The classroom smelled of pencil shavings and warm paper, that quiet, ordinary scent that somehow holds the promise of beginnings. I picked a topic from the list and set my pencil down like a cautious traveler on the lip of a new map, feeling the small, familiar flutter of questions—Where do I start? Free-write or plan? Which organizer will hold these thoughts before they slip away? Those questions felt like stones in my pocket.
Pre-writing became a shoreline of small treasures. I gathered ideas like shells: some smooth and obvious, others jagged and worth turning over. The choices were tactile and slow: testing a word here, nudging an image there, listening to the small, loud voice that asked for permission to expand. Time stretched and folded; planning became the bridge I built one careful plank at a time.
Drafting warmed the page beneath my hand. Sentences arrived like footsteps across a wooden floor—some tentative, some long and sure—finding their rhythm when I read them silently. Revision felt like opening a window in a dim room: I traded plain verbs for ones that smelled of heat and color, changed a hallway into “a river of lockers” and a mango into “sun-warmed flesh dripping honey on the tongue.” Each careful edit let the scene breathe a little easier.
Editing was the tiny, patient work that makes my piece behave: commas coaxed into place, capitals steadying the first word of a new thought. Even after those small triumphs, doubt lurked—Is this ready to be shown? Did I miss a limp sentence or a stray comma? That unease felt weighty and familiar, the same pressure I have watched pin students to their seats as the clock looped down. Will I be finished in time? Then the teacher reminded me that I do not need to be finished. Writing is a process, not a product. I felt a flush of embarrassment as I pondered on how often I have hurried students through this work—nudging them to “finish by the end of the lesson,” trading depth for a tidy stack of papers. How many times have I clipped their thinking with the bell, pushed them past the messy middle, or chosen completion over craft? That admission changed me: urgency no longer feels like efficiency but like a theft of time students need to grow.
Hearing classmates read their pieces brought the room into multiple lights. One piece glowed with spare, careful light; another tumbled and spilled colour and noise. A single gentle suggestion brightened a paragraph; naming one vivid image straightened a writer’s shoulders. Sharing did more than improve drafts—it taught listeners how to actively listen and give constructive feedback, and authors how to see their own work through another’s eyes.
By the end, empathy settled over me like a warm cardigan. I remembered the times I had urged speed over thought, given prompts that narrowed rather than opened. The messy, time-consuming labour of my own composing made clear what my students need: time to gather, real choices to try, a teacher who shows the backstage moves and then steps back with a lantern in hand.
So my charts will remain on the wall, but they will be lanterns, not commandments. I will slow my talk, place three real pre-writing options where hands can touch them, model one clear move, and then watch—checklist in hand not to judge but to notice where a student’s foot finds purchase or slips. In that quieter space, the classroom becomes a shared landscape: lanterns guide hands across the map, each hesitant step welcomed, and the patient, beautiful work of writing is taught and treasured.
Anique, your reflection beautifully captures the rhythm of writing. I could almost smell the pencil shavings and feel the calm beginning you described. The image of gathering ideas like shells was powerful and reminded me that pre writing is a slow and thoughtful process.
ReplyDeleteYour words about time were very meaningful. You helped me see that writing needs space and patience, and that rushing can take away opportunities for growth. The idea that classroom charts can be lanterns rather than rules shows real wisdom and care for students.
Your post reminded me that writing is not about finishing quickly but about learning and growing through the process. Thank you for sharing such an inspiring reflection. Niola Patrice!
This piece truly reminded me how deeply the writing process connects to the emotional experience of learning. Anique, the way you described pre-writing as collecting shells made the invisible thinking visible it showed that ideas are not rushed; they are discovered. And Niola, your comment about charts as “lanterns” aligns beautifully with that metaphor. It made me think about how much responsibility we have as teachers to slow down the pace of writing so students can actually hear their own thoughts.
ReplyDeleteI am realizing that sometimes the greatest act of teaching is not adding more but removing pressure. When we allow students time to sit with ideas, explore images, and choose words intentionally, we are not just teaching writing we are teaching them how to think.
Thank you both for reminding me that writing is not about speed it is about presence.
Reshana