I’d be hard-pressed to find any person in higher ed who has had a larger influence on my own thinking than James Lang. Many folks will know Jim from his books like Cheating Lessons, Small Teaching and Distracted. He’s consistently ahead of the curve when it comes to identifying a problem in teaching and learning spaces—academic dishonesty, class disengagement, student attention problems—and proposing remedies that instructors can explore and make use of for themselves.
His new book, Write Like You Teach: Taking Your Classroom Skills to a Bigger Audience, part of the University of Chicago Press series of guides to writing, editing and publishing, is the best book I’ve ever seen for showing academics how to translate their current skills and practices to another audience and purpose. I’m excited by this book because we need as many academics as possible putting their voices into the world, not just because they have so many interesting and worthwhile things to say as individuals, but because it also helps remind everyone about the value of institutions where this kind of work happens.
I had a great time talking to Jim over email. This Q&A even breaks some news on Jim’s next book, too.
Jim Lang is a professor of the practice at the Kaneb Center for Teaching Excellence at the University of Notre Dame, and an emeritus professor of English at Assumption University. He’s the author of multiple books, including Small Teaching and Distracted, and a longtime columnist for The Chronicle of Higher Education. You can follow him on Substack at A General Education or connect with him on LinkedIn.
John Warner: One of my favorite initial questions for people who write is if they enjoy writing. So that’s my question: Do you enjoy writing?
James Lang: “Enjoyment” doesn’t seem like the right word for my feelings about writing. Writing has always been the activity that drives and gives meaning to my life. It helps me make sense of the world; if I have deep questions about the purpose of my life, or questions about anything important, I seek answers through writing, both within my published work and in my various notebooks. I have always been a very curious person who gets excited about learning new things, so writing has always been a way to satisfy those curiosities and push me into new places in my life.
If I focus specifically on the emotion of enjoyment … I hate to admit it, but I don’t seem to enjoy the actual writing process quite as much as I used to. I think I had a more unreserved embrace of writing when I was younger, when I felt like I had a lot to say and was confident that I had the ability to say it. I think both of those feelings have diminished, which I attribute in equal parts to the stroke I had a few years ago and to my age. I had to learn to speak and write again after my stroke, and while I have regained all of the words and writing skills I had before, I have to work a little harder than I used to [to] call them up and apply them. But even beyond the stroke, I guess I feel less of a desire to announce my ideas confidently to the world than I once felt. I have a great family, lots of friends and ongoing interests in many areas of my life. As my appreciation for those things has increased, the available real estate in the enjoyment part of my brain has shrunk slightly.
But the key word in that sentence is “slightly.” I do still take much pleasure from finding the perfect word, crafting a great sentence or launching a new essay or book. Writing still fills my life with meaning, and I could never envision my life without writing, or at least the desire to write, being part of who I am.
Q: What you describe sounds a bit like a winding down or maybe a shift in focus? I often say about myself that I’m never going to retire because I can’t imagine not reading and writing, which is both my pleasure and my work. But I do sometimes wonder if there’s a space to do less of it, if that makes sense. But as you note, it seems impossible to shut off that curiosity that drives those activities.
Where does that curiosity come from for you? You’ve had a varied career and it seems like every so often you shifted gears. Was that necessity or design or something else?
A: It comes from both a negative and a positive place. The negative place is that I do get bored of routines in any form, and when I feel like my life has fallen into a routine place, I start getting this itch to break it. I received tenure in the usual time frame, and it was only a couple of years after that I was seeking a new challenge, so I applied to direct our honors program. I enjoyed that work tremendously, but then once again sought a change and founded a new teaching center on campus. Right after the pandemic, based on the success of Small Teaching and Distracted, I decided to give myself a new challenge: give up tenure and try to make it with a mix of writing, speaking and adjunct teaching. That plan was upended by my long medical ordeal, but even after I was able to return to that life, I realized that I missed deeply having a home on a campus, which led me to Notre Dame. So that has definitely been a pattern in my career and in my life.
For the positive explanation for this restlessness, I would point to something my wife (an elementary school teacher) told me about the kids who come into her classrooms each year. She says that while we might be all born curious, by the time children get into school, they are already separating in terms of how much curiosity they bring to school. The differentiating factor she sees is how much exposure kids have to different kinds of life experiences. The kids who sit in their bedroom on their parents’ tablets all day or play video games in their rooms just don’t see as much of the world, and they aren’t being prompted to ask questions, wonder and explore. The ones who come in curious are the ones whose parents have deliberately tried to expose them to new things in some form—trips, walks outside, reading aloud, giving them books, etc.
