How can writing teachers understand what they ask their students to do unless they do the work themselves? Effective writing teachers are, in some way, writers themselves. They model the different processes, behaviors, techniques, and pleasures involved in writing. This allows them to respond to learners’ written efforts in ways that promote learner reflection and the concept of revision. As a result of their own experience as writers, they are better placed to give feedback and writerly advice through systematic pupil-conferencing (Young).
Despite what the research has advocated for decades about the importance of writing teachers being writers (Murray; Young), many K-12 educators still feel inadequate when teaching their students how to write (Stillman). Providing pre-service (and in-service) teachers with opportunities to view themselves as writers is essential to counter these findings and build experiences in navigating the writing process and challenges themselves.
One way to do this is to incorporate the frameworks of the National Writing Project into language arts methods courses for Pre-Service teachers. I (Kay Rosheim) have incorporated what I learned for several years by attending the Minnesota Writing Project’s Summer Institute (now the Invitational Leadership Institute). Specifically, I have created an assignment for teacher candidates to experience the writing process, working in a writing group, using a writing notebook to keep track of writing, and having time in class to develop a piece of writing they share with their peers during our in-class writing celebration. Students participate in their writing groups by asking for feedback, giving feedback, and reflecting on their identities as writers and writing instructors multiple times during the course. In addition, we collectively read and discuss a book chosen to support them in teaching writing in their future classrooms, leading one of the discussions and facilitating an activity read about in the book. We also spend part of the second class following a modified Writing Marathon format (Goldberg).
This year, students taking the required writing methods course, Language Arts Instruction in the Elementary Grades, had the opportunity to submit a piece for hopeful publication. While optional, half of my students were interested in this opportunity, many of whom did not consider themselves writers before taking this class.
The stories, followed by thoughts on participating in writing groups, were written by the graduate students (most of whom learned English as a second, third, or fourth language). While not all my students chose to participate in submitting their work for publication, many did, and they shared positive remarks about the experience. I hope you enjoy the following stories as much as I do. These pre-service teachers are indeed writers and will continue to hone their craft as writers and instructors of writing.
My First Day of School
Freelar Htoo
With a deep breath, I released my grip on my dad’s warm hand and stepped onto the yellow school bus. As the bus moved forward, my heart was filled with worries about how my first day of school in America would unfold. The bus finally stopped in front of a school building. As I watched the other kids stand and make their way off the bus, my heart raced. Nervously, I stood up, my legs feeling unsteady, and followed them.
As I entered the school, I noticed students lining up in front of long tables. I quickly made my way to the line. When I finally reached the front of the line, a lady looked up at me and asked, “What’s your name?” My voice trembled as I nervously replied, “Freelar Htoo.” She handed me a paper, and I realized it was my schedule, but didn’t understand anything. Unsure of where to go, I followed the other students as they went toward the breakfast line. I picked up cereal, milk, and a piece of fruit. I grabbed a spoon and some napkins with shaky, cold, sweaty hands.
I kept following the other kids, observing some of them showing their schedules to an adult. Gathering my courage, I held out mine to him as well. He pointed to the stairs and said “down,” along with other words I didn’t understand. The only words I understood were “stair” and “down,” so I nodded and made my way down the stairs, hoping I was heading in the right direction. When I reached the bottom of the stairs, I found myself lost once more in the hallway.
Spotting another adult, I approached them and handed them my schedule. The kind adult walked me to the classroom. Taking a deep breath, I stepped inside, where I found kids talking and eating their breakfast. I scanned the room for an empty seat and quietly settled in. I opened the bag and took out the food, I carefully opened the school milk cartoon and poured over my cereal. I longed for the comfort of rice and savory fried eggs that usually filled my mornings. As I quietly ate, my eyes wandered around the classroom filled with chatter. Once the classroom settled down, the teacher started taking attendance. I listened carefully for my name. I gathered my courage, and raised my hand, and replied, “Here,” when I heard my name.
I struggled to understand most of what my teacher was saying, glancing around the room and trying to follow what the other kids were doing. Suddenly, the bell rang, and my heart raced with confusion as students began to pour out of the room. Back in my home country, we stayed in one classroom for the entire day, so this new experience of moving between was confusing. The hallway seemed even bigger and more chaotic than before. I fought back tears as I searched for an adult, hoping to find someone who could help me navigate my way to my next class. I felt hopeless as my limited English made it hard to express myself or even ask for help. I felt so alone and lost in the new world. I just wanted the day to end. I yearned to run into my mom’s arms, where everything felt safe and familiar. I missed home.
