronger writers with greater interest in writing than they’d had before was enough. I don’t have to reach every student. 8. These students (all of them – whether they responded positively or negatively) were put into my life to help me learn some important things about who I am and how I teach and if I let them be my teachers, I will be wiser for it.
How do these various interpretations make me feel? 1. Disappointed in myself. 2. Sad that I wasn’t able to connect with more students. 3. Sorry for the students who would rather learn by rote than open their minds to innovation. 4. Frustrated with an education system that seems to be failing its students. 5. Angry at some of the students. 6. Happy for the small group of students who really shone under my tutelage. 7. Grateful for the role they all played as my teachers. 8. Determined to continue to grow as a teacher.
What options do I have about how I will respond to these interpretations? 1. Take the negative stuff personally and quit teaching. 2. Quit teaching this particular class. 3. Look for more opportunities to teach creative writing rather than business writing so I can connect with the kinds of students who value what I have to offer. 4. Adjust the way I’m teaching so that it fits better into left-brain thinking patterns. 5. Not change a thing and hope that future students “get” me better. 6. Learn a few lessons from this and adjust a few things I do (like how I communicate what elements they’re losing marks on). 7. Take pride in the fact that I connected so well with some of the students and had a genuine impact.
Huh. Go figure! Suddenly the negative story had much less power over me.
“Take THAT gremlins! You can slink back into your corners now!”
Trying my best to be emotionally intelligent, I internalized those things that felt like important learnings, I whispered a prayer of gratitude for the way the students had served as my teachers, and I went back to preparing for the sessions I would teach this week.
The very next day I started a brand new session of the same business writing class with a new group of students. Yes, I was a little nervous going in (the gremlins still managed to whisper from their corners), but I knew that I could do this with confidence. If I put everything I could into it, made adjustments where they were necessary, trusted my intuitive sense of what the students need, and had enough confidence to teach the way I believe students need to be taught rather than the way the system seems to demand, I could succeed (even if I still get a few negative evaluations at the end of the session).
A few days later, just to make extra value out of the learning, I shared this story with the students of my emotional & social intelligence workshop. Because I believe a teacher is best when she demonstrates that she too is still a learner along the path. And I watched with delight as nearly every student had at least one a-ha moments about the choices they make every day.
At the end of the day yesterday, two students approached me, trying to figure out how they could sign up for future classes I’m teaching, including the business writing class (that I have a third session of starting in a few weeks). Because they “like how I teach”.
That’s good enough for me!
I once heard this Hasidic tale: “We need a coat with two pockets. In one pocket there is dust, and in the other pocket there is gold. We need a coat with two pockets to remind us who we are.” Knowing, teaching, and learning under the grace of great things will come from teachers who own such a coat and who wear it to class every day. – Parker Palmer
At the beginning of every Creative Writing for Self Discovery class on Thursday evenings, after I ring the bell to welcome people into the circle, I read a poem. Usually it’s from a fairly serious, weighty poet like Mary Oliver or David Whyte. We don’t deconstruct the poem like we all used to do in high school English – we just sit with it for awhile and let it seep into us. Sometimes I read it twice. And then we share the way that the words may have pinched or soothed us.
Yesterday I thought it was time for a bit more whimsy and fun, and so I brought in my favourite Dr. Seuss book, Oh the Places You’ll Go! Earlier in the day, I’d spent a fair bit of time with the book, coming up with what I thought were some good writing exercises to use as a follow-up to the book. I was well prepared for a fun, engaging, imaginative class.
Before going to class, I read Bob Stilger’s post about a workshop he’d co-hosted in Zimbabwe. Bob wrote an honest critique of how he and the rest of the hosting team had run the kind of session they’d been hired to run but hadn’t done enough to respond to what needed to emerge in the room. “We did not work well with the needs and hopes present in the room,” he says.
Bob’s words made me wonder, “Am I doing enough to allow the needs and hopes in the room to emerge? Am I creating enough space for people’s stories to be told in the way that they need to tell them, rather than imposing my own style on them?”
