The premise of Pam Allyn’s parenting guide Your Child’s Writing Life is as follows:
“There are endless practical books to help parents raise their children. But until now there has not been a book about the importance of getting our kids to understand that every book and story began when someone, somewhere decided to write down his or her thoughts.”
Allyn believes that writing is as important to a child’s development as any other fundamental skill, and that parents who help their kids become writers will foster their emotional, intellectual and academic growth. It is hard to argue with this, and there is a lot to love about this book.
Allyn’s passion for writing is sincere, and so is her passion for helping children be everything they can be. Parents or teachers who want children to love writing will find much to work with here: a list of great children’s books to inspire writing, a chapter full of tips to help with times when writing is frustrating, myriad interesting prompts for child writers of all ages. I wish all parents would read this book and implement some of its general suggestions, because I suspect that, if they did, their teenage children would arrive in my classroom with, at best, a deep desire to write, and at worst, an appreciation of the written word and the impulses and skills needed to write something well.
I have a single, but large, quibble with Allyn’s approach. My quibble is not based in any real expertise. I am not the target audience for this book. I am not a parent, and I don’t even teach children of the age described by the author. I was, however, a child, and a child who loved writing and continues to love it into middle age, so much so that I have dedicated my life to doing and teaching it.
Allyn’s advice often parallels my own experience. For example, she tells parents,
“Give your child the time to write and the freedom to write as she pleases. As your child finds her voice, she’ll need you to give her time to practice and experiment, delving into new worlds through the magic of her own creative process.”
This is exactly what my parents did. They took writing seriously and never made me feel that I should be doing something else. If I was hiding in my room and they came to check on me, and I told them I was writing, they responded in the same way they would have if I’d said I was practicing my violin or doing my math homework: they praised me, and then left me alone. I’m a writer today in large part because my parents did everything right in that regard.
However, they never set up “writing centres” or “word jars;” they did not create “writing routines” or set aside daily “writing time” or keep emergency writing implements in a folder in the car. This is not to say these approaches wouldn’t be useful for some children; they might certainly benefit a child who did not have an intrinsic writing obsession, as I did. I wonder, though, whether creating such routines and rituals might not risk turning writing into a chore, another homework assignment or extracurricular activity that needs to be slotted in.
For example, Allyn asks parents to create a “perfect writing space” for their child – with the child’s input, of course.
“Ask questions like, What do you like to write with? Pencils? Crayons? Markers?…Is that light too bright or too soft? Do you like to write on big paper on a table or small paper on a clipboard?”
This kind of micromanagement – let’s get it exactly right together, and then you’ll be able to write! – can be anathema to creation, and to me it smacks of overzealous parental involvement. When I was a child, I would have found these questions, and their implication that there is a “perfect environment” for my creative process, overwhelming and intimidating. I would have preferred to be left alone in my room, where I would spread myself at my desk or on my bed or on my carpet, depending on my mood, or I might wander out to the landing at the top of the stairs or the hammock in the back yard. I would make use of whatever implements I could find around me or in the junk drawer downstairs in the kitchen. I was finding spaces and methods that worked for me, and my parents’ only role was to consider requests I made and fulfill them if they could.
(One of the greatest joys I have experienced, then or since, was the Christmas when, having been told I would not be receiving an expensive electric typewriter I’d been pleading for, I woke to find it under the tree. It was years before I learned to type properly, but until then, just looking at it on my desk and poking at its keys validated my identity as a writer. Several aborted runs at learning to touch-type meant that, when I finally took a typing class in high school, I was far ahead of my classmates and was ready to type up my stories and poems. I was not asked if I wanted a typewriter. It was I who decided it was time for me to have one.)
Throughout the early chapters of Your Child’s Writing Life, I encountered moments where I felt the line between support and interference was being blurred. For example, Allyn suggests that, when your child is two, you
“cut out words you love from magazines and put them in little frames on her writing desk where she can see them. Even if she can’t read them, you are modeling your love of words.”
This feels queasily invasive to me. Why must a parent insert herself into a child’s experience to this degree? By doing this, is the parent not modelling something about herself and what she values, rather than the child’s interests? Why not cut words out and put them on your own desk? If the child can’t read yet, why not play with words orally, allowing her to choose the words you dwell on?
(I once spent an afternoon in the pool with my much younger brother, who was two at the time. I taught him the word “buoyancy,” which he thought was the best word he’d ever heard, not because he understood its meaning, but because it sounded so cool. For the rest of the day and evening he would randomly shout, “Siobhan – bwincey!” and break into giggles. Is this not a more authentic way to interest a toddler in language than framing words I like and thrusting them into “his” space?)