After what seemed like an endless journey, an overwhelming sense of relief washed over me the moment I stepped through the door of our new home. My mother stood in the living room holding my six-month-old baby brother in her arms. She looked at me and asked in Burmese, “How was your day at school?” I simply replied, “good,” not wanting to burden her with the weight of my struggles, knowing my parents were also trying to settle in this new country. As she handed me a bowl of freshly cooked rice, I could feel the warmth of home. The unspoken love and understanding between us comforted me. With my family beside me, I knew eventually everything would be okay.
Never Again
Van Tuong Nguyen
Every two summers, my family and I would spend 15 hours on airplanes with limited leg rooms to visit Vietnam, my home country. The flights were always exhausting, sucking almost all the excitement and patience from my body. However, nostalgia and endless love rushed through my body once I stepped foot on the beautiful, familiar land that shaped my childhood. Returning here brought me a new sense of fulfillment. Yet, at this moment, I felt it slowly leaving me the longer I stayed at this reunion party on a boat.
Feeling intimidated by the up-and-down motion caused by the ocean waves and the glaring sun burning my skin, I sat timidly on the deck of the boat, trying my hardest to blend in with the rough, faded planks. I was the only one holding on to my dear, young life while our families and friends celebrated our reunion. I wanted to join too–I had at the beginning–but the boat kept moving violently! It looked like it had been through war. You could hear every creak of the planks with each step you took, feel the splinters coating every surface you touched, and see the paint withering away like my soul the longer I stayed in the open water.
Oblivious to my predicament, loud, lively chattering continued around me. There were so many voices, too much happening all at once. More than ten people filled the boat–talking, eating, playing, and not sitting in a corner like me. Despite my darkening mood, the smell of the food was divine and smelled so savory that my mouth watered, almost drowning out the salty smell of the ocean. Bánh mì, cơm tấm, gỏi cuốn, and so much more—all the best Vietnamese food. It nearly made the experience better.
Looking across the boat, my parents looked so happy to be here, at home, as they reminisced about the old days with their family and friends. They almost looked younger, like the pictures they showed me. Suddenly, they called out to me, “Vân ơi, qua lại đây chơi!”
Hesitantly, I walked over to join them, leaving my safety spot. The moment I sat down, my parent’s friends bombarded me with questions. I barely remembered them–they were strangers to me but dear friends to my parents, so I politely answered their questions.
Suddenly, I felt a single raindrop land softly on my cheek. Then another. Then, a shower of cold, unforgiving rain came down upon us. In no time, I was soaked from head to toe and shivering like I had spent time outside on a winter day in Minnesota. I was in disbelief at the sudden weather change that happened in the blink of an eye. The timing couldn’t be worse! And yet, the people around me were laughing, seemingly amused by how we were on a rundown boat, out in open water, while it was raining furiously. I could feel new heights of irritation and frustration building within me, causing tears to emerge. I vowed this would be the last time I set foot on a boat. Never again.
The Place I Never Thought I’d Miss
Aisha Muhammed Warmahayye
“One summer, that’s all.” My mom’s voice echoed in my head, explaining to my brothers and me that we’d only be away for a little while. “Before you know it, we’ll be back.” Those words rang in my ears as we landed in Ethiopia, far from everything we knew. To keep myself sane, I whispered, “One summer, one summer, one summer,” over and over until the anxiety faded. One summer.
But as time passed, one summer became another summer. I asked my mom when we’d go back, and she’d always reply with, “Soon.” Oh, how I hated that word. Soon?
The next thing I knew, we were moving to Djibouti, starting a whole new life. We were going to school, buying clothes, and trying to become part of this strange, new place. Every day felt like summer here—hot, sticky, and unchanging. The only shift was between really hot and not that hot.
Four years passed—four summers since my mom had promised we’d go back home. Four years without anything I loved. Four years of not knowing when my birthday was or what grade I’d be in. Time was an illusion, and no one seemed to care. The same cycle repeated, day after day: wake up, eat breakfast, head to Dugsi (Islamic school), play with friends, race home when it was time for Maghrib. We’d shout “See you tomorrow!” because it was inevitable. Every day was the same.
