Reimagine generative AI as a partner in meaning-making rather than a shortcut to finished work.

This article, the seventh installment in the Teaching Writing in the Age of AI series, argues for a shift from using generative AI as an automation tool to employing it as a collaborative thinking partner that augments the human "meaning-making" process. By positioning AI as a questioner, shifter, and rhetorical strategist, writers—including students, educators, and leaders—can maintain agency and navigate the "messy middle" of composition without offloading the essential cognitive struggle. 

​In my previous piece, Writing is Thinking: From Reluctance to Discovery, I argued that writing reluctance often stems from a "fixed writing mindset"—a fear of the unknown that leads students to treat writing as a performance rather than a process of discovery. By drawing on Ruth Vinz and Carol Dweck, I suggested that we must reframe the blank page as an exciting space for “meaning-making.”

However, the accessibility of generative AI has turned this fear into a temptation for automation. When students use AI to bypass the “messy middle” of composition, they aren't just saving time; they are opting out of the very cognitive struggle where thinking actually happens. AI becomes a “polished scaffolding” that provides a finished structure while leaving the student’s own intellectual foundation unbuilt. The challenge now is to shift from automation to augmentation, fostering a sense of agentic writing where the student remains the primary architect. We want AI to serve as a tool that wonders alongside the writer rather than deciding for them. 

In this article, I suggest three key ways to achieve this relationship with Generative AI chatbots, specifically. By using AI to prompt elaboration, offer alternative perspectives, or support rhetorical awareness, we can amplify a student’s thinking without replacing it. The goal is a hybrid process where the technology heightens the rigor of the intellectual journey rather than offering an escape hatch from it. So, how do we actually do that in practice? 

Theoretically, the pedagogic value of elaboration lies in moving beyond the “I have nothing to say” impasse by surfacing the “hidden” knowledge students already possess. Drawing on Peter Elbow’s theories of freewriting and the “generative” phase of writing, I suggest we use AI not to provide answers, but to ask the questions a student hasn't yet considered. This forces the writer to dig deeper into their own logic, transforming thin claims into robust, nuanced arguments. By using AI as a Socratic partner, we ensure the intellectual heavy lifting remains with the student.

One of the greatest hurdles in meaning-making is the echo chamber of our own initial thoughts. Ann Berthoff emphasizes that we must continuously engage in a process of looking and re-looking. AI can act as a catalyst for this “re-looking” by offering diverse perspectives or counterarguments that a student hasn’t considered yet. This isn't about the AI being “right”; it’s about providing a friction point that forces the student to refine (or perhaps shift) their own position, thereby increasing the rigor of their thinking process. 

Real-world writing requires a constant awareness of audience, genre, and purpose. Often, student writers lose sight of these in the drafting process. AI can serve as a “Rhetorical Strategist,” helping the writer analyze how an imagined, specific audience might perceive the tone, style, or structure of the piece. This aligns with a growth-minded approach to revision: instead of “fixing mistakes,” the student is “tuning” their voice to achieve a specific rhetorical effect. The AI provides the strategic feedback, but the student makes the executive decision on how to adjust the dials.

​By utilizing AI as a questioner, a shifter, and a rhetorical strategist, we mitigate the fear that technology is doing the thinking for us. While these strategies are essential in the classroom, their value extends far beyond student writing. These are tools that educators and leaders can use, too. When we shift the prompt from “write this for me” to “think this through with me,” the power dynamic changes. The AI no longer functions as an escape hatch to a finished product, but as a collaborative partner that heightens the friction and focus required for true discovery.

This approach ensures that the “messy middle” remains a space of high cognitive demand, where the writer remains the agentic driver of their own intellectual growth. Ultimately, thinking with AI in this way does not diminish the writer; it deepens the writing. It allows us to lean into the uncertainty of the unknown, grounded in the knowledge that we have a tool to help us excavate our best ideas rather than offload them.

In the next piece of this series, we will move beyond the cognitive and into the personal. We will explore how these same generative tools can help us navigate identity building. 

Reimagine canonical texts as living conversations that help students grapple with power, justice, and moral choice.

​Seeing a canonical text on your list as a teacher or a student can be intimidating, delightful, or might even unearth deep sighs regarding the potential boredom you may endure. However, most canonical texts remain relevant for a reason. Though we’re reading about specific characters in a specific time period, as with many canonical texts, we are really reading about what it means to be human: to be reminded of our interconnectedness and the universality of relevant and of recurring themes, to empathize and relate to the plight and what is endured, and to take any lessons learned or crucial moral back into our own existential journey. 

In teaching these texts, we must find ways to keep them engaging, exciting, and enlightening for young people, whether that’s through intentionally critiquing them using critical lenses or culturally relevant frameworks; putting canonical texts in conversation with more contemporary texts to open up dialogue between texts for students; or bringing canonical text to life with Literacy Unbound, which offers practical, arts-based strategies that any classroom can use. 

Arthur Miller’s The Crucible — which centers on a community swept up in the Salem witch trials, as accusations escalate and truth becomes increasingly hard to find — is one such text that endures, because it has something powerful to say about the human experience. 

In 1996, almost 50 years after he created it, Arthur Miller himself reflected on why he wrote The Crucible, noting:

“I was motivated in some great part by the paralysis that had set in among many who, despite their discomfort with the inquisitors’ violations of civil rights, were fearful…the more I read into the Salem panic, the more it touched off corresponding images of common experiences in the fifties. Apparently certain processes are universal.”

When young people (or teachers!) are encountering difficulty processing the state of the world, engaging with literature like The Crucible — through close readings, performing, and writing — can offer us the opportunity to wrestle with and learn from history, especially its darker and more challenging parts. History has a way of echoing itself, and Miller knew this all too well. As the playwright says in his reflection in the New Yorker, 

“It is only a slight exaggeration to say that, especially in Latin America, The Crucible starts getting produced wherever a political coup appears imminent, or a dictatorial regime has just been overthrown. The play seems to present the same primeval structure of human sacrifice…that goes on repeating itself forever as though embedded in the brain of social man.”

By exploring these patterns, teachers and students alike can think through the impacts of injustice, mass hysteria, and the abuse of power, contemplating the integrity and moral courage needed in such moments as these. And it’s in this space — where students grapple with big questions and their own interpretations — that the real work of thinking begins.

If The Crucible is on your reading list — whether you’ve chosen to teach it or it’s part of your curriculum — our Literacy Unbound initiative has practical ways to bring the text to life in your classroom.

Alongside assigning parts to read aloud, you can add in Creating the Scene, an activity where we collectively envision and co-create the space by naming what the set looks like, calling out where various people, places, things, furnishings, nature, etc. live in the scene before it’s read aloud to the class. This collaborative approach helps students visualize the story more vividly while actively participating in its creation.

These exercises also allow students to consider choices made within the text, and how one might respond in character, such as John Proctor. Though, of course, he has been understandably reflected upon as a villain, Miller says: “That John Proctor the sinner might overturn his paralyzing personal guilt and become the most forthright voice against the madness around him was a reassurance to me, and, I suppose, an inspiration: it demonstrated that a clear moral outcry could still spring even from an ambiguously unblemished soul.”

Alongside exploring major plot points, you can add in Polaroids, an activity where a scene unfolds over time, slowly developing, then gelling, like a Polaroid picture. Students can capture the scene the way they would a picture by having each person walk in and take their pose or place in whatever is occurring in that moment, then freezing for commentary, questioning, or synthesis. This helps solidify the understanding of key plot elements while still making space for student choice and engagement.

Alongside discussing major themes, you can try Sculpture Garden, an activity where young people alternately act as clay and sculptors of each other when prompted with words like “injustice” or “hysteria.” Students walk around to view all of the sculptures — students silently acting out the theme after having been sculpted in a particular pose by their peers. By embodying the text in this way, students gain insight into characters’ experiences and develop a richer, more empathetic understanding of the text’s themes.

If you’re interested in learning more about how to bring texts to life through Literacy Unbound, consider joining us this summer for a one-week institute made for teachers and high school students to experience literature in hands-on, collaborative ways. Together, we will make sense of a shared text — this year, The Crucible! — and create an original production that expresses our shared interpretation. 

When we engage with stories like The Crucible, we’re reminded that we are not the first to face the challenges of our times — and that reading, writing, and discussing the struggles of the past can help illuminate our present and shape our future. And we learn, too, that flawed or not, each of us has the capacity to choose our actions and our response — to remember that action is always possible, whether small or sweeping, even when the personal stakes feel high.

Even just a few minutes of writing can spark focus, empathy, and emotional growth.

​When we envision social-emotional learning, we may think of young people learning to regulate their emotions, maintain positive relationships, and boost their empathy or compassion for others. In turn, we may think that in order to uplift it in our classrooms and schools, we need to incorporate new curricula and teaching. But what if it was as simple as just making more space and time for more expressive writing? 

In our work at CPET, we often (if not always!) begin our own professional meetings with Writing for Full Presence, a brief yet highly impactful activity where we are given time to simply write out everything that may be on our minds, so that we can start our time together fully present. The grace, space, and dignity afforded in these moments can’t be overstated: we’re given the gift of a few moments to clear our heads of every human thing that happened to us before we got there, and in doing so, the fullness of our humanness is seen, accounted for, and given room to breathe.

This is one way of bringing clarity, focus, and humanity, with writing serving as social-emotional learning, and here’s another: when I was a teacher, I practiced Linda Trichter Metcalfe and Tobin Simon’s Proprioceptive Writing with my students at the behest of a very wonderful ELA colleague at my school who touted the benefits and wanted all young people to experience it. Known to boost attention, confidence, empathy, relational capacity, and emotional health, my high school students looked forward to it as a brief but important daily practice (it also made them stronger writers)! The reset provided by 5-7 minutes of a quiet space where young people can write about whatever they choose (in a day often without much choice, and often largely otherwise dictated by other people) was invaluable. 

​There are many other simple incorporations of expressive writing: writing yourself a letter (about the start of the year, the end of the year, an upcoming goal, or anything at all), keeping a journal, or even just having choice in how you write what you’re learning about in class. All can make way for greater social and emotional health and wellbeing. 

So, school leaders and classroom teachers, consider making time for expressive writing by:

• Setting aside anywhere from 3-10 minutes of class time at least 2 or 3 times weekly
• Selecting a practice, like Writing for Full Presence or Proprioceptive Writing, or
• Selecting an activity, like writing yourself a letter or writing a journal entry, or
• Offering a choice in how students complete a writing assignment about the content
• Giving space to your students to use how they see fit to regulate their emotions, manage their relationships, or boost their empathy.

Offering a little time back to our young people and asking them to use it in writing can result in enumerable glorious benefits for emotional health. How simple and how powerful to know that social emotional learning is available to us all in the tiny but mighty act of asking folks to write! 

When the lesson hooks but the reading stalls, these moves help students jump in.

