1
Coming Face
to Face with
the Six Traits
We don’t need to wait until children know all their letters, know their soundto-symbol relationships, know how to spell all the words they want to use. We
don’t need to wait until children can read. Young children are writers as soon as
they draw or put a symbol on paper and tell us what it says. We should call them
writers and treat them as writers from that moment on.
Marcia S. Freeman
Teaching the Youngest Writers (1998, ix)
My beliefs about children and writing are based on three assumptions: (1) young
children can write, (2) young children want to write, and (3) young children
possess the knowledge, interests, and experiences to write about.
Carol Avery
And With a Light Touch (2002, 65)
Children can write sooner than we ever dreamed possible. Most children come
to school knowing a handful of letters, and with these they can write labels and
calendars, letters and stories, poems and songs. They will learn to write by writing
and by living with a sense of “I am one who writes.”
Lucy McCormick Calkins
The Art of Teaching Writing (1994, 83)
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T
his book begins with the foundational belief that young
children can and do write. The drive—the need to communicate with others—is a natural thing, so what we teach is
not so much doing it as doing it well, doing it with purpose.
How can we do this? By making time for writing. By being
writers ourselves. By sharing the best literature on the planet
in order to see (and hear) what other writers do well. And by
teaching our students to look inside writing—their own as well
as that of others. That’s where the lessons lie.
Have you ever asked yourself what makes good writing
work? If so, you are a critical reader—and probably a writer
as well. Ever ask this question of your students? If you have,
you’re already a six-trait writing teacher at heart. The six-trait
model came about because teachers—not researchers, not publishers, not testing companies, but teachers—asked this question of their students
and of themselves. This book can show you how to turn their answers (along with
your own) into powerful writing instruction.
Third-grade teacher Judy Mazur asked her students one day to complete this
sentence: “Good writing has _________ .” Her students had “immersed themselves
in writing” for the previous six months, and she wanted to get their perspectives as
readers and critics. Here are their responses, in their own words:
●
●
●
●
●
●
●
A main idea
Details
Exciting characters
A good setting
Clear writing
A problem and a solution
An interesting lead
●
●
●
●
●
●
●
Some mystery
A good conclusion
Voice
Good language
Sensory images
A terrific title
Punctuation
Judy’s students were already thinking like writers. They might not have known it
at the time, but they touched on virtually every one of the traits that teachers have
identified as vital to writing success. If you know the traits, you can hear those echoes
in their words. Ask this question of your own students, and explore the answers
together. Once you do, you will never, ever write or revise the same way again.
Where Do the Six Traits Come From?
From us. And from all writers, throughout history. No one invented them any more
than Newton invented gravity. They have been around as long as writing itself
because they are an integral part of writing. It is impossible to write well without
compelling ideas, a sense of organization, strong voice, well-chosen words, fluent
sentences, or conventions that clarify meaning.
The six traits were fi rst described in a rubric—or writing guide—developed by
a group of seventeen teachers in the Beaverton, Oregon, school district in 1984. (See
Figure 1.1 for a page, with my notes, from that fi rst rubric.)
Those teachers didn’t just jot down whatever was in their heads (though many
rubrics are, unfortunately, developed just this way). Instead, they read hundreds of
student papers (grades 3 through 12) and ranked them: strong, midlevel (or developing), and beginning (in need of extensive revision). Then they documented their
reasons for ranking the papers as they did, and six prominent features stood out.
2
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3
Where Do the Six Traits Come From?
Figure 1.1
Key to Success
This wouldn’t be so remarkable except for the fact that, working independently, these
seventeen teachers all came up with the same six traits. I should add that they did not
set out to look for six important writing features; it just turned out that way. They
might have found three—or eight, and then we would have had a different model.
The most recent version of that original six-trait writing guide appears in Chapters
3 through 8 of this book. It is intended mainly for use with students in grades 3 on
up (or primary students writing at an advanced level). This edition also includes an
adapted version specifically for primary writers. It has been modified to make both
assessment and instruction much easier for those working with students K through 2.
(The primary continuums from the second edition of this book are also included.)
SpanCh1.indd 3
Ideally, any performance
rubric (six-trait writing guides included) is
developed by observing
and documenting actual
performance. Imagine a
rubric for figure skating
developed by someone
who had never skated
or watched anyone else
skate, and you can grasp
at once how important
it is for good evaluators
to thoroughly understand—as observers and
doers—the performance
they are rating. The best
evaluators of writing
are people who write
themselves—and who
also spend time teaching
others to write.
