Angie and Izzy, both seniors, both editors, gaze intently at the screen as they discuss an early draft of one yearbook staff member’s first deadline story. Having been through this before, they can anticipate the way a reader will react. I wonder what kind of feedback they are preparing to give.
“No one reads the stories in the yearbook, Miller,” Izzy says repeating a refrain that I have heard for seven years.
“They will when we start writing stories worth reading,” I answer.
What kinds of stories would those be?
I’ve never asked my staff.
“If you were not on yearbook, what kinds of stories would you want to read about yourselves?”
When I share this with them, they agree. I’ve never asked.
In school we teach our students to support each other in their writing using non-judgemental feedback.
When the yearbook is delivered at the end of May, the feedback that my staff receives reflects the judgements of about 3,000 people. They hear judgements in their classrooms, in the hallways, from their friends, at home. Judgements fly like lightning through the social network clouds.
Unlike the students in my ELA 11 courses, students writing for the yearbook need to understand that they are guaranteed an audience. This audience is broadly diverse and highly opinionated. This audience spends money to own the work the students on the yearbook staff produce. They expect to keep these yearbooks for a long, long time.
My students need to understand how they can write in ways that make the readers of the yearbook love the stories.
It’s true. Most people do not read the stories in the yearbook. But words give context and add meaning and detail to the pictures. We are expected to provide a record, and as diverse as the buyers of the yearbook are, they all expect that record to reflect their tastes.
It’s reasonable, from one perspective.
All their lives these students have been learning how to write for teachers. We tell them what we want to see them do. We hardly ever say that we expect to love their writing.
“What kinds of stories in this yearbook do you want to read? What can we do with words to make you happy that you own this book?”
As yearbook writers, my students need to ask this question, listen to the answers, understand that what they will be given is a starting point, then respond by putting their best efforts into the writing they produce. It will take imagination and hard work. If we begin with the admission people do not really read the yearbook, then we know we need to leave behind dry, boring coverage of activities and events. From there, when we form some idea of what kinds of stories people want to read, the editors and I can figure out what kinds of feedback we can give to help the staff write better.