This is, after all, why I teach this class in circle instead of a more traditional hierarchical structure. I don’t see myself as the expert in the room, transferring knowledge to my students like a mother bird dropping worms in hungry mouths. I see myself as a co-learner with them, exploring stories as a way to get to our deeper truths. In the words of George Bernard Shaw, “I’m not a teacher: only a fellow-traveler of whom you asked the way. I pointed ahead – ahead of myself as well as you.”
Yesterday, after reading Oh the Places You’ll Go!, but before launching into the well-planned writing exercises, I asked participants to share the writing they’d done in the week since we’d met. The assignment had been an exploration of personal voice and the passions and delights that are most easily communicated when one speaks in his/her most honest voice. One women shared a beautiful poem that began with words that were something like “my voice rises when I see someone fall.”
The second person to offer something up admitted that she was having a hard time sharing in class. At the first class, she’d openly shared a vulnerable and raw piece about loss and loneliness, but since then something had blocked her from sharing. She feared her writing was all going to the same dark places and she wasn’t sure of the validity and value of that for anyone other than herself.
At that moment, the circle proved its worth. We honoured her reluctance, we recognized her pain, we shared our own pain, and before long we’d entered a deeper place of conversation than we’d been in the past three classes. We talked about the universality of loneliness, and reflected back to Dr. Seuss’ words about the lonely place as one of the “places you’ll go”. We admitted the shame we felt when we’d been lonely in the middle of marriage or parenthood, or a gathering where everyone else is shiny and happy. We talked about the “slumps” and “waiting places” that Dr. Seuss so wisely defined for us.
And then we talked about how these stories connect us with each other and make us feel less alone. We discussed the value of writing these stories and sharing them in order to touch other people’s pain and walk the journey with them. We wrestled with the fine line a writer must walk between being personal and vulnerable, and yet being universal and not too self-absorbed.
Together, we took a deep dive into “the places you’ll go”.
At one point I glanced at the clock and realized that my well-planned exercises would never see the light of day. And when the tiny voice of regret whispered in my ear, I wished it well and sent it on its way. And when the slightly louder voice of my internal critic tried to insist that “you need to maintain order in this class. You need to share your expertise and exercises or people won’t get what they paid for,” I smiled, and then leaned in even closer to the person whose story was slowly and tentatively emerging.
In the end, we let the stories in the room (with a little help from Dr. Seuss) guide our adventure last night. We never got to the assignment, but it didn’t need to be done. We let the whimsy of Dr. Seuss take us from the not-so-good streets to the high heights, past the Bang-ups and Hang-ups, through the Slump and to a place where the streets are not marked. We raced across weirdish wild spaces, sat still in The Waiting Place, found the places where the Boom Bands are playing, let ourselves experience the lonely place where we met things that scare you right out of your pants, and in the end, tried to believe that we will succeed (98 and 3/4 percent guaranteed).
Throughout the course of the evening, we went to all the right places, even though none of them were the ones I’d carefully orchestrated.
The further I go down this teaching and leadership journey, the more I realize the value of the ambiguous spaces – the spaces where we let go of our plans, let go of certainty, let go of agendas, let go of “the way things have always been”, and open ourselves to possibility. It is in those spaces that true creativity can emerge. When we let ourselves (and the people we lead & teach) get a little lost, we can write deeper stories, ask deeper questions, and find deeper meaning.
It’s a scary place to go, and it’s hard to convince ourselves (and the people we’re with) that it’s the right place when we’re supposed to be “in charge”. Nobody likes to feel out of control. It’s scary for the leader and it’s scary for the people being lead. (I remember being reprimanded by former staff for letting meetings slip away from the agenda. There was fear of the unknown in those reprimands.)
And yet, if we want to go to deeper places, we have to be more comfortable with ambiguity and confusion. Rather than trying to enforce our own plans, we have to be willing to let the stories in the room shape what needs to be done. With caution and respect, and an intuitive sense of when it’s time to steer the ship back into safer harbour, we as leaders and teachers need to risk security for creativity. Otherwise, we’ll never leave the shallow water and we’ll never know what’s possible.
This greater comfort with ambiguity is, I believe, one of the gifts of feminine wisdom.