5/20/11 11:03:11 AM
4
CHAPTER 1
Coming Face to Face with the Six Traits
A good writing guide is not just a tool for assessing. It must also be a guide
to revision. That’s one way you can tell the “good” writing guides from the “evil”
ones. The good ones are not written in judgmental language; they’re designed to
guide writers through revision, showing them step by step how to make their writing stronger.
Creating a Vision of Success
As my friend and colleague Rick Stiggins loves to say, “Students can hit any educational target that holds still for them” (2001, 12). In other words, no matter what we
teach, we must show students what effective, strong performance looks like. How do
we do this? We begin by defining it for ourselves, as writers—and as readers.
Writing teaches us what is possible—and what is difficult. Reading gives us
awareness and sensitivity. We catch our breath at the good moments, wince at the
bad ones. As author Stephen King tells us, “Constant reading will put you into a
place (a mind-set, if you like the phrase) where you can write eagerly and without
self-consciousness. It also offers you a constantly growing knowledge of what has
been done and what hasn’t, what is trite and what is fresh, what works and what
just lies there dying (or dead) on the page” (2000, 150).
In What You Know By Heart, Katie Wood Ray reminds us that “Every single
text we encounter presents a whole chunk of curriculum, a whole set of things to
know about writing” (2002, 92). Good writing teaches us how to capture detail,
how to begin or end in interesting ways, how to use words or phrases we never
thought of before, how to craft sentences, and how to package our writing—as a
novel, poem, picture book, cookbook, diary, essay, or any other type of text.
Once we know what it is we mean by “good writing,” we are much better prepared to share our vision with students—as clearly and thoroughly as we possibly can.
It isn’t fair to make them guess what we want or what we value. Sharing a “vision”
means sharing samples of what good writing can look like—both samples of writing
done by students and a vast array of published writing from books to websites.
Sharing the vision also means modeling—letting students see how writing looks
as it’s unfolding. Modeling reveals both process and product. Writing isn’t just what
appears on the page; it’s also all the decisions needed to get it there.
And finally, sharing the vision means sharing writing guides—because that’s how
we make our vision of success public. We all use rubrics—but sometimes they’re internal. They only exist in our minds. Make no mistake: That doesn’t make them any
less real—or influential. I had teachers who valued length, others who loved penmanship—or general neatness. A treasured few valued voice. As student writers, we eventually figured out what was “written” on each internal rubric, but if our teachers had
committed what they valued to paper, that would have made the assessment process
more honest and saved us a lot of trial and error.
Handy though they may be, writing guides—even the very best of them—aren’t
holy writ. Here are three things to remember about them:
●
●
●
They’re constantly evolving.
They don’t tell us everything.
The best ones are the ones you write yourself.
A rubric is nothing more than a reflection of our current thinking. As that thinking
changes, the rubric must change, too. Further, a rubric, no matter how precise and
well written, cannot tell all there is to know about a piece of writing, any more than
a résumé tells all there is to know about a human being. But it does remind us of
important features—and it gives children (especially primary children) important
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5
The Six “Keys to Good Writing”
clues about what makes writing effective and what we’ll be looking for as we review
their work.
Think of the writing guides and continuums in this book as a jumping off
point. I share them to get you started. As you and your students talk about all the
remarkable writing in the world, add to these rubrics. Revise them. Make them
your own. That way, they will be an extension of your thinking.
The Six “Keys to Good Writing”
Here’s a quick review to help you start defining the six traits in your own mind. Think
of those “traits” as “keys to good writing,” and you’ll immediately understand the
power of aligning traits with writing process to help unlock the door to revision.
Ideas: The Message
Ideas are the heart and soul of good writing, the writer’s main message or story
line—and all the details that support or expand that message or story.
In this snapshot from her autobiography A Girl from Yamhill, author Beverly
Cleary describes an episode with her fi rst grade teacher, Miss Falb (1988, 78):
Once I was ordered, without being told why, to the cloakroom, where I huddled,
sniffling, among rubbers and lunch bags. For weeks after that, the smell of peanut
butter sandwiches made my stomach curl. Once a plump and cheerful girl named
Claudine was punished by being sentenced to crouch in the dark cave under Miss
Falb’s desk with Miss Falb’s feet in their ugly black oxfords.
