Trapped (by a 7th grader)
Jail is cramped and boring. I am so tired of it. I can barely keep still. The time till my release comes closer and closer. The cells seems to get smaller and smaller. The final minute comes, but time seems to come to stop. Finally. It comes. School is out!
{More shortest stories by kids at end of this post (that is way more than 55 words) in case you want to skip to their clever and not too long stories}.
Time is a construct and it is a reality.
“I don’t have time.” The teacher told me when I said, ‘The principal wants me to work with you.” “You do the fun stuff.” she said. “I have to worry about skills and conventions for the test.”
I said, “We have to do both. Its not fun when you don’t have the tools and you don’t care about the tools if it isn’t fun.”
Writing for kids (and all of us) is often tedious. Then we hate it. We just get it done. If we don’t like it and we don’t have a purpose, we don’t hold onto lessons about how to do it.
I proposed an intensive brief time frame focused on several elements of effective writing but few words. After I wrote down her list of every skill, structure and convention she was accountable for kids learning, she was hesitant but willing to take a risk with something that might be ‘just fun’– for 6 days.
With models that were touching, funny, surprising, we would lure 7th graders into trying to write to get a reaction from their readers.These examples came from Steve Moss’ collection, The World’s Shortest Stories (55 words or less–perhaps an early step toward current day flash fiction).
We got kids’ attention that we were doing something different. First we asked them to think of a time they had felt good about writing. We asked them to think about what was going on when they liked it. We talked about habits of specific professional writers who have shared their rituals and habits and their challenges–things they do to get started, to persevere, to call it finished. We charted the student writers’ ideas about what helped them write and what got in the way of writing. We talked about how to create those conditions in the classroom.
Before they came in the next day, we changed the physical environment in the classroom—moved desks out of their rows, brought in flowers, snacks and water. . Writers need beauty for inspiration. I told them writers need good nutrition and hydration for stamina and creativity.
We made it a real workshop–like elves busy creating stories. Kids chose where to write within the room or right outside, were allowed to get up and move if that helped them think. They shared when they were ready, sometimes in the middle of class to a small group willing to pause in their own writing. We provided numerous examples, deconstructed the genre and analyzed what worked with an ongoing chart of tips each class added to. We co-developed a structure for giving and receiving feedback and conferring with peers and teachers. and structures to give and receive specific actionable feedback and conference with peers and teachers.
We continuously counted our words in a way opposite from the more usual where they are have a minimum word count to worry over: 1,2,3….56. Oh no! I used my background in taking poetry workshops to help them see what words might be cut.
We got the attention of even the most disengaged writers, including their teacher.
She was a Language Arts teacher who told her kids she hated writing. She sympathized with their feelings though not their resistance. A Language Arts teacher who hated writing was too sad for me. Luckily she fell in love with this short genre. She wrote both funny and poignant pieces–as did the kids. We laughed and cried in her classes. She wrote something every day. The kids caught her enthusiasm. She glowed in their appreciation of her effort and her writing.
Every period in her classroom, for 7 days, we were an excited group of writers, loving what we could do with our words.
In the end, every single student demonstrated proficiency in word choice, fluency, conventions of punctuation, spelling, sentence structure, author voice. They could also talk about their process– how they accessed the writer in them, persevered when the words or ideas didn’t come or feedback was hard to hear, revised repeatedly, checked for correct conventions and sometimes how to break the rules effectively.
I started but never sent a letter to Steve Moss. I was going to share the stories his collection of adult work had inspired in previously reluctant 7th grade writers. A few months ago, I learned he had died during the time I didn’t send the letter.
Time. It is a construct and a reality. I wonder how to write all this in 55 words.
Here are a few examples that represent some of the range of what kids chose to write–gives a glimpse into the diversity of what is on kids’ minds and hearts in that classroom. I’ve removed authors’ names for their privacy.
Grandma
“It’s a shame she’s gone.”
“Yes. She was a sweet old lady.”
“She’d sit by the fire making socks so her feet wouldn’t get cold.”
“Billy, her grandson, loved to visit her.”
“He was her pride and joy.”
“She’ll be missed.”
“Well, we know she’ll be happy where she’s going.”
“Yes. Florida’s a lovely place.”
A Light Snack
Headless camels dismembered horses, lying all around. Millions massacred everyday. One sharp movement will destroy them all. Some find humor and joy, some find only disgust.
“I know it happens everyday, all around the world,” she says as she dips the elephant in cold milk.
What Do You See?
Please look into my eyes and tell me what you see. Do you see a girl who wants to be loved? Is that hard for some people that are mean? So you hear me cry and scream just because some people hate the color that is me.
Feelings of the Past
Tears came down my cheeks. I was only four years old. With my big bag full of clothes, I hopped on the bus in Venezuela, my beloved country, hoping to see this beautiful place once again. We got to the airport; everyone was crying…then we left for Colorado.
My Guy
He’s unreliable, doesn’t understand me, not my friend. Will he leave me alone? I need him, though I wish I didn’t. He helps me a lot. When I need things, he’s usually there. He does a lot wrong. Does he love me? Well, that’s a stupid question. He’s only a computer.
I Love Music and I Love to Dance
I love music and I love to dance, but I can’t dance anymore.
The wheels on the car spinning way too far, the tree grabbing the car and ripping it apart.
Scrapes, tears, sadness, fear…
Now I have my own wheels that I keep in control, but
My legs don’t belong to me anymore.
Old Man
The old man is still an alcoholic at the age of 72. He yells and rants and is hard to handle. He used to be a beater and his children still have bruises. But to me he’s different. Oh how I love my grandpa and how my grandpa loves me.
Your Choice
Mom left me as a baby. She had to. She was too young. But I was found, raised and loved. Life was good. Now, 13 years later, she came back. Claimed I was hers, promised and pleaded. They refused, pushed her away. They say it’s up to me. But how can I choose?
The Story
The boy ran for his life. He didn’t have to look behind him to know it was still following him, but he looked anyway. It was seven feet long, weighed hundreds of pounds, had brown fur, and ripping jaws. The boy screamed. The grizzly bear stopped running and pounced…and…um…ummm…DRAT! Writer’s block!