I’m in a 9th grade science class and it is first period. Students have trickled in and the teacher allows them to finish their breakfasts as they begin class. The teacher opens class with a short, engaging video about rising ocean temperatures, and the potential effects of rising seawaters, even right here in the Bronx. Students comment on how crazy it would be if parts of New York City were underwater. We pull up a map to see how far inland our school in the South Bronx is compared with the coasts of New York City, to give students a sense of the coastland and interior parts of the city, and how far inland the seawaters could potentially reach depending on the rising ocean temperature.

​Their interest is piqued, and the teacher has officially launched the Weather and Climate unit in the Earth and Space Sciences. We are off to a good start for this class, despite how depressing it is to look at climate change from a scientific perspective.  

The teacher feels strongly that students lose focus and attention when they are on their laptops, so he provides a physical handout of the reading on this topic, along with a few questions that are based on the reading. The questions vary in terms of being “right there” questions and questions that are more thought-provoking and analytical.

​Here’s when I notice class starts to shift a bit.

The teacher has distributed all of the handouts. The breakfasts have been completed and cereal boxes and tin foil wrappers have been thrown out, so there are no distractions.

But students are doing anything but reading.

​Two students ask to go to the bathroom. Another student puts her head down. Another student starts poking a classmate with his elbow and then pretends he didn’t when he’s asked to stop. One student starts rifling through her bag looking for something. You get the idea…one student is looking at the reading, but just looking — his eyes are not moving he is just staring at the page. Students are looking for ways to do anything but read the text on climate change, a topic that a minute ago they were so curious about!  

I visit with the teacher, who is taking attendance and fielding a few latecomers.

“It looks like they are having a hard time getting started on this reading. Maybe you should remind them to annotate the reading or something, so they can stay more focused? Or start them off on the reading as a class?”  

“I’ve taught them so many times how to annotate, so they should know what to do.”

“Hmm, but I don’t really see them annotating right now, do you?”
 
At the risk of being a nudge, I feel compelled to point this out as the students were not moving forward with the reading and seemed stuck. He agreed that he should say something.

“Okay everyone, you all should be annotating. Take out a pen or pencil and annotate like we have done before.”

This evolves into several students raising their hand because they need a pen, and the teacher lamenting over lending out pens and never getting them back. A quarter of the period has passed, and no one is reading or learning more about weather and climate. 

Once everyone had a pen or pencil, the class appeared more settled, and their attention was back on the papers. What I noticed though, is most students jumped right to answering the questions instead of reading first. I wondered, is that okay? Is the purpose of this class to answer the questions, or to learn about the content through reading, and to use the questions as a check for understanding?  

When I met with the teacher later, we discussed again how he had shown them how to annotate a few times — I was even there for a lesson where he modeled annotating on the projector! So why isn’t this clicking?
 
He has shown them what to do, but when it’s their turn to actively read and annotate, there is a disconnect. 

Annotation is not a magical skill, but it is a way to encourage students to read actively and stay focused on the reading. This is increasingly important as content area standardized tests include more and more reading passages, and if students can understand the reading, then they can have access to being a more successful student. Aside from assessments, exposing students to reading in all subject areas and asking them to practice active reading skills can increase their comprehension skills, which is a building block for critical thinking. 

Of course, asking high school students to read anything is often met with a healthy dose of pushback. Americans read less and less each year. According to the National Literacy Institute, in 2024, 54% of adults had a literacy level below sixth grade, and 60% of behavioral issues in school happen when students are asked to read because of their low literacy skills. But while we might be met with resistance, this does not mean we give up on the skill of teaching reading and annotating; we have to keep at it, be creative, and continue to encourage students to actively read.

The frustrating aspect of this particular lesson is that the pre-reading hook was wonderful! Students were engaged by the climate change videos and trying to identify our school and places in their neighborhood within the sea rising graph. Even with their raised interest, you could almost hear a collective whomp whomp when the reading and questions handout were distributed.

​So what can we do to ease this transition, even after the pre-reading hook is so effective? Reading is too important of a life skill to give up on; beyond state and national assessments, it is a skill that can open doors and empower people. 

Meeting with this teacher after class, we discussed the following moves the next time he starts with a great hook and transitions into a content-heavy reading: 

1. If students aren’t engaging with the reading, it’s important to notice this and take action. When students all suddenly need to use the bathroom or put their heads down or start trying to poke their neighbors, it’s time to regroup and redirect.
2. Students may need help getting started. If they do, maybe read aloud and think aloud the very first sentence to get them started. “It looks like we are having a hard time getting started. I’m going to show you how I started off reading this passage and what I jotted down in the margins, and why I jotted it down...” Share your thinking and explore how the title of the text and the image (if there is any) will help you make predictions or ask questions about the text. While reading the first sentence or two, share any questions, connections or wonderings you have just from that first sentence. This will show your students what actively reading this text looks like, and this brief model may be able to get them started. 
3. Strong readers create a purpose for reading so they know what to look for and notice as they read. It might be worth checking with students what they think they will be looking for or noticing in the reading before they begin, and what keywords are associated with that lens. In the earth science class I was visiting, for instance, students could have adopted a lens in the reading for what causes climate change, and how can individuals slow the process or prevent it?  
4. If you notice students are beginning to read and annotate, take a moment for positive narrations, such as, “I love how Damian is writing in the margins and using arrows to make connections to other sentences and images.
5. If students are stuck and not reading, open it up to pair read. There is no age limit to pair reading, which includes taking turns reading the text aloud, discussing it by restating what was understood, and/or asking each other to clarify any confusing moments. Sheridan Blau, one of our esteemed professors in the English Education department at Teachers College, reminds us that “reading is a social activity.” When students engage with a text and help each other intellectually make meaning, they will practice and grow their literacy and thinking skills.  

Even when a lesson starts off with deep curiosity, the transition to reading may still be bumpy. Address this with your students, and try any of the strategies listed above. We want our students to be active and thoughtful citizens, so let’s continue building their literacy skills, even if it requires some reteaching or regrouping. Just as it is worth combating climate change and making adjustments to mitigate this issue, practicing and improving students’ reading in all subject areas is worth fighting for. 

How human-centered responses guide students toward clearer, more purposeful communication.

Why did assigning an authentic audience fail to produce effective arguments? This article — the fourth in the Teaching Writing in the Age of Generative AI series — argues that writing is a social transaction where feedback should prioritize relational connection and rhetorical empathy, as defined by scholars like Flower and Moffett. The practical takeaway is the use of relational response to shift the reader’s role from evaluator to human reader.

​I thought I had it figured out.

For our argumentative writing unit, I assigned a clear, authentic audience: our school leadership. Students would write arguments about something they wanted changed—from cafeteria policies to classroom technology—directly to the people who could enact that change from their own perspectives and citing evidence. This, I assumed, would frame writing as thinking and authentic identity building. 

As is often the case in teaching, I was proven wrong.

When the drafts came in, I was shocked. The language was off the mark. Arguments demanding a new grading system used the casual, pleading tone of a text message; proposals for mental health support were full of unexplained jargon the busy administrators wouldn't wade through. My initial frustration was overwhelming: Why didn't they use the proper conventions for this genre? Then, I realized the disconnect. My students knew what they wanted to say, but they didn't know how to say it convincingly to that audience. They knew little about the genre of institutional argument or what their school leadership would find persuasive. What would be convincing? More importantly, how had others written successful arguments in this context?

If writing is only ever aimed at an assessor, it becomes sterile. I suggest we shift the focus from evaluation to conversation—from isolating the writer to connecting them with a genuine human audience.

Writing, at its core, demands a social transaction. It requires the writer to move beyond "writer-based prose"—writing that only makes sense to the person who wrote it—and towards "reader-based prose." Linda Flower introduced this concept (Flower, 1979), explaining that reader-based prose is where the writer actively anticipates and negotiates with the needs and expectations of their audience. This negotiation compels a writer to make a series of conscious choices—about tone, evidence, and structure—deeply defined and rooted in what they know about another person.

James Moffett underscores this, arguing that discourse is fundamentally an act of "I talking to you about it" (Moffett, 1981). The “I” refers to the writer, the “you” the audience, and the “it” the subject of their writing. In this way, Moffett suggests that all writing is a negotiation between author, audience, and purpose. Furthermore, Janet Emig cautioned that when writing is detached from real purpose, students simply mimic tone, not truly developing their voice as writers (Emig, 1977).

Some suggest a teacher cannot be an authentic writing audience because the role of "teacher" often means "evaluator." However, this perception overlooks the reality that teachers are often deeply human figures in students' lives. If we redefine our role—responding as human beings who engage with the ideas, rather than just as judges who assess adherence to a rubric—we absolutely can be that deeply human, authentic audience. If we re-anchor the writing task in a context where the audience matters, we give students the tools to understand who they are writing to and what they value.

As my prior articles established, writing is fundamentally about thinking and building identity. Extending this, feedback shouldn't just focus on sharpening critical thinking or correcting conventions; it should also serve as a crucial site for social-emotional learning (SEL) and human connection.

In the digital age, AI tools can efficiently provide feedback on mechanics, clarity, and structural consistency. However, what makes human feedback unique is the point of social and emotional connection and the authentic human reader experience. AI can assess rules; it cannot tell the writer, "This made me laugh aloud," or "I connected to this deeply because it reminded me of this event from my own life."

Relational feedback moves beyond the rubric to share the actual, personal experience of the reader, thereby facilitating SEL competencies like relationship skills and social awareness. When a reader shares their personal response, they are modeling empathy and validating the writer's humanity. Research on response-based feedback—feedback that privileges the reader's experience and response over institutional critique—confirms its power in helping writers revise their work more effectively because they are responding to a real communication breakdown rather than an abstract rule (Elbow, 1998). 
​
I use this model in my own college courses, giving most writing feedback in the genre of letters of response, a pedagogy inspired by Ruth Vinz. I've already observed increased engagement, assignment completion, and voluntary student responses—often because I've posed genuine conversation questions within my letters. I'm currently analyzing this data for formal publication, but the initial findings strongly suggest that treating feedback as a human conversation yields better results than treating it as a final judgment. Other research supports this: Nancy Sommers found that student writers often ignore comments that aren't integrated into a broader, holistic response (Sommers, 1982).

Even without the time or capacity to write full letters to students, this mode of relational feedback centers on the writing's impact, using phrases like:

• "I re-read this and laughed aloud; your voice really shines here."
• "This helped me to see a new perspective. I think what you're saying here is..."
• "I struggled to understand your point here... Could you clarify this idea for me, a reader who hasn't experienced or read what you have?"
• "This reminded me of a time in my own life when... I connected deeply to that feeling."
• "What if you tried this? I suggest it because I know this about the school leadership... what do you think?"

This feedback tells the student: "I see you, and I resonate with your thinking and experiences, but communication requires a bridge." This can also be a mode of feedback that you encourage students to give to one another. 

