by Dorothy Suskind
Writing projects are artistic ecosystems, constantly regenerating new lessons atop common ground.
Dorothy Suskind and Jane Hansen at UVA in 2004 (taken by the author)
I am an artist.
It is an identity I claimed in the quiet corners of a childhood that was cluttered with chaos. Art expected me to see the world at a slant, accepting of the surprise.
Mrs. Paulette, my middle and high school art teacher, created a space for me to work under my own terms, unencumbered by structured assignments that clog creativity. She trusted and encouraged the messiness of the layering, the browns atop yellows, revealing unplanned light.
Writing, however, was hammered out. Worksheets and red pens ensured I stayed on the predetermined path. Rubrics wrestled me for control, lining us all up for comparison. To escape the scrutiny, in English class, I reversed my evolution, shrinking to a speck and whittling to a whisper that was easily blown right off the page.
After all, I was an artist, not a writer; so it never occurred to me to fight for my narrative.
Until I entered my doctoral program at the University of Virginia, where Jane Hansen told me to stop apologizing for what I had to say. In her classroom, we held our ears against the earth, listening for the story to tell us how it wanted to be told. To accommodate the diverse tellings, Jane placed watercolors next to the pens and pallets of clay beside the paper. We were all under construction. There were no rules, only invitations that grew broader as we witnessed how each other answered the call.
That Spring, Jane started to rehabilitate the Central Virginia Writing Project, which had been sleeping for quite a while. To start the resuscitation, she created a Leadership Team of teacher writers, a motley crew, who some twenty years later, continue to be the first readers of my drafts. We were teachers and professors from rural and urban communities who, like Mrs. Paulette, appreciated the mess, understanding that rules are good for monitoring mediocrity but rarely inspire awe.
For that first Summer Institute, we met off campus to do out-of-the-ordinary work. In the mornings we read from the books and articles that scattered the round tables. Over lunch and into the early afternoons, we settled into our writing and response groups, and as the day tired, we practiced our practice, getting feedback on how to re-VISION our classroom work.
Across June and July, we transformed from teachers who teach writing to writers who teach writers, hence revolutionizing our own writing practice, both in our living rooms and our classrooms. The Central Virginia Writing Project and ourselves were reborn that summer.
Today, over twenty years later, I consider myself both an artist and a writer, continuing to meld the identities in surprising ways. Two years ago, I co-founded the Southside Virginia Writing Project at Longwood University, with my former and formidable colleague Jen McConnel. Beth Rimer, Director of the Ohio Writing Project, and Leslie Goetsch, Director of the Northern Virginia Writing Project, served as our Thinking Partners, graciously sharing their experiences and standing as backboards for volleying ideas.
Last summer, we held our first SVWP Summer Institute, honoring the traditions of NWP’s 50-year history, while situating the work within our unique rural identity. Together, we used writing to create a sustainable community that keeps breathing despite book bans, restrictive literacy legislation, and state policies that deprofessionalize teachers.
As the summer set, I asked our teacher consultants what the writing project had meant to them, and this is what they had to say:
- “If I’m teaching writing, I should be writing. If I’m teaching reading, I should be reading. The chorus teacher sings, and the band teacher plays, so why shouldn’t I be expected to write?”
- “The daybook is phenomenal, and I appreciate your advice about just writing and not worrying about making things perfect. It’s what I preach to my students, but it hasn’t been something I’ve allowed myself to experience. Writing by hand – not on a computer – is freeing, and it slows me down, so I can see and process the words as they come. I wrote 33 entries over the past eight weeks …I think it’s so important to practice what we preach.”
- “Eventually, I’d love to teach a course like this one, especially to teachers within our school. I have found such a positive outlet in this class, and I think that sharing writing as a means of self-care for teachers is AWESOME.”
- “It was empowering! The ladies in my writing circle were amazing and truly gave honest criticism and feedback. I didn’t dread what they’d have to say; I knew they were being sincere and wanted to help me.”
In this way, the National Writing Project is the perennial Writing Circle.
Somewhere along the way on our teaching journey, we stumble upon its existence in a newsletter or over coffee with a colleague. The idea of growing our writing life, after years of growing the writing life of the students we teach, intrigues us, though we are not sure we belong. And yet, we chance it, courageously pulling up a seat, no longer willing to apologize for what we have to say.
As we start to write, inside this newfound community, we look up to discover many circles, not just one. There are writing circles, reading circles, and professional practice circles, circles that just got started, and circles that have been circling for decades. Each one is in constant motion, breathing, and fully alive. In that ecosystem, we are both teachers and students, part of a 50-year-old community, historic yet novel, perennially circling up to tell our stories.
Dorothy Suskind is an Assistant Professor of Education at Longwood University in Farmville, Virginia and the co-founder and director of the Southside Virginia Writing Project. Dorothy heard about Writers Who Care through NWP’s Teacher Studio.
Writers Who Care 