And now, for your inspiration, here’s John Lithgow reading Oh the Places You’ll Go!
The students I teach in the continuing education program at the university are working on certificates in human resource management, project management, or public relations. Few of them have ever dreamed of being writers. Only a handful of them have ever considered the power of the written word.
Most of them just want to be handed the formula for “how to write an effective email” so that they can pass the course with flying colours and move on to what they’re really interested in.
“There are no formulas,” I tell them again and again, when they come to me holding their graded papers hoping to be told exactly how they can ensure an A+ for the next paper. “I can’t tell that the answer to A+B=C, because in writing, it doesn’t work that way. The only way to get better is by practicing, not by trying to find an illusive formula.” And sometimes, when they’re especially resistant (and sometimes argumentative), I add, “I’m not here to ensure that you get an A+, I’m here to teach you to be a better writer.”
Instead of giving them a formula, I push them in ways they don’t expect to be pushed. “Stretching Exercises”, I call them, and then give them creative writing assignments that have nothing to do with the course material. “If you don’t stretch yourself creatively, you’ll never be an effective communicator. No matter what your line of business is, effective communication is one of your most critical tools.”
“Writing is a transformational tool,” I continue. “If you don’t understand its power, you will misuse it.” And then I give them their final assignment – find a piece of writing that impacted your life and tell the whole class about how it changed you.
They look at me with an air of disbelief, and some of them sit with their arms crossed and pens sitting idly by while the rest of the class stretches their writing muscles.
They don’t want messy creativity or untrustworthy transformation. They want rules.
At the end of the day, I debrief with myself as I ride the bus home. “Am I teaching this the right way?” my inner doubter says, after a few too many blank stares. “Maybe I should be a little more formulaic – give them what they’re asking for. Stick with the textbook and skip the creative stuff.” And yet every time I sway in that direction, I get that icky feeling that tells me I’m not serving them well if all I do is try to invent a formula when there is none.
Each week I show up and push them all over again. And each week I get the same resistance. Sometimes the resistance grows as we get closer to the final assignment.
But then something else slowly begins to happen. A spark starts to appear in a few of the students’ eyes. They remember what it felt like to first discover the power of the written word back in grade 1 or 2. They dig into their memory vaults and remember the things they’ve read in the past that have changed their lives. They start sharing the stories they’ve written, surprised their creativity has shown up on the page. The spark grows and soon they’re telling me that they’ve dug up old journals and are writing in them again.
And then the last class comes, and I hear the most beautiful stories of people who have been transformed by novels, signs on cafeteria walls, eulogies, newspaper articles, websites, and blog posts.
That is why I teach – the re-awakening, the a-ha moments when they realize the role that good writing has played in their lives. Even if it’s just a handful of students whose spark is re-ignited, I want to be there to see it happen.
And that is why I knew it was time to stretch myself, step away from a textbook, and start offering my own classes that have nothing to do with effective business communication.
I want to see more sparks.
This week is the first class of Creative Writing for Self-Discovery, a course that has already attracted a fascinating and diverse circle of people. I could hardly be more excited. This is what I was born to teach, and these are the people who long to learn it. This is one of the things I’ve been called to gift to the world, and these people are willing recipients instead of reluctant learners.
And you know what? I wouldn’t be in this place, trusting myself to create a course that is fully in line with my own gifts (writing, teaching, facilitating personal growth, hosting a circle), if I hadn’t signed up for Teach Now last year just when I was transitioning from my job as a director in non-profit to teacher and business owner.
Teach Now is starting up again, and I’m excited to say that I am serving as a Teaching Guide for this year’s offering. If you are at all interested in learning more about what it means to be a teacher and/or stretching yourself in the role of teacher you already hold, I would highly encourage you to sign up.
Teach Now is transformational. It’s what helped me to be bold in what I teach and not give in to the demands of my students for something more formulaic. It helped me to be true to what I believed about writing and the results are clear in the students who tell me the class has been transformational. It helped me dream of the courses I want to offer in the future (including more Creative Writing and Leadership offerings).
Sign up for Teach Now, and if you’re in Winnipeg, I’d love to have you join the circle for Creative Writing for Self-Discovery. Both courses will stretch you and excite you – I promise!