The goal is to shift the audience from "teacher-as-grader" or “student-as-grader” to "human-as-recipient" and to use feedback to reinforce that human link.

The power of writing is not just in the logic it presents or the identity it reveals, but in the bridges it builds. While AI tools offer valuable assistance with mechanics, they cannot replicate the relational feedback that fosters empathy and authentic connection. When we teach writing with a genuine audience, armed with the lessons from mentor texts, and commit to relational feedback, we redefine the teacher's role and move beyond “school assignments.” We equip students with the rhetorical empathy to recognize the person on the other side of the page and adjust their voice and choices accordingly. This focus on connection is one of the most profound skills we can teach in a world increasingly starved for meaningful relationships. 

Turn writing tasks into mirrors where students see themselves.

Why did a standard analytical prompt lead students to declare, "This is boring"? This article — the third in the Teaching Writing in the Age of Generative AI series —argues that voice and choice are essential because writing is a means of self-affirmation and identity construction, as articulated by scholars like Rudine Sims Bishop and Mary Ryan. Practical strategies include designing prompts that invite the self, offering a menu of modalities and genres, and using personal narrative to experiment with voice.

​“Analyze at least three author's choices and how they shape a theme in the text.”

Students nodded, recognizing the prompt. Some immediately sketched three boxes on their paper, planning to “fill in” the author’s choices they would explore.

Then, the inevitable: “This is boring.”

As a K-12 writing teacher, I sometimes feel that my curriculum's structure, while necessary for meeting standards like the Next Generation Standards, can at times guide students into rather narrow pathways. My internal monologue becomes so driven by these standards, unceasing: Well, I need to ensure students grasp figurative language so they can analyze authorial choices. That goal naturally calls for stronger close reading skills, and in order to close read then students will benefit from targeted vocabulary instruction, and to teach that I’ll need to…

In my effort to anticipate student needs, align to standards, and ensure skilled instruction, I can sometimes forget the actual student experience of reading and writing. Hearing, “This is boring,” was painful, yet it served as an important moment of reflection for me. “They’re right,” I realized. “This is boring.” If I was being honest, I dreaded grading those assignments before students even started writing them, anticipating checking off the same three literary devices repeatedly.

I'd find that initial prompt just as boring as my students do. I enjoy authors’ choices and themes most as they relate to me. An author who writes about love or loss, a dissolving friendship, a difficult social order, or a hopeful engagement with the natural world sparks my interest. I want to discuss and write about those pieces because they reflect myself or something that feels like it exists in my world. I want to explore my connection to the theme, how our world might benefit from it, and how I might adopt the author's choices in my own work. Writing itself becomes a place of agency and choice that lets me explore what I care about most.

Now, returning to my students who we left bored at the beginning of this article — imagine how different the writing process becomes when we pose this question:

“What’s one message the author communicates, and who in your life would benefit from hearing it? Write to whoever that is: yourself, your team, your friend group, or your school leadership. As you explain your thinking, include some of the author’s choices and how those help communicate the theme.”

This idea isn't new. Dr. Rudine Sims Bishop's famous "windows, mirrors, and sliding glass doors" metaphor captures this perfectly:

​Writing that stems from an authentic prompt encourages us to imagine, reflect, and self-affirm. These invitations engage students because the individual both shapes and is called upon by the writing task.

Writing offers a pathway to explore and construct personal voice and identity. When we invite students to write from memory or personal narrative, they build authorship. They write from within, not just toward a grade, and learn to value their own perspective. If student writing sometimes lacks voice or sounds generic, the question becomes what and how we invite them to write. Does the prompt itself invite individual perspective?

I acknowledge that students still need to master the skills required by the first, more traditional prompt, especially for standardized assessments. Nonetheless, my revised prompt—which asks students to choose an audience and explain the message's relevance—still requires identifying and analyzing the author's choices. But it also invites student voices. While it can’t be every prompt, it can certainly be some. Perhaps most? 

Writing scholarship strongly supports this approach. Student motivation to write increases when they perceive relevance and have voice and choice (Pink, 2011). When students see a purpose beyond the teacher’s gradebook, they engage more deeply. Furthermore, Mary Ryan (2014) argues that teaching writing as a series of decisions about how to represent their subject matter and themselves through language helps shape and represent students’ identities. 

In the context of new technologies, recent studies involving generative AI, such as Chan & Hu (2023), show students’ perceived concerns about how AI might misrepresent their individual values and/or cause harm to their teacher-student relationships. This perception suggests that students themselves recognize writing as a place for personal value exploration and relational connection — for that reason, they worry about how generative AI might misrepresent them or the things they care about, negatively impacting their relationships with their teachers. 

In a time when many young people feel disempowered, writing remains one of the few places where they can explore their experiences, shape their narratives, and be heard. 

​How, then, do we support identity building as teachers of writing? How do we create student engagement and spark curiosity? How do we support students’ identity building through voice and choice? 

1. Design Prompts that Invite the Self
Consider: Am I creating opportunities for students to explore their own values and experiences in response to a text, rather than just summarizing it? Instead of asking students to analyze the setting's role in a story, I might ask: "Write about a place in your life where you felt the same sense of isolation or belonging that the main character felt. How did that place influence your choices? Connect that to the setting of this text." These prompts require analysis while grounding the response in the student's personal landscape.

2. Offer a Menu of Modalities and Genres for Response
Consider: How might I expand options beyond the five-paragraph essay to value choice in form? If an author's message is particularly impactful, a student might express their response best through a podcast script, a graphic novel panel, or a narrative poem. Allowing students to choose the medium based on their strengths and the message's nature validates their communication skills and encourages stylistic flexibility.

3. Use Personal Narrative and Experiment with Voice
Consider: How can I use personal narrative assignments as a laboratory for trying on different author's styles and voices? After reading a strong memoirist (like Kincaid or Sedaris), I ask students to retell a personal story twice: once in their natural voice and once "in the style of" the author they just read, focusing on devices like sentence length, humor, or tone. This active imitation helps students discover their own voice by showing what happens when they play with different authorial choices.

​The frustration I felt grading those three-box analysis prompts stemmed from their failure to recognize the student as an individual. When we reduce writing to a mechanical checklist, we disconnect it from identity, the very source of its power.

We can meet curriculum goals—analyzing craft, theme, and evidence—while empowering students to see themselves in the texts they read and write. As Rudine Sims Bishop reminds us, literature offers a mirror. Our pedagogy can ensure writing functions as a tool for self-authorship. By offering choices in prompt design, genre, and modality, we move beyond compliance. We ask students to invest their voice, experience, and perspective.

This investment is the personal rhythm that distinguishes human writing from AI-generated text. By prioritizing voice and choice, we not only boost motivation and engagement but also give students a vital platform to name their experiences and actively shape their narratives. The most meaningful writing education doesn't just teach how; it teaches students why their voice matters.
​

From the first day’s uncertainty to the final publishing celebration, discover what really happens inside an SPI project — and why the journey is worth it.

On the first day of my first project with the Student Press Initiative (SPI), and  I was nervous, but excited. I knew what an SPI project was on paper; I had seen examples and walked through the process others had gone through. I had even worked to build out a unit that would follow along with SPI’s core principles — project-based instruction, community of learners, real-world authorship, and celebrating student voice — but, as with most things in life, there were challenges that I never expected (whether I should have is another matter entirely). 

In short, a Student Press Initiative project is a project-based learning experience in which an instructional coach partners with a teacher to guide students through a writing process that culminates in the publication of a professionally bound book. These projects center student voice and often explore personal, cultural, or academic themes that matter to them. The final manuscripts are published, shared, and celebrated at a culminating event — often a publishing party — where each student receives a copy of the book.
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Now, with more SPI experience under my belt, I’ve come to expect some frequently asked questions from teachers, students, and even school leaders who are curious (and sometimes skeptical) about what this work really looks like in practice. 

One of the main goals of an SPI project is to build students’ confidence and help them see themselves as writers. Often, the motivation of getting to be a published author is enough to encourage them to begin. When I encounter students who think writing is boring, a waste of time, or unnecessary, I must help them find other motivators.

A great first step is tailoring the writing, as much as possible within the unit, to student interests. For example, if the assignment is to write an op-ed, start by getting students to think about what they care about. What interests them? What do they do in their free time? What do they care about? Then, encourage them to research and write from that perspective. Anytime they start to lose motivation, routing them back to their “why” can be a boost. The more we can center and celebrate student voice, the better. Part of my job in the role of Coach is to help take the raw knowledge of your students and find those inroads.

Sometimes, though, you don’t have the ability to give the students that freedom. Maybe they have to write about a book they’ve read in class and “Mr. P, we don’t like any of them. There’s nothing interesting to me here.” Here, redirecting towards emotional or reactive connections with the topic becomes helpful. “Ok, you can’t relate. Why not? What about Romeo bugs you so much? What is so boring about Jay Gatsby?” By pushing into a student’s “why”, they might find that they have more to say than they thought. Emotions then become transformed into their “why” — whether it’s a connection they didn’t realize, or a hate letter to James Joyce (been there, done that).

The most important thing in motivating writing is to help writers find their “why,” beyond “I have to for school.” Once you find that, make it a touchstone. And just as important is creating a space where students can share those “whys” with one another. When students see that their classmates also struggle, take risks, and care deeply about what they’re saying, they begin to feel part of something bigger than just a single assignment. That sense of being in a community of learners — where ideas are exchanged, questions are valued, and voices matter — is what can turn a reluctant writer into a real one. 

In any SPI project, you have at least baseline support from your administration, because they have approved the project. Before the project really takes off, having conversations about the expectations they have of you and your students’ work, the final publication, their level of involvement, etc. are important to the SPI project running smoothly.

For instance, are there any topics that the admin won’t allow students to write about? Anything they feel uncomfortable putting the school’s name on? How involved would they like to be on the project? Would they like to be involved in writing a foreword or afterword? How often would they like to be updated on the project? In what ways?

The more clarity you can have between each other, the easier it will be to address concerns as the project moves forward. An SPI coach can help bridge those tension points and concerns. As observers, we are able to bring an outside perspective to conversations within schools about where concerns are coming from and how to go about it. This should take one more thing off a teacher’s plate and allow them to focus more on the unit at hand!

When you encourage students to write from the heart about topics they care about, there is always a chance that certain topics may come up that are not appropriate for publishing. This doesn’t just have to mean inappropriate content — violence, bullying, etc. — but also personally identifiable or sensitive information. For instance, a student might write about helping a friend through a crisis and name details about the crisis including names, places, and situations. Or a student decides to write about their ongoing mental health struggles, including things they have never shared with anyone else. This is where the drafting process can be incredibly helpful.

First, think about how your framing of an assignment can help preempt some of these issues. The value of real-world authorship often comes into play here — in an SPI project, students aren’t just writing for a grade or a teacher, they’re writing for real readers. That means parents, peers, teachers, and sometimes total strangers will be engaging with their words.