Feel yourself cringing just a little? Smell the rubbers and peanut butter? Feel the
musty gloom close round you, and the grim presence of black oxfords lurking in
that dark cave under Miss Falb’s desk? Then you know the power of clear ideas—
and detail. Of course, detail can take many forms. Sensory detail, as in Cleary’s
passage, is one.
Detail can also be used to create vivid imagery, as in this description of the
pirate Black Stache from Peter and the Starcatchers (2004, 330):
He was a strikingly unpleasant figure, with a pock-marked face and a large red
nose, like a prize turnip, glued to his face. His long black hair, greasy from years
without washing, stained the shoulders of the red uniform coat he’d stolen from a
Navy sailor on the high seas, just before escorting that wretched soul over the side
of the ship. He had dark, deepset, piercingly black eyes, overshadowed by eyebrows
so bushy that he had to brush them away to see through the glass. But his most
prominent feature was the thick growth of hair on his upper lip, long and black, lovingly maintained, measuring nearly a foot between its waxed and pointed tips.
Or—details may come in the form of fascinating facts, as in this passage from How
Fast Is It? by Ben Hillman (2008, 15):
Bamboo is the lightning of grass. It grows so fast that you can actually hear it
growing! Some species of bamboo can easily grow more than 12 inches (30 cm) per
day —rocketing up to the sky from a teeny sprout to full grown towering maturity—as
much as 80 feet (24m) high or more—in less than three months!
Details make pictures—sometimes movies—in our minds. They entertain and
enlighten us, deepen our understanding, and make us curious to know more. Nothing
SpanCh1.indd 5
Detail is electric … In
writing, detail is everything. It shocks, explodes,
illuminates. It electrifies the
reader’s imagination and
sparks a chain reaction of
associations.
—Bonni Goldberg
Room to Write (1996, 67)
5/20/11 11:03:14 AM
6
CHAPTER 1
Coming Face to Face with the Six Traits
in writing matters more than detail. It supports ideas, guides organizational flow,
and bolsters voice.
Organization: Design
Organization is the design and structure of a piece of writing, a kind of roadmap
for the reader. Organization can vary tremendously from genre to genre. A mystery
story and a recipe are designed very differently, but both need structure: a beginning to set things up, a sense of direction to keep things moving, and an ending to
provide closure.
A good lead (beginning) is vital. If the lead is flat, readers tune out. Jack on the
Tracks (by Jack Gantos) opens this way: “It was dark. Dad was driving and I was
riding shotgun” (2001, 3). Suppose that Gantos had said instead, “In this book, I
will explain to you, the reader, how it feels to move to another town.” Just like that,
the magic is gone.
Leo Lionni’s much-loved children’s book, Frederick, opens with this line: “All
along the meadow where the cows grazed and the horses ran, there was an old stone
wall” (1967, 1). You want to know who lives under that wall, don’t you? It doesn’t
take young readers/listeners long to learn that a good lead takes you by the hand
and pulls you into the writer’s world.
Organization is also about internal structure—finding a pattern that fits: step by
step, problem-solution, mystery and revelation, argument and support, comparison
and contrast, visual description, daily journal, question and answer—or most often,
some blend of designs. One reason formula writing doesn’t work very well is that
there are so many genres—so many possible patterns. If all writing were exactly the
same, formula would be a breakthrough discovery. Since it isn’t, formula works more
like a ball and chain, weighing us down as we struggle to arrange ideas effectively.
Nothing is more important to design than a good conclusion. When you open
a greeting card, what are you looking for? When you listen to a joke, what are you
anticipating? The punch line. When we are disappointed in a book—or a TV show
or fi lm—it’s often because it doesn’t end in the way we had anticipated or hoped for.
Of course, surprise endings are the best of all—when they work. That’s the key.
When an ending feels right, we know it instinctively. It’s sad when Charlotte (in
Charlotte’s Web by E. B. White) dies, but we don’t want White to write, “Charlotte
lived on and on—forever!” Not really. There is more comfort in his closing comment: “It is not often that someone comes along who is a true friend and a good
writer. Charlotte was both” (1980, 184).
Voice: Fingerprints on the Page
All readers respond to voice. Of the thousands of definitions put forward for this
elusive concept, I still like Donald Murray’s best. “Voice,” Murray tells us, “separates
writing that is read from writing that is not read” (1984, 144). That cuts right to it.
