How NWP works
I am very grateful to the teacher who provided this example of their writing and their reflections on it. The following pieces emerged from the 17 March 2018 meeting of NWP Whodunit teachers’ writing group at the Whitechapel Art Gallery (cf Weekly Write 16). This sequence represents just one of the ways in which NWP(UK) works, and demonstrates some of the benefits of this not-for-profit, teachers’ collaborative research project.
Context:
Each of the 21 existing NWP groups provide a trusted space in which teachers can explore writing and teaching together. Each teacher will consciously or subconsciously take something of their own experience back into their classrooms.
NWP is not a published scheme or an imposed framework; any transformations that come about are internal and autonomous – and the deeper for being so. By writing, writing teachers learn about writing 'from the inside out' - and thereby deepen and develop their teaching practice. So, for the increased understanding of all teachers, they should write – and for their increased agency, they should write together.
Several years’ evidence (2009- present) collected by such processes contributes to an answer to the question,’what are the personal and professional effects of teachers writing together?’
A teacher writes: After Mark Dion's 'Theatre of the Natural World'
Attenborough's quiet today, don't you think? A bit... flat. I know what they all say about us: socially monogamous; excellent singers. Thriving in captivity, an artificially augmented life-span lived out longly in the hair's-breadth fraction of our normal migration routes. It's all in the exhibition footnotes.
We're used to this life. We're stars of the screen (us zebra finches cause much less drama on set than your average Hollywood diva). We tolerate the humans and their attempts to bring the outdoors in: we're meant-well, bell-jar art. We're instrumental in their efforts to bring life and death into close, gasping proximity; to bring nature to this smoggy city, this soggy, restless, vac-wrapped city. We're the paraphernalia for their dabbling in the ornithological, their Saturday-morning foray into 'installation art'. An experiment in immersive interest. They think we're sweet - feel sorry - leave. After a photo - or three.
And it's fine, for the most part. It's fine, except I wish they'd just give up the sympathy sighs. Why the pity? Who'd live outside, anyway? Not me, that's for sure. Nope. What they don't see is that in here, we're stars, tarts, spoilt-brat artistes: especially selected, top-quality fluff. No cats. No snow. No poverty. No doleful pecking at a soggy fat-ball in a desperate scrabble for survival. Perish the thought. Not here.
Think about it. Here, anything we do fascinates - because here, we are not birds. We're art. We chatter all we want in this sacred space and it's sucked up like a sermon. We giggle in church and are praised for our music. We eat until we're grounded by greed - and still, the seed keeps flowing. We shit scattergun, unbridled, inside - and we're loved for it.
Who'd have it any other way? Not me. No way.
A teacher reflects: The process went a bit like this...
I started by walking around the exhibition, trying to take notice of firstly what I was seeing (everything - objects in the exhibition, people at the exhibition and words in the display's blurbs). I spent a little while wandering around, trying to absorb things without questioning my reactions too much, but noticing if I was feeling surprised/bemused/excited/etc. I then tried to tune in to the other things - sounds, the feel of the room, etc. I made some notes - mostly 'found' words and phrases from the display's commentary. I found it was hard to stay and write inside the exhibition, because I became distracted - so I went to a different exhibition and wrote there.
Since I found I was quite interested in the voyeurism of the exhibition, I started wondering how the subjects - the birds - might feel themselves, what they might say if they could speak our language - I was starting to assume all kinds of things about the morality of the installation, but found I was speaking very much from my own existing position and convictions. I thought it might be interesting to explore using the subjectivity of the birds themselves.
I didn't really have a plan, except to resist massive cliches and try to be a bit playful with readers' expectations. I just started writing in the first person, and tried not to worry about where the writing was going too much - I did stop to think about if certain words and phrases fitted with the 'voice' that was starting to develop in the monologue, but also to enjoy the sounds of the words and phrases in their own right. The free-writing we had done as our warm-up exercise definitely helped with this.
When I came to revise it, I tried to make the tone more consistent, to give the speaker of the monologue a more developed sense of slight disdain, mixed with a bit of delight and arrogance - I hope that came out! I changed some of the word choices and added/removed phrases, fiddling with punctuation, to help with the way it sounded when read aloud. I think those things can only really be done on the second revision - sometimes when you've had some time away from the 'fresh' product.
With students, I have started creative writing lessons with free-associating lists of words and phrases on a topic or theme, followed by free-writing for 30 seconds, then 1 minute, then 2 minutes. I've found this to be a good way to get them to loosen up and lose the fear of 'getting it wrong'. I try to describe it as running a tap that hasn't been turned on for a while: you've got to get the gunk out before you can get to the nice clear water. I never ask to see their free-writing, but ask if they have a line or phrase that they surprised themselves with and want to share. Often students have produced 10 lines of great 'gunk' writing in those 3 and a half minutes, and end up using them anyway!
