JANUARY 2, 2025 – To stay out of trouble . . . or to get myself into trouble, I’m not sure which . . . I mentor a couple of freshmen writing students at Southwest High School, ranked second among 36 public high schools in Minneapolis. I’m one of a group of volunteer mentors who edit student essays that the program director mails to us every 10 days or so.
My two mentees aren’t destined to become staff writers for The New Yorker, but I’m confident that they’ll learn the magic of a comma after the first half of a compound sentence and eventually, how to avoid run-on sentences. In my editing session today, my crowded comments included, “Watch for those run-on sentences! With practice, they’re easy to catch and correct.” I can—and do—correct a lot of other usage infractions, and typically the essays I mark-up are covered with mostly legible fine-print graphite.
In a cover note to the writing teacher, I wrote, “I might be (fairly) criticized for diving too deep with my editing, but I take my assignments seriously. [smiley face]” At first I didn’t know where to start in deconstructing student writing. To create momentum for myself, I pictured myself mentoring a ninth-grade violinist for whom mastery of the instrument is neither a goal nor a realistic probability. But the kid is willing to take instruction and is reasonably conscientious about devoting some effort to the project—at least during orchestra hour. He shows up for a seating audition and sight reads a beginner’s version of the theme from Ode to Joy. The basic sounds are good enough to allow identification of the piece, but before the kid can advance musically—and reap the rewards of doing so—he needs work on stance, bow hand, bow arm, and left hand; basic form. Likewise in writing—or playing basketball—technique, I reminded myself, is the key to developing skill unlocking the attendant benefits.
With that in mind, I sharpened the graphite and went to work.
Over time my mentees have improved—just as my editing has gone deeper. Today, for example, I tackled the split infinitive in the context of “not,” “never” and “always.” Lately for some reason, this common offense has gotten under my skin. Nearly always and everywhere, from casual email to legal writing to columns in The New York Times, I see, “They were told to not/never/always protest,” when the proper usage is, “They were told not/never/always to protest.” I took out my frustration on my mentees. At first I hesitated, but then . . . I couldn’t help myself: someone has to stand up for standards!
But in today’s editing session, which took me over an hour for two, two-page one-and-a-half-line-spaced essays, I discerned remarkable growth in my students’ writing. The improvement wasn’t in technique but in the intrinsic value of content. The assignment had been to write about gratitude, and the responses by these two young writers reflected the ultimate value of their efforts: introspection.
They are good kids, each with an innate desire, I think, to help make the world a better place. If they’re not headed for Harvard; if they’re unlikely to win a Nobel Prize or acquire widespread fame for one good achievement or another, they’re solid, decent young people. As I reviewed their heartfelt writing, I was struck by their thoughtfulness, self-awareness, emotional maturity, demonstrated consideration for others (acquaintances, elderly neighbors, people in need), and appreciation for their friends, parents, teachers and coaches. The assignment and my students’ fulfillment of it helped them think about life, their friendships, their place in the world. Among my mechanical edits I made ample room for positive comments about heartfelt content.
I realized that these two guys had discovered—unwittingly, perhaps—self-knowledge and with it, direction in a chaotic world. They’ve gained sufficient writing proficiency to express themselves introspectively. I was impressed and told each so. I also wrote, “You give me faith in the future,” because they do.
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© 2025 by Eric Nilsson
