Theory and Practice

Freeing Failure: 

Incorporating Pedagogies of Failure in the Writing Classroom 

Don’t laugh, dear reader. I mean it. What I’m about to tell you is something I think many writers go through (I hope, anyway) on some level. It’s perfectly normal; it’s a canon event, even.  

When I was in my first college-level creative workshop class, I strolled in on feedback day with my first original short story in my hand and a HUGE misconception lodged tightly in my brain. You see, (and I am ashamed to admit this. Remember, I said no laughing.) I thought that receiving suggestions and critiques from peers was the sign of a poor writer. I wanted to have sheer talent—to be gifted. Imagine my surprise and disappointment when my first draft of “Sight Gag” decidedly wasn’t publication ready yet. My story's meaning didn’t come across in some areas; my protagonist needed stronger motivation; my draft was good, but all I heard from that was not great. 

Before that workshop course, I had little classroom exposure to the writing process as anything beyond a colorful poster on every English room’s white-concrete walls.

Every bit of academic and creative writing I had done up to that point was about getting graded on a final product, not on the means of its production. Because of this lack of process understanding, I fell into the erroneous belief that real writers are just born being good at what they do (Yancey 65)—that they rely on innate talent more than drafting, effort, and time spent developing their skills. Would we have so many craft books, though, if writing abilities didn’t need to be at least partially built up and fortified? This is the case for all genres and types of writing, including academic writing, and it's really important that college composition students are made aware of this because a ridged focus on product completion in writing makes “students more likely to avoid risking failure for fear of damaging their grades, and this fear works against the learning process” (Brooke and Carr 63). The thing is, students need to take risks to truly understand what they can build on within their writing to make it even better. Instructors should want to avoid making their students feel like their work should drink from stagnant ponds of thought and familiarity instead of daring to sail and sip from clearer and more powerful waters. Product-focused teaching de-emphasizes necessary writing processes, and at times it ignores them completely and instills the incorrect impression that students need to get things right immediately. In the worst cases, overvaluing the writing product can keep students from the necessary understanding that writing well requires room for growth. What happens then is something similar to what happened to me: students think that imperfect writing is bad writing. They go home to their desks, they slouch over their blank Word documents, and they wonder why they can’t be more like the effortless Stephen King, who, by the way, actually puts a great deal of thought into his own drafts. How can instructors try to remedy or help prevent this harmful way of viewing writing?

Failure is Fine 

My first short story failed to be perfect. My second short story too. However, what my stories didn’t fail to do was show progress through my workshopping and drafting—progress through failure, in a way.  

In workshop classes, the failures that students experience within the steps of their writing processes are seen as “opportunit[ies] for growth” (Brooke and Carr 63). Didn’t fully develop your character’s wants? That’s okay, now you know what to work on for the next draft. Does some of the dialogue sound stilted? The solution is not to toss the piece out and dismiss yourself as a sham; just keep working on it for the next round of feedback. Although I was disheartened by the suggestions for my work at first, I soon realized that I could use them to truly get better. That knowledge that you can become stronger through examining flaws within your craft is one of the most exhilarating and freeing things a writer can experience. That lesson—that exhilaration—is  much-needed  in the composition classroom as well, and it can be incorporated by applying “pedagogies of failure, or ways of teaching that seek to illuminate the myriad ways writing gets done by examining all the ways it doesn’t” (Brooke and Carr 63). In essence, teachers should aim to highlight failure as a lesson and even a partial goal in their classes.  

In “Teaching the Inevitable: Embracing a Pedagogy of Failure,” Linda Eckstein and her cowriters express that one of the things pedagogies of failure should combat is the “framing of [such] failures as obstacles to be overcome” (2). The concept of failure in writing is not a true hinderance unless it is illustrated as one. If my peers and my professor would have simply told me, for example, that “Sight Gag” would be hard to improve, then that would have painted failure as a discouraging hurdle rather than a natural step that would get me closer to a stronger draft. Because feedback and incorporating that feedback were both embedded activities within the course, I was able to finally see failure as the strengthening agent that it is. My thoughts of inadequacy were diminished, and I was instead able to accept the empowering notion of a work in progress. It is my goal to foster this same notion in the minds of composition students. 

Practice – Pedagogies of Failure in College Comp. 

Eckstein and her colleagues recommend a variety of classroom applications for promoting student failure—many of which I have already witnessed while working in my own shadowing course. One suggestion is to bake forms of revision and drafting into the course requirements; having students complete outlines, rough drafts, and peer reviews for low-stakes grades—or even participation grades—can give them a chance to witness the wonder of making mistakes. Even better, it helps them view those mistakes as chances to develop and learn as writers. The students in my class with Dr. Hornsey have to outline and complete a peer review before they turn in their final draft for their research paper. So far, they are becoming more comfortable with the idea of a higher-stakes paper because their scaffolded assignments have given them space to breathe and try out new methods and ideas.  

Another suggestion they Eckstein et al. give is to make sure you are transparent and open about your own failures (3). This is something I made sure to do with my students in the very first lesson I taught them on how to deal with writer’s block. I shared an experience I had with writer’s block and was honest about how it affected me, how I dealt with it ineffectively at first, and how I grew myself from that experience. I plan to continue to use myself as a relatable example for students because the readings this week made me realize that teachers serve as proud leaders in failure if they really mean to promote its value. 

Failure is growth’s closest friend. No writer should be afraid to know that.  

Now, dear reader, I must be going. I’ve got a story to workshop.