When a child is four, Allyn advises,
“Read aloud even your grocery lists, messages from favorite friends, emails you particularly like and other examples of the little notes and things that come across your desk each and every day.”
When I reached this point in Allyn’s list of “ages and writing stages,” I began to wonder how a similar book about “your child’s math life” or “your child’s sports life” would read. Would it read, as I suspected, like a slightly unhinged manifesto in which every dinner hour becomes a chance to practice counting one’s peas, or every morning one turns getting dressed into calisthenics? The litany of ways to encourage writing was exhausting me in the mere reading, and I began to wonder if any parent really spends that much time in direct, active, engaged interaction with his or her child, much less in direct, active, engaged interaction that focuses entirely on getting the child interested in writing. What about just letting the child run around without making a story about it? Where would one have time for that? After a few days of Allyn’s program, I expect I’d be lying on the couch with a cold cloth over my eyes, unable to even keep my toddler out of the knife drawer, much less ask him what adventures the knives could be having in their drawer-house today.
Which is to say: taken alone, any of these suggestions seems like it could help foster a child’s interest in writing. The key here, though, is in the words “foster” and “child’s.” There is a great emphasis on how the parent and child will embark on this writing journey “together,” but this “togetherness” eventually gives the book a cloying, claustrophobic feeling. It is understandable, if we are talking about a stay-at-home parent and a child of two or three, that the parent’s values and interests will take the lead and that the parent and child will share at least some of these writing experiences, but even at that stage, I suspect many children will benefit more from a gentle nudge and then some space to follow their own whims.
What is more, some children do not enjoy reading and writing, and for them, such “encouragement” can start to feel manipulative and burdensome. Allyn does not seem to feel that there is any circumstance in which a parent should let “writing time” go in favour of other interests. How is this different from a parent who insists that his child will play football or join the Mathletes even when the child has no real interest in these activities?
(My mother was and is a visual artist, and she encouraged my brother and me to paint and draw. I liked these pastimes well enough, and for short periods I invested quite a bit of time in them, but they were not a priority and I had no real talent for them, so I never pursued them with any seriousness. One day, my mother presented me with a beautiful blank book with a Klimt illustration on the cover, explaining that this was a drawing journal and that I was to use it only for that. [Apparently a friend of hers, an art teacher, had suggested that this might encourage me to draw more.] The book sat guiltily in my desk for several years, until finally one day I couldn’t stand seeing it lie idle, and I took it out and began … to write in it. I still have it, full of writing, not drawing, and I don’t think I ever told my mother that I had defied her instructions. These instances of well-intentioned interference on the part of my parents were rare and delicate, and I am grateful for that. Had they been more aggressive, I suspect I would have fully abandoned some activities that brought me occasional pleasure.)
Allyn’s book seems dominated by a common parenting philosophy that equates “support” with “direction” (or perhaps control?) and I’m always concerned when parents invest themselves too deeply in shaping their children’s interests. Children who like reading and writing will read and write, and parents can encourage that by talking with them about reading and writing, and responding to their requests for books, notebooks, laptops if they can afford them, and so forth. If a child does not show an interest in writing, there are gentle things parents can do: fill the house with books, read and write themselves, suggest that the child write down the stories he tells at the dinner table. They can give the child a diary and see what happens. They can experiment with some of Allyn’s suggestions and see if they take, but I would be wary of promoting writing to such a child with the intensity that Allyn suggests, for fear of engendering aversion and resentment. There’s no doubt that writing a lot will benefit him, but so will playing a lot of basketball or learning a lot about astronomy. In the end, is it not best to expose him to lots of activities, let him pick the ones he likes, give him time to invest in those interests, and show respect and support for the ways he chooses to spend his hours, as long as they are healthy and promote his growth?
So I think that, as parenting books go, this one is worth reading, and many of its suggestions are worth trying. I also think that parents should consider just being who they are, respecting who their children are, and reading fewer books on the subject, or at least viewing even the best parenting books with friendly suspicion. I value reading and writing above almost all else, and if I were a parent, I would have to resist the temptation to embrace Allyn’s advice whole hog. I might even set up a “writing corner” or have occasional “writing evenings” with my children in the hope that my love of writing would infect them. But I would not expect my children to fall in with the program, although I might learn a lot about them in the process.
Allyn, Pam. Your Child’s Writing Life. Avery (a division of Penguin Writing Group USA,Inc.) New York: 2011.