Simon Wrigley (on behalf of unnamed teachers)
NWP outreach director
27 March 2018
Context:
Each of the 21 existing NWP groups provide a trusted space in which teachers can explore writing and teaching together. Each teacher will consciously or subconsciously take something of their own experience back into their classrooms.
NWP is not a published scheme or an imposed framework; any transformations that come about are internal and autonomous – and the deeper for being so. By writing, writing teachers learn about writing 'from the inside out' - and thereby deepen and develop their teaching practice. So, for the increased understanding of all teachers, they should write – and for their increased agency, they should write together.
Several years’ evidence (2009- present) collected by such processes contributes to an answer to the question,’what are the personal and professional effects of teachers writing together?’
A teacher writes: After Mark Dion's 'Theatre of the Natural World'
Attenborough's quiet today, don't you think? A bit... flat. I know what they all say about us: socially monogamous; excellent singers. Thriving in captivity, an artificially augmented life-span lived out longly in the hair's-breadth fraction of our normal migration routes. It's all in the exhibition footnotes.
We're used to this life. We're stars of the screen (us zebra finches cause much less drama on set than your average Hollywood diva). We tolerate the humans and their attempts to bring the outdoors in: we're meant-well, bell-jar art. We're instrumental in their efforts to bring life and death into close, gasping proximity; to bring nature to this smoggy city, this soggy, restless, vac-wrapped city. We're the paraphernalia for their dabbling in the ornithological, their Saturday-morning foray into 'installation art'. An experiment in immersive interest. They think we're sweet - feel sorry - leave. After a photo - or three.
And it's fine, for the most part. It's fine, except I wish they'd just give up the sympathy sighs. Why the pity? Who'd live outside, anyway? Not me, that's for sure. Nope. What they don't see is that in here, we're stars, tarts, spoilt-brat artistes: especially selected, top-quality fluff. No cats. No snow. No poverty. No doleful pecking at a soggy fat-ball in a desperate scrabble for survival. Perish the thought. Not here.
Think about it. Here, anything we do fascinates - because here, we are not birds. We're art. We chatter all we want in this sacred space and it's sucked up like a sermon. We giggle in church and are praised for our music. We eat until we're grounded by greed - and still, the seed keeps flowing. We shit scattergun, unbridled, inside - and we're loved for it.
Who'd have it any other way? Not me. No way.
A teacher reflects: The process went a bit like this...
I started by walking around the exhibition, trying to take notice of firstly what I was seeing (everything - objects in the exhibition, people at the exhibition and words in the display's blurbs). I spent a little while wandering around, trying to absorb things without questioning my reactions too much, but noticing if I was feeling surprised/bemused/excited/etc. I then tried to tune in to the other things - sounds, the feel of the room, etc. I made some notes - mostly 'found' words and phrases from the display's commentary. I found it was hard to stay and write inside the exhibition, because I became distracted - so I went to a different exhibition and wrote there.
Since I found I was quite interested in the voyeurism of the exhibition, I started wondering how the subjects - the birds - might feel themselves, what they might say if they could speak our language - I was starting to assume all kinds of things about the morality of the installation, but found I was speaking very much from my own existing position and convictions. I thought it might be interesting to explore using the subjectivity of the birds themselves.
I didn't really have a plan, except to resist massive cliches and try to be a bit playful with readers' expectations. I just started writing in the first person, and tried not to worry about where the writing was going too much - I did stop to think about if certain words and phrases fitted with the 'voice' that was starting to develop in the monologue, but also to enjoy the sounds of the words and phrases in their own right. The free-writing we had done as our warm-up exercise definitely helped with this.
When I came to revise it, I tried to make the tone more consistent, to give the speaker of the monologue a more developed sense of slight disdain, mixed with a bit of delight and arrogance - I hope that came out! I changed some of the word choices and added/removed phrases, fiddling with punctuation, to help with the way it sounded when read aloud. I think those things can only really be done on the second revision - sometimes when you've had some time away from the 'fresh' product.
With students, I have started creative writing lessons with free-associating lists of words and phrases on a topic or theme, followed by free-writing for 30 seconds, then 1 minute, then 2 minutes. I've found this to be a good way to get them to loosen up and lose the fear of 'getting it wrong'. I try to describe it as running a tap that hasn't been turned on for a while: you've got to get the gunk out before you can get to the nice clear water. I never ask to see their free-writing, but ask if they have a line or phrase that they surprised themselves with and want to share. Often students have produced 10 lines of great 'gunk' writing in those 3 and a half minutes, and end up using them anyway!
Simon Wrigley (on behalf of unnamed teachers)
NWP outreach director
27 March 2018