Nobody can make me feel as completely out-of-my-depth like a crowd of disinterested eight-year-olds. Lose track of that audience, and they let you know real fast in the form of pained expressions, bored doodling, and sometimes even shouting or just walking out of the classroom.
However, as with any audience, when they’re given something that is perfect for their needs, the excitement is an unparalleled delight!
*~*~*~As storytellers, it’s our job to reach out and understand our audience. Not the other way around.~*~*~*
I made a lot of errors that caused a disconnect between me and my audience of eight-year-olds. I’d been told “you’re a natural working with kids!” so much that I assumed it would be easy. That was my first major mistake. The second was letting the limitations claim my mind, instead of embracing those restrictions and making them my own. The third was a lack of understanding for their level of knowledge. Fortunately, this story does have a happy ending, but if we’re to follow the proper Hero’s Journey structure, we’re going to have to head to the Underworld first.
*~*~*~Natural does not mean Experienced~*~*~*
From the first day, this class wasn’t what I expected. I had one student with a learning disability (which nobody told me until I made inquiries later), another that had some major disruption and discipline issues, another so incurably shy that they would not speak except at a whisper, and even then only one-on-one, and so forth. This was my first solo-teaching experience, and each of those issues on its own would be tough to tackle, let alone all at once. However, that wasn’t the biggest blow to my confidence.
You see, my course was listed as a Creative Writing class. Except, none of them were interested in writing at all. My every attempt to get them to write was a painful and ultimately fruitless process. Finally, as the end of the first session neared, I gave into my confusion and asked “Well, what DO you want?”
Every single one of them replied, “Drawing.”
So I made my next mistake.
I caved.
*~*~*~Giving In is not the same as Owning Up~*~*~*
I confess that I walked away from that first class rattled and intimidated. My self-confidence, already falsely inflated, was now utterly popped. As the parents came in to pick up their kids, I found myself trying to show off the slides I’d made, to prove that I was teaching something useful to their children. I felt judged, and judged poorly. I took casual comments as condemnations. And, worst of all, I discovered that I was afraid of the next class, and what the kids would do.
I started trying to cater to every restriction. Appeasement policies ran rampant. This kid doesn’t want to do the lesson? Well, I guess it’s okay if they free draw. This kid is shy? Well, I guess I won’t do any activity that forces the kids to interact with each other. They want a drawing class? I guess we’ll do drawing! I was dancing to every tune but mine, trying everything I could think of to make everyone happy. Some days were okay, and I’d feel a brief flicker of hope that maybe I’d finally cracked the code. Then the next lesson would go poorly, and I’d drag my feet home, defeated again.
I gave in, and I lost track of why I was there and what I wanted to do. Storytelling is my passion! And I wanted to pass on that passion, give young writers pieces of know-how that I’d spent years of trial-and-error to acquire. I wanted to help them unlock their creativity.
When I lost sight of that, I lost the joy of teaching. Instead of owning up to my own lack of experience in teaching this topic to kids, I crumpled to a comfort zone of drawing demonstrations. Instead of seeking out ways to stay on-target for my own goals, I took what looked like the easier way out and pandered to what my audience wanted. And as a result, I failed to deliver what BOTH of us needed.
The only positive element I’m willing to give myself credit for is I kept trying new things. If something did poorly, I tried to take apart why. If something did well, I’d do it again and add something new. Each class was an experiment. And from that, I realized I’d been approaching it wrong from the very beginning.
I didn’t understand the needs of my audience.
*~*~*~Connect to the audience you have, not the one you THINK you want~*~*~*
The first class I taught was on how to make strong characters and character design. I had big ideas for how we were going to combine visual and written elements to develop complex characters with rounded out personalities, strengths, and weaknesses. I knew I was teaching to kids, but I thought I’d simplified it enough for them. I’d made worksheets. I mean, how could they fail to understand if they had a worksheet, right?
You can see all the slides themselves here, if you’re curious. A teacher was sitting in on the class in the back, and afterwards he said, “I think you may have gone over their heads.” I dismissed this idea. Sure, half the class was distracted, but that was the problem cases, right? And at least I had been teaching what I wanted to teach.
Because, deep down, what I wanted to teach was a college-level course.
I wasn’t appreciating the audience I actually had.
As I went on, it started to dawn on me that I was out of synch with what they could absorb. Even when I switched to drawing classes, this as a problem. One of the kids expressed an interest in learning how to draw birds. I brought out pictures of skeletons, studies on wing structure, and scientific diagrams. I talked to them about the different kinds of beaks and feet and body types of different species of bird. And, just to fill up the time, I tossed a few drawing demonstrations on the chalk board. When I went through their sketch-books afterwards, I was chagrined to discover that the only thing that had made it on to the page was those demonstrations. It was the only thing any of them could follow.
I realized that I wasn’t dealing with “How do I create interesting creatures?” but “How do I draw?” I wasn’t dealing with, “How do I add a thematic element to my story?” but “What is a beginning, middle, and end?”
