LIVED SCHOOL EXPERIENCES THAT ENCOURAGED ONE PERSON
TO BECOME A CREATIVE WRITER
by
Daniel Lukiv
B.Sc., University of British Columbia, 1976
Teacher Training, University of British Columbia, 1977

PROJECT SUBMITTED IN PARTIAL FULFILMENT OF
THE REQUIREMENTS FOR THE DEGREE OF
MASTER OF EDUCATION

© Daniel Luki v, 2002
THE UNIVERSITY OF NORTHERN BRITISH COLUMBIA
May 2002
All rights reserved. This work may not be
reproduced in whole or in part, by photocopy
or other means, without the permission of the author.

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Abstract
In the hermeneutic phenomenological tradition, I explored through interviews this
research question: What, if any, experiences in school encouraged one person to become
an adult creative writer? The literature and curriculum guides for language arts address
how to teach poetry and fiction writing, providing direction for students and teachers. But
do creative writing activities in school stand as examples of lived school experiences that
encouraged the participant? As a poet, novelist, and short story writer, I naturally have
thoughts and beliefs about what activities or events in school encouraged me to become a
creative writer; therefore, I attempted prior to the interviews to bracket out my biases
related to those thoughts and beliefs. I worked closely with the participant and my
Supervisory Committee members to analyse emerging themes and to reduce researcher
bias. Eight themes emerged from the data about what lived school experiences
encouraged the participant. Recommendations based on those themes provide direction
for educators. This study could serve as a prototype for further research that explores
what, if any, school experiences have encouraged other people to become creative
writers.

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Table of Contents
ABSTRACT

11

TABLE OF CONTENTS

111

ACKNOWLEDGEMENT

lV

CHAPTER ONE: INTRODUCTION

1

CHAPTER TWO: LITERATURE RELATED TO THE TEACHING OF
CREATIVE WRITING

7

CHAPTERTHREE: METHODOLOGY

14

CHAPTER FOUR: CONCLUSIONS

28

CHAPTER FIVE: RECOMMENDATIONS

47

REFERENCES

52

APPENDIX A: ETHICS INFORMATION

62

APPENDIX B : AN INTERVIEW GUIDE

65

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Acknowledgement
I want to thank my wife, Julie, and our daughter, Heather, for their patience with me as I
tried to add yet another ball--my Master of Education program--into an already tricky
juggling act. "Don't get so unbalanced," Julie repeatedly said; I needed that. I also want
to thank those eight individuals who taught my eleven courses: Rob Butler, Colin
Chasteauneuf, Dr. Peter D. MacMillan, Dr. Paul R. Madak, Dr. Faith Maina, Caroline
Neill (Ph.D. candidate), Dr. Isabel Reis, and Teresa Saunders. Sometimes I asked too
many questions in class, but these teachers were all patient with me.
To the diligent, scholared members of my project's Supervisory Committee--Dr.
Ellen Facey, Colin Chasteauneuf, and Dr. Paul R. Madak (chair)--I say thank you for
helping me make this research project fly. And to Arthur, who you will soon "meet," I
say thank you, as this study's participant, for your time and patience, and for your sharing
your lived school experiences.

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Introduction
I conducted conversational interviews with a successful Canadian poet. His work
has appeared in many of Canada's elite literary journals, and he writes a regular poetry
column for an established publication. He lives and works in a small Canadian city, and
he has obtained a formal university education at the bachelor and graduate levels. I call
him Arthur to protect his anonymity, and I interviewed him about what, if any, lived
school experiences had encouraged him to become a creative writer.
I speak of school experiences in terms of elementary and high school as opposed
to college and university. I speak of the creative writer as one who engages in what I call
creative writing. Although I believe that generally all writing is creative--in fact, I believe
that generally all thinking is creative (Smith, 1990)--I do not want to dwell on those
ontological premises. I define creative writing in the same way many others define it:
Creative writing is writing that expresses the writer's thoughts and feelings in an
imaginative, often unique, and poetic way. Creative writing is guided more by the
writer's need to express feelings and ideas than by restrictive demands of factual
and logical progression of expository writing. (What is Creative Writing?, 1999)
In the words of distinguished novelist Ernest J. Gaines, creative writing is "imaginative
writing .... Though the creative writer draws from factual sources, sociology, psychology,
politics, religion, etc., ... he should use all ofthat information imaginatively--never
factually" (Gaines, n.d.). Creative writing, then, conveys feelings and personal ideas more
than information, as opposed to expository writing, which conveys information more than
feelings and personal ideas (What is Expository Writing?, 1999).

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School experiences had existed that had encouraged the participant to become a
creative writer, and the exploratory nature of this study (McMillan & Schumacher, 1997;
Patton, 1987; van Manen, 1990) sought to describe, in the hermeneutic phenomenological
sense, themes that emerged from those experiences.
In Chapter Two, I review a variety of curriculum guides, Web sites, teachers'

handbooks, how-to writing books, and other sources that contain direction for students
and teachers of creative writing. Traditionally, creative writing stands as a relevant topic
in the world oflanguage arts, and much direction exits in the literature for students and
teachers. I wanted to determine whether Arthur would describe creative writing activities
as examples of lived school experiences that had encouraged him to take up creative
writing later in life.
Generally, research in the human sciences has proceeded on a structured,
quantitative course of experimentation, statistics, and "hard, real" (Cohen & Manion,
1994, p. 6) knowledge. Quantitative researchers consider this "hard" knowledge as
"objective and [statistically] tangible" (p. 6). This epistemological assumption gives the
researcher "an observer role" (p. 6). This qualitative study, however, focussed on
knowledge as "a softer, more subjective ... kind, based on experience and insight of a
unique and essentially personal nature" (p. 6).
Rather than choosing "from a range of traditional options--surveys, experiments,
and the like" (Cohen & Manion, 1994, p. 7), I chose, for this study, "from a comparable
range of recent and emerging techniques--accounts, participant observation and personal
constructs, for example" (p. 7). I looked at "personal constructs" in terms of
phenomenology, in particular, in terms of "the phenomena of experience rather than by

