For every jittery student, there’s a jittery teacher.

Milan 2019

Evelyn Waugh’s Decline and Fall gives a spin to the unprepared student trope, and presents us with a junior teacher, Paul Pennyfeather.

‘That’s your little mob in there,’ said Grimes; ‘you let them out at eleven.’

‘But what am I to teach them?’ said Paul in sudden panic.

‘Oh, I shouldn’t try to teach them anything, not just yet, anyway. Just keep them quiet.’

For all the scared, jittery children in classrooms, the unfortunate truth—which those children won’t learn until it’s much too late—is that every faculty lounge contains at least one or two scared and jittery teachers.

Dumb with terror he went into his own classroom. Ten boys sat before him, their hands folded, their eyes bright with expectation.

‘Good morning, sir,’ said the one nearest him.

‘Good morning,’ said Paul.

‘Good morning, sir,’ said the next.

‘Good morning,’ said Paul.

‘Good morning, sir,’ said the next.

‘Oh, shut up,’ said Paul.

Writers might consider the anxious, frightful teacher as a useful heuristic. When topics are explained poorly, there is, at least, a lesson worth observing.

A crispy written page already contains some of the elements of good teaching. At the opening, the reader is given a hand, and then brought along, new detail atop new detail, until the bottom of the page is reached, where, the reader now understands, all the previous details coalesce.

But what’s difficult for teachers is also difficult for writers: the journey, and those details, must be paced correctly. Too many details feel like a bombardment. Too few details feel like a long march. And there’s no formula, or pace that’s always right, just like there’s no tone of voice that works for every occasion.

Unlike a teacher—who tries to induce a transformation—a writer tries to reveal a transformation. Consider a biography. Or a simple story. Even a topical essay. The writer’s goal is to express a change. During an earlier moment, a belief was held, then a catalyst arrived, and now there’s a new belief. Any reasonable biography or story or essay will depict that trajectory.

In a manner that resembles a teacher who struggles to grasp what a student doesn’t understand, the writer must remember what they previously believed, put that belief onto the page, and then underscore the change. Yet this trajectory is also where most writers fail. To present that trajectory on the page requires an ability to inhabit a lost mentality: the one that’s no longer believed. For the teacher, it requires inhabiting the position of the student, a mindset that doesn’t comprehend what the teacher already knows.

The usual mistake is to show the current state and merely reference the old state. Let the student or reader discover the connection themselves. Here’s the information, says the teacher and writer, amid an onslaught of details. The teacher is exhausted and the writer prefers to drink. Neither wants to highlight the trajectory because it’s challenging to both comprehend and inhabit old beliefs.

There is, however, a delicate balance to revealing a trajectory. As students can’t run the school, readers—the horrid thought—can’t control the page. A classroom controlled by students, one where they can predict the teacher’s next step, is also filled with bored students; a page controlled by readers, one with obvious and safe and inevitable sentences, results in sleepy readers. So a good teacher’s pace is considerate, possible to follow, yet a bit ahead of the student, a trajectory that ensures momentum. Which is, for writers, a trajectory worth emulating. In the classroom it comes from a cocktail of generosity and authority, one that must be mixed anew each day—a standard that should be easy for writers to meet.

‘I suppose the first thing I ought to do is to get your names clear. What is your name?’ he asked, turning to the first boy.

‘Tangent, sir.’

‘And yours?’

‘Tangent, sir,’ said the next boy. Paul’s heart sank.

‘But you can’t both be called Tangent.’

‘No, sir, I’m Tangent. He’s just trying to be funny.’

‘I like that. Me trying to be funny! Please, sir, I’m Tangent, sir; really I am.’

‘If it comes to that,’ said Clutterbuck from the back of the room, ‘there is only one Tangent here, and that is me. Anyone else can jolly well go to blazes.’

Paul felt desperate.

‘Well, is there anyone who isn’t Tangent?’

Four or five voices instantly arose.

‘I’m not, sir; I’m not Tangent. I wouldn’t be called Tangent, not on the end of a barge pole.’

In a few seconds the room had become divided into two parties: those who were Tangent and those who were not. Blows were already being exchanged, when the door opened and Grimes came in. There was a slight hush.

‘I thought you might want this,’ he said, handing Paul a walking-stick. ‘And if you take my advice, you’ll set them something to do.’

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