Voice is the quality that keeps us tuned in, that makes us feel as if we know the
writer. It’s a sharing of self. Voice forms a bond between reader and writer, creating
a sense of trust. Very often I hear voice defi ned as “the personality of the writer on
the page.” That’s part of it, all right, but voice is so much more than personality. It
is the confidence (that comes from knowing a topic well), enthusiasm, curiosity, and
passion for honesty that is uncompromising. As Anne Lamott reminds us, “Good
writing is about telling the truth” (1995, 2).
Telling the truth in writing means sharing detail that sounds and feels authentic, that makes us say, “That’s real.” We hear that kind of authenticity in this lead
from Peter and the Starcatchers (2004, 1), which plunges us into a stifling carriage
with six unwashed bodies:
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The Six “Keys to Good Writing”
7
The tired old carriage, pulled by two tired old horses, rumbled onto the wharf, its
creaky wheels bumpty-bumping on the uneven planks, waking Peter from his restless
slumber. The carriage interior, hot and stuffy, smelled of five smallish boys and one
largish man, none of whom was keen on bathing.
Young writers are among the best, most astute critics anywhere. They simply
can’t lie. Read any piece of writing to a group of fi rst graders, and you will know
at once from their body language and facial expressions whether they think it has
voice. I recall sharing Jack Gantos’s book Rotten Ralph to a K–1 group of students
as they listened enraptured. When I asked what they liked about it, one student
responded, “It’s expressive.” I was smitten. That was the perfect word, all right—
but not the one I’d expected from such a young group. “How about the rest of you?”
I ventured. “Do you know what expressive means?” A small girl in the front row
raised her hand. “I know what it means,” she said. “It means it has voice.” That
was a perfect moment.
On another occasion, I shared a very different sample of writing, “The Redwoods”
(see Figure 1.2) with a group of first graders. I didn’t tell them it was a student sample.
I just asked if they’d like to hear a story called “The Redwoods.” They couldn’t wait.
We made ourselves comfortable on the reading rug, and as I read, I could see (over
the top of the paper) their small faces, morphing from excitement to puzzlement to
dismay. What sort of story was this? And why on earth had I chosen it? “Would you
like to hear it again?” I asked—biting my lip, knowing what the answer would be.
Heads shook solemnly. “No, thank you.” That’s how first graders assess voice; it’s a
measure of how eager they are to hear a piece again—and again.
As you read “The Redwoods,” you may think to yourself, “Well, it isn’t my
all-time favorite piece. But it is clear and legible, it has complete sentences and gorgeous paragraphs, and a beginning and ending of sorts. Plus, the conventions are
downright terrific—and she loves her family! Couldn’t we give her a point or two for
that?” I agree. There are many positives. The
heartbreaking thing about “The Redwoods”
Figure 1.2
is that it isn’t a sample of primary writing;
it was written by an eleventh grader—one
The Redwoods
who had been consistently rewarded for
neatness, good spelling, and correct puncLast year, we went on a vacation and
tuation—but never for voice. No one ever
we
had
a wonderful time. The weather was
took time to say, “Gretchen, your editing is
sunny and warm and there was lots to
outstanding—but I don’t hear you in here.
I want to hear your voice.” This is writing
do, so we were never bored.
shaped by years of assessment that neglected
My parents visited friends and
to focus on what mattered most.
took pictures for their friends back
Word Choice: Phrasing
Word choice is all about using the right
word at the right moment. Good word
choice contributes to clarity certainly, but it
can also evoke feelings, moods, likes, and
dislikes. For young writers, good language
often means new language—or sometimes,
familiar words used in unexpected ways.
In Just the Right Size: Why Big Animals
Are Big and Little Animals Are Little, zoologist Nicola Davies explains how and why
size affects all sorts of things, from lifting
SpanCh1.indd 7
home. My brother and I swam and also
hiked in the woods. When we got tired
of that, we just ate and had a wonderful time.
It was exciting and fun to be
together as a family and to do things
together. I love my family, and this is a time
that I will remember for a long time. I hope we
will go back again next year for more fun and
an even better time than we had this year.
5/20/11 11:03:17 AM
8
CHAPTER 1
Coming Face to Face with the Six Traits
to flying. We learn why ants can lift many times their own weight (while we cannot), and why (much as we might like to) we’ll never fly outside of an airplane. In
one passage (2009, 21) Davies explains how geckos can scurry up walls and across
ceilings to hunt for their favorite food: insects. We, of course, cannot do this. She
might have used very formal language to draw this contrast: “Geckos’ body mass
and anatomy are better suited to climbing than those of humans.”