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external, objective and physically described reality" (p. 20) as found in traditional,
quantitative research. My choices stood logically affixed to the phenomenological nature
of my research question.
At the proposal stage, I had planned not to conduct a comprehensive literature
review of sources that describe first hand school experiences that had encouraged people
to become creative writers until I had completed an analysis and interpretation of the data.
I referred to this review as a suspended literature review. I did not want to inadvertently
bias myself. In view of the hermeneutic phenomenological nature of this study, I was
following van Marren's (1990) advice: "If one examines existing human science texts at
the very outset then it may be more difficult to suspend one's interpretive understanding
of the phenomenon. It is sound practice to attempt to address the phenomenological
meaning of a phenomenon on one's own first" (p. 76).
To not "suspend one' s interpretive understanding" could have increased the
possibility of researcher bias, thereby casting doubt on the truth of themes that emerged
from the data through researcher analysis and interpretation. Even my use of "participant
review" (McMillan & Schumacher, 1997, p. 407) and "peer debriefTing]" (p. 409) might
not dispel a reader's doubt. Van Manen argues:
The problem of phenomenological inquiry is not always that we know too little
about the phenomenon we wish to investigate, but that we know too much. Or,
more accurately, the problem is that our "common sense" pre-understandings, our
suppositions, assumptions, and the existing bodies of scientific knowledge,
predispose us to interpret the nature of the phenomenon before we have even
come to grips with the significance of the phenomenological question. (p. 46)

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Suspended literature review texts that would support or contradict relevant themes
in the lived experience of the participant, I decided, would appear throughout the
completed study's conclusions and recommendations sections. This is common
qualitative practise. Often, qualitative researchers "present literature discussions and
integrate criticism of the literature into the text of a study" (McMillan & Schumacher,
1997, p. 119) rather than present a literature-review-only section "because the traditional
format of qualitative research is that of a narrative" (p. 147); however, my suspended
literature review revealed no hermeneutic phenomenological studies that relate to my
research question.
That narrative, or narrative river, does not travel between the banks of a
foreshadowed problem that forks into the specific, a narrower trough--a condensed
problem statement. Many qualitative researchers "begin with foreshadowed problems, . . .
anticipated research problems that will be reformulated during data collection"
(McMillan & Schumacher, 1997, p. 102). Reformulated research problems may become a
condensed problem statement that "focuses the entire report" (p. 103). Hermeneutic
phenomenology, however, allows for no forks in the narrative river. That means that I did
not ask other valid research questions such as "Were there any lived school experiences
that discouraged you from taking up creative writing later in life?"
McMillan and Schumacher (1997) tell us that "phenomenology [given birth by
Husser! (van Manen, 1990)] provides an understanding of a concept from the participants'
views of their social realities" (p. 395 [italics added]). I wished to study "a concept," the
possibility that lived school experiences had encouraged one person to take up creative
writing later in life. "Phenomenological questions are meaning questions. They ask for

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the meaning and significance of certain [italics added] phenomena" (van Manen, 1990, p.
23). The research question became my study's foundation in the sense that I "select[ed] or
invent[ ed] appropriate research methods, techniques, and procedures for a particular
problem or question" (p. 30). My selections or inventions helped protect me from
"temptations to get side-tracked or to wander aimlessly and indulge in wishy-washy
speculations, to settle for preconceived opinions and conceptions, to become enchanted
with narcissistic reflections or self-indulgent preoccupations" (van Manen, 1990, p. 33).
My goal to get to the essence of the research question became a matter of my
methodological security. I had to stand "constantly mindful of [the] original question and
thus to be steadfastly oriented to the lived experience" (van Manen, 1990, p. 42) of the
participant. Methodology and the research question became congruent. In other words, "it
is methodologically important to keep one's fundamental research question foremost in
mind" (p. 166 [italics added]).
Sometimes, the topic of research "formulates a problem" (Mcintyre, n.d. , Topic
and Problematic, para. 1) that merits investigation, and that problem is "turned into a
question" (Gerbner, n.d., para. 1); however, the exploratory nature (McMillan &
Schumacher, 1997) of this study did not require the existence of a problem. In terms of
hermeneutic phenomenology, the study explored and interpreted "how things appear[ ed]"
(van Manen, 1990, p. 180). The very nature of this kind of study created suspense, or
wonder, for me. I hope it creates the same for the reader:
In his or her phenomenological description the researcher/writer must "pull" the
reader into the question in such a way that the reader cannot help but wonder
about the nature of the phenomenon .. ..One might say that a phenomenological

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questioning teaches the reader to wonder, to question deeply the very thing that is
being questioned by the question. (van Marren, 1990, p. 44)
This phenomenological questioning describes "the more subjectivist...approach" (Cohen
& Manion, 1994, p. 7), from which the researcher sees "the social world as being of a

much softer, personal and humanly-created kind" (p, 7), whereas traditional social science
describes "an objectivist. ..approach" (p. 7), from which the researcher sees "the social
world ...as being hard, real and external to the individual" (p. 7).
As a teacher of creative writing, I have tended to see the world through
subjectivist lenses. In view of a review of the literature on hermeneutic phenomenology
that has turned up nothing about creative writing, I believe that interviewing a participant,
a subjectivist approach, has enabled me to establish a body of useful direction for
teachers. That direction relates to activities in school that may encourage some students to
become poets, fiction writers, or dramatists. I discuss that direction and pedagogical
implications in my recommendations, but first it is necessary to conduct a review of
literature that establishes traditional direction for students and teachers of creative
writing.