And then, in the blink of an eye, it was over. I found myself yelling “Goodbye” to everything and everyone I’d grown to love. I was heading back to the place I had longed for—four years ago. But I wasn’t the same person I had been four years earlier. I had changed. The things I wanted back then weren’t what I wanted now. Now I was back home—back in America—in a place called Lewiston, Maine. I was 11 years old, my English lost after years of rarely speaking it, returning to a place that had become a distant memory. A place I would now have to learn to love all over again.
Bags Packed, Eyes Half-Open
Hermela Tibebe Solomon
*bzzz*
*bzzz*
*bzzz*
*bzzz*
Reaching over my nightstand, I clasp my phone. With a groggy sense of excitement, I pry one eye open, the room blurred and unfocused. I halt my alarm before peeking at the time: 2:30 a.m. My heavy eyelids fight to stay open, my vision swimming as dim light filters in. Commotion stirs downstairs as my parents ensure the house is spotless, air fresheners are set, and the automatic timer adjusts our lights. Meanwhile, exhaustion washes over me. Just then, my sister’s alarm blares.
My mom pokes her head through the door, her voice sharp as she reminds my sister to take a shower. We’re supposed to leave in ten minutes, and tension rises. I seize the moment, sinking deeper into my bed, listening to their bickering. Laying on my side, I spot my brother’s shadow gliding past the doorway toward the bathroom. I sigh and pull the covers over my head, savoring every second of warmth.
Seven minutes pass in blissful stillness until the inevitable squeak of the faucet signals my doom. Groaning, I wriggle out of my cozy cocoon and slip into a pastel sweatpants set, cute and comfortable. With my hair freshly cornrowed from yesterday, I throw on a simple headscarf, knowing it’ll do for the trip.
With my belongings ready by the doorway, I scoop them up and head down the stairs to the kitchen. I glance out the sliding glass window at the quiet, dark night—everyone else asleep, the world at rest—while I’m awake. I head toward the garage, hoping to sneak in a few moments of rest before everyone else is ready. But my dad calls out, reminding me to check that all the lights are off. I do a quick sweep, and soon enough, everyone shuffles out of the house and into the car. With all our suitcases packed tightly in the trunk, we set off.
Jazz music fills the car as we drive along Highway 55. I try to rest my eyes, but my parents’ chatter keeps me awake, and I find myself staring out at passing cars, wondering about the lives inside each one. It’s Thursday, after all. Before long, we reach Terminal 1, Delta. It’s 3:45 a.m., yet the airport buzzes with activity—cars lined up as people say their goodbyes or prepare for their journeys. My uncle, who arrived by Uber, helps us unload as my dad parks. Inside, we weigh our suitcases, double-checking they’re within the limit—a challenge with five people and two bags each.
After checking in, we send off our luggage. My dad reappears, and it’s time to head through security. We say our goodbyes to my uncle, then plunge into the familiar chaos of security, with lines, instructions, and beeping machines. Once through, we find our gate and settle in, waiting for the next part of our journey to begin.
The Lingering Guest
Yorina Roh
It was a cool spring day. Mom, Dad, and my two older brothers—the whole family—went to a wooden valley to spend the weekend. I blink, and there I am, standing in the tingling cool water, an army of black tadpoles brushing my shins and ankles. I bend over, use my two hands, and scoop several out of the gentle stream. I laugh as the small creatures jump in and out of the little pond I made and bend back to set them free. My brothers decided to take the fattest one home. They put a couple of plump tadpoles in a plastic bottle, and the rest is forgotten. That is until the night I wake up to go to the kitchen to grab some water. Through the windowpane, the glow of the moon lit up a glass jar that was filled with one fat toad. I don’t remember how I felt staring at his droopy eyes and bumpy skin. I gulped down my water, and as soon as I did, the toad jumped right out of the jar, and that was it. Sleepy or surprised, I just went back to sleep, and that was it.
The next morning, I was feeling brand new. I quickly waved bye to my mom and ran to the playground where all my friends were. This morning was different. They were all gathered behind our apartment, staring in the middle of the bush. My back and toes tingled, and sweat formed around my forehead. I crept up slowly toward the herd. It was like a car crash; you know it is bad, but you just can’t peel yourself away. In the middle of the ground, an incredibly large mass, so disgustingly white glistening belly, its now lifeless limbs disheveled, was my last night’s company. I didn’t know what I saw, yet the disgust I felt from deep within was so apparent. I ran as fast as I could to the playground. The ache in my limbs overlapped with the image of the bedraggled limbs of the creature and revolted me.