I got frustrated. I kept simplifying and simplifying and simplifying concepts. Sometimes they connected. Sometimes they didn’t. I consoled myself with the idea that at least the next time I ran the course, I’d have some working lessons in the can, and I’d know which ones to throw out. The idea of teaching any of them a second time was predominantly lack-luster. I should have realized then that I was on the road to a bad crash.
*~*~*~My Underworld~*~*~*
I’d always felt ashamed that I wasn’t doing any more writing in my Creative Writing course. I felt like I’d misrepresented myself. So when I was asked to submit an updated course description, I changed it to match what I’d actually been doing. I felt good about presenting it accurately. I thought that maybe this time the students would actually want to do what they’d been signed up for. I was at least getting rid of the disconnect between parent expectation and what I perceived as student desire.
Except the response came back as: “A drawing class already exists, and parents want a writing class. Can’t you do a writing class?”
I imploded. I felt trapped between what I believed were conflicting demands of parent and child. I blamed myself for incompetence, ineptitude, ignorance, pretty much every bad “i” word you can think about, and then I turned to the rest of the alphabet for more nasty adjectives.
And fortunately, in the midst of this implosion, I thought to call a good friend. And they made a suggestion that unlocked the complete transformation that happened the very next day.
*~*~*~Embrace the Limitation~*~*~*
It all started with returning to my passion for storytelling, and what I wanted to pass on. To find the heart of why I’d decided to offer a class in the first place. I wanted to inspire and ignite that love of writing.
How could I do that? Since I gave up so quickly, I’d never really asked myself how that might be possible. My friend and I discussed possibilities, and they imparted much of the wisdom they had gained as a camp councilor. I realized that I couldn’t fight against what my students DIDN’T have. I couldn’t make them into college kids. What I needed to do was pay attention to the natural gifts they already had. A capacity for excitement, creativity, and play.
I created a brand new lesson plan that used elements of role playing, drawing, and improv. I built it like a game, not a power-point presentation, and I tried to make the story as silly as I could. The characters the kids would play as had names like Captain Cupcake and Mopey Muffin, and they were to do battle with the Pizza Mold Monster from the back of the fridge. It was built as a back-and-forth experience, prompts followed by them acting out their ideas. And then, when the story prompts reached a fever-pitch of excitement, I’d shout “WHAT HAPPENS NEXT?? Go to your notebook and write YOUR VERSION of the story!” It was a gamble, to turn writing, a task all these kids claimed to hate, into a game. Into play. Into something fun.
I had no idea if it would fly, especially not with some of the more difficult kids. I decided to expect their best instead of brace for their worst. When I introduced the game, I said, “This might push you a little outside of your comfort zone, but I want you to be brave. That’s what being creative is all about. Pushing boundaries and being brave.”
And they were.
The disruptive kids at last had an outlet for their disruptions, a channel through which they could shout and move and have it be accepted. The shy kid was caught up in the excitement, declaring, “I send my soldiers into battle!!” as Captain Cupcake rallied troops to fight their spore-spewing foe. When they were asked “WHAT HAPPENS NEXT??” some of them nearly ran to their seats, they were so eager to write down their ideas. Everyone wanted to share, and they laughed at each other’s stories and countered with ideas of their own. We got to talk about the importance of good description, and how all ideas are valid ideas. Instead of trying to shove dry lessons into closed minds, I was capturing teaching moments on the fly. Best of all, by walking them through the story I was taking them through the steps of exposition, instigating event, rising action, climax, and falling action without any of them even realizing it was happening. We weren’t drilling story structure. We were living it.
The kids weren’t the only ones having fun that day. For the first time in eight weeks of teaching, I felt exhilarated and enthusiastic. Turns out that often the most potent way to get an audience engaged is to engage yourself. I had reconnected with my passion, worked within the limitations, and found a solution to the problems that didn’t require giving in. I gave the kids, and myself, what we needed. Not what I thought was wanted. I had finally understood my audience and at long last reached them.
*~*~*~The Take-Away~*~*~*
As creatives, we can often get caught up in trying to pander to an audience. We try to give them what we think they want. We try to make something more marketable, more eye-catching, more salacious, more edgy. And it can be really easy to lose track of your path when you’re pursuing the perceived desires of someone else. That way leads to a loss of passion. And a loss of passion leads to burn out. In the end, we never do our best work when our heart isn’t in it.
The trick is to stay focused on what you want to do, but maintain an open mind to improvement. You don’t need to give up on your cool story idea or your pet art project in order to make something somebody else will love. Instead, our job is to improve our craft and our approach so that we can connect more effectively with the readers we have. To understand our audiences closely enough to deliver what we both need, rather than trying to sell what we think somebody else will want. That way we can be excited and engaged about our own work. When we’re enthusiastic, our audience will be too.
Just ask any class of eight year olds.
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