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Literature Related to the Teaching of Creative Writing
The British Columbia Ministry of Education (hereafter, The Ministry) deems the
teaching of creative writing a relevant topic to which it refers repeatedly, either implicitly
or explicitly, in three of its curriculum guides (1996a, 1996b, 1996c). For example, The
Ministry (1996a) implies relevance when it states, "It is expected that [kindergarten and
grade one] students will enhance the precision, clarity, and artistry of their
communications by using processes that professional authors ... use to appraise and
improve their communications" (p. 24), and The Ministry (1996b) explicates relevance
when, for grade nine students, it states "students will ... create a variety of personal [and]
literary... communications, including poems [and] stories" (p. 48). I wondered whether
Arthur would describe creative writing activities as examples of lived school experiences
that had encouraged him to become a creative writer.
Publishers of language arts programs, motivated by profit to sell their texts,
produce teachers' handbooks that reflect ministry directives. I reviewed seven handbooks
used by the school district in which I work that cover language arts programs from grades
one to seven (see Best, et al., 1998; Bogusat, et al., 1999; Booth, Booth, Phenix, &
Swartz, 1991; Jeroski & Dockendorf, 2000; Sterling & Toutant, 1999; Tuinrnan,
Neuman, & Rich, 1988; Tuinrnan, Neuman, & Rich, 1989). All reflect ministry
directives. For example, the Nelson Language Arts: Teacher's Guide: Levels B and C, for
grade one, directs teachers to help student writers to become "familiar with a wide variety
of genres and forms" (Sterling & Toutant, 1999, p. 29), which brings to mind The
Ministry' s (1996b) requirement that "students will...create a variety of personal [and]
literary ... communications, including poems [and] stories" (p. 48). The Nelson Language

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Arts: Teacher 's Guide: 6, for grade six, directs teachers to help student poets to focus
attention on their "thoughts, feelings, ideas, and personal experiences" (Best, eta!., 1998,
p. 33), which reminds me of statements such as students need to "respond to ideas,
feelings and knowledge ... creatively" (The Ministry, 1996a, 1996b, 1996c, p. 5). I
wondered whether Arthur would describe lived school experiences that relate to this
information.
I also reviewed a variety of Web sites, how-to writing books, and other sources
that contain a wealth of direction for students and teachers of creative writing, but rather
than my simply synthesizing for the reader the information from these sources into a
statement (e.g. , traditionally, creative writing stands as a relevant topic in the world of

language arts, and much direction exits in the literature for students and teachers of
creative writing), I wanted to offer the reader possibilities about what school experiences
might have encouraged the participant to take up creative writing. For example, would
Arthur describe lived school experiences that relate to the wealth of information I
reviewed?
This type of presentation is not unusual in hermeneutic phenomenological studies.
Phenomenological questioning should teach "the reader to wonder, to question ...the
[research] question. Sometimes this involves avoiding posing the question outright
because such straightforward approach would [could] lead the reader to ... underestimate
its probing nature" (van Manen, 1990, p. 44). I posed the question outright, but I
encourage the reader not to "underestimate its probing nature" by wondering about
related questions such as this one: Do writing activities in school that motivate students to
write creatively encourage some to pursue creative writing?

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In the tradition of hermeneutic phenomenology, my discussion tries to prompt the
reader to wonder about possibilities. If bracketing is a process for "suspending one's
various beliefs" (van Manen, 1990, p. 175) or biases, then bracketing in possibilities, a
term I coined, is a process--which, in this case, draws on literature related to the teaching
of creative writing--that addresses possible participant responses to enlarge the depth and
breadth of the reader's wonder over the research question.
Bracketing in Possibilities

I referred to creative writing Web sites, which contain essentially the same sorts of
activities as do print materials (see, e.g., About Teens, n.d.; Homer & Khan, n.d.; Love,
n.d.a; and Shiney & Shiney, n.d.). In my experience, many teachers look to the myriad
number of excellent Web site activities for teaching creative writing. I wondered whether
Arthur would refer to the kinds of activities found on Web sites.
Some print materials provide very specific examples of creative writing activities
(see, e.g., Strom, Ingraham, & Dunnett, 1993). I wondered whether Arthur would
describe any creative writing activities that were very, very specific as ones that had
encouraged him to take up creative writing.
I, like many others, have written a creative writing course available in print
(Lukiv, 1997) that presents many assignments that show students how to develop various
creative writing skills. Would Arthur refer to assignments similar to the ones in my
course?
Many books for students of creative writing provide excellent suggestions about
how to make characters in poetry or fiction seem "alive" (see, e.g., Leavitt, 1970, p. 15).
Others present how-to-use-point-of-view exercises (see, e.g., Leavitt & Sohn, 1979).

