Why we should all write in library books

I checked a book out from the Harold B. Lee Library on my campus a few weeks ago (John Dewey's Experience and Education) and when I opened it I noticed that at least a quarter of the pages have notes written on them.  To some this would be horrifying or at least annoying--I was excited.  At the risk of bringing down the wrath of my bespectacled elementary school librarian (who, by the way, I am still truly terrified of--it's amazing that I don't have more of a negative relationship with books), I'd like to make an argument for the value of writing in books, particularly those books which are likely to be read by others at some point.

I make the assumption that virtually all learning is and should be approached as a conversation.  It's easy to see the conversational metaphor in traditional learning activities (e.g. conversations among learners and teachers in classroom settings), but reading a book is also a conversation between the reader and the author.  Of course, for some learners, the conversation is largely one-sided because their reading does little to elicit questions, new ideas, or responses.  But, nonetheless, when they read someone else's ideas in a book they are engaging in a conversation.

As an undergraduate I had a tremendous mentor who re-ignited my passion for reading (I loved reading as a child, but about the time I hit junior high school it died out for one reason or another).  One of the first books he lent to me was Malcolm Gladwell's The Tipping Point.   I still remember being intrigued by the fact that he wrote in his books (again, the evilness of this practice had been well ingrained in my mind by Mrs. Robinson at Upland Terrace Elementary).  At first, I didn't pay much attention to his scribbles; however, at some point I realized that reading his notes, not only helped me understand Gladwell's ideas but also helped me see how they applied to my own experiences.  What I loved most were the questions he posed in response to Gladwell's arguments because they invited me into an internal conversation where I could sift through Gladwell's ideas, my mentors responses, and my own wonderings.  I can't say this for sure, but I wonder if I would have been excited about The Tipping Point and reading other things like it, had I not had the "conversational" experience with that copy of the book that particular summer. I spent the rest of that summer borrowing books from the same mentor and I always hoped that when I opened them the first time, they would be filled with his musings and questions.

My reading that summer not only kindled my interest in social science (I read Bob Putnam, Steven Johnson, more Gladwell, James Surowiecki, and Michael Lewis that summer), but taught me about how to have conversations with books.  By the end of August I was buying my own books so that I could write in them, ask questions, draw diagrams, and argue with the author.  I have continued my habit of well-intentioned book desecration and, today, there probably aren't many books on my shelf that haven't been written on. In fact, I lend a fair amount of books out to the students who I work with.  Every once in a while one will make a comment about something I've written, which is gratifying.  It's probably a stretch to assume that any of my scribblings will influence anyone quite like my mentor's ruminations did, but it's a nice thought to entertain.

The world needs more Andy Rooneys

Two Sundays ago, Andy Rooney's final 60 Minutes "sign off" aired.  It was typical Rooney--wise, dryly funny, and thought-provoking.  I haven't ever been a regular viewer of 60 Minutes, but when I did watch, it always seemed to be at the tail-end of the hour, and I always enjoyed what Rooney had to say.

In his final piece, Rooney shared some insights that seem to have wide application, but particularly for those who teach.



Here are some things I took away:

Stop worrying so much about having (or writing) original thoughts (because there probably aren't any).  Sometimes the pressure to do something new, exciting, or original becomes a barrier to doing anything at all and we sit motionless and paralyzed.  Although I wouldn't call myself a "writer," I do a fair amount of writing and when the stars align and I do have something close to a coherent and tight argument or what I might foolishly believe to be an "original" idea, it hasn't come as I've been staring at an empty page or blank screen.  Rather, I've started writing about something that seems relatively uninteresting and that exercise has eventually led to productive thoughts or ideas.  And, in reflecting on my teaching, most of the "disasters" I've had in the classroom or in a training workshop of some kind have come when I was more concerned about being original or creative than I was with facilitating good learning (even if it wasn't the "sexy" kind of teaching and learning that gets talked about on teaching blogs).  There seems to be power in teaching simple, but fundamental ideas, and doing it in simple ways.


Tell the truth.  Truth is, in some ways, tough to define and what is "true" to one may or may not be to another.  But, Rooney seems to be saying that if we were more concerned about being truthful (I wonder if another way to say that might be "sincere" or "genuine") and less preoccupied with being either provocative or "acceptable," depending on the circumstance, our ultimate impact on readers, students, etc. will be more worthwhile.  And, if nothing else, by being authentic and truthful, we will feel better about our efforts and be able to eventually look back on a career with contentment (like Rooney seems to have been able to do).  Rooney also wisely acknowledges the inevitability of our making mistakes and realizing, after the fact, that what we believed was true really wasn't.  However, seeking to be truthful would seem to help eliminate many mistakes that might be made otherwise.