Luckily for us, Davies uses the sort of conversational language and quirky detail
that pull readers right into her discussion:
The secret’s in their toes, which are shaped like flattened spoons. Under a
microscope you can see that gecko toes are covered with thousands of tiny hairs.
These hairs can fit tightly onto the smoothest wall . . . . So why can’t we have spoonshaped ‘hairy toes’ and run up walls like a gecko? The answer (of course!) lies in
the BTLT [big thing, little thing] rule. We weigh thousands of times more than a tiny
gecko, and we’d need toes tens of thousands times bigger than a gecko’s to hold us
on the ceiling—much too big for running around without tripping!
It’s fun to read about “spoon-shaped ‘hairy toes’” and imagine how very large
our toes would need to be to enable us to cling to ceilings. Language, particularly
in a specialized field like zoology, can be used to build walls that keep readers out.
Good writers take down walls by using words readers understand, and employing
them in a way that creates unforgettable pictures. Next time you see a gecko, what
will you think of fi rst?
In The Twits, mischievous author Roald Dahl, always up for a bit of the grotesque, forces us to look closely at Mr. Twit’s moustache, where we are dismayed
to find “maggoty green cheese or a moldy old cornflake or even the slimy tail of a
tinned sardine” (1980, 7). Then comes the killer line: “By sticking out his tongue
and curling it sideways to explore the hairy jungle around his mouth, he was always
able to find a tasty morsel here and there to nibble on.” Looking was bad enough,
but Dahl pushes us in close, where—despite our minds’ objections—we feel our own
tongues “curling sideways” to explore the “hairy jungle,” and like it or not, we find
ourselves sniffing the “maggoty green cheese.” As we can see from this example,
strong verbs (sticking, curling, explore, nibble) are—along with expressions like
“hairy jungle”—a major contributor to voice.
Sentence Fluency: Rhythm and Flow
Sentence fluency is the rhythm and flow of language—the way it plays to the ear.
It’s also about the thousands of ways in which writers can manipulate sentences to
create meaning.
Poetry, like song lyrics, is the essence of fluency when it is well crafted. Prose,
however, can mimic the qualities that make those two forms of writing so captivating, as in this passage from The Dreamer by Pam Muñoz Ryan:
Raindrops strummed across the zinc roof. Water mysteriously trilled above him,
worming its way indoors. Weepy puddles dripped from the ceiling, filling the pots that
had been poised to catch them. (2010, 5)
The masterful alliteration (“worming its way”) and consonance (“weepy puddles
dripped”) in these lines, of course, add to the effect, mimicking the sound of water
“strumming” and “dripping.” But in addition, notice how each line begins just a
little differently, drawing attention to a new image, a new set of sounds—that build
to a crescendo in our minds.
Fluent sentences tend to vary both in length and in structure—unless the writer
uses repetition on purpose: “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times . . . It
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The Six “Keys to Good Writing”
9
was the season of light, it was the season of darkness . . . It was
the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair . . .” (Dickens,
A Tale of Two Cities, p. 1). Sometimes, writers don’t use full
sentences at all, but rely on fragments for emphasis, as in The
Dot (unpaginated) by Peter H. Reynolds (2003):
Vashti painted and painted.
A yellow dot.
A green dot.
A red dot.
A blue dot.
Fragments can be particularly handy in dialogue, as in
Chris Raschka’s classic all-dialogue book, Yo! Yes? (1998,
unpaginated)—
Hey!
Who?
You!
Me?
The simplicity and shortness of these spoken sentences gives them special appeal to
young readers.
In contrast, sentences can sometimes go on and on, creating a sense of momentum, action, speed—as in Gary Paulsen’s description of his fi rst sled run with new
puppies. Freed for the first time from the confi nes of their kennel, the pups take
off at a dead run, and like Paulsen’s writing, they cannot stop for breath (Puppies,
Dogs, and Blue Northers, 1996, 52):
We ran for two hours and we saw more mice and deer and grouse and rabbits and
birds in the sky and a moose and a car when we crossed the road and a farm dog
that ran with us for a while and a coyote and a weasel and a porcupine, and we went
after every one of them, laughing and snorting and falling and tumbling, but we
didn’t catch any of them and it never did matter.