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Some books create programs that work so well that many of the students "have
consistently won prizes in top writing competitions and been published in national
magazines and books" (Thomley, 1976, back cover). Other texts provide a wealth of
excellent how-to direction for creative writing students and teachers of creative writing
(see, e.g. , Bickham, 1996; Block, 1979; Bryant, 1978; Clark, Brohaugh, Woods,
Strickland, & Blocksom, 1992; Dessner, 1979; Dickson & Smythe, 1970; Drury, 1991;
Fredette, 1988; Hall, 1989; Irwin & Eyerly, 1988; Jones, 1978; Powell, 1973 ; Roberts,
1981; Seuling, 1991 ; Wakan, 1993 ; and Wyndham, 1972). Would Arthur mention
excellent how-to direction about how to write as an example of an activity that had
encouraged him to continue learning the art and craft of writing?
Jerome (1980) and Birney's (1966) rich and deep analyses of what poetry is keeps
me rereading their texts. Would Arthur describe rich and deep analyses of creative writing
in school as examples of experiences that had encouraged him? Hodgins (1993) describes
a school experience of being read to by a teacher that encouraged him to become a writer
of fiction. I relate to that experience because I had similar ones. Would Arthur describe
similar ones too?
Birney (1966), however, suggests school discourages some potential creative
writers. In some cases they feel forced, he says, to drop out of high school to learn
elsewhere the art and craft of creative writing. Is it not ironic that language arts
curriculums that are supposed to teach creative writing might frustrate potential creative
writers? Would Arthur say that no school experiences had encouraged him to take up
creative writing later in life? I want to say here that I did not think that would be the case.
I had already separately approached two creative writers to ask, "Did any experiences in

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elementary and high school encourage you to become a creative writer?" Both
immediately said, "Yes!"
Still, I wondered what lived school experiences might have discouraged people
from becoming creative writers. I wondered whether The Ministry's approved resources
for senior high school students that mechanistically chop up stories into bits of escapism,
interpretation, plot, theme, character, point of view, symbolism, and irony (see, e.g.,
Perrine, 1966; and Ball, 1969) or into bits of subject, verb, verbal, adverb, adjective,
noun, pronoun, conjunction, preposition, phrase, clause, antecedent, sentence fragment,
object, infinitive, and punctuation (see, e.g., Hart & Heim, 1982; and Shaw, 1986)
discourage students from becoming poets, fiction writers, and dramatists. But my
wondering did not preclude Arthur from saying that chopping up stories and language the
way these books do had been just the sort of activity that had encouraged him to take up
creative writing.
Knott (1977) discusses how to submit writing to an editor. I used his excellent
book as a text in 1978 and 1979 to teach two creative writing courses through one school
district's Continuing Education Department. I wondered whether Arthur would mention
school activities that had taught him how to go about sending submissions to editors.
Teachers have motivated students to write in school through publishing
adventures (see, e.g., Lamb, 1984; Love, n.d.b; Lukiv, 2001a; and Lukiv, in press).
Would Arthur say that classroom publication had motivated him to write and that that
experience had encouraged him to further study creative writing?
I developed Story Day (Lukiv, in press) over twenty years ago, basing it on
intuitions I have recently come to learn are elements of social constructivism (McCarthy

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& Raphael, 1992; and Ruddell & Umau, 1994) and Vygotskian theory (Berk & Winsler,

1995; Hicks, 1996; and Vygotsky, 1978). My primary students knew that I was a
published creative writer, and they often requested that I read my work for children to
them. Sometimes I read one of my own works during Story Day to model a writing
concept that I was trying to teach them. In 1999--and I speak anecdotally (van Manen,
1990, pp. 115-121)--I met one of those students. He said he had loved my story about
"those creatures that stunk." I had rewritten that story into a novel called Quibils and

Quirks (1997, 1998, 1999), which I told him about. After that conversation, although I
knew that, as Jobe (1982) says, "classroom teachers can have more influence on their
students' reading habits by showing that they themselves are active readers," I could not
say with conviction that the same applies to writing. But I have recently learned from
Spandel and Stiggins (1997) that "research shows that teachers of writing, if they wish to
be effective, must write themselves (Graves, 1983; Murray, 1985; Atwell, 1987)" (p.
170). Was Arthur encouraged through contact with a teacher who was himself or herself a
creative writer?
In addition to " Story Day: A Theoretical Model for Teaching Creative Writing in

the Elementary Grades" (Lukiv, in press), much literature attempts to motivate students to
write poetry, fiction, and drama (see, e.g., Cleveland Public Schools, 1968; Dyson, 1987;
Matthews, 1981; Pennsylvania State Department of Education, 1975; and Potter,
McCormick, & Busching, 2001). Amabile (1985) found poetry written through extrinsic
motivation is much less creative than poetry written through intrinsic motivation.
Extrinsic motivation, based on students ' need for "an external reward [such as
praise or good grades] for performing activity'' (Stipek, 1998, p. 127) clearly differs from

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intrinsic motivation, based on students' need for "competence, novelty, and autonomy"
(p. 129) while performing an activity. I wondered, would Arthur mention activities that

had addressed intrinsic motivation (Stipek, 1998) as examples that had encouraged him to
take up creative writing?
That question, and other questions and thoughts I have referred to in this
subsection, helps me bracket in possibilities. They focus attention on the topic of teaching
creative writing, and they help to highlight my research question: What, if any, lived
school experiences encouraged the participant to become a creative writer?