It has been about 30 years since I saw the doomed guest behind my apartment. Yet, he often visits my mind, haunting me like it happened yesterday.
By the Rain
Sagal Daad
The rain hit against the window with soft pats. I sat beside it with a cup of hot tea. The aromas of cardamom and ginger filled my senses as I took small sips. This was the first time I relaxed to the sound of rain. In the distance, the sun was setting and pretty rays of orange peaked through the clouds.
“Sagal!” My brother called, “I need something from Whole Foods.”
I really did not want to interrupt this time for a quick grocery run. “Not now, I’m busy.”
“Come on,” he insisted. His presence hovered over me, reminding me of the three-year-olds I spend my hour with. Sny relaxation shattered.
“Fine,” I shuffled around, looking for my keys.I heard the sound of thunder, but the rain didn’t look too bad.
My brother sat in the passenger seat, lost in his phone. I was horrified to find the rain had become a ferocious lion, attacking my car with vigor.
“We should go back,” I glanced at my brother.
“But, we are almost there,” he whined, pointing to the next exit.
The sun had long set, leaving the sky a pitch black. The rain was going strong with the wind as its partner in crime. We pulled into an almost empty parking lot.
“Well, let’s pray that the rain finishes by the time we are done shopping,” I said to my brother as he pulled out a grocery cart.
“In and out,” he promised.
We spent some time looking at fruits and vegetables when a siren rang through the city.
“Is the first Wednesday of the month?” I asked, hoping that it was a drill.
“Sagal, it’s Friday.”
Before we knew it, the staff rushed us to the backrooms. The news said that a tornado was seen touching the ground in the area. My heart pounded and my hands felt shaky. I was stuck in a Whole Foods freezer, and I prayed I could get home safely.
As if on autopilot, I called my younger brother. He was still at home. “Where are you guys” He answered.
“In Whole Foods. A tornado might be coming. I shouldn’t have never left home.”
“Sagal, stop being such a scaredy cat,” he assured me. “Nothing is going to happen.”
I was surrounded by frozen dinners, and I could still hear the siren in the distance. The one who brought us here stood across from me, still lost in his phone.
I didn’t keep track of how long we were in there, but after some time, a worker told us that the tornado warning had passed, and we were free to go.
Somehow, my brother still wanted to buy the groceries. I drove in the rain, my hands held tightly to the steering wheel.
To this day, I don’t remember what was so important at Whole Foods, but I’ll always think about the chill of the freezer. And the destabilizing fear I had about the possibility of not returning home. I am so thankful that I returned home to my now cold tea, sitting by the window.
The Haunting of the Abandoned Village
Azza Suri
Traveling in a car that barely has air conditioning in the hot desert heat all day can make one see hallucinations. The sun hung high in the sky, casting relentless heat over the desert landscape as our car moved along. We had just returned from an amazing trip to the Ras Al Khaimah resort, where we spent the day at the beaches, restaurants, and malls to wash away our worries and relax back to our grandparent’s home. But now, as we drove deeper into the desert, the air conditioning in our car struggled to keep up with the oppressive heat. The laughter and chatter from earlier had faded, replaced by a tense silence as we realized we had taken a wrong turn.
“Are we lost?” Tasneem, my aunt, asked the driver, her voice anxious as we lost sight of our uncle’s car that we were supposed to be following. “I think we are lost,” I said. “My phone isn’t working.” “Is anyone’s phone working?” We all checked our phones, and my cousin, two of my sisters, my aunt, uncle, and the driver all said that their phones weren’t working. “The GPS isn’t working out here,” the driver said. The landscape around us shifted from golden dunes to a more ominous hue. We found ourselves in a scary-looking abandoned village. The sand began to take on a reddish tint, and the abandoned houses that emerged on the horizon looked like the skeletal remains of a forgotten civilization. As we drove closer, the eerie silence enveloped us, and an unsettling feeling settled in my stomach. The color red was like a warning, screaming at us that danger lurked nearby.
