Writing Block Empathy

The first time I passed by him on the rug, a blank page stared back at him and his eyes wandered around the classroom. Give him some time. Today is a different day. He can do it.

I moved on to “conference” with others who excitedly wrote the stories they had just shared aloud in the circle. Seemingly the others couldn’t move their pencils fast enough to catch up with their ideas. Okay, don’t go back over there. Stay over here by the ones writing at the round table. Don’t even look over at him. He’ll get going. He’ll get something down.

I couldn’t resist. I edged closer to him and others who were writing on the rug. I glanced. I couldn’t help myself. It had been about ten minutes AND HIS PAGE WAS STILL BLANK. Stay cool. Relax. Don’t get frustrated.

“Hey, Ford, how’s it going?” Shrug. “What happened to the small moment you just told the class?” Mumble. “Just write what you just told us about you and your brothers doing that TinkerCrate.” Nothing. Walk away. You asked. You nudged. You practically told him what to write! Why is this SO DIFFICULT?! JUST WRITE IT ALREADY!!!

I tried to leave him be. But it seemed like he was just being difficult. He was a very capable kid-  he excelled in math, loved learning history, knew all kinds of vocabulary, and had impeccable spelling. He didn’t have any fine motor issues. WHY WASN’T HE WRITING YET?

I snapped at him. “Ford, oh my goodness. Just write down that you and your brothers loved making the TinkerCrate your aunt got you all! Write it, buddy. Come on!”

He was stunned. Wide-eyed and maybe a little concerned about his teacher’s outburst, he wrote something. I can’t even remember what exactly he ended up writing, but he did get something on paper.

Yesterday I posted about my struggles “slicing”. It wasn’t that I didn’t have any ideas. I had some. I just didn’t really like any of them. I didn’t feel like writing about any of them. I was fully capable of putting fingers to keyboard- no fine motor difficulties. I just didn’t write anything I felt truly interested in writing.

I wish I had had yesterday’s frustrating experience last year when Ford stared at his blank paper and I fumed over his “defiance to write”. I wish I had thought to think that maybe he just didn’t like the idea of the TinkerCrate story. I wish I had empathized with the pressure he might have been feeling to just “get something down on paper.”

Turns out Ford truly enjoyed writing some other genres- later in the year he began his own third grade newspaper full of book reviews, current events. Turns out he loved working on his adapted fairy tale and infusing it with his corny humor. Turns out he could write better when it was what he wanted to write, what he wanted to say.