This fall I have taken on an adjunct instructor's job at my local university (The University of Alaska -Anchorage), teaching two night classes at a satellite campus location outside the main campus. One is in physical geology, the other in English composition, the latter specifically titled "Introduction to College Writing". That ought to be nebulous enough.
Now, to a great extent, like Indiana Jones, in the English class, I'm making it up as I go. The major intent of the course is to improve student writing skills in essays and research paper writing. I've decided to concentrate, in the first half or so of the semester, on having them write a lot of small essays, less than 1000 words generally, of various kinds, to be critiqued, revised and edited before being turned in for a grade.
But here's the mistake. I considered a topic for the first assignment, and lit on the idea of having them describe a memorable classroom experience, in college or high school. Then, stupid me, I told them a story of the kind I wanted them to write, of about the only class I still find truly memorable from my 1960s undergrad years. Then, even stupider me, I told them I would participate in the work by writing that story into an essay of my own, and we would all critique it for further editing, as an example of how to shape and mold writing into a finished form.
So, I've spent my evening doing homework of my own assigning, and it has evolved into a beast around twice the length I want them to do. Now I have to get it all typed and ready for reproduction tomorrow, so I can give everyone a copy. It is pure rough draft, I have deliberately not rewritten or edited anything, because I want it that way for class work.
And now, almost finished with it (I have a couple of concluding paragraphs to write), I find myself utterly depressed. I haven't been able to write anything worthwhile all year, in fact dating back to maybe summer 2007, and am on the verge of just retiring from the entire exercise. This thing I've written for a specific purpose, and I guess that makes it worthwhile for the immediate moment (See, children, how terrible your instructor can write? You need to do better than this.)
But it's just reinforced the feeling that nothing else I've written or am capable of writing has any future. Crystal meth would be a more socially acceptable obsession.
caw
Now, to a great extent, like Indiana Jones, in the English class, I'm making it up as I go. The major intent of the course is to improve student writing skills in essays and research paper writing. I've decided to concentrate, in the first half or so of the semester, on having them write a lot of small essays, less than 1000 words generally, of various kinds, to be critiqued, revised and edited before being turned in for a grade.
But here's the mistake. I considered a topic for the first assignment, and lit on the idea of having them describe a memorable classroom experience, in college or high school. Then, stupid me, I told them a story of the kind I wanted them to write, of about the only class I still find truly memorable from my 1960s undergrad years. Then, even stupider me, I told them I would participate in the work by writing that story into an essay of my own, and we would all critique it for further editing, as an example of how to shape and mold writing into a finished form.
So, I've spent my evening doing homework of my own assigning, and it has evolved into a beast around twice the length I want them to do. Now I have to get it all typed and ready for reproduction tomorrow, so I can give everyone a copy. It is pure rough draft, I have deliberately not rewritten or edited anything, because I want it that way for class work.
And now, almost finished with it (I have a couple of concluding paragraphs to write), I find myself utterly depressed. I haven't been able to write anything worthwhile all year, in fact dating back to maybe summer 2007, and am on the verge of just retiring from the entire exercise. This thing I've written for a specific purpose, and I guess that makes it worthwhile for the immediate moment (See, children, how terrible your instructor can write? You need to do better than this.)
But it's just reinforced the feeling that nothing else I've written or am capable of writing has any future. Crystal meth would be a more socially acceptable obsession.
caw