Helping students understand that their writing will live in the world shifts how they think about what to include and how to shape it. Give them guidelines about what it means that a story is theirs; reinforce that any details that are not their own should be withheld or changed to respect the privacy of others. Then, review the writing as you go.

Including time for at least two drafts in your project gives you the chance to read and catch anything before it comes time to publish. Talk to the student one-on-one, emphasizing that their writing itself, or even about these topics, is not the issue, but their safety and their audience are. If possible, work with students to rework or redirect their writing. If it needs to be completely changed, make sure to continually highlight that their writing itself is not the issue, and help guide them to a new topic they love. 

For any project-based learning project, the key is organizing early and often! A student publishing project is very manageable if you begin thinking with the end in mind, thinking through what is needed in order to finish. Like any project-based unit, clarity and planning make all the difference.

Is the students’ work being shared publicly? If so, we need certain permissions and consent. Will students work through  multiple drafts, or just one? Each draft should probably have its own folder. Do I want to write front or back material? Does my administration? You guessed it, another folder! Think through each piece of generated material for your project, and how you would like to store it. The clearer you keep things, the easier putting it all together at the end will be.

​Additionally, making a dashboard for yourself to keep track of things from a birds-eye view is indispensable. Like folders, I like to make a column for each deliverable, student work, and consent forms. This helps me see the overall progress of the process and what specific students or areas of the project need attention. Having this combination of in-depth folders and a zoomed out dashboard is indispensable for keeping organized and helping your project run smoothly!

​This is the best part of any SPI project. As they work through our process, students will:

• Feel more confident in themselves as writers
• Write about topics that are meaningful to them
• Recognize that writing is a tool to help them beyond schoolwork
• Have a published work they can put on resumes and college applications
• Experience writing as a process not a one-and-done task
• Grow trust with themselves and each other

While there will always be new questions that arise as you guide students through this process, each project deepens your understanding and reminds you why this work matters — helping young writers find and share their voices.

In an age of instant answers, help students rediscover writing as a space for uncertainty and growth.

Why do students claim, "I don't have anything to say," when facing a blank page? This piece — the second in the Teaching Writing in the Age of Generative AI series — argues that writing reluctance often stems from a fixed writing mindset, which fears the uncertainty of "writing into the unknown," a concept advocated by Ruth Vinz. Practical strategies include using low-stakes freewriting, modeling the messy process of composition, and reframing revision as "meaning-making," following the theories of Peter Elbow and Ann Berthoff.

​“I don’t have anything to say.” He leaned back in his chair, arms folded.

I’ve heard variations of this conversation countlessly when students face the task of writing. I used to respond with a spirited, “Yes, you do!,” believing simple encouragement would galvanize their pencil across the page.

My perspective changed in graduate school when I became that student—the one suddenly certain I had nothing to say. I could barely write a few words, and I feared sharing them with peers and professors, even when the topic truly interested me.

In reality, I feared writing into the unknown. Before I began, I wasn’t sure what I wanted to say. I developed a conviction that my idea had to be worthy, interesting, unique, and, most importantly, fully formed before the act of writing could begin. Writing, in this view, came after the thought, as if words were a precious, exhaustible resource. I needed to conserve them until a brilliantly complete idea struck me; only then could I write.

Part of that fear undeniably stemmed from how others might perceive my unknown--What if they think I’m foolish? That my idea is flawed? That my perspective is lacking and, by extension, that I am lacking?

"I don’t have anything to say [so I won’t start. I don’t know what I’ll say, it might be bad, and others might judge my ideas. If I don't write, I maintain control and avoid judgment]."

​Writing this piece, I hear the voices of several scholars who want to enter the conversation.

Carol Dweck is knocking most aggressively. Years ago, I learned about her concept of the growth mindset, yet I never connected it to writing reluctance until now, as I engage in the act of writing itself. Dweck argues for two mindsets: growth and fixed. The preferred growth mindset maintains that intellect continuously changes and grows through effort and experience. The fixed mindset, however, holds that intelligence is, well, fixed. We see her research popularized everywhere, with anchor charts urging students to view intelligence as mutable through effort.

In retrospect, my fear to begin writing stemmed from a fixed mindset. I believed an idea was either good or bad, resulting in good or bad writing. Writing could be revised, but the idea's first impression was everything—it was either formed or unformed. Dweck’s work emphasizes that those with fixed mindsets fear failure and uncertainty because it suggests an absence of intelligence, a trait you either possess or you don't. Similarly, I held what I might call a fixed writing mindset: I either had good ideas or I didn’t, and others' perceptions defined them.

The second person awaiting an entrance is Ruth Vinz, the founder of the Center for the Professional Education of Teachers (CPET). Vinz’s work advocates for writing into the (un)FOR-see-able, into that which cannot yet be seen. Writing is an act of becoming, of exploring, of encountering, not a mere tool to present, explain, analyze, and assess what has been learned. 

I also hear Ann Berthoff's words, recently read aloud by a colleague: “We don’t have ideas that we put into words; we don’t think of what we want to say and then write. In composing, we make meanings. We find the forms of thought by means of language, and we find forms of language by taking thought.”

With generative AI tools like ChatGPT, Microsoft Copilot, Claude, and Google Gemini easily accessible, supporting writing as a process of thinking—of making meanings through composing—is more imperative than ever. If students believe good ideas pre-exist the act of writing, their logic may follow that a prompt can give them objectively good ideas without struggle, uncertainty, or risk.

Through this lens, generative AI tools are the ultimate development for the fixed (writing) mindset: the ultimate cheat code to bypass the judgment of one’s own efforts or intelligence, and therefore never to be found lacking. Generative AI provides the illusion of a finished structure without ever requiring the user to lay the foundation. It acts as a set of polished scaffolding that reassures students a perfect building exists, without them having to engage in the actual, risky labor of construction. The root is not laziness or resistance, but the fear from a fixed mindset.

​How, then, do we intervene as teachers of writing? How do we embrace a growth-minded writing process? We must support our students in understanding that writing is a way of meaning-making, a process where ideas develop over time through reflection and revision.

​Our work as educators now requires us to look past the surface-level resistance of "I don't have anything to say" and address the underlying fixed writing mindset that generates fear and uncertainty.

​By intentionally fostering low-stakes environments, modeling the productive messiness of writing into the unknown, and reframing revision as intellectual growth, we can help students move beyond the temptation of AI shortcuts and the paralyzing fear of judgment. We can empower them to recognize that the blank page isn't a performance space for a pre-existing idea, but rather a vital engine for discovery—the essential place where they actively make their own meanings and, in the process, grow into their best ideas and selves. 
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Anchor writing in what AI can’t replace: human thought, voice, and connection.

If generative AI can write well enough, what is the value of teaching writing? This year-long series establishes that the core values of thinking, identity, and connection must be our anchors for teaching writing and for discerning the ethical and pedagogical role of AI tools. This framework is exemplified by the CPET Student Press Initiative (SPI), a long-standing model that validates student voice through authentic publication.

She leaned in, a look of concern clouding her face, and whispered: “I’m just starting to feel like there is no point teaching writing anymore.” She gestured toward the pile of laptops, chargers, and tablets between us. “All this—this is the future.”

Her words didn't just linger; they echo the anxiety spreading through our professional communities. If artificial intelligence can generate a passable essay with a simple prompt and click, what is the enduring value of our craft? Writers like Stephen Marche declared “The College Essay is Dead” (The Atlantic, 2022), and many of us report feeling less like facilitators of original thought and more like editors of machine-generated text (Wang, 2024).

The question repeats everywhere, sharp and unsettling: “Why does teaching writing matter anymore?”

This series--Teaching Writing in the Age of Generative AI—starts by confronting that question head-on. We'll explore how generative AI is reshaping education and, more importantly, how it forces us to clarify and champion the most essentially human parts of our work as teachers. This exploration will blend personal classroom stories, foundational theory, emerging research, and writing practices and principles you can use in your classroom tomorrow. 

But before we tackle the ambiguities and uncertainties of new technologies, this series will explore some core beliefs about writing and what these mean for our practice: 

1. Writing is Thinking: It's the primary, sometimes messy, tool we use to wonder, struggle, and make meaning, allowing us to clarify complex ideas and build deep, critical thought.
2. Writing is Identity Building: It gives us the vital space to sound like ourselves and explore who we are becoming, helping shape individual voice and self-authorship.
3. Writing is Human Connection: It's the relational act of reaching out to say what only we can say to someone real, creating bridges of empathy and understanding.

This human-centered philosophy of teaching writing isn't new; it's the foundation of effective pedagogy, exemplified by the our Student Press Initiative (SPI). SPI's decades-long work has redefined writing instruction by prioritizing authentic purpose and audience through student-authored publications.
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The SPI process directly reflects these values of authentic thinking, identity building, and human connection. SPI requires students to produce a meaningful final product (a published book or media), compelling them to wrestle with content and synthesize complex information—not just report it. It emphasizes the publication process as a means to amplify every student's unique voice, ensuring their personal perspectives and experiences are valued, permanent, and publicly acknowledged. And, by connecting students to authentic audiences (like community members or incoming classes), SPI expands the purpose of writing far beyond the teacher's gradebook, creating genuine engagement and responsibility.

The rise of AI compels us to reexamine the value of writing. Generative AI tools may eventually have a role in that process, but these three core values—Thinking, Identity, and Connection—will be our anchors for discerning their use. They help us define our purposes as teachers of writing and, therefore, provide the truest measure for ethical engagement. Our definitions of "ethical" use must be continually discerned through reflection on these core values about writing, its value, and its purposes, not through abstract rules or simple lists.
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The tools may change, but this part — the fundamentally human part — stays the same. And that’s where I think we ought to begin.
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Fuse culturally relevant pedagogy with creative expression to deepen literacy and critical consciousness in your classroom.

The first weekend of February, our team at CPET had the great pleasure of hosting young people and faculty from Shanghai, China for a weekend of Literacy Unbound. A wonderful co-created space, we built it around placing NYC in conversation with Shanghai via exploring the texts of various NYC neighborhoods. 

Literacy Unbound is a signature CPET approach that brings teachers and students together as creative collaborators to reimagine challenging, classic texts through multiple modalities. This approach to literacy reinvigorates classroom communities using arts-infused, project-based, collaborative curricula developed around a shared text, increasing student engagement and building community in the process.

What follows is one portion of our workshop: what we did to introduce and experience together a bit of the vibrant and beautiful neighborhood of East Harlem. We know that all young people need background knowledge — we know it’s a major access point to success in literacy, and we know that many subjects have “content” to “cover.” We’d like to suggest that opening it up and “uncovering” or “unbinding” it can be both a deeply impactful and culturally relevant alternative to lecturing to introduce that background knowledge, and here is one engaging way to do it.