“Guys, this place gives me the creeps,” my cousin Hamad said. “There is no one in sight,” my sister Isra said, her voice barely above a whisper. I observed that she was right. It was quiet; no one was in sight. The car was stuck in the harsh desert sand. “Let’s just get out and push the car,” my uncle suggested. We all piled out of the car, the heat hitting us like a wall. As everyone got out, all seven of us started to push the car out of the sand, but without any success; the car remained stuck. “Come on! We can’t be stuck here!” I shouted, my voice echoing. The village was a ghost town, I realized, with crumbling buildings. The walls were painted in faded colors, and the windows were shattered, giving the place a haunting beauty.
Just when it seemed like all hope was lost, three mysterious strangers appeared. They approached us slowly. As they drew closer, I could see that they were dressed in traditional white thobes, their faces blocked by the shadows created by the sun. “Need help?” one of them asked. “Yes, please! Our car is stuck,” my uncle and the driver both said. The men nodded and joined us, their strength adding to ours as we pushed against the car. “You should leave this place before sunset (Magrib),” another warned, his eyes darting nervously around the village. “Evil spirits dwell here.”
“Spirits?” I echoed, my voice shaking. “What do you mean?” “This village was abandoned for a reason,” the third man said, glancing over his shoulder as if expecting something to emerge from the shadows. “Terrible things have happened here. Once the sun sets, you will be trapped.” Their reminder rang in my head. They warned us to leave and get out of the abandoned village before sunset because jinns and evil spirits dwelled in the village. They cautioned us that the village was abandoned for a reason and that terrible things had happened. Once the sun set, we would be trapped with no way out. This terrified me, and I was on high alert, trying to get everyone to push the car harder so that we could leave. A chill ran down my spine. I could feel the weight of their words pressing down on me.
“What kind of terrible things?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper. “Jinns,” the first man replied, his tone grave. “They come out at night. You must leave before it’s too late.” We pushed harder, adrenaline coursing through our veins as the sun began to dip toward the horizon. The men worked alongside us, their presence both reassuring and unsettling. Just as the car finally lurched free from the sand, we went to thank them, but they had vanished without a trace. One moment they were there, and the next, it was as if the desert had swallowed them whole.
“Did you see that?” my cousin said to all of us, his eyes wide with disbelief. “Where did they go?” “I don’t know,” I replied, my heart racing. “But we need to get out of here. Now.” We all got into the car, the driver fumbling with the keys as I decided that we were not going to be stuck in this nightmarish town. As the engine started working, we sped away, but my thoughts returned to the vanishing men, making me wonder if they were even real humans or good jinns trying to help us to safety. We left the village just as the sun began to set. Looking back at the ghost town, it was as if the village had disappeared and couldn’t be found again.
The drive back to the main road was tense, each of us lost in our thoughts. “What do you think those men were?” my sisters Isra and Noor asked, breaking the silence. “I don’t know,” I admitted. “But they felt… otherworldly.” When we finally reunited with the other cars and people from our group, we recounted our experience and explained how we got lost in a ghost town and were warned that we were in danger. The others listened intently, their expressions a mix of disbelief and concern.
Quotes from TCs regarding this experience
Based on the following quotes from the teacher candidates, taking time in class to write, choosing their own topics to write about and the immersion strategy of doing what they will be asking their students to do was impactful. In addition, students point to the value of participating in writing groups and going through a Writing Marathon together (Goldberg). In some cases, students could identify their strengths and challenges as writers which will guide them as instructors of writing.
“I don’t usually many opportunities to write freely in the classroom. Even in my own personal time, I never have time to write my own personal work. It is usually for class assignments. So, it was nice to take time to actually write my own thoughts. I would like to focus more on how to include more sensory details and how I can transfer the images in my mind to paper.”
“At first, it was hard to come up with what to write. I tried to put down the first sentence in my brain, and it inspired me to keep writing. At times, I wish I had more time to write. In the free write, I included poetry pieces and one fictional piece, so I would like to work more on my poems and see how it would like to go through the writing process.”
“I was dreading to write and SHARE my draft with my writing group at first, because I am not confident in my writing (every aspect of it). Initially, I was going to write in my writer’s notebook, I noticed that everyone was writing on their laptop, so I decided to follow them, hoping that Grammarly would catch my grammar/spelling mistakes. I don’t think I would have minded this part if there wasn’t a sharing piece and I think I would have truly “dumped” my ideas on paper, but I wasn’t there yet. Also, I couldn’t help but to compare my writing with my peers (they are all SOOOO good!!), so that was also a little intimidating. However, I appreciated the non-feedback part of the process. It felt lower stake to just receive “thank you” after sharing the writing. As we repeated the process, I gradually felt more comfortable writing and sharing my thoughts. I can relate to the students who feels nervous about writing, afraid of failing (whatever that means to the person), and feeling like it’s never good enough.”
