Silence: A Cure to Writer’s Block

As I was preparing to teach my very first Humane Letters class, there were so many problems I anticipated. I remember having lists of important quotations for reference in case the students failed to highlight their own texts. I would come up with pages of discussion questions to keep them talking in case conversations fell flat. But what stunned me when I finally made it into the classroom was why students struggled to write. 

They possessed a thorough knowledge of the “five-sentence paragraph” and how it should be ordered, but even after riveting discussion, the assignments and journals I received were only summaries. I started giving specific journal prompts, which helped for a time, but the second I assigned a free response, there was a disgruntled outrage amongst even the brightest in the class. What nerve I must have, to expect my students to have something original to say? Patiently, I looked out at their blank faces and asked what they found interesting about The Odyssey. Some pretty crazy stuff goes down in the course of that infamous voyage— surely, there must be something that struck them as funny, strange, memorable in some way. The blank faces did not change, so I decided my approach must. 

What I discovered in that first class has rung true in each class to follow: students default to summary when they have nothing to say. All the writing mechanics and grammar in the world cannot compensate for lack of original thought. Time after time, I found that my students, despite their high reading comprehension and A+ ambitions, were merely reading once, and expecting genius inspiration to save them. While the Muse may have given Homer plenty to say, it is not always so kind to us. The more I dug into their reading habits outside the classroom, it became evident that the bulk of the “work” happened late at night in bed (where sleep was too sweet a temptation), on long bus rides traveling for sports, or in a rush the morning of a class discussion. All of these occasions were cluttered with distractions. Under such circumstances, a summary is all that could be expected. I gently started iterating to my students that thought, the key ingredient of writing, requires two things they neglect to provide: space and time. 

This became an occasion for reflection on my own homeschooled upbringing, and how I learned how to write and how to think. Learning to think was never something that happened explicitly, but rather occurred naturally in the slower pace of life laid out for me. I was afforded greater time for contemplation because I was spared the chronic busyness of smart devices, and the drama of social life was subdued by the lack of daily interaction. Rather than scrolling, I was forced to think on those long car rides, staring out the window. As I tried to fall asleep, I didn’t have earbuds in my ears to cancel out my own musings. I regularly walked in the woods to escape the countless musical instruments that were always being practiced in my childhood home (multiple trumpet players in one family is very fun, as you can imagine). 

I have come to understand that these slow, thoughtful moments share an important commonality: silence. This silence is necessary to give the brain time to synthesize, compare, contrast, and create ideas. Stories are digested beyond their major plot points, personal memories are stirred in to affirm or counter what a story claims to be true. I was given the great gift of periodic silence in my youth, and my contemplative habits have benefited from it. Unfortunately, I could not force my students to adopt any such silent activities at home, so I utilized what space I had. 

I made the bold and uncomfortable choice to introduce silence into my classroom. Initially, it was difficult to keep students from whispering, laughing, prodding one another, but after several sessions, a calmness grew. I would spend a few minutes reviewing our reading for the day and then pose a question. We would sit in silence together, some students writing, some staring, for three, five, and then eventually seven minutes. Rather than immediately monitoring their thoughts, I would move on to the rest of the lesson, encouraging them to jot down some notes and continue thinking at home. I strongly suggested them to try writing without the interruption of text messages and Spotify ads. After all, silence full of noise isn’t really silence. 

Once, with the class that had come to appreciate stillness, I asked a weighty question about our reading and then led us on a silent walk around the school grounds in the morning so that their brains could properly chew on something for a while. This became a regular request. As you might have guessed, these doses of silence slowly allowed my students to think. Though some of them were unable or unwilling to find the time themselves, I found a way to give them a small taste. Even the most reluctant students ended the semester with a few thoughtful reflections. They didn’t need instruction on how to think so much as they needed the proper space for stretching their intellects. 

This is not at all to say that every idea to come of these silent stretches was worth writing about, many were quite bad actually. The point is not to have a genius thought every spare moment. I’ve never been so lucky, and I doubt Homer and his Muse were much more successful at continuous inspiration. However, it is important to understand that a bad idea can be work-shopped into a good idea much easier than no idea can become a good idea, and this lesson radicalized my classes in the best possible way. The freedom to have a thought, question, or analysis without immediate repercussions in the grade book allows for a liberation of the mind. My students grew in confidence knowing that they had something valuable to say. They only needed to find a silent moment to hear their own voices.

To learn more about the craft of writing, join Katie Lastowiecka for a semester of Creative Writing this fall. Enrollment is now open: https://kepler.education/t/katherine.lastowiecka/?tab=courses

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Katie Łastowiecka  is a classical education advocate, presenter, and instructor specializing in upper level literature and drama. Currently, she is a freelance writer and has courses available at Kepler Education. She holds a masters in education and a bachelors in English. Twitter: @sourdohscholar