In order to read the poem “Puerto Rican Obituary” by Pedro Pietri, we knew participants would want some knowledge of both the poet and the neighborhood about which he writes.

​We decided giving participants a “walk” through the colorful statement pieces that are the murals of East Harlem would be one visually meaningful way into the vibrance of the poet’s neighborhood. We prepared slides of about 20 of the murals, from the prolific paintings of De La Vega, to the likenesses of Celia Cruz, Che Guevara and our poet himself, to contemporary tile mosaic pieces from Manny Vega. We visually situated Pietri in his neighborhood through exploring its political and powerful art, then asked participants to engage with and co-create their own interpretations of that art before reading.

Since Pietri’s best known piece is at once both a gorgeous elegy and a damning indictment of systemic societal injustices facing Puerto Ricans in America, it was key to situate it in the neighborhood that birthed it.

Our brief but relevant dive into the beautiful culture that shaped Pietri’s poetic works allowed us to engage in the trifold way Gloria Ladson Billings articulated for Culturally Relevant Pedagogy: first, through learning, that students are growing morally and intellectually; second, through cultural competence, that students are both appreciating and developing fluency other cultures; and third, through critical consciousness, analyzing real world problems, especially those that result in social inequities. 

First, we looked at the murals through a “walking tour” of East Harlem: participants spent about 10-15 minutes viewing and engaging with photographs on slides of murals in East Harlem as we briefly shared background knowledge on the artists and their subjects. Then, they “stopped” in front of one (on the screen or in their packet, for they were in both places) and sketched an element (a person, place, thing, color, idea) of a mural that stayed with them on an index card. 
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Second, we included a Literacy Unbound Sculpture Garden moment, where folks paired up and “sculpted” each other into the images they had created on their index cards, allowing each other to embody elements of the art (especially its tone and mood) walking around the room to see each other’s creations and takeaways from the art they viewed.
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Third, we took a reflective moment to share what we noticed, what would stay with us, and what we learned about East Harlem before engaging with Pietri’s poem. 

​Rather than offering a brief lecture for students to take notes on Pietri or East Harlem, or both, we punctuated key information about the poet with an image of his mural, and the murals of his neighborhood.

We gave participants a space to:

• examine the art,
  
• engage with it, and
  
• recreate a portion of the art.

Making the neighborhood more accessible before reading the poem — via color and key visuals rather than just words and facts — allowed participants to open themselves up to the work of art/poetry in front of them. Participants shared about the vibrance of the art, the political tensions inherent in the art, and the elements of Puerto Rican culture woven throughout the murals. 

Creating small moments of culturally relevant conditions in lieu of a background lecture for engaging with this powerful poem involved researching key visuals from Pietri’s neighborhood, putting them in conversation with each other and participants, and trusting students to pull out important elements and share them meaningfully with each other before reading the poem.

We know: time is very tight in your lessons, especially in middle and high school classrooms.

We’d like to suggest that, sometimes, you can swap out a lecture or mini lessons for brief, meaningful cultural explorations. The palpable joy of engaging with beautiful art, color, and each other together with students’ meaningful questions about society, culture, and justice will be a powerful experience, and this pedagogy is more likely to bring about lifelong memorable moments students associate with their understanding of your classroom content. 

Form is more than formatting — it’s the frame that makes meaning visible.

It started with a check.

Not a big one—no commas or decimal points. Just a small rectangle with a date, a name, and a dollar amount. Neat, predictable.

And totally opaque to my students.

We were reading Ordeal by Cheque by Wuther Crue—a wordless narrative told entirely through a series of fictional checks. The task was complex but doable: piece together a story based on these transactions, analyze what happened, and make a claim. It had the intrigue of a puzzle and the potential for deep inference work. But when we put the first check under the document camera, something unexpected happened.

The room went quiet. Not the focused kind of quiet—more like the what am I looking at? kind.

It turned out that the hardest part wasn’t the story. It was the form.

Which line was the name? Where was the date? Who was giving the money and who was getting it? These were the questions that came first—and for good reason. We hadn’t taught the structure.

And I get it. Checks aren’t exactly a part of most teenagers’ daily routines. But this moment reminded me of something I’ve learned (and relearned) over and over again: if we want students to read deeply, we need to start by helping them read the form. Before we get to the big ideas or higher-order questions, we have to spend time on the what is this thing? questions. Not as an aside. As the entry point.

So we zoomed in. Literally.

We used a See, Think, Wonder protocol—but this time, for the check itself. What do you see? “There’s a number up top.” What do you think it means? “Maybe that’s the date?” What do you wonder? “Is the name the person writing the check or the person getting the money?” These observations weren’t off-topic. They were the topic. And they gave us a way in.
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From there, we layered in language. We built a vocabulary foldable—one flap for “memo line,” another for “signature,” another for “pay to the order of.” It was simple but powerful: now, students had words to name what they were seeing. Noticing turned into knowing. We weren’t just reading the story. We were reading the form.

That same move—the shift from seeing to naming—applies across genres. Take poetry. Before we ever introduce words like stanza or line break, we can invite students to notice: What do you see? “There’s a bunch of short lines, then a space, then more lines.” That’s a doorway. Once students walk through it, we can offer the language: those bunches of lines? They’re stanzas. That space? It signals a shift. Now we’re building a bridge from what they can observe to what they can understand.

Once we’d built that foundational knowledge with Ordeal by Cheque, we moved into our next layer: structure. We used the Lifelines strategy, a kind of sentence-frame scaffold that helps students slow down and name what they’re seeing in the text. “It says…” (the evidence). “This means…” (the interpretation). “This is important because…” (the significance). Repeated over time, this structure doesn’t just support comprehension—it teaches students how to think through a text.

And then, with all that in place, we let students fly.

We used a strategy called Debate Team Carousel. Students worked in groups of four, each with a paper divided into four quadrants. The first student made a claim about what happened in Ordeal by Cheque—something like “The checks reveal a hidden love affair.” Then they passed the paper to the second student, whose job was to add a piece of evidence to support the claim. The third student added a counterargument, challenging the interpretation of the evidence to support the claim. And the fourth student had the opportunity to add their two cents, negotiating between the claim and the counterclaim based on the evidence. Each round was built not just on content knowledge, but on reasoning, voice, and collaborative writing. And all of it was grounded in their careful reading of the form.
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Suddenly, the room was anything but quiet. Students were huddled over their papers, whispering, negotiating word choice, re-reading a check for the third time to be sure. It was the kind of messy, generative thinking that only happens when the foundation is solid.

There’s a lesson here, and it’s not just about checks.

It’s about how we teach students to read.

Before we can ask them to make meaning, we have to show them how the meaning is built. What’s the shape of this text? What are its parts? What do you see before you start thinking or wondering?

When we start there—with what’s visible—we invite students into the work. We say: you already know how to notice. Let’s build from that.

And when we return, again and again, to the basics of structure and form—not just as vocabulary, but as tools for understanding—we’re not watering down the work. We’re strengthening the foundation. Because deep thinking isn’t just about hard texts. It’s about having the scaffolds to hold that thinking up.

So next time your students stall on a poem, or a graph, or a quirky one-page story told through a series of checks, pause before jumping into theme or tone.

 Zoom in. Ask: What do you see?

 And let that be the beginning.

Adaptable vocabulary strategies that help students decode and apply words meaningfully in real-world contexts.

As a teacher, I’ve noticed that vocabulary instruction often carries a reputation for being dry, tedious, or even disconnected from the larger goals of reading and writing. But when done thoughtfully, it’s anything but. Vocabulary is the connective tissue that helps students make sense of complex ideas, navigate challenging texts, and articulate their own thoughts with greater confidence.

This has made me wonder: how can we teach vocabulary in ways that feel meaningful — not just another academic hoop to jump through, but a tool that students recognize as valuable in their own lives? These questions resonate deeply, especially when I think about students grappling with unfamiliar words and texts. The goal isn’t just about knowing words; it’s about seeing language as something students can decode, manipulate, and make their own.

Research offers plenty of insight into this. Goodwin and Ahn (2013) emphasize the power of teaching word structure — those prefixes, roots, and suffixes that act as keys to unlocking meaning. Beck, McKeown, and Kucan (2013) highlight the importance of intentional, explicit vocabulary instruction that connects words to real-world contexts. The strategies I’m sharing here build on this research, with a practical edge: each comes with a linked resource from our library to make implementation easier.

These aren’t one-size-fits-all solutions. They’re adaptable tools meant to meet your students where they are and help them see the power of words in action.

​When students learn how to break down words into prefixes, roots, and suffixes, they gain a sense of control over the language. Morphology helps demystify unfamiliar terms, making complex texts less intimidating.

Example: Use a "Vocabulary Web" to explore the root struct (meaning "to build"). Students can branch out into related words like construct, instruction, or destruction, identifying how the root connects their meanings.

Linked resource: Vocabulary Web

Teaching students to reflect on words — considering their meanings, uses, and nuances across contexts — can deepen understanding in ways that memorizing definitions never will.

Example: Incorporate the Frayer Model to analyze a word like resilient. Students define it, explore its characteristics, and think through examples (a person overcoming adversity) and non-examples (a fragile object breaking under pressure).

​Linked resource: Frayer Model Template

Encouraging students to infer word meanings from context builds their ability to engage actively with texts. This approach shifts their focus from frustration to curiosity when encountering unknown words.

Example: Use a “redaction strategy.” Black out key vocabulary in a passage and ask students to fill in the blanks based on surrounding clues. This sparks discussion and reinforces their critical thinking. Alternatively, ask students to self-redact any words they come across while reading that they do not know. This creates the added benefit of visualizing the language barrier that may exist that prevent students from accessing challenging texts. 

​Linked resource: Redaction Strategy

Helping students connect new words to what they already know can make vocabulary feel more relevant. Synonyms, antonyms, and real-world applications all contribute to a richer understanding.

Example: Try semantic gradients. If teaching “cold,” students place related words (like chilly, freezing, arctic) on a spectrum, refining their grasp of subtle differences. This is an excellent strategy to make vocabulary into a student-student dialogue opportunity, developing more nuanced understandings of language variations. 

​Linked resource: Semantic Gradient

Each of these strategies, paired with our ready-to-use tools, is designed to support vocabulary instruction. More importantly, they offer students pathways to see words not just as barriers but as stepping stones to stronger comprehension and expression.

Ultimately, vocabulary instruction is about more than words. It’s about equipping students with the tools to navigate the world — academically, yes, but also as curious, capable thinkers. When students feel empowered to wrestle with language and find meaning in it, they’re not just learning; they’re growing.

Empower students to create strong, confident pieces of writing by guiding them through the process as a team.

​Academic writing can be overwhelming for young people to master. Managing multiple writing skill sets — making a claim, supporting it with evidence, expanding upon it with reasoning, seamlessly opening and closing your writing, connecting your idea to the previous paragraph all while maintaining formal style, tone, and voice is a lot to manage!