Sometimes the main thought comes at the beginning of the sentence, followed by
description—as in this line from The Storyteller’s Beads by Jane Kurtz: “Sahay leaped
up, tangling the thread she had been so carefully smoothing” (1998, 3). And other
times, the author hears the rhythm differently, putting description first and holding
the main idea for the end, as in this line from One Tiny Turtle by Nicola Davies: “Not
much bigger than a bottletop, she hides in the green shadows” (2001, 8).
Skillful writers read everything they write aloud to get the sound and rhythm
just right. Fluency is readily measured by the sound of language—but also by how
easy it is to read text aloud and to weave in plenty of expression as you do so. Like
word choice, fluency contributes mightily to voice.
When the little mouse Amos (of Amos and Boris) fi rst sets sail, Steig describes
the scene this way: “He was enjoying his trip immensely. It was beautiful weather.
Day and night he moved up and down, up and down, on waves as big as mountains, and he was full of wonder, full of enterprise, and full of love for life” (1971).
Notice the varied sentence beginnings, the purposeful use of repetition to create
rhythm, and the masterful emphasis that goes with the parallel structure—“full of
wonder, full of enterprise, and full of love for life.”
Sometimes we think that students do not notice these little differences on writing. They do, though. I would be surprised to hear second graders chatting about
the effectiveness of parallel structure, but it would not surprise me at all to have one
say (as second grader Marie said to me), “I love the sound of that” (meaning Amos
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10
CHAPTER 1
Coming Face to Face with the Six Traits
and Boris). And it wouldn’t surprise me to see parallel structure turn up in Marie’s
writing one of these days.
Conventions & Presentation:
Preparing to Publish
Conventions & Presentation are all about packaging writing—getting it ready to
share with the world. The trait has two parts. The fi rst part, conventions, includes
anything a copy editor would deal with: spelling, punctuation, use of capitals,
grammar and usage, and indenting or using other means to indicate paragraphing.
I think of these things as textual conventions.
The second part, presentation, includes visual features such as font size or type,
bullets, illustrations, graphics, use of color, arrangement of words and pictures on
the page, and so forth—in short, anything that gives a document eye appeal and
makes information easy to fi nd.
In teaching conventions to primary writers, we need to begin with the simplest
of traditions, such as writing from left to right or wrapping a sentence down and
left when you run out of space in the right margin. As students gain conventional
skill, they can begin to concern themselves with correct spelling or paragraphing—and later, nuances of grammar or sophisticated punctuation such as ellipses,
semicolons, or dashes.
Presentation (format, layout) on the page is highly significant to many young
writers, especially once they are ready to publish and to think about title pages,
book covers, and so on. We should not judge a book by its cover, we are told,
but we most surely do, as designers are well aware. I am skeptical of anyone who
claims never to have bought a book solely on the basis of its cover—the illustration, the font, the color, the whole look of it. Here are just a handful of the many
books whose covers spoke to me enough to make me pick the book up, leaf through
it—and ultimately buy it:
●
●
●
●
●
●
●
Lord of the Forest
Wabi Sabi
A River of Words
The Lion and the Mouse
Red Sings from the Treetops
Written in Bone
January’s Sparrow
Presentation is also critical in newsletter and newspaper copy, greeting cards, posters, advertisements, menus, maps, brochures, websites, signage for public venues
like museums and zoos—or any writing in which capturing the reader’s attention
matters as much as content.
A Real Life Sample
Now that you know how the traits can look—should look—let’s explore the traits
in a real sample of student writing (see Figure 1.3). I chose this piece partly because
I love it—but also because it’s written by a third grader, and it’s a bit closer to secondary writing than many of the other samples in this book, making it easier to
spot the traits quickly.
You need to read this paper aloud to appreciate it. Skim it once to get the idea;
then read it again, full throttle. Don’t hold back. Enjoy every moment. Let me also
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5/20/11 11:03:23 AM
11
The Six “Keys to Good Writing”
suggest that you jot down your fi rst impressions on a
piece of scratch paper before reading my comments.
Then compare. Here are my thoughts . . .
Ideas
The message could hardly be more clear—“I’m a
rocker, a tomboy, a carnivore, and a rough and tumble
tree climber who loves burping and other disgusting
habits. If you love these things too, we can be buds!”
