Just Like That

Part 1

"Raise your hand to tell me why you think narrative beginnings are sometimes called 'hooks'?" The room erupts in a flurry of hands raising after you prompt your class of fourth graders. They so badly want to please you and impress their fellow classmates, as though this one question answered correctly is all the recognition they will need in life. You're obviously pleased with the participation, but it's the select few that decidedly don't raise their hands that have grabbed your attention.

"Scott," you call on the boy who had been occupied with a glue stick in his desk than the discussion around him. A few groans were heard throughout the room from the disappointment of not being called.

"I didn't raise my hand," he replied, as if there must have been some mistake.

You smile, moving around the classroom in an effort to gain the attention of other students by your mere proximity. "Sneak attack," giving a small shrug and a simple answer. 'Sneak attacks' were your common practice—another method of keeping students engaged. However, it was never used to intentionally embarrass students. "Why do you think narrative beginnings are called 'hooks'?" you repeat the question, tone gentle as you continue to look at the boy who was beginning to fluster. You quickly gesture towards the whole class, directing your next words to them. "If you aren't currently sending good vibes to your classmate, then I don't know what you're doing!"

As if on cue, students began to wiggle their fingers in the direction of the young boy. A few called out words of encouragement. "You can't get this question wrong. I just want to know why you think a beginning is called a 'hook'," your tone even softer than before, barely heard above the other students' excitement. You've chosen this student for a reason. He loves to fish. His only good memories of his dad are when they fished when Scott was a tiny boy. He hates to write and if you don't get him invested in this now—you're a goner.

"Um," Scott's small smile is contagious. His body language is telling you that this is going in the right direction. "You use hooks to pull the reader in—like you pull in a fish?" he asks, punctuating his question with a laugh.

Your face contorts in comical confusion. "Are you asking me or telling me, Scott?"

"With confidence!" a couple of classmates call out, again—they know you. They know your phrases and mannerisms. They feel safe. And if you don't teach them a damn thing the whole year, you'll be damn sure that they at least feel safe when they are with you.

Scott's laughter mingles with his friends, jumping from his seat, his actions matching the energy of the room. "Hooks pull readers in!" he yells out. You respond with laughter of your own, because you know he isn't done. "And—and—you have to have the right bait. You gotta know what type of fish you want to catch..." he rattles off quickly.

To keep the energy alive (and keep the conversation about writing), you're quick to help him out. "Just like you have to know who your audience is when you're writing."

"Because you don't want to lose them with the wrong beginning!"

"Exactly! Nicely done!" Your words are lost in a sea of excited claps, laughter, and words of congratulations towards Scott. "Today, we are going to begin to write a fictional narrative about what would happen if you and your favorite fictional character met and had to solve a problem together. It's going to take us a month or so to complete it. Right around the end of the school year. Thanks to Scott, we already know that we have to grab our readers' attention from the very start. He's not going to have any trouble doing that, right everyone?" The students were already chatting away about what they were going to write about, even Scott who absolutely hated to write. You marked the 'Publication Party' day on your class calendar amidst the chaos.