Given this challenge, one key support that has become a commonplace practice at almost every grade level is for the teacher to provide a written exemplar (a teacher-generated version of the writing piece) to support young people in their creation of any given assessment.

​However, sometimes, instead of feeling supported by the exemplar, young people are mystified by it, or they only learn that their writing teacher is an exemplary writer. (Often it is the how and not the what that mystifies young writers.) One successful twist on the exemplar that can invite young people into the process, give them confidence, and help them see how it was created is group writing.

Group writing is the creation of any piece of writing together, as a group. For our purposes, I am suggesting using this technique for the creation of an exemplar, together as a class. It can be as small as writing together in part (an introductory paragraph, for example) or writing an entire piece together (the full essay, for example). Essentially, instead of handing out a fully fleshed out piece that you as the teacher have written to show students how it’s done, I am suggesting that we instead undertake the writing process together with students in class.

​Group writing can happen in a great variety of ways. After giving out the assignment and the rubric (or whatever materials you provide for students to know what is expected in order to thrive), here's one way to picture how the group writing process might look in your classroom: 

Select what to exemplify
Imagine it’s the first day learning about the assignment, so you would like to start with an exemplar of the introduction.

Ask someone to get it started
​Standing at the board, typing into a slide, writing under a document camera, or otherwise, begin by asking a brave student pioneer to offer a claim that would answer the prompt. Let them know that we will all workshop the initial claim offered, so we just need someone to get us started. 

Ask other students to refine it
Once you have written the initial claim offered where all can see, ask students to add nuance to it, or otherwise make it stronger, since many brains writing this piece can be better than just one brain writing it alone. 

Move through each component of what you're exemplifying
Whatever else you include in your introduction for the assignment — for instance, background information, three reasons that support your claim, or otherwise — follow the same process. Ask someone to offer an initial sentence, write it for all to see, and nuance it together with word choices, additional clauses or phrases, etc. as young people offer them. 

Reread the full exemplar
Once you have completed all components of your introduction, reread what you have written together. Typically, it’s a powerful, beautiful, rich piece that is equally as strong as an exemplar you would have handed out, yet it is enhanced, because students created it with you, saw how to do it, saw that they could do it, and are now ready to begin their writing.

Invite students to start their own pieces
Once you have the group-written exemplar up for all to see, let students get started on their own introductions. Essentially, they have now participated in a robust guided practice (“we do”) and are now ready to write independently (“I do”). 

Group writing works in many different contexts, for just about any kind of writing. It is an empowering, collaborative, demystifying process that is highly successful in helping young people understand how to create a phenomenal piece of writing. So with your next writing assignment, if you want to support students with their writing — helping them to bolster their self confidence and better envision how a piece of writing is created — try a group write!

Literature comes alive through this multimodal experience that turns reading into a dynamic, embodied journey.

“Look around the room.” Eyes flicker, landing on other people, the windows, the rough, textured carpet. “When I clap my hands, move to fill any empty space.” A pause. Then -- clap. Bodies shift, some quickly, some hesitantly, creating a new arrangement of movement and presence. Another clap. “Now, as you move again, acknowledge the people you pass — but silently. Just recognize their presence in this space today.”

This time, heads lift. Eyes meet. Silent smiles and nods ripple across the room.

“Wonderful. We are about to embark on a journey — all the way to Antigua.”

And just like that, the room transforms. Our steps are no longer random; they map our imagined journey from New York City to the Caribbean. As we move, we start to see — the sandy beaches and blue waters of St. John’s, the bright green okra sprouting from the soil, the fire ants crawling over each other in tangled urgency. We begin to hear — the strong, tinny beats of Benna music, the harmonies of the South Leeward Mission Choir. We taste — the heat of Pepper Pot, the sweetness of Doukona laced with cinnamon.

Then, we read. Jamaica Kincaid’s Girl.

And suddenly, everything we encountered before is there again, but this time in the text. The mother's sharp, rhythmic voice delivers a long, unbroken string of instructions to her daughter, telling her how to behave, how to cook, how to be seen and unseen. The foods we tasted — okra, doukona — become part of the lessons. The music we heard — Benna — appears as something the girl is warned against singing in Sunday school. Through these details, the world we stepped into before reading is now intertwined within the story itself, making the text feel immediate and lived-in rather than distant and unfamiliar.

At CPET, we see literacy not as a static skill but as an active and immersive process. Before students ever touch a text, they bring with them a range of lived experiences, cultural knowledge, and sensory understandings. When we expand how students enter a text — through movement, sound, image, and sensory engagement — we create deeper access points for interpretation, discussion, and meaning-making.

This kind of work is at the heart of Literacy Unbound, where teachers and students step beyond traditional reading strategies to engage with literature in dynamic, multimodal ways. By using the body, the voice, and the imagination, we make content knowledge an experience, not just a prerequisite for comprehension.

The benefits of this approach extend beyond engagement — they also support comprehension. A study published in Reading Psychology found that incorporating movement, sound, and visual elements into reading instruction significantly improved students' critical reading skills and positively influenced their perceptions of reading activities. 

In Literacy Unbound, students don’t just read literature; they step inside it. They take on perspectives, inhabit settings, and wrestle with the emotions and stakes of a text. This deep engagement leads to:

For teachers and leaders, the question is often: How do we make texts accessible while maintaining rigor and improving reading comprehension? Literacy Unbound offers an answer — not by simplifying literature, but by expanding the ways we approach it.

Each summer, the Literacy Unbound Institute brings together educators and high school students as players, co-creating a shared world of storytelling and inquiry. Through an immersive, inquiry-driven process, participants explore how literature can be activated through performance, soundscapes, movement, and visual storytelling — blurring the lines between reading, interpretation, and creation.

From July 13-17, 2026, at Teachers College, Columbia University, teachers and students will work side by side, experimenting with multimodal approaches to literature and discovering new ways to expand literacy engagement.

• ​Literacy Unbound 2026 Institute dates: July 13, 2025 - July 17, 2025
• Location: Teachers College, Columbia University
• Link to apply by April 21

Spots are limited, and decisions will be sent out in early May.

For educators looking to extend this work beyond the summer, CPET offers additional opportunities to bring Literacy Unbound into classrooms through tailored professional development and coaching. Whether it’s a one-time workshop or a fully immersive classroom project, we work with schools to integrate multimodal literacy strategies that engage students in deep, creative exploration of texts.

Because when literacy is unbound, it is no longer something to be unlocked. It is something to be lived.

The best reading experiences don’t just confirm what students already know — they challenge, complicate, and expand their understanding.

I used to think I had to tell students everything before reading a challenging text. Before Their Eyes Were Watching God, I’d launch into a historical overview of the Harlem Renaissance. Before Frankenstein, I’d explain the Enlightenment, Romanticism, and galvanism. The idea was that if they had enough context upfront, they wouldn’t feel lost.

And in a way, it worked. When we started reading, students recognized ideas we had discussed — the social structures that shaped Janie’s world, the philosophical questions that haunted Victor Frankenstein. But then something interesting would happen. A passage would complicate what they thought they knew. The historical context gave them a foundation, but the text didn’t always confirm it neatly. Instead, it pushed back. Some details reinforced what we had talked about, while others unsettled it. Janie’s journey wasn’t just about the expectations placed on Black women in the early 20th century — it was about the deeply personal ways she resisted them. The Creature wasn’t just an extension of Enlightenment anxieties — he was also a character with a voice that disrupted the categories we had built.

That’s when I realized that background knowledge isn’t something students get before reading — it’s something they also build while reading. The goal isn’t to frontload so much that the text becomes predictable. It’s to give students just enough footing to begin, and then help them navigate the way the text interacts with — and sometimes challenges — what they think they know.

​What does the text and author assume that I already know to enter into the text? Is there a pre-knowledge tool to figure out what my students know or don’t know? How do I use that to curate our scaffolding of offering background knowledge? 

• Setting (place and time) 
• Authors’ identity and background
• Topic (basic level of understanding about the focus of the topic, whether that’s a historical event or a particular topic – what will you need to know and understand about the conflict)
• Context (narrative, counternarrative, etc.) 
• Geographic awareness
• Allegorical connections
• Visual/audio/text/video

These strategies offer students ways to build background knowledge before reading a text. 

​Debate Team Carousel
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​Students rotate through different stations, each presenting a key issue or debate tied to the text. At each stop, they generate arguments for both sides before moving on. This strategy helps them see major themes as contested rather than settled.
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• Example: Before reading Their Eyes Were Watching God, stations pose questions like: Should love or security be the foundation of marriage? or Is silence a form of power or oppression? As students rotate, they engage with multiple perspectives before encountering these tensions in Janie’s journey.
• Example: Before Frankenstein, students debate: Does scientific discovery justify ethical risks? or Are people responsible for what they create? These discussions prepare them to evaluate Victor’s choices with a more nuanced lens.

​Four As Discussion
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Students engage with a central passage or excerpt before reading the full text, responding to four prompts:

• What do they agree with?
• What do they argue against?
• What do they assume?
• What do they aspire to?

Example: Before Their Eyes Were Watching God, students examine an excerpt from Hurston’s “How It Feels to Be Colored Me,” considering how ideas of race, identity, and independence connect to their assumptions about the novel.

Example: Before Frankenstein, students analyze a passage from Rousseau on human nature, questioning whether society corrupts people or if people are inherently flawed. These questions set them up to engage with the Creature’s development throughout the novel.

​Navigating Multiple Perspectives

Students examine two different historical or cultural perspectives related to the novel’s time period. This helps them see how a text is shaped by competing social forces.
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• Example: Before Their Eyes Were Watching God, students compare two sources — one from a Harlem Renaissance writer who advocated for embracing Black cultural expression and another from a more conservative perspective arguing that supposed “social respectability” should be prioritized. As they read, they reflect on how Hurston positions Janie within this debate.
• Example: Before Frankenstein, students read about the optimism of the Industrial Revolution alongside Romantic-era fears of dehumanization. How does Shelley engage with both perspectives? Does she embrace one or critique both?

​As students read, they don’t just apply what they learned beforehand — they deepen, challenge, and revise it. These strategies help them engage with the text as an active conversation.

​Three Reads
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A structured close reading strategy where students read a passage three times, each with a different focus: first for comprehension, second for structure and language, and third for connections to prior knowledge.
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• Example: In Their Eyes Were Watching God, students read Janie’s moment under the pear tree three times—first for what literally happens, then for Hurston’s sensory language and imagery, then for how it establishes the novel’s ideas about love and self-discovery.
• Example: In Frankenstein, students do the same with the Creature’s plea to Victor, considering how their initial understanding deepens as they examine Shelley’s rhetorical choices and the broader themes of responsibility and rejection.