Note: Full disclosure – As a graduate of Teach Now, I am also an affiliate, which means I’ll make a little money if you sign up through the links in this post.
Another note: Though I’m creating my own courses, I happily continue to teach at the University as well. That handful of awakened sparks in the room makes it worthwhile.
It was 1992. I’d just gotten home from spending an evening with my boyfriend (who became my husband a year later).
“Your dad called,” my roommate said, as though it were just an ordinary every-day occurrence.
“My DAD called?!? Are you SURE?” My dad didn’t call. Ever. It just wasn’t his thing. In all my life, I got only a handful phone calls from him, and the other four were various Christmas Eves when he needed me to pick up a last-minute present for Mom. This wasn’t Christmas Eve.
“Yeah, it was your dad. I’m sure of it.”
What did that mean? Was I in trouble? Did something happen to Mom? My heart leapt to my throat.
“It didn’t seem urgent. He just wanted you to call him back when you were home.”
Phoning Dad back wasn’t an easy thing either. His farming lifestyle meant that he was rarely in the house, and he didn’t come in for meals at the times when normal people did.
Eventually, I made contact. “Dad? You called?”
“I heard from Mom that you were thinking of becoming a teacher. I just wanted to tell you that I think you should. You’d be a good teacher.”
And that was about the extent of the phone call. My Dad was a man of few words. When he spoke, the words were usually calculated and important.
At that time, I was in the early stages of my government career. After finishing an English degree, I was wrestling with what I should do with my life and was contemplating an after-degree in Education. That’s what my dad had heard.
He hadn’t heard it directly from me though. I wasn’t in the habit of discussing my life’s plans with my dad.
It wasn’t always easy being my father’s daughter. He was a stubborn man whose love for his farm often seemed more evident than his love for his children. And yet, he was a wise, astute man, and there were many things I greatly admired and respected about him. He was a lifelong learner who placed great value on education (though he had very little formal education himself). He had clarity of vision on some things like few people I know. And, despite his rather conservative worldview (and the fact that he never allowed me to do scripture reading in church because of my gender), he admired strong and eloquent women. (Canadians of a certain age will remember journalist Barbara Frum – one of my Dad’s hero’s.)
Though we didn’t often have heart-to-hearts, my dad saw things in me I didn’t always see in myself. He offered very few compliments in my life, but those he offered were golden. He didn’t exist in a world where women were supposed to be leaders (and he never overtly encouraged it in me), but he saw me as a leader. Once, after we’d had to move all of his tools out of the old house that was about to be torn down, he’d said to me “I felt better when I knew you were the one taking the responsibility. I knew I could trust you to take charge.” And he saw me as one of those strong women he admired. Once, after I’d gone through a really difficult personal valley, he said “I knew you’d survive. You’re one of the strongest people I know.”
His recommendation that I become a teacher felt serious. I wasn’t sure at that point that I really wanted to be one, and yet if my dad saw it in me, perhaps…?
Despite my dad’s advice, I didn’t become a teacher – at least not then. I went through the process of applying for the after-degree program, but “forgot” to show up for my interview. Something about it didn’t sit right with me. I wasn’t sure I had enough patience to hang around with children all day every day.
I stayed in my government career at the time, and soon found my passion for communication and leadership. Before long, I was rising in the ranks and finding a place that fit.
My dad’s words never left me, though, and as the years evolved, I kept feeling a silent tug – my teacher heart wanting to emerge.
Last year, after several years of dreaming about being self employed and longing to leave my non-profit leadership job to work as a writer and consultant, I finally took the leap. I had no idea what was ahead, but the timing felt right. Within minutes of having a heart-to-heart conversation with my husband and deciding that it was time for me to quit my job, I got an email from the university, asking me if I would consider teaching a writing course. The message came completely out of the blue. Someone had recommended me for the position.
It was just the sign I needed to affirm that I was making the right move. I gave my notice the next day.
I taught that first course, and then I taught a couple more, and yesterday I was offered three new courses. Plus I have several one-day seminars lined up for the coming months.