“One of the strengths of this writing activity is that it encourages us to express our ideas freely and without judgment. The short time frame pushes us to write quickly, which can lead to unexpected insights and creativity. It also fosters a sense of immediacy, allowing us to capture thoughts and emotions that might otherwise be lost. Additionally, sharing our work and receiving feedback can significantly improve our writing. This process can motivate us and help clarify what our next writing project might be. For instance, in my group, I connected with someone over airport stories and TSA agents, which opened up new perspectives and fostered deeper connections with my peers. Writing for five minutes not only helps us practice spontaneous writing but also builds a supportive community where we can learn from one another.”
“In my writing group today, it was intriguing to hear the vastly different ways we each approached the open-ended prompt. I decided to write a fiction story since it had been a while, while two of my peers wrote personal narratives, and one wrote about moments with her family through a creative and descriptive lens. It was encouraging for us to simply respond with a “thank you” after each person shared. Sharing our writing is valuable, especially for me, as I feel mine could be more polished in both style and grammar. However, hearing each other’s stories was fascinating.”
“My experience with my writing group has been engaging and inspiring. I enjoyed listening to the stories my writing group shared. There were many interesting topics we each chose to write. For example, Sagal wrote about what it would be like to live as a rock, and we talked about what other things we would like to live as in another life. I also felt inspired by hearing how my group structured their stories because the vocabulary they chose and the descriptions they included in their writing helped me think of different ways I could improve my writing. One of my struggles with writing is trying to organize my thoughts and translate them into words, so this exercise gave me ideas I can use in future writing assignments.”
“It was nice to hear everyone’s writing in today’s writing group. At first, I did not know the benefits of a writers’ group, but today I feel like that changed. Each time we would take a turn to read I could feel my creative flow opening up and allowing me to come up with many different ways I could take my story. Also seeing how creative each member of my group are as they were coming up with ideas to write about and I could think about was if they were given more time to write what else would they share and how would their finally piece look like.
“The five minutes of writing today helped me start to believe in myself as a writer. At first, saying “I am a writer” felt like I was lying to myself and my peers, as I didn’t truly see myself that way. But when given the time and space to write, I began to view myself through the lens of a writer. While I’m not expecting to publish my work anytime soon, it was empowering to realize that I am more than just someone who writes up reading materials for class”.
“I enjoyed and appreciated the choices given during the writing group. I consider myself as not a good writer and lack of creativity in writing, but this writing group experience changes my perspective as a writer. I enjoyed stating the statement “I am a writer.” I enjoyed listening to different stories from my writing group. I enjoyed the writing process because I did not have to worry about spellings and grammar. I was writing like a free bird. I did not compare my writing with others because we are all different writers. Being different is beautiful and powerful. We each hold different experiences and ideas. Those are expressed in our writing.”
To teach writing effectively, teachers must practice writing themselves. We can’t teach what we don’t know. There is value in sharing what we write and modeling our work in front of students. While a vulnerable position to place myself in, I ask for feedback from my students…even their criticism. Students need to see my skills and perhaps more importantly my interest in getting better at the crucial life skill of being an effective writer and sharing my voice with others.
Works Cited
Coppola, Shawna. Renew! Become a Better—and More Authentic—Writing Teacher. Stenhouse Publishers, 2017.
Goldberg, Natalie. Writing down the Bones: Freeing the Writer Within. Random House, 2005.
Murray, Donald. A Writer Teaches Writing: A Practical Method of Teaching Composition. 2nd Ed., Cengage Learning, 2004.
Stillman, Jamy. “Teacher Learning in an Era of High-Stakes Accountability: Productive Tension and Critical Professional Practice.” Teachers College Record, vol. 113, no. 1, 2011, pp. 133–180.
Young, Ross. What Is It “Writing for Pleasure” Teachers Do That Makes the Difference? The Goldsmiths’ Company & The University of Sussex, 2017, writing4pleasure.com/wp-content/uploads/2019/09/what-is-it-writing-for-pleasure-teachers-do-that-makes-the-difference-report.pdf.
Learn more about the authors on our 2025 Contributors page.
MEJ 