Organization
Some people would call this disorganized because
it’s essentially a random list—or so it seems at fi rst
glance. But take a closer look. It has a strong opening: “A good friend for me would be a female tomboy.” And the ending brings it full circle: “If you do
everything you are my best friend.” The writer goes
back and forth between qualities that make for a good
friend—and things that will spoil the whole deal. I’m
sure some people would like to group those together
neatly, but I fi nd it much more natural and conversational this way.
Voice
Wow. That’s my response. This writer is ALL about
voice. It just explodes from the page. It comes from her
total honesty. She tells everything, sharing thoughts
and feelings in a way that’s energetic and vibrant. She
is precisely the kind of person I’d love to have for a friend.
Figure 1.3
You Whant to be My Friend?
By Talissa (3)
You whant to be my friend? Well a good friend for
me would be a female tomboy. She would like
nature, animals and stones. She would like burping
and burping the ABCs. If she couldn’t & didn’t like
it she couldn’t be my friend. If you don’t like Star
Wars you are not my friend. I love Star Wars. Oh &
viva pinyatas, legos, bionicals. The things I like. You
problebly can guse one of my favorite video games.
Lego Star wars! Its kind of easy to be my friend
just a few minuts or secons & We are friends. But
Figurethers
2.1 a big chance you
if you don’t like drumming
aren’t my friend. I am a rocker. I am also very
disgusting. Even boys think so. No matter what
age. But be carful. Warning. No vegitarians. I am
mostly a carnivore. And last of all exploring &
climbin trees are OK. Remember if you do everythin
you are my best friend.
Word Choice
The word choice is natural and the phrasing contributes to voice—viva piñatas, you
probably can guess, I am a rocker, Warning. No vegetarians—and so on. Are we
thunderstruck by the writer’s vocabulary? Not really . . . and yet, because she uses
everyday language with such flair, I see this as a defi nite strength.
Sentence Fluency
This is a mixed bag. Parts are wonderful: If she couldn’t and didn’t like it, she
couldn’t be my friend. Other parts are bumpy: The things I like. Be careful, though;
this writer uses fragments with ease and style: No matter what age . . . Warning. No
vegetarians. She has an ear for language; her phrasing is natural and rich. Imagine
it on the stage. She just needs to read over everything she writes to maintain the
fluency that is part of her style.
Conventions & Presentation
I’m ignoring Presentation for this piece since the writer didn’t have a chance to do
any formatting or illustrating. Conventions again are a bit of a mix. A few words
are misspelled (including want—it’s always deadly to misspell a word in the title)
and there’s at least one missing apostrophe. On the other hand, look at how many
SpanCh1.indd 11
A writer can have faults
and still be wonderful,
because the best writing goes beyond simple
mastery of language. Its
power lies elsewhere—in
one’s understanding of
the human heart and the
ways of the world, in one’s
capacity for making moral
judgments, in knowing a
thing or two about life, in
telling a great story.
—Patricia T. O’Conner
Words Fail Me (1999, 5)
5/20/11 11:03:24 AM
12
CHAPTER 1
Coming Face to Face with the Six Traits
words are spelled correctly: friend, female, tomboy, burping, couldn’t, didn’t,
video, drumming, disgusting, warning, carnivore, exploring, remember. I wouldn’t
call this trait a strength—yet. But if we can slow this writer down long enough to
take a second look, what a difference it will make. Meantime, that voice . . .
Just imagine “The Redwoods” in the hands of this writer. What might we have
learned about the feel of bark so thick and rough it won’t yield to fires, the scent
of trees that make a living landscape for ferns and flowers, or the tingly feeling of
invisible showers falling beneath a canopy of trees so mighty they make their own
rain? Even a quick comparison between this piece and “The Redwoods” tells us
that the writer’s age isn’t as much of a factor as we might have thought. Yes, writers’ thinking matures, their vocabulary stretches, and their control over standard
conventions grows with time. But there is more to writing. There is sensitivity,
observation, honesty, and a willingness to share from the heart.
Where Should I Begin?
Weaving the traits into your curriculum doesn’t begin with handing out rubrics.
Instead . . .
Begin with writing, providing opportunities for your students to write often
and for many purposes—even if they write only a word, a phrase, or a letter string
at fi rst. Write with them, and model writing. Create your own stories and poems,
and share them with your students.
Begin with talking. Don’t be timid about using writers’ language. Talk about
the voice you hear in pieces like Talissa’s. Listen together for fluency. Use terms like
detail, lead, conclusion, design, audience, word choice, and conventions. In writing, as in nearly anything we do, knowing the language of the territory is the fi rst
step to power.