When I heard that, I realized that I had been raised as one of those latter kids. My mother was also an elementary school teacher, but her best years were in preschool. She had a special love, and special gift, for very young children. And while I have only a few memories of my preschool years, I know from seeing how she interacted with my children that I must have been raised to become a curious person.
Q: I had a mini epiphany while reading the opening section of Write Like You Teach, which is that good teachers and good writers think of the needs of their audience (students/readers) first. This is something I think I’ve always done as a teacher, perhaps because I was a writer before I was a teacher, but you make it pretty explicit and then give it a little specific flesh. When did this connection first come to you?
A: I actually can’t quite remember where that specific connection came from. I do know that this book really came out of my desire to write some more about attention, the subject of my previous book. I have written books about several major issues in teaching and learning, and some of them I finished and felt like I was done with that topic. That wasn’t true for attention. The more you read and learn about attention, the more you realize how it has a part in almost everything that matters in our lives. Work, play, relationships, spirituality, learning—all of them demand our attention. They often go well or poorly depending upon the quality of our attention. And so I still find attention fascinating, and I keep reading and thinking and writing about it. I also just really enjoyed writing the book Distracted. So I think maybe I was trying to determine what else I could write about attention which would relate to another area where I have some interest and expertise.
Reading was the initial bridge to further thinking about attention. Anyone who reads a lot knows that some books capture our attention more than others. I think the teaching-writing connection that produced this book came from realizing both in classrooms and books, you have to be aware of the limits of a learner’s attention. Both as teachers and writers, we can either just expect people to pay attention or we can try to help them. I had made the case for the latter approach in Distracted and realized I could make the same case to writers: If you want readers to sustain their attention over the course of many pages, don’t just bang away at them with paragraph after paragraph of argument and idea. They need breaks, they need stories, they need space to pause and think—just as students do in the classroom. Seeing how attention informs both teaching and writing led to the basic idea of the book: The things we do in the classroom to help students learn can also be useful for our readers.
Q: In a note at Substack, Arvind Narayanan (coauthor of AI Snake Oil) offered a “hypothesis on the accelerating decline of reading.” It’s got a bunch of bullets, so I’ll do my best to paraphrase: Essentially, people mostly read for pleasure or to obtain information. These functions have been replaced by other things. Video is more entertaining than reading. We can use large language models to summarize long texts and deliver information to us. He theorizes that most people will be happy with the trade-off of increased speed/efficiency, the same way we’ve gravitated toward “shallow web search over deeper reading.” He’s worried about this but also believes that merely “moralizing” about this is not going to be helpful. (I tend to agree.) I’ve argued for years that getting students engaged with writing is a great way to get them reading, because reading is the necessary fodder for writing. Writing is also a tremendous way to cultivate our ability to pay attention. I’m wondering if you’re worried in the same way as Narayanan or if you have any additional ideas of what we can do about this.
A: First, thanks for sharing that note, which will be helpful to me as I am working on my next project—which I am happy to announce here. My next book will be The End of Reading?, which will be published by W. W. Norton, a publisher whose books I have been reading since high school and assigning in my courses for my entire teaching career. I’m so excited to dig into this project, but I am going to beg off on an answer here because I am just in the beginning of my thinking and writing and need more time to formulate my ideas. Put another way: Ask me that question again in two years!
Q: I have sort of the opposite problem as the folks this book is addressed to, in that I find it very natural to write to regular people—because that’s where I started—while writing for more formal or academic audiences is something I can struggle with. What is it about the experience of the academic that makes the transition you’re writing about difficult?
A: The problem here is that experts often lose track of what novices don’t know in their fields. The more we know in a discipline, the further away we get from our memories of what it was like to know very little about biology or literature or politics. When academics write to each other, they can assume their readers know certain things: basic facts, theories, common examples or cases, histories, major players in the field. Let’s say I’m a scholar of Victorian literature and want to write something about a work of Victorian literature. If I am writing to other scholars in that field, I can be confident that my readers know things I know: the expansion of the British Empire during that time period, the impact of Darwin and evolutionary theory on many writers in that era, the political turbulence and social unrest accompanying the Industrial Revolution.