From the first day I walked into a classroom, I knew I was where I belonged. I was energized, engaged, and happy. That first class full of students was just what I needed to affirm that I was doing the right thing. They embraced me and told me again and again how much they liked being in my classroom. I heard things like “you know how to build trust in your students” and “you taught us a lot about writing, but more importantly, you taught us how to live and work with integrity and boldness” and “you made us go deeper than we expected to go”.
Nearly twenty years after Dad gave me the advice, and eight years after he died, I am a teacher. I took a winding path to get here, but I don’t regret the path. I picked up a lot of the skills and confidence and wisdom and seasoning I needed along that path before I could stand fully in my teacher role.
Though I enjoy the courses I teach at the university, I know that this is not the end of the road. I don’t plan to spend the rest of my life teaching students how to write effective press releases or persuasive emails.
I want to teach people to write with passion, to live with boldness, to embrace creativity, to challenge themselves, and to dare to lead. I want to foster people’s imagination and help them re-experience the wonder they left behind with their childhood. I want to be a catalyst for positive change.
To start with, I’ll be offering an 8 week in-person course in “Creative Writing for Self Discovery“. (If you’re in Winnipeg, I hope you’ll check it out.) And in a few weeks, I’ll be opening registration for a few more online leadership workshops.
I wish you could see me now Dad. I am a teacher. Instead of taking the traditional route to get here, I’ve forged my own path. It’s been worth the journey.
Today I start teaching another writing course with a whole new circle of students.
Some of you may recall that last year when I was teaching writing, I collected writing tips on how to write to impact positive change from a number of my favourite writers and shared those with my students. I’m re-posting those below, for your inspiration.
I’m planning to do the same with this class, AND I would like to include YOUR tips as well.
If you consider yourself a writer (and that doesn’t mean you have to be published or somehow validated by anyone but yourself – the only requirement is that you love to write), I’d love to include your tips in this list that I offer my students.
Please add your tips in the comments, or send me an email at heather at heatherplett dot com. (Keep it short – I’m not looking for essays.)
After the tips have been gathered, I’ll share them with my students AND I plan to put together a little e-book which I will offer for free download on this site. (Just think – this could be your opportunity to be “published”!)
Follow the fear. When I have something to say that I’m afraid to say because of the reaction I fear I might get, that’s when the writing has the most impact. And I just have to sit down and write it. If I overthink, the power dwindles. – Renae Cobb
Tell a personal story about an experience that impacted you in a profound way. A moment in which you knew with absolute certainty, this is the person I am meant to be. – Margaret Sanders
1. Start with: “I want to tell you that…”
You’re going to erase that little line once you’re done your piece, but I find if I start with that bit of sentence, my writing is more focused on what I really want to say, and what I really want the reader to remember.
2. Once you think your piece is polished, go back and cut 20 percent more. Most of us write too much and you would be surprised how much you can cut without losing your message. Your message will be more clear because you’ve taken out all the extraneous words. If you are really long winded, you might even need to cut 30 percent.
3. Believe what you are writing about. Bullshit doesn’t make for behavioural change. – Michele Visser-Wikkerink
Think of a time in your life when someone said something to you and it
changed everything. It may have been as simple as yelling out “Stop!” as you
were about to step into the street. It may have been hearing that someone
believed in you. Or that they didn’t. For me, it was when my boyfriend
looked at a sign for theatre auditions and said to me, “Hey, you might like
that!” It changed my life forever. What words have changed your life? – Jamie Ridler
Write from your own experience.
Don’t be afraid to share your wisdom.
Be transparent with your process, warts and all.
Invite people to consider, rather than trying to get them to change.
Share your stories, because they are the best way to make a point. – Julie Daley
Learn how to network if you really want to make an impact as a writer. It’s not a direct “writing skill,” and many writers are very introverted, so writers often don’t appreciate the importance of networking if you want to impact behavioural change with your writing. There’s so much writing out there these days that it’s hard to get your writing noticed – even if you’ve put a lot of careful thought into writing catchy headlines/ book titles! You can write amazing “impactful” stuff, but if nobody is reading it, it’s not going to effect behavioral change. The thing that’s most likely to get people to notice your writing is relationships. People who know and like you will be more likely to read your stuff – and to pass it on to others. And when they read your stuff, the people who know and like you are much more likely to read your writing with an open mind and to take action.