Begin with reading, with sharing the books you love. In
the case of primary students, the fi rst experience with writing traits often comes from listening to language used well—
in books like Puppies, DOGS, and Blue Northers, One Tiny
Turtle, The Dreamer, How Fast Is It?, Amos & Boris, The
Twits—and your own favorites.
Here’s an important thing to remember: Young students
hear the traits long, long before those traits ever appear
in their own writing. When you ask students to describe
what they picture as you read and they can do that, you
have taught them what details are. You have only to give
it a name. When you see students hanging on your words,
waiting for you to turn the page, and they ask you to please,
please keep reading, you have taught the trait of voice. You
have only to give it a name. Soon your students will be
listening for favorite words and inviting leads and conclusions that ring true—and all the things that you and they
teach one another to value in writing. When you name these
things, you empower your students to think and to speak
like writers. It is a fi ne gift.
SpanCh1.indd 12
5/20/11 11:03:25 AM
Study Group
13
Something to Think About
When teachers hear about the six traits in workshops, they often say, “This is all
so familiar! I teach this already!” Do you feel that way? It wouldn’t be surprising
since it’s hard to teach writing without talking about ideas, organization, voice,
and all the rest. But what trait-based instruction can offer is a way of getting organized. In No More “I’m Done!” author and teacher Jennifer Jacobson talks about
the “buffet method” of teaching writing: “details on Monday, great leads on
Tuesday, lively verbs on Wednesday, proper nouns on Thursday, focus on Friday”
(2010, 54). Focusing on the traits helped her to group related lessons together,
thereby giving her young writers time to think more deeply about what it means to
develop an idea or organize information. You may fi nd that a trait-based approach
to writing instruction will help you “reorganize” all the wonderful things you’re
already doing.
Study Group: Interactive Questions and Activities
1. Activity. Brainstorm your own list of the qualities
you think are most important to good writing. As
you do this, (1) work with a group, and (2) have
before you samples of writing: student samples, as
well as excerpts from other written materials. As
you list the qualities, try connecting each of them
to one of the six traits: ideas (content, main theme
or message, details); organization (lead, design or
order, transitions and connections, ending); voice
(presence, individuality, tone and flavor, honesty,
liveliness and energy); word choice (carefully
selected words, precision of meaning, phrasing,
SpanCh1.indd 13
strong verbs, sensory details); sentence fluency
(rhythm, readability, smooth sentence flow, sentence-to-sentence continuity, authentic dialogue);
conventions & presentation (spelling, punctuation,
grammar and usage, paragraphing, capitalization,
layout and design). Is there anything on your list
that is outside the scope of these six traits?
2. Discussion. Analyze the personal list you put
together in Activity 1. Are there any traits you
weighted somewhat more heavily than others?
Are any traits omitted altogether from your list?
Discuss how this might influence your teaching.
5/20/11 11:03:26 AM
14
CHAPTER 1
Coming Face to Face with the Six Traits
3. Activity and Discussion. Analyze a sample of your
own writing using the “rubric” that lives in your
own mind right now. What strengths do you see or
hear in your own writing? What pleases or excites
you about the way you write? What things do you
think you—as a writer—need to work on most?
How could you use this insight to strengthen the
modeling you do for students? Discuss this with
colleagues. (Put this writing away for a time; you
will look at it again when you finish Chapter 15.)
4. Activity and Discussion. As a group, select two or
more favorite books: adult or young adult literature, picture books, nonfiction—your choice. Look
through them and identify the qualities that jump
out at you. What strengths do you notice in particular? What does this tell you about why you are
drawn to certain types of literature? Discuss this.
5. Activity and Discussion. If you are currently
teaching, try the activity Judy Mazur did with
her group of third graders. That is, ask them
to complete this sentence: Good writing has
_____________ . To kick off this activity, consider
sharing one or two favorite pieces of writing to get
students’ mental wheels turning. Once you create
a class list, keep it posted where you and your
students can see it and add to it throughout the
school year. Share the results of this activity with
your colleagues.
Coming Up . . .
Chapter 2 shows how to set the stage for bringing traits into your classroom by creating a nurturing environment in which the traits can flourish. You will see how to
establish writing workshop as a routine and introduce students to writing process.
SpanCh1.indd 14
5/20/11 11:03:28 AM