by Katharine Ashe
There she sits on the first day of class. At the end of the row, close to the cinderblock wall, in the back. Not near the door where others might pass by, but in the corner, the one without windows. Her appearance is neat, her face intelligent, her desk tidy with books, notebook, laptop. She does not meet my eye. She does not speak to the others.
She is The Shy Student.
I have never been shy (except with boys upon whom I had secret crushes). Fifteen years ago when I started teaching college students, I had An Uncomfortable Awakening: not all students are loudmouths like me. Some students write gloriously beautiful prose but cannot string together an auditory phrase to save their lives — or their grades. And that, my friends, is the problem.
Before I explain, a wee bit o’ backstory.
I became a professor of history because
1) I love history
and
2) I believe that citizens of a democracy have an obligation to think critically upon matters of state and society. We learn critical thinking skills best by reading widely and discussing ideas with one another.
What does this have to do with The Shy Student?
And now for A Very Brief Foray Into (cue booming voice) HISTORY.
Back in Renaissance Italy, educated folks believed that knowledge should be for the greater good. A man might learn lots of nifty stuff, but more important than just the facts was wisdom. Specifically, the wisdom to know the best course of action to take in any situation. But what good was wisdom if you couldn’t share it? That’s where eloquence came in, the ability to convince other smarty-pants (who haven’t read and discussed as much as you) to accept your wise point of view.
Sapientia and eloquentia. Wisdom and eloquence.
See my problem now? What to do with The Shy Student who writes history so compelling it makes you weep with joy, but who clams up when it comes to talking about these ideas with her classmates? Eloquentia doesn’t serve society very well if you’re only talking to your laptop.
Many writers, of course, face similar troubles. Your novel is weep-worthy gorgeous but no one gets to enjoy it because you can’t make the social and professional connections necessary to get it read.
This is how I teach shy college students, and why it has something to do with writers seeking publication:
First, from day one I tell them my expectations: Their grade depends upon speaking in class. Their grade = your book contract. It is no secret in our industry that networking is crucial. I met my agent through a casual conversation at a conference with an author I barely knew. I signed with my publisher because of that powerhouse agent. This Story Is Real. If I hadn’t chatted with that author, I might not have a book release with my dream publisher this month (and two more next year).
Second, I forbid my Shy Students—especially the women—to apologize. I refuse to hear a single “I’m probably wrong” or “I don’t really know what I’m talking about” as they launch into a thoughtful, well-informed analysis of an ancient text. You wouldn’t believe how often this happens. Women are so darn well trained to devalue their knowledge and talents. I am astounded at how frequently I hear writers do this with their own work. No one will believe your writing is brilliant if you diss it all the time. Speak with confidence. Speak with the grace deep in your soul that is aching to surface. Speak because you love your characters and the story you have told. When others hear this, they will be convinced that they can love your work too. Eloquentia.
Finally, I assure my Shy Students that they needn’t worry about what their peers say in class. Those peers may sound smart. They may sound really smart. But they aren’t grading The Shy Student. I am. And I don’t expect her to sound like them. I expect her to sound like her, to have prepared the assignment and be on her toes creating magic right there in the classroom. I am not a chemistry professor; I don’t grade on a curve. If every one of my students sounds brilliant on any given day, they all get A’s. Editors and agents are like this. They want all their authors to be bestsellers, and they don’t expect you to write like someone else. They expect you to write like you. Don’t let the successes of other authors intimidate you into silence.
There she sits on the first day of class. At the end of the row, close to the cinderblock wall, in the back. Not near the door where others might pass by, but in the corner, the one without windows. Her appearance is neat, her face intelligent, her desk tidy with books, notebook, laptop. She does not meet my eye. She does not speak to the others.
She is The Shy Student.
I have never been shy (except with boys upon whom I had secret crushes). Fifteen years ago when I started teaching college students, I had An Uncomfortable Awakening: not all students are loudmouths like me. Some students write gloriously beautiful prose but cannot string together an auditory phrase to save their lives — or their grades. And that, my friends, is the problem.
Before I explain, a wee bit o’ backstory.
I became a professor of history because
1) I love history
and
2) I believe that citizens of a democracy have an obligation to think critically upon matters of state and society. We learn critical thinking skills best by reading widely and discussing ideas with one another.
What does this have to do with The Shy Student?
And now for A Very Brief Foray Into (cue booming voice) HISTORY.
Back in Renaissance Italy, educated folks believed that knowledge should be for the greater good. A man might learn lots of nifty stuff, but more important than just the facts was wisdom. Specifically, the wisdom to know the best course of action to take in any situation. But what good was wisdom if you couldn’t share it? That’s where eloquence came in, the ability to convince other smarty-pants (who haven’t read and discussed as much as you) to accept your wise point of view.
Sapientia and eloquentia. Wisdom and eloquence.
See my problem now? What to do with The Shy Student who writes history so compelling it makes you weep with joy, but who clams up when it comes to talking about these ideas with her classmates? Eloquentia doesn’t serve society very well if you’re only talking to your laptop.
Many writers, of course, face similar troubles. Your novel is weep-worthy gorgeous but no one gets to enjoy it because you can’t make the social and professional connections necessary to get it read.
This is how I teach shy college students, and why it has something to do with writers seeking publication:
First, from day one I tell them my expectations: Their grade depends upon speaking in class. Their grade = your book contract. It is no secret in our industry that networking is crucial. I met my agent through a casual conversation at a conference with an author I barely knew. I signed with my publisher because of that powerhouse agent. This Story Is Real. If I hadn’t chatted with that author, I might not have a book release with my dream publisher this month (and two more next year).
Second, I forbid my Shy Students—especially the women—to apologize. I refuse to hear a single “I’m probably wrong” or “I don’t really know what I’m talking about” as they launch into a thoughtful, well-informed analysis of an ancient text. You wouldn’t believe how often this happens. Women are so darn well trained to devalue their knowledge and talents. I am astounded at how frequently I hear writers do this with their own work. No one will believe your writing is brilliant if you diss it all the time. Speak with confidence. Speak with the grace deep in your soul that is aching to surface. Speak because you love your characters and the story you have told. When others hear this, they will be convinced that they can love your work too. Eloquentia.
Finally, I assure my Shy Students that they needn’t worry about what their peers say in class. Those peers may sound smart. They may sound really smart. But they aren’t grading The Shy Student. I am. And I don’t expect her to sound like them. I expect her to sound like her, to have prepared the assignment and be on her toes creating magic right there in the classroom. I am not a chemistry professor; I don’t grade on a curve. If every one of my students sounds brilliant on any given day, they all get A’s. Editors and agents are like this. They want all their authors to be bestsellers, and they don’t expect you to write like someone else. They expect you to write like you. Don’t let the successes of other authors intimidate you into silence.
You are unique. You are the only one with your voice, your characters, your story. And you as an author are radiant, no matter what corner you stuff yourself into.
You deserve an A, too.
By the way, I also (in private) offer shy students a few tricks to help them participate more comfortably. Since RWA National is coming up, let’s talk conferences! What is the toughest thing for you about writers’ meetings, and what tricks do you use to overcome it?
You deserve an A, too.
By the way, I also (in private) offer shy students a few tricks to help them participate more comfortably. Since RWA National is coming up, let’s talk conferences! What is the toughest thing for you about writers’ meetings, and what tricks do you use to overcome it?
Katharine Ashe lives in the wonderfully warm Southeast with her husband, son, two dogs, and a garden she likes to call romantic rather than unkempt. A professor of European history, she has made her home in California, Italy, France, and the northern U.S. Please visit her at http://www.katharineashe.com/.