​Lifelines
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​Students pause at key moments to break down an excerpt with the prompts:

• It says… (Summarizing what the text literally states)
• This means… (Interpreting its deeper meaning)
• This is important because… (Connecting it to a larger theme, character, or idea)

Example: In Their Eyes Were Watching God, students use Lifelines to analyze Janie’s reflections after Joe Starks’ death—what she says about herself, what it reveals about her changing sense of freedom, and how it shifts the novel’s direction.

Example: In Frankenstein, students use the strategy when the Creature recounts learning language and observing the De Laceys, breaking down how he interprets human behavior and why his response to rejection is so significant.

​Exploring Historical Echoes

Students pause to connect a key moment in the text to real historical or cultural moments, asking: 

• How does this scene reflect real-world events? 
• How does this scene distort real-world events?
• How does this scene overall respond to real-world events?

Example: In Their Eyes Were Watching God, students compare Janie’s trial to real-life cases where Black women had to defend themselves against societal judgment. What does Hurston’s portrayal reflect about racial and gender biases of the time?

Example: In Frankenstein, students examine how the Creature’s experience echoes real debates about exclusion and oppression. How does Shelley’s portrayal align with historical fears about "the other"?

​Background knowledge isn’t something static that students receive before reading — it’s something they build in conversation with the text. What they think they know at the start will evolve, deepen, and sometimes even unravel as they read. Our job isn’t to prepare them with all the answers but to give them just enough to enter the text with curiosity, ready to test and explore ideas along the way.

These strategies — both before and during reading — invite students to engage with texts as ongoing conversations. Some moments will confirm what they expected. Others will challenge what they thought they knew. And that’s the real work of reading: not just decoding words on a page but making sense of a world that doesn’t always fit into neat categories.

If we teach students to hold contradictions, question their assumptions, and revisit their interpretations, we aren’t just building background knowledge — we’re helping them become the kind of readers who can navigate complexity and embrace uncertainty. 

Literacy isn’t a responsibility to be delegated; it’s an opportunity for collaboration.

As an instructional coach, one of the most pressing questions I grapple with is this: Who is responsible for teaching literacy? Naturally, the burden often falls on English Language Arts (ELA) teachers. After all, reading and writing are the foundation of their curriculum. But through my research and my work as a coach over the last 14 years, I’ve come to see that this responsibility cannot rest solely on their shoulders.

Recently, I’ve been working closely with content area teachers to explore a broader perspective on literacy. It starts with a simple but transformative question: What does literacy look like in your classroom? 

This question opens the door to deeper exploration:

• What kinds of reading and writing skills do your students need to succeed in your discipline?
• How are you teaching these skills — or are you teaching them at all?

The responses are insightful but often surface a disconnect. Many teachers identify critical skills like analysis, reasoning, or making evidence-based arguments, but they struggle to see these as literacy skills. I try to help them bridge that gap by highlighting that discipline-specific literacy is deeply embedded in their work — and it cannot be outsourced to the ELA classroom.

To truly understand this, we need to zoom in and examine what literacy looks like in different disciplines. Each subject has unique demands and requires students to develop specific reading, writing, and thinking skills. This is what is often called discipline-specific literacy — and it’s at the heart of building confident, capable learners across every content area. 

Science Literacy
Science is a highly technical discipline. According to my work with science teachers, I’ve come to understand that scientists must:

• Observe and record data
• Hypothesize and predict outcomes
• Design and conduct experiments
• Perform data analysis
• Evaluate sources and support claims with evidence

​These processes translate into specific writing tasks such as lab reports, research papers, and explanatory texts. Yet, I’ve seen science teachers assign a lab report without fully unpacking its structure, format, or purpose for students. Without explicit guidance, students struggle to produce work that meets expectations.
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Mathematics Literacy
In math, literacy may not seem as obvious, but it is just as essential. I once walked into a math classroom where the teacher had displayed a list of professions requiring math skills to emphasize its importance to her students. Some were expected, like accountants or engineers, while others were surprising, such as electricians or pilots. Over time, I’ve come to understand that Mathematicians must: 

• Break down and solve complex problems
• Engage in quantitative and logical reasoning
• Identify patterns and create models

​Writing tasks in math include explaining solutions, interpreting graphs, and analyzing data. These tasks demand clarity and precision, skills that need to be taught just as rigorously as solving equations.
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Social Studies Literacy
Social studies teachers face unique challenges with literacy. My coaching work with history teachers has taught me that Historians must:

• Evaluate primary and secondary sources for bias
• Contextualize events within their social and political frameworks
• Compare and analyze perspectives

This translates to genres like historical essays, document-based questions (DBQs), position papers, and biographical sketches. But too often, students are given a primary source without the scaffolding needed to understand its technical terms, vocabulary, and historical significance.
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These gaps leave students floundering and perpetuate the idea that literacy isn’t integral to every discipline. But the issue extends beyond social studies — it’s a challenge across all subject areas.

One of the biggest concerns I hear from teachers is time. “I don’t have time to teach them how to read; we have so much content to cover.” I empathize with this tension, I do. But the reality is this: without equipping students with literacy skills, they’ll continue to struggle to engage with the content meaningfully.
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Taking time to teach the attributes of a lab report, the structure of a DBQ, or the logic behind mathematical reasoning is not a detour from the curriculum — it’s the bridge that allows students to access it.

As educators, we must shift the conversation: literacy is not the responsibility of one teacher or department. It’s a shared commitment across disciplines, where each content area brings its own unique set of skills, genres, and approaches to literacy.

When science teachers explicitly teach students how to write a lab report, when math teachers’ model how to analyze data, and when history teachers guide students in reading primary sources, the magic happens. Students become empowered not just to consume knowledge but to create it.

Transforming literacy practices begins with a commitment to discipline-specific approaches. School leaders can initiate this shift by organizing professional development sessions that emphasize the significance of integrating literacy skills into every subject. Teachers, in turn, can adopt practical strategies, such as explicitly teaching the structure of a lab report or modeling data analysis during lessons. These techniques can be introduced at the start of a unit and reinforced throughout, whether through whole-class instruction or small group sessions tailored to students' needs.
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At the end of the day, the question isn’t who is responsible for teaching literacy—it’s how we can all play a role in equipping students with the skills they need to succeed. Literacy isn’t a responsibility to be delegated; it’s an opportunity for collaboration. By working together, we can reimagine literacy instruction, build classrooms where content and literacy work hand in hand, and empower every student to thrive in school and beyond.

Ten entry points for deepening student connection to academic texts.

​As an English Language Arts teacher in a heavily assessed environment, I often wrestle with the tension between making learning engaging and meeting academic standards. In conversations with colleagues, I found that this balancing act is a common struggle. We want to foster an environment where students feel genuinely connected to what they’re learning, yet we’re also tasked with ensuring they meet rigorous academic goals.

This led me to question an often-assumed division: must rigor and relevance be at odds?

In fact, research across generations, from Dewey’s foundational work Interest and Effort in Education (1913) to more recent studies (Darling-Hammond 2020), affirms that when students sense personal relevance in their work, their engagement deepens and retention rates increase. When students feel a personal connection, they are more likely to engage with academic tasks, fostering motivation and improving learning outcomes.

I invite you to incorporate these ten strategies for infusing personal relevance into academic learning, all aligned with the Next Generation Standards. Each approach includes a practical example using an anchor text common in middle and high school ELA classrooms, yet remains flexible, ready to adapt to the unique needs of your students and curriculum. 

These offer a pathway forward for teachers who want to create personal relevance with their students, while also maintaining a focus on academic learning standards and objectives. 

​A powerful emotional response to music, images, or situations draws students in and helps them connect emotionally to the text. When students feel something deeply, they engage more meaningfully with the reading.
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• Example: For Of Mice and Men: Play soft, melancholy music before reading the ending. Ask, “What emotions does this music bring up? How do these emotions relate to what happens in the final scene?”
• Standards Connection: Reinforces tone and mood analysis (R.4) and prepares students for writing about emotional impact in texts (W.2).

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Plant a seed of curiosity with a mysterious question or fact to get students asking, “What happens next?” Curiosity hooks activate natural inquiry and set the stage for meaningful reading.
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• Example: For "Macbeth": “What would you do if a stranger promised you the future of your dreams—no strings attached?”
• Standards Connection: Develops inferencing skills (R.1) and supports critical thinking to identify key ideas and details.

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​Nothing engages students faster than a debate. Present a provocative statement, divide students into sides, and let them argue their positions. Debates sharpen their reasoning skills and introduce key themes early on.

• Example: For "Romeo and Juliet": “Is love at first sight real, or just infatuation?”
• Standards Connection: Supports argumentative writing (W.1) and speaking/listening skills (SL.1) through evidence-backed discussions.

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Make learning feel personal by linking the text’s themes to something students already care about — like pop culture, social media, or current trends. When students see how literature connects to their world, they engage more deeply.

• Example: For "The Hate U Give": “How does Starr’s experience reflect what we see on social media today about activism and identity?”
• Standards Connection: Promotes text-to-world connections (R.9) and builds skills needed to compare texts and real-life issues.

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Let students’ imaginations run wild by asking them to predict outcomes or explore “what if” scenarios related to the text. This primes them for close reading by requiring logical inferences based on textual clues.
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• Example: For "Lord of the Flies": “What if the boys had been rescued right after the crash—would things have turned out differently?”
• Standards Connection: Builds inferencing skills (R.1) and helps students develop well-supported literary arguments (W.2).

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Tap into kinesthetic learning by incorporating activities that get students moving. This kind of engagement encourages collaboration and helps students process ideas more deeply through active participation.
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• Example: For "To Kill a Mockingbird": Use a Four Corners activity with statements like “Atticus should not have defended Tom Robinson.” Students physically move to the corner that matches their stance.
• Standards Connection: Strengthens collaborative discussion skills (SL.1) and reinforces claim-evidence-reasoning frameworks (R.1).

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Inspire students to think beyond the text by asking them to reimagine or rewrite a scene. Creativity helps them dive deeper into character motives and story structure while making the material their own.

• Example: For "The Great Gatsby": “Rewrite the final scene, but this time Gatsby lives—how does the story change?”
• Standards Connection: Encourages narrative writing (W.3) and helps students explore character development and structure (R.3).

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When students relate personally to the text, the themes become more meaningful. Inviting them to reflect on personal experiences similar to those in the text builds empathy and engagement.
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• Example: For "Frankenstein": “When have you ever felt like an outsider, just like the Creature?”
• Standards Connection: Helps students analyze themes (R.2) and supports reflective, evidence-based writing (W.4).

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Give students a task that seems simple but is trickier than it looks — like summarizing a text’s key theme in just six words. This taps into their problem-solving skills and gets them thinking critically from the start.

• Example: For "Of Mice and Men": “In six words, describe what George gains and loses by the end.”
• Standards Connection: Reinforces text analysis (Standard R.2) and concise, evidence-based writing (W.2) essential for essays.