If I am writing to a more public audience, I can’t assume my reader knows any of that stuff. In a classroom, I can always stop and just ask students, “Have you heard of this before?” If they haven’t, I can give a quick introduction. But as a writer with deep expertise in a subject, I have no idea what a more public audience knows or doesn’t know. Faced with that problem, I think a lot of academics just say, “Never mind, I’ll just keep writing to my people.” And that writing is important and can be great! I love a good scholarly book, and I still read them regularly. That kind of writing also helps people get and keep academic jobs, so I am not on some crusade to encourage everyone to write for the public. But I think the major sticking point for people who do want to expand their audiences is thinking more deeply about their audiences: what they know or don’t know, why they are reading your work, and what you want them to take away from the experience.
Q: Something I’ve often said about both writing and teaching is that they are “extended exercises in failure,” where failure means not missing the target entirely, but falling short of one’s initial expectations. I find this reality interesting, fascinating, really, because with both activities, you usually get a chance to try again. Does this make sense to you, or do you have any different frames for how you view these two activities?
A: No absolutely, and in fact that framework applies to all of the pursuits that give me satisfaction, including the other major intellectual pursuit of my life: learning languages. I did not start learning other languages until my first year of high school, where I started with Latin. Immediately I was fascinated, and so in my junior year I added ancient Greek into my curriculum. When I got to college, I took classes in both those languages, and then also took French. Over the next 30 years I have gone back and forth with those original three languages and also tried to learn Spanish and Italian and German.
I start every new language with this expectation that this time I’m going to really dig in and master this thing and become just totally fluent. The truth is that I have some basic knowledge in all six of those languages but know none of them particularly well. But I just love the fact that I can go back to any of them, at any time, and start trying again. I’m 55, and my brain has a different shape than it used to (because of the stroke), so I have to be realistic and acknowledge that it’s unlikely that I will ever become a fluent speaker in any other language than English. But gosh, I just love to keep trying.
As you say, teaching and writing are the same. You start off with such hope and expectation and excitement: This will be the best class I will ever teach! This essay or book is the one that will change people’s lives! But it never quite works out that way. Even when you teach a great course, not every class period will be perfect. Not every student will have a great experience. When I look at my own books, I am proud of them but can see places where I cringe and wish I had done better. But I don’t feel defeated by those feelings: They make me want to keep trying.
Q: The book is filled with practical approaches to writing for broader audiences, but I wouldn’t quite call it a book of “advice.” The word that comes to mind is “guidance.” Does that distinction make sense to you?
A: This distinction matters a lot to me, actually. I think because of the success of Small Teaching, which had a lot of concrete pieces of advice, people can view me as a “teaching tips” guy. I do love learning and thinking about specific practices in the classroom, so I don’t wholly disavow that association. Presenting theories and big ideas about teaching only gets people so far; they need to envision what those theories look like when they are standing in the classroom on Tuesday of week seven with 20 blank faces in front of them. Describing examples of specific practices helps them with that imaginative work.
But I always want people to understand that I am not advising them to do anything in particular: I am showing examples designed to spur their own creative thinking. Write Like You Teach, for example, has a chapter about the challenge of reader attention, and I do offer some very concrete pieces of advice based on writing strategies that I have observed in great writers. Ultimately, though, I want the readers of my book to move beyond these specific examples and develop their own strategies based on the principle readers are learners, and learners need support for their attention. With that principle in mind, I want people to analyze their classroom practices and see what translates to the page.
That leads me to the final thing I want to say: The first and final goal of this book is to help academics feel empowered and enabled to write for the public. The prospect of doing that kind of writing can be intimidating, and many of us shy away from it. But if I can convince academics of this one principle—a great teacher can become a great writer—then I hope they will be able to develop their own writing practices based on their experiences in the classroom.
Q: And finally, the last question I ask everyone: What’s one book you recommend that you think not enough people are aware of?
A: When people ask me to recommend a novel to them, or when people ask me to share my favorite novel, I always mention two: Zadie Smith’s White Teeth and Arundhati Roy’s The God of Small Things. I am cheating a little bit here because both of these novels were very well-known when they were published, sold many copies and won prizes. But they are both a couple of decades old now, and I believe that their themes are as relevant today as they were when they were first published. If you are a word person, choose Roy, whose prose comes as close to poetry as a novel can get; if you love a great plot, choose Smith, whose genius shines through the ebullience of her narrative construction. If I were forced to choose between the two, I would choose … I can’t. I just can’t.