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Methodology
Van Manen (1990) helps us understand that although "hermeneutic
phenomenological research is fundamentally a writing activity" (p. 7), it is more than that.
It is a method of understanding "the unique, ... the personal, the individual" (p. 7). As a

writer--poet, novelist, and short story writer--and teacher, this methodology fits my
interest in creative writing and in what people think and feel, but, in particular, this
methodology fits my interest in what lived experiences in school have encouraged people
to become creative writers.
Given these interests of mine, I logically employed "purposeful sampling"
(McMillan & Schumacher, 1997, p. 397) as a method to choose a participant.

Sampling
I studied Arthur's experiences. I might have considered the unique and personal
experiences of more than one person, and that would have opened the gate to
comparisons and contrasts of themes that might have arisen. Bogdan and Biklan (1992),
however, recommend that a new researcher' s case study involve "a detailed examination
of...a single subject" (p. 62) because that is generally "easier to accomplish than ...
multisubject studies" (p. 62). Additionally, in terms of limited time to complete this
study, I note Patton's (1987) suggestion to limit the size of the case study. Therefore, in
view of these author's comments, and in view ofhermeneutic phenomenology's focus on
the individual, on his or her lived experiences, purposeful sampling of one participant
seemed sensible and appropriate.
My goal, of course, was a systematic approach, a systematic methodology, to
study those lived experiences.

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A Systematic Approach
Hermeneutic phenomenology focusses on the unique, the personal, the individual
(van Marren, 1990), through the systematic and the explicit. "It is systematic in that it uses
specially practised modes of questioning, reflecting, focusing, intuiting" (p. 11). I
modified that language to say that my research was systematic in that it used specially
practised modes of questioning, analysing, and interpreting. In this chapter I discuss each
of those modes, along with bracketing, thereby defining my methodology. Hermeneutic
phenomenology is also "explicit in that it attempts to articulate, through the content and
form of text, the structures of meaning embedded in lived experience (rather than leaving
the meanings implicit as for example in poetry or literary texts)" (p. 11).
Modes of questioning, analysing, and interpreting, according to hermeneutic
phenomenological tradition, must protect the researcher's objectivity and subjectivity. In
van Marren's (1990) words, "objectivity means that the researcher remains true to the

object. The researcher becomes in a sense a guardian and a defender of the true nature of
the object" (p. 20). In this case "the true nature of the object" means the true nature of the
participant's lived experience. As for subjectivity, van Marren says it
means that one needs to be as perceptive, insightful, and discerning as one can be
in order to show or disclose the object in its full richness and in its greatest depth.
Subjectivity means that we are strong in our orientation to the object of study in a

unique and personal way--while avoiding the danger of becoming arbitrary, selfindulgent, or of getting captivated and carried away by our unreflected
preconceptions. (p. 20)

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Questioning techniques. Researchers, "primarily driven by the need for
information" (Taylor, 1990, p. 83), but sometimes driven in the qualitative sense by the
need for "knowledge as personal, subjective, and unique" (Cohen & Manion, 1994, p. 6),
and sometimes driven in the phenomenological sense by the need for "experience taken at
face value" (p. 29), often gather data through a "conversational interview" (van Manen,
1990, p. 66). My interviews with Arthur required depth interviewing. Patton (1987)
explains that "depth interviewing involves asking open-ended questions" (p. 108) that
probe "beneath the surface, soliciting detail and providing a holistic understanding of the
interviewee's point ofview" (p. 108).
Why did I conduct an interview as opposed to having the participant write to me?
Van Manen (1990) warns that "writing forces the person into a reflective attitude--in
contrast to face-to-face conversation in which people are much more immediately
involved" (p. 64). I chose not to create a situation in which "this reflective attitude
together with the linguistic demands of the writing process" (p. 64) placed "certain
constraints on the free obtaining oflived-experience descriptions" (p. 64). I chose instead
to use well-established interview methodology.
I kept an "interview guide" (Patton, 1987, p. 111) at hand (see Appendix B). The
foundation of that guide was a question: "Could you give me an example of an experience
in school that encouraged you to become a creative writer in your adult years?" I included
probes, to be used if necessary, to draw out the experience in concrete terms. Patton
provides examples: (a) "When did that happen?", (b) "Who else was involved?", (c)
"Where were you during that time?", (d) "What was your involvement in that situation?",
(e) "How did that come about?", and (f) "Where did that happen?" (p. 125).

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Questions concerning "the identifying characteristics of the person being
interviewed" (Patton, 1987, p. 119) established the participant's past and present
engagement as a writer, although, to protect the participant's anonymity (McMillan &
Schumacher, 1997), I speak in general rather than specific terms. I do not, for example,
name publications in which the participant's poetry has appeared.
Sensory questions in the interview guide were to be used, if necessary, to probe
into what the participant had seen, heard, tasted, smelled, and touched (Patton, 1987).
Feeling questions in the Carl Rogerian tradition (Egan, 1998) probed in order "to
understand the respondent's emotional reactions" (Patton, 1987, p. 118). For example, a
Rogerian-style question would be: "Do you mean that you felt ('---~) about that
experience?"
I attempted to keep my questions singular. One problem in interviewing is that
"interviewers often throw several questions together and ask them all at once .... This is
confusing and places an unnecessary and unfair burden of interpretation on the
interviewee" (Patton, 1987, p. 124). Hilbert (1998) in her article "The Pain/Pleasure of
the Interviewing Process" asks several questions in succession (p. 10). This, I discovered,
is a difficulty hard to avoid. In the words of E. Facey, asking several questions at once is
"a good example ofhow hard some of these dictums are to follow when one is in the live
situation of interviewing, caught up in the excitement ofhearing what the Other has to
say'' (Personal e-mail, April18, 2002).
I wanted the participant to feel at ease, relaxedly reflective, and not to worry about
a volley of upcoming questions. I wanted the participant to feel at ease for other reasons. I
wanted to establish a professional, humanistic--ethical (McMillan & Schumacher, 1997;