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Not every text, especially those on standardized assessments, will feel personally relevant or engaging for students. Verbally encouraging perseverance through challenging readings can reassure students that they aren’t alone in tackling a difficult task. As adults, we know that much of life includes reading material that may seem uninteresting or irrelevant. However, it’s essential to remind our students to persevere in order to achieve a larger goal.

• Example: “I realize this text might not feel very interesting to you, but remember—you can do hard things. Take short breaks if needed, but keep in mind that you have the skills to get through this. I believe in your ability to persevere.”
• Example: “In order to achieve your goal of _________, it’s important that you do your best at reading this text, even if it doesn’t feel very enjoyable right now. This is an important step in getting to that larger goal because ______________.” ​

​Even as we work to develop our students’ literacy skills, we can create spaces for personal relevance in ELA classrooms and beyond. These goals — rigor and relevance — are not mutually exclusive. In fact, they work together to create richer, more challenging learning experiences that engage students now and prepare them for the future.

Empowering teachers to become leaders as they reimagining writing instruction across disciplines.

This fall, I’ve been excited to support a new district in advancing their efforts around writing across the disciplines. Our work initially began last year with district-level workshops, where we focused on three critical questions:
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1. How can teachers tailor their writing instruction to effectively address the distinct writing demands of different academic disciplines?
2. How can teachers anchor their writing instruction in the realities of the 21st century?
3. How can innovative teaching methodologies be harnessed to foster student engagement?

These workshops laid the groundwork for a shift in thinking. Teachers left with actionable strategies that allowed them to start reimagining writing instruction within their content areas. The primary goal was to develop a common understanding and language around writing across all disciplines, and it was crucial to help non-ELA teachers recognize the importance of writing as a tool for deepening learning and fostering critical thinking.

This year, we’ve shifted our focus to the school level, where we are working to establish task forces comprised of teachers who are enthusiastic about leadership and writing. These teachers will support their department teams in implementing evidence-based writing strategies in their classrooms. This approach not only tailors the work to the unique needs of individual schools, but also supports the development of a distributed leadership model. By involving teachers as leaders, we create a sustainable framework for change that can extend beyond the initial implementation phase.
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We recognize that effective leadership is critical for fostering long-term change — that’s why each school’s leadership team includes both principals and teachers interested in taking on leadership roles within their departments. These teams are designed to provide continuous support to their peers, ensuring that the writing initiatives are integrated consistently and effectively across subject areas.

So, what does this process look like in practice? How do we begin?

I worked closely with principals to identify task force members at three middle schools. Through classroom visits and interactions during workshops, we identified curious, open-minded teachers who demonstrated a willingness to experiment with new strategies and approaches in their classrooms. We specifically looked for educators who were not only reflective about their own practices but also enthusiastic about sharing ideas and collaborating with peers. After observing these qualities, we engaged in discussions with the principals about potential candidates.

The principals reached out to these teachers, personally inviting them to consider participating in the task force. The invitation was framed as an opportunity for professional growth, collaboration, and leadership, rather than a directive or obligation. In some cases, principals provided a gentle nudge, encouraging teachers they believed would bring valuable perspectives to the table. These teachers, excited by the prospect of contributing to school-wide initiatives focused on writing, became the task force, creating a strong team committed to rethinking the role of writing across the curriculum.

Over the course of three days, I collaborated with each team to establish a shared vision for our writing initiative. Together, we defined clear and actionable goals for improving student writing and outlined a comprehensive plan to achieve them. A central part of this process was the identification of four key writing strategies that would guide our efforts throughout the school year. These strategies were thoughtfully chosen to ensure they could be seamlessly integrated across all disciplines, including math.

​Examples of the strategies that were selected include:

​Once we established the overarching vision and goals, as well the specific strategies, we turned our attention to identifying criteria for monitoring progress. The task force decided to use a combination of teacher surveys, classroom observations, and analysis of student work to assess the impact of the writing strategies. This continuous feedback loop allows us to adjust our approach as needed and ensure that the strategies are effectively supporting both teachers and students.

Our next steps involve exploring the first strategy together in an upcoming professional learning session. During the session, task force members will reflect on how to apply the strategy to their respective disciplines. Afterward, they will turnkey these strategies to their teams, sharing both the rationale and practical applications of the approach. When I return next month, we will conduct learning walks to observe classrooms, assess the implementation of the strategy, and address any questions or challenges teachers may be facing.

​By establishing dedicated task forces at each school, we are fostering a collaborative, leadership-driven approach to writing across the disciplines. This initiative equips teachers with the tools they need to support their colleagues and ensures that writing instruction becomes an integral part of learning in every subject. As we continue this work, the focus remains on refining strategies, building capacity within schools, and creating a sustainable model for disciplinary literacy that will have a lasting impact on both teachers and students.

Creativity flourishes in an environment where exploration is encouraged and individual voices are celebrated.

​Genre-based writing is the art of crafting narratives within distinct literary genres or categories. Literary genres, such as fiction, non-fiction, poetry, drama, science fiction, fantasy, mystery, and romance, are defined by specific stylistic elements, forms, and content.

Engaging in genre-based writing involves intentionally aligning one's writing with the conventions, themes, and structures associated with a chosen genre. This process includes utilizing storytelling techniques, incorporating stylistic elements, and exploring themes relevant to the selected genre. For instance, a mystery novel might feature a central crime, a detective, and a resolution, while a romance novel centers around a key romantic relationship within the plot.

​Why genre-based writing matters: a deeper exploration

Recognizing the significance of genre-based writing goes beyond the conventional understanding of major genres such as narrative, argumentative, and informative. It involves delving into the unique sub-genres, including speculative memoirs, flash fiction, Ted Talks, infographics, Op-Eds, and more. This exploration involves immersing oneself in an inquiry-based study of specific texts, a process that reveals nuances that often transcend traditional genre boundaries.

Within this exploration, the promotion of creativity takes center stage. By encouraging students to engage with diverse sub-genres, teachers foster an environment where creativity can flourish. This approach not only sets clear expectations for writers, but also enhances their ability to communicate effectively with their audience. In doing so, it allows readers the freedom to choose works that are tailored to their preferences, fostering a deeper connection and appreciation for the art of writing. 

The Student Press Initiative (SPI), a signature initiative at CPET, strongly advocates for genre-based writing as a meaningful framework that not only expands literary possibilities, but also nurtures the creative spirit within each student.

​What does genre-based writing entail?

SPI serves as a guiding force for both teachers and students in the realm of genre studies, employing a close examination of exemplars — often drawn from a diverse array of published texts, ranging from poems and essays to PSAs. In this process, students engage in a detailed analysis of these texts, examining content, structure, and craft through the lens of a writer, taking in all of its attributes and conventions in the process.

The collaborative nature of this exploration lays the groundwork for creativity. Through shared discussions and the creation of charts, students collectively share insights into the genre and its unique characteristics. Rather than prescribing what or how to write, teachers adopt an empowering stance, encouraging students to explore and discover, thereby nurturing the development of insightful ideas and observations. This student-driven approach not only empowers individuals but also transforms the teacher's role from knower, to that of a facilitator or provocateur, cultivating a powerful space for exploration, self-discovery, and creativity.

In a recent workshop I facilitated, SPI coaches immersed themselves in a genre-based study of the poem "What For" by Garret Hongo. While I’ve used this poem many times on many different occasions, I’m always impressed by the new ideas, observations, and questions that arise, underscoring how readers engage uniquely with texts. Collective discussions delved into content, form, and structure, highlighting original stylistic moves by the author. For instance, one coach noted changes in stanza lengths, sparking a discussion on its intentional contribution to the poem's meaning. Another coach made note of his powerful auditory imagery, and another made content connections to the American Dream. 

This exploration set the stage for coaches to embark on their own creative journeys, crafting "What For" poems inspired by Hongo's content, form, and craft, including elements such as repetition and reiterated structures. Reflecting on the similarities and differences among these poems further deepened the collective understanding of this specific genre, demonstrating how creativity flourishes in an environment where exploration is encouraged and individual voices are celebrated.

Unleashing creativity and self-discovery

In summary, genre-based writing is a powerful tool for creativity, independent thinking, and self-discovery. Embracing this approach turns educators and students into skilled explorers of various literary genres, creating a collaborative and empowering learning space.

Support emerging readers' vocabulary with a balance of explicit instruction and in-context learning. 

This is the fifth installment in our Science of Reading series

​Vocabulary is a crucial component of reading comprehension and literacy development. Understanding vocabulary and its significance is essential for educators as they work to support emerging readers on their journey to becoming skilled and proficient readers. In this fifth and final installment focused on the science of reading, we will unpack what vocabulary means, why it is important, and provide three promising practices that teachers can implement to effectively support emerging readers with vocabulary development.

What is vocabulary in the science of reading?

In the science of reading, vocabulary refers to the collection of words that a reader understands, recognizes, and can use effectively in their reading and writing. It encompasses both oral vocabulary (words we understand and use in speaking) and print vocabulary (words we recognize and understand in reading). Vocabulary development is a multifaceted process that involves word learning, comprehension, and retention.

Why is vocabulary development important? 

Vocabulary serves as the anchor connecting various critical reading skills, fostering a deeper understanding of phonological awareness, phonics, and fluency. In phonological awareness, it enhances recognition and discernment of sounds within words, ultimately aiding in the decoding and pronunciation processes. When it comes to phonics, a robust vocabulary equips learners with the ability to detect word structures and pronunciation nuances, enabling them to effectively apply phonics rules during reading.

Additionally, vocabulary ensures swift and accurate word recognition, which significantly contributes to reading speed and fluency. But perhaps most importantly, vocabulary enhances reading comprehension by giving readers the capability not only to recognize words, but also to understand their meanings within a text. Without a strong vocabulary, readers will likely encounter difficulties in grasping the core of what they are reading, ultimately hindering overall comprehension.

Promising practices for vocabulary development

Plenty of vocabulary strategies exist, but issues arise when one approach is excessively emphasized or prioritized, potentially leading to minimal or even neglected use of others. For example, overreliance on explicit vocabulary instruction may lead to isolated word memorization without a deeper understanding of word usage in context. An effective approach strikes a balance between explicit instruction and in-context learning. Below, I present three promising practices, as well as concrete examples of how I implemented these practices in my classroom. I believe these examples encompass various methods for explicitly supporting young readers' vocabulary development. Ideally, teachers will utilize all three practices, at different times, to create a comprehensive and holistic approach to vocabulary instruction. 

​Vocabulary development is a fundamental aspect of reading and literacy. In the science of reading, understanding what vocabulary is and why it's important is crucial for educators. By implementing explicit vocabulary instruction, contextual learning, and engaging word play and games, teachers can provide effective support for emerging readers, helping them build a strong foundation for successful, lifelong reading.  
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