Over the last few years, as I’ve increasingly devoted myself to writing about scientific research on learning, I’ve interviewed the authors of many well-known books about education. I always ask them about the kinds of questions they get from teachers and parents, and at this point a shade often passes over their expressions. “Parents and teachers,” they say with a sigh, “want to know what they should do with the information in my book.” This experience, repeated many times, always makes me think of a book owned by my father, who was for years a high school English teacher. The book, written by author and educator John Holt, was titled What Do I Do Monday? Holt’s book was published more than 40 years ago, but apparently teachers had the same questions then as now: After reading Holt’s other books, or listening to his talks, they would write him letters saying things like: “I understand what you’re saying, but what can I do about this in my own classroom? What do I do on Monday?” It’s my impression that authors and experts often feel burdened by these kinds of questions, and that parents and teachers are often made to feel bad for asking them. Look at my big ideas, my elaborate frameworks, my captivating stories! the authors say, in so many words. Don’t bother me about the picayune details of how they get implemented! The application of experts’ big ideas is left to parents and teachers themselves, and often it’s a big leap from theory to practice. The authors’ disinclination to get too specific is aggravated by the conventions of the publishing industry, which draws a bright line between “serious” books and “advice and how-to.” (The latter category even has its own bestseller list in the New York Times Book Review, cordoned off from the list for “real” books.) As an author, I understand the impulse to stick with big ideas. (I’ve got a few of those in my own book, to be published, let’s see, 51 weeks from now.) But as a parent of school-aged children, and as a journalist who frequently interviews teachers and other educators, I really understand the impulse to get practical. Big ideas are great, but then Monday morning rolls around and you’ve got a classroom full of expectant faces looking at you, waiting for you to say something. Elaborate frameworks are interesting to think about, but then your kids are tearing their hair out over their homework and you’ve got to do something right now to help them get it. That’s why I think the general disdain for self-help is misplaced. Granted, there’s a lot of pseudo-scientific junk out there. (Years ago I wrote a report for the Rosalynn Carter Mental Health Journalism Fellowship about the misconceptions and misrepresentations common in popular self-help books.) But there are a few gems of the genre: intelligent, well-written books that distill the scientific literature and the practices of great teachers into practical, actionable steps. (Note to word mavens: for a long time I held out against the neologism “actionable,” but it’s really kind of useful.) Let’s give this genre a name: serious self-help. No teacher or parent should feel embarrassed about reading such books, or guilty about wanting concrete advice. Here are three of my favorite examples of serious self-help; I’d be honored if one day my own book is shelved somewhere near them. Click on the link below to read on, and to share your own exemplars of "serious self-help":
Posted on: Wed, 11 Sep 2013 12:58:13 +0000
Trending Topics
Recently Viewed Topics
© 2015