Previously: Telling your story, or at least a part of it.
The short version of this post: Use your creativity and insight to build a personal SWOT analysis for the rest of the year. Follow any of the hundreds of guides out there:
Previously: Telling your story, or at least a part of it.
The short version of this post: Use your creativity and insight to build a personal SWOT analysis for the rest of the year. Follow any of the hundreds of guides out there:
Previously: Storytelling and LEGO bricks.
Below are carefully selected data sets for you to explore. You have discretion over how much or how little you do here. In every instance, you can do as much or as little as you like. Remember, however, that the more detail you have, the clearer the overall meaning will be.
The goal is to write part of the story about yourself. What comes together in that gestalt way when you look at these data? What emerges from the details? What picture do you see — and what are the thousand words, so to speak, that go with that picture?
Previously: Rorschach ink blots.
Let’s talk about Lego bricks1 and how to tell a story.
The debate over whether to pluralize this as Legos or not is fascinating. Technically, it’s LEGO, all capital letters, and LEGO is the plural, as well. Trying to change the way people speak is difficult, however. ↩
Header image from Watchmen, selected as one of the best novels all of all time by TIME magazine.
Previously: Background notes and optical illusions.
Be sure you’ve carefully read the lecture that uses artwork and optical illusions to demonstrate how your brain processes information and creates meaning. This process is at the root of everything you learn, from the way you compile grade abatement evidence to the way you relate to a literary character to the way you make a three-dimensional cube flatten into a diamond-like shape.
Now we will look at descriptive writing, which is rarely isolated as its own mode of discourse at your age. To help, we need a visual: Rorschach inkblots.
Header image from Charles Allan Gilbert’s All Is Vanity (1892).
Each student enters this makerspace with a different history and different goal. Some of you love to read and write, and you look forward to improving your skills and experiencing new texts. Some of you, on the other hand, have hated English classes since you became aware of them, and you want only to escape — by climbing out the back window, maybe, if that’s what it takes.