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Patton, 1987; van Manen, 1990; Cohen & Manion, 1994)--forum for neutrality and
rapport.
Patton (1987) explains that "rapport means that I respect the person being
interviewed, ... that the respondent's knowledge, experiences, attitudes, and feelings are
important" (p. 127). Patton adds that "neutrality means that the interviewer listens
without passing judgment" (p. 127) and the interviewer asks questions that do not have "a
built-in response bias that communicates the interviewer's belief' (p. 129). To be neutral,
Patton (1987) tells us, means not to ask leading questions. I coined a phrase, bracketing in
possibilities, in the "Introduction" section, which refers to a process that not only helped
me to address possible participant responses to my research question, but also helped me
address biases that could have affected my neutrality and interview skills. Stated
differently, any possibility I expressed in the introduction could have turned into a leading
question that, unconscious to me, reflected my belief about an experience that the
participant should have had.
To enlarge on this problem ofleading questions, I borrow language from
quantitative research. McMillan and Schumacher (1997) explain that "experimenter
[researcher] effects refer to both deliberate and unintentional influences that the
researcher has on the subjects" [participants] (p. 188). The point, according to Patton
(1987), is that even unintentional influences in questions would have "a built-in response
bias that communicates the interviewer's belief' (p. 129). To borrow language from
Quantum Mechanics, namely the term the Heisenberg Uncertainty Principle
(Wassermann, 2001/2002), my biased presence would definitely have affected participant
response.

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Bracketing in possibilities helped me "establish neutrality'' (Patton, 1987, p. 128)
as an interviewer. Bracketing in possibilities helped me keep leading questions at bay.

Analysis of data . Analysis relates to organization: It is "the process of bringing
order to the data" (Patton, 1987, p. 144). Prompt analysis seemed prudent:
Some qualitative researchers put primary energy into data collection for weeks,
months, or even years and then retire from the field to "work over their notes."
We believe this is a mistake. It rules out the possibility of collecting new data to
fill in gaps ... .It discourages the formulation of"rival hypotheses" that question a
field-worker's routine assumptions and biases .... We strongly recommend early
analysis. (Miles & Huberman, 1994, p. 50)
Hermeneutic phenomenology encourages "early analysis," and, van Manen (1990)
says, eventually seeks to "develop a ...narrative that explicates themes" (p. 97). It does not
seek to "show or prove" (p. 22) the worth of a hypothesis. Instead of the term rival
hypotheses, then, hermeneutic phenomenology uses the term "incidental" (p. 107)
themes.
The phenomenologist uses the method of free imaginative variation in order to
verify whether a theme belongs to a phenomenon essentially (rather than
incidentally) .... One asks the question: Is this phenomenon still the same ifwe
imaginatively change or delete this theme from the phenomenon? Does the
phenomenon without this theme lose its fundamental meaning? (p. 107)
Analysis enabled me to find themes in the data, whereas interpretation, which I
discuss at length later, enabled me to define themes as essential or incidental. Analysis
began soon after each interview, based on the transcribed interview data (Patton, 1987),

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on the "field notes" (p. 92), and on the "contact summary" (Miles & Huberman, 1994, p.
51).
The analysis included memos that I had written to myself. Miles and Huberman
(1994) explain that memos "tie together different pieces of data into a recognizable
cluster" (p. 72). The analysis included ongoing participant review of data, synthesis of the
data, and emerging themes (McMillan & Schumacher, 1997). Van Manen (1990)
describes participant review this way: "The researcher can go back [again] and again to
the interviewee in order to dialogue with the interviewee about the ongoing record of the
interview transcripts" (p. 63).
The analysis also included peer debriefing. McMillan and Schumacher (1997)
describe a peer debriefer as "a disinterested colleague who engages in discussions of the
researcher's preliminary analyses" (pp. 409). Any available member of my Supervisory
Committee logically made an appropriate peer debriefer. Not only did participant review
and peer debriefing help me analyse data--given that I withheld from a peer debriefer any
data that betrayed confidentiality--but they also helped me "minimize researcher bias" (p.
409).
I described bracketing in possibilities as a method for addressing bias. Another
method for reducing bias, simply called bracketing, a term "borrowed from mathematics
by Husserl (1911/80)" (van Manen, 1990, pp. 175-176), deserves explicit attention here
because a researcher, especially a new researcher like myself, could be led astray by his or
her assumptions (van Manen, 1990):
How does one put out of play everything one knows about an experience that
one has selected for study? If we simply try to forget or ignore what we already

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"know," we may find that the presuppositions persistently creep back into our
reflections. It is better to make explicit our understandings, beliefs, biases,
assumptions, presuppositions, and theories. We try to come to terms with our
assumptions, not in order to forget them again, but rather to hold them
deliberately at bay. (p. 47)

