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Test article body There is no royal path to good writing; and such paths as exist . . . lead through . . . the jungles of the self, the world, and of craft—Jessamyn West Unfortunately, some students who write in college do so by pursuing the path of least resistance, avoiding uncharted territory, and staying on commonly travelled paved roads that lead to predictable prose destinations. Such writers tend to discover less about themselves, the world, and the discipline of using words well. They run the risk of relegating their college years to the mere process of information gathering without achieving the kind of literacy that leads to critical consciousness. As Brazilian educator Paulo Freire explains, “To acquire literacy is more than to psychologically and mechanically dominate reading and writing techniques. It is to dominate these techniques in terms of consciousness; to understand what one reads and to write what one understands.” How can a Christian become literate, as Freire defines it above, especially during the college years? After more than two decades of teaching college English courses, I am more committed than ever to the work of helping students answer this question. “To understand what one reads and to write what one understands” is crucial for people of faith. But to engender this sort of literacy among my students, and teach it effectively, I must first find out what their motives are for learning when they arrive in my classes. Understanding my students’ purposes and processes, insofar as reading and writing skills are concerned, is my ongoing primary task as a teacher. So, with each new semester, I begin my courses—no matter what the subject—in much the same way: I give my students an in-class writing assignment. Often the assignment comes in the form of a ten-question inventory, in which students are asked a variety of questions related to the academic subject, the particular course, and their personal educational goals. From the onset, I want my students to identify, to consider, and to articulate their motives for learning. My hope is that they will be candid and specific. To make sure that happens, I call their attention to my directions at the top of the inventory: Answer each of the following questions using substantive but clear sentences. If you are not sure how to answer a question, take a risk and try to provide a thoughtful response. Please be as honest and direct as possible. Then I urge students to begin, to work steadily for the entire thirty minutes. Some jump into the writing eagerly, while others reread the questions and think, but all proceed with the pressing awareness of the ticking clock and the need to compose something to satisfy the expectations of the assignment. Such is the nature of college and university writing. I want my students to experience the reality of an academic composing situation in the very first moments of our time together, facing the challenge of addressing complex matters of motive and method. With each question asked—whether it be “What are your strengths and weaknesses as a writer?” or “What do you hope to gain from this course?”—students must deliberate and then choose to put certain thoughts on the page. This selection process is inherently challenging and personally instructive. As the English novelist E. M. Forster states, “How do I know what I think until I see what I say?” By putting their responses in ink, students can “see” what they might “say” in conversation if someone were to ask them their thoughts. In this light, writing demands good things from us. It helps us to explore and to clarify the reasons we claim for the choices we make, whether going to college or enrolling in a particular course. And it reveals the significance of our existence according to the conclusions we come to. Rightly done, thinking in ink shapes our sense of self. Consequently, writing can be a very meaningful form of learning for students, many of whom feel bombarded by information, having little opportunity to process or make sense of the things they are discovering. Generally speaking, students want to be honest when they write, especially when the topic they are asked to write about pertains to how they live. If given the opportunity, they will express themselves authentically, providing remarkably candid feedback. For example, some students have revealed that they struggle with writer’s block and other writing related anxieties, and others have acknowledged that they hate to write because of the harsh comments written by a former teacher. Overall, most students appreciate the opportunity to have a cathartic moment or to concretize previously unexpressed reasons for why they do what they do in school. To my regular surprise, a steady number of my students admit that they have never written about their educational motives and behaviors, largely because they have never been asked to do so. If I am to teach well and my students are to acquire critical consciousness, then I need to know what my students think about why they learn, and I need them to know this, too. I can’t presume to know their reality. Being a teacher who is trained in rhetoric (the art of persuasion) and composition (the teaching of writing), I believe that effective instruction depends upon knowing my audience (my students) and their composing purposes and behaviors. Then I can adapt my teaching methods to address students where they live, move, and find