Care about what others think, but not too much.  It was refreshing to hear Rooney's remarks about wanting to be liked.  It seems like an innately human desire.  And, when we feel some desire to have others like us it has a tempering effect on how we interact with and engage with others (read:  it keeps us from becoming complete jerks).  However, if being liked becomes the driving motivation behind our actions, we're likely to end up somewhere we don't like (and, ironically, become someone who others don't really like).  This is especially important for teachers because a lot of the learning--and nearly all of the most important learning--we want for those we teach requires hard work, some degree of pain or discomfort, and  some healthy failure. We don't always "like" those who ask these kinds of things of us.  teachers, parents, and bosses who care more about being liked than facilitating growth, supporting learning, or being truthful, are dangerous.

Of course, none of what I've said here is original and I probably haven't said anything you didn't already know or hadn't already thought about--but, I take comfort in Rooney's words that "that's what writers do."

More on risk-taking and learning

In this morning's edition of Inside Higher Ed, Nate Kreuter writes a column about the importance of failure in the classroom.  The ideas in the column (along with those in Brian Croxall's blog which Kreuter links to at the end of his piece) resonated with me both because of what I have said about risk and failure in the past and more so because of some recent experiences I have had with students on my campus.

All but a handful of first-year students at BYU take a course known as American Heritage to fulfill a particular general education requirement.  It is a tough course, particularly for freshmen, because for most students it requires a depth of learning that they are unaccustomed to and which stretches them in what they feel are uncomfortable ways.  Consequently, students frequently voice complaints about their scores on exams and writing assignments.  

Over the last year, those who administer the course have worked closely with BYU's Center for Teaching and Learning to redesign the course, particularly its assessments.  On the whole this process has led to tremendous improvements, which in my estimation are based on very sound pedagogical principles and which are likely to lead to better learning and better attitudes among students.  One of these changes has been to structure writing assignments in a way that initial writing assignments are low stakes (about 10 points each), build students core writing skills by providing valuable feedback on the writing process, and are directly connected to more hefty writing assignments which come later in the semester (i.e. students can use the writing they have done for the initial assignments in later assignments).  It is a good model and likely to lead to good outcomes.

Here's the problem--faculty members and teaching assistants in the course haven't done much to make this visible or public for students.  In other words, they have built the course to encourage students to take early risks in their writing, risks which can ultimately benefit students; however, they haven't attended to what Kreuter argues are two of the most important things educators have to do when creating a "failure-safe" classroom:  they have neither modeled risk taking or publicly addressed the value of "failure." Consequently, over the last few weeks as scored essays have been returned to students with percentages of 30, 40, & 50 (the average across all sections was around 45%), they have panicked and thought "I've never 'failed' a writing assignment before."  This emotional reaction has been so strong in some cases that the student has ignored the useful feedback provided on the essay, feedback that would pay big dividends for later writing assignments, and complained.

Maybe I'm naive, but things may have been different if a couple of things had happened early in the semester and again just before essays were returned


Clear reminders about the truly "low-stakes" of these assignments:  The first two essays were worth a total of 30 points (10 and 20 points respectively).  That is a whopping 5% of the total 600 points available for students to earn across the semester.  One could argue that students could figure this out on their own, but the 30 seconds it would take to explain this in a lab section would do much to help students see the assignments as "safe."  And, if they see them as safe they are much more likely to take productive risks in their writing and learn more.


Frequent discussion w/ students about the type of feedback they are receiving and its value:  Many TAs have mistakenly assumed that students will immediately see value in the feedback provided and use it to improve their writing in the future.  While some students undoubtedly were mature enough to do so, others likely see any degree of critique as a personal attack on their identity as a "good student."  Time spent inducting students to their role as learners (e.g. welcome and receive feedback, use it to improve, etc.) could shift perspectives and help students interpret feedback in more useful ways.  And, this is a message that should be re-iterated to freshmen again and again during their first semester on campus.

Public sharing of risk-taking and failure stories by faculty members:  Students need to know that failure and risk are a part of any good academic experience and that, more importantly, people survive and benefit from them.  Never underestimate the power of a well-told, genuine, and believable story.

Open discussion about the structure of the course and the rationale behind it:  Good course design is much more likely to lead to desired outcomes when learners are partners with teachers in the overall process and understand the pedagogical strategy being employed.  If writing assignments are structured to build upon one another and to provide good feedback on the writing process, that's an important thing for learners to know--it's foolish to assume they will figure it out on their own.  Instructional strategies shouldn't be secrets we keep to ourselves.  Making them visible to students both orients them to the learning experience they will have in our classroom and facilitates metacognitive activity that makes students better learners even after they leave our classes.

To be fair, there is probably little that faculty members or TAs could ever do to completely eliminate student complaints like those I've heard over the last few weeks.  There will always be students who are so wrapped up in being awarded the same coveted "A's" they received in high school that no amount of discussion about deep learning, the value of feedback, or the importance of failure could ever change their perspective.  But, if we were more intentional about helping first-year students adopt revised perspectives about learning--that it is risky, dependent upon failure and feedback, and sometimes painful--we would both hear fewer complaints and see more students becoming the types of scholars we hope leave our campuses when they graduate