Bracketing out bias. Many experiences in school encouraged me to become a
creative writer. These experiences define highlights in my education (Lukiv, 2001b,
Chapter Seven; Lukiv, 2001c; Lukiv, 2002), but, simply put, they could have influenced
me to ask biased questions. Through my use of"free imaginative variation" (van Manen,
1990, p. 107), I expressed those experiences in terms of one essential, broad theme in my
proposal: Events in school that promoted my looking at the world through "different"
eyes, through other points of view; that promoted the wonder of creativity; that promoted
the joy of my ideas being appreciated; that promoted the excitement of entertaining, or
emotionally moving, others; that promoted the excitement of focussed thinking; and that
promoted the joy of understanding how to write have encouraged me to become an adult
creative writer (Lukiv, 2002). That said, my peer debriefers looked for biases in my
questions, in my analysis, and in my interpretations that spoke of me rather than of

Arthur.
Interpretation of data. Interpretation relates to the word hermeneutics, derived
from the Greek god Hermes, whose task it was "to communicate messages from Zeus and
other gods to the ordinary mortals" (van Manen, 1990, p. 179). Hermeneutics, an
intermediary of words, finds a counterpart in Cambodian cosmology in the form of the
dances of Asparas. These celestial female dancers "serve as intermediaries between the

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sacred and the secular through their dances" (Hamera, 1996, p. 201). In other words,
Asparas relates to interpretation.
Patton (1987) says interpretation "involves attaching meaning and significance to
the analysis, explaining descriptive patterns, and looking for relationships" (p. 144). In
this interpretive sense, "phenomenology... offers us the possibility of plausible insights"
(van Manen, 1990, p. 9) through an "attempt to determine the meaning embodied in"
lived experience (p. 38). The researcher "looks for the emerging themes after one has
gathered the material" (p. 69). Interpreting what data supports what theme remains the
focus ofhermeneutic phenomenology.
I conducted the suspended literature review (although the review did not locate
any hermeneutic phenomenological studies that relate to my research question) after
essential themes looked apparent (van Manen, 1990). I employed objective and subjective
analysing of data, bracketing, participant review, and peer debriefing. I was able, in the
most unbiased manner possible, to focus on interpreting the data at hand. Van Manen
rightfully draws attention to this important focus on interpretation:
By setting up situations conducive to collaborative hermeneutic conversations, the
researcher can mobilize [the interviewee] to reflect on ... experiences (once these
have been gathered) in order to determine the deeper meanings or themes of these
experiences. For this purpose a series of interviews may be scheduled or arranged
... that allows reflection on the text (transcripts) of previous interviews in order to
aim for as much interpretive insight as possible .... In the light of the original
phenomenological question ... both the researcher and the interviewee weigh the

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appropriateness of each theme by asking: "Is this what the experience is really
like?" (p. 99)
The researcher must be "sensitive to the subtle undertones of language" (van
Manen, 1990, p. 111) and be "a true listener" (p. 111). The depth and accuracy of the
interpretation, then, "requires a high level of reflectivity, an attunement to lived
experience, and a certain patience or time commitment" (p. 114). While analysis crudely
suggests what themes might exist, interpretation determines what essential themes indeed
exist.
Interestingly, one tool of interpretation is the researcher's writing of the text. Van
Manen ( 1990) tells us that "writing teaches us what we know, and in what way we know
what we know" (p. 127). The researcher's/writer's goal is insightful writing, but this sort
of writing "cannot be accomplished in one straightforward session. Rather, the process of
writing and rewriting (including revising or editing) is more reminiscent of the artistic
activity of creating an art object that has to be approached again and again" (p. 131).
Vandenberg (1992) says,
Van Manen's ideas about writing are corroborated by the material conditions of
my own research. I do not know what I think of an educational problem until I
read about it and then write a paper that includes all relevant things
conceptualized in a vocabulary drawn from phenomenological discourse. Now I
know why my final editing does not obviate the need to type the final draft
myself: blue pencilling after the draft has gone cold objectifies it and enables one
to see what it says to someone else, but this is merely rereading. Rewriting is

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necessary to become fully engaged in the matter, resubjectifying it so it becomes
more truly disclosive of what is intended. (Significance of Writing, para. 1)
In short, in terms of interpretive precision, "writing and rewriting is the thing" (van

Manen, 1990, p. 132).
The term interpretation, or hermeneutics, however, makes one wonder about
validity. Although my use of free imaginative variation, peer debriefing, participant
review, field notes, contact summaries, and memos addressed validity issues, a few other
considerations remain.

Other considerations. McMillan and Schumacher (1997) discuss validity in terms
of "the degree to which the explanations of phenomena match the realities of the world"
(p. 404), or, in the case of my study, match the realities of Arthur's lived experience. To
enhance this match, I conducted the conversational interviews in the comfort and
familiarity of a place of Arthur's choosing. He chose his office, his "working place." This
avoided the scientific sense of any sort of "contrived or laboratory settings" (p. 405).
To further enhance this match, I spoke "in the participant['s] language"
(McMillan & Schumacher, 1997, p. 405) and avoided the "use of...abstract social science
language" (p. 406). This was a simple matter. The participant is a poet. I am a poet. We
both write free verse. Not in the geographical sense, but in the intellectual sense, I am an
"indigenous-insider" (Banks, 1998, p. 8), one who "endorses the unique values,
perspectives, behaviors, beliefs, and knowledge of his or her indigenous [poetry]
community and culture and is perceived by people within the community as a legitimate
community member who can speak with authority about it" (p. 8).