– Cath Duncan
Reframe, reframe, reframe….what is the inherent possibility or potential
and how can your words and perspective illuminate this? This of course
presumes potential exists and that pattern emerges from chaos. – Katharine Weinnman
Write it for the people not for yourself. – Jarda Dokoupil
Consider these questions:
Who are you talking to?
What do you want to say to them?
What are you feeling?
What qualities do you want to infuse your self and your world with?
How can you be the change you want to effect? – Hiro Boga
I think if you come to the page thinking “I have to impact positive change” you’re going to shut yourself down immediately.
I think the most important thing is to TELL THE TRUTH, because the truth speaks for itself. Open, honest, vulnerable writing will influence readers. – Susan Plett
1. Meet people where they are – make sure they feel GOTTEN – empathetic messages before emphatic messages
Understand change has stages
2. Give baby baby baby steps
3. Share specific stories, “before and after” style that help people see themselves both now and in the positive future you’re inviting them to – Michele Lisenbury Christensen
My writing advice is to be brave enough to make yourself vulnerable in your writing—while still being honest and respectful to yourself—and your words will resonate on a deeper level with others. When I write on my blog I write for myself with the intention that by sharing it–my words will touch others. I try to never write at them–but to include them in my thought process. When I sit down to write I always think “what do I want to talk about”…never “what do I want to write.” – Connie Hozvicka
Use fewer words. You may not like it that most Americans read at an 8th
grade level and have the attention span of a gnat, but that’s the reality.
If you want to communicate you have to live by it.
Create strong metaphors. If it’s wimpy, don’t use. It it’s stunning it will
stick. – Rachelle Mee-Chapman
Here is one quote I just found yesterday that I posted on my facebook.
“You write to communicate to the hearts and minds of others what’s burning inside you. And we edit to let the fire show through the smoke.” ~Arthur Polotnik
As I am editing my draft memoir I am finding it very important to be clear and to use truthful words. Sometimes I find it extremely difficult to find the words to put together a sentence that will make an impact, but then I sit down to the page and take a deep breath and trust the process, I trust that I am using the right words to make the impact that is intended. To tell the story and hopefully it will be remembered.
I find it helpful for me to read out loud what I have written, to see if it makes sense, are the words I am using, choosing the right fit for the intention? I like this process. – Marion Ann Berry
I thing the one most important thing new writers need to learn is how to tell a good story – in order to impact behavioural change, as a writer, I need to create emotional impact. To create emotional impact I need to create the opportunity for emotional resonance and, although there are other ways, a well-constructed story is one of the most effective ways to do that. Ultimately I’m interested in behavioural change that results from us becoming more connected – more connected to our true selves, other people and everything that lives and grows in our natural environment. In my experience that kind of connection can be enhanced through good story-telling. Examples could range from a well-told story about where the trash that we throw out actually goes and whose lives it effects, through to a woman sharing her birthing story. – Marriane Elliot
TELL THE TRUTH! Write in vulnerable ways. Write from your soul. Write from your own experience – or even lack thereof. Just acknowledge to us that your words are grounded in your own passions, doubts, strengths, weaknesses, questions, hopes, fears, etc.
Of course, this has to be appropriate to audience, but I think somehow, no matter the subject or the context, the best writing comes from the heart. When I read that kind of writing, I am changed. Over and over again. – Ronna Detrick
And here are some that I added:
1.Write for the intellect AND the emotions. If you convince both, you can impact change. If you convince only one, the other may put up roadblocks.
2. Show don’t tell. Show me why the change will benefit my life. Don’t just try to convince me with impressive stats.
3. Focus on possibilities. Show me someone just like me who’s made the change and is happy about it. Make it seem attainable.
It never fails – sign up to teach or speak on some subject related to self-discovery or personal development, and BAM some person or circumstance shows up in your life to challenge you and remind you that you still have much to learn on the subject. It keeps a teacher humble – and humility’s a good thing.