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Therefore, the use of"low-inference descriptors" (McMillan & Schumacher,
1997, p. 406) was a simple matter. Low-interference terms "are those used and
understood by the participant" (p. 406). Those terms stand "in contrast to the abstract
language of a researcher" (p. 406). The ethical thing, in terms of respect and good
communication, is to "consider your audience" (Theocratic School Guidebook, 1971,
p. 112). Understandably, this text contains "verbatim accounts of conversations and
precise descriptions of actions by [the] participant" (McMillan & Schumacher, 1997, p.
406).
How did I ensure the validity of those verbatim accounts? Tape recorders notably
"enhance validity by providing an accurate and relatively complete record" (McMillan &
Schumacher, 1997, p. 406). I added to that validity by taking note of Arthur's facial and
body gestures. C. Chasteauneuf, who has used interviewing in qualitative studies, advised
me to "make note of the context.. .. Look at the tape counter on the recorder, note the
number, and then make notes about what [is] going on .... Then associate gestures,
grimaces, etc., with a spot on the tape" (Personal e-mail, March 11, 2002). My notes
recorded emphatic gestures. Emphatic gestures "express feeling and conviction"

(Theocratic School Guidebook, 1971, p. 133), both ofwhich, like verbatim accounts, are
data in themselves because both refer "to the way that a person [participant] experiences
and understands his or her world" (van Manen, 1990, p. 183). In the interest of validity,
for the purpose of understanding Arthur's lived experiences as much as possible, I entered
description of noteworthy gestures in the transcribed data at appropriate places (e.g., [tape
counter: 127; participant nods profusely]).

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Another issue related to validity includes bias. A biased study could invalidate its
findings . Although we recognize that "science can lead men to the truth" (Scientists,
1994, p. 25), we must also recognize that "scientists are by no means immune to error.
This is especially so when political, philosophical, and personal bias clouds the issue"
(p. 25). In my effort to reduce bias, then, I kept a field log, "a chronological record"
(McMillan & Schumacher, 1997, p. 409) ofthe interview and episodes ofparticipant
review and peer debriefing. I kept a field journal to contain "assessments of the
trustworthiness of each datum set" (p. 409). The field journal also detailed "the evolution
of [my] ideas, personal reactions, possible related literature, and questions for future
investigation" (p. 41 0).
One more issue related to validity deserves attention. In a qualitative study,
"researchers frequently face ethical dilemmas and make decisions to resolve these in
order to continue the study'' (McMillan & Schumacher, 1997, p. 41 0). If ethical
considerations arose, I recorded them and subsequent researcher-participant agreements.
This created "a record of ethical considerations [that] help[ ed] to justify the subsequent
choices" (p. 410). To further validate the study, I considered audibility criteria:
"Audibility is maintaining a record of data management techniques and decision-rules
that document the 'chain of evidence' or 'decision-trail"' (McMillan & Schumacher,
1997, p. 41 0). I "place[ d] a list of files ...and decision-rules in an appendix for perusal" (p.
41 1) by colleagues interested in verifying the data.

Ethics
Prior to the collection of data, I wrote a letter of introduction and an Informed
Consent Form (see Appendix A) that were provided to the respondent. The letter of

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information detailed potential benefits and risks to the respondent; sampling criteria; what
the respondent would be asked to do; who would have access to the respondent's
responses; how anonymity would be addressed; how confidentiality would be addressed;
and how long data would be stored and when and how it would be destroyed. Appendix A
should reveal that the "procedures followed ... [were] ethically, medically, and legally
acceptable" (Research, n.d., p. 8).

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Conclusions
Many events in school encouraged Arthur to become a creative writer. I describe
many of them and the themes that they support, but first I would like to discuss what
Arthur did not say.
What Arthur Did Not Say

I wondered whether Arthur would describe creative writing activities as examples
of lived school experiences that encouraged him to became a creative writer.
Interestingly, he mentioned none. Does that mean teachers offered no creative writing
activities? During one participant review session, Arthur said teachers very rarely had
asked students to write poems or stories of fiction. In my elementary and high school
experience, teachers seldom set up creative writing classes, although I do recall one of
note. In grade 12 English, our teacher asked us to do something novel. He asked us to
write a poem about absolutely anything that we wished to write about. My poem confused
him, but his genuine interest in and validation of my work convinced me I wanted to be a
writer from that day forward. Margaret Atwood also relates a grade 12 English creative
writing event as significant, although in the context of finally she was beginning to shine
as an English student. Her teacher said, "This must be a very good poem, dear, because I
can't understand a word of it" (Polanyi, 2002, p. 62).
Arthur did not refer to the kinds of creative writing activities found on Web sites
and did not describe any specific creative writing activities that had encouraged him. He
did not refer to assignments similar to the ones in my creative writing course. But, as will
be described later, he did mention significant writing assignments. He did not mention
school activities about sending editors submissions, nor did he not mention classroom

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publication activities that had motivated him to write or that had encouraged him to
further study creative writing. He mentioned no encouragement through contact with a
teacher who had himself or herself been a creative writer.
But Arthur did mention many, many examples of events in school that had
encouraged him to take up creative writing later in life. I will now describe the themes
that those events support.

The Themes
Events in school that promoted the joy and wonder of silent reading of poetry and
fiction encouraged Arthur to become a creative writer. Events that promoted the joy and
wonder of listening to poetry and fiction fluently read aloud and of listening to songs
encouraged him. Events that promoted the wonder of uninterrupted language experiences
and that promoted the intrigue and wonder of flights of imagination fuelled by the
connotative and imagistic value of words encouraged him. Events that promoted the
excitement of verbally punning and joking and of informing others about what he had
read and learned encouraged him, and so did events that promoted the joy and
exhilarating freedom of writing down his thoughts and feelings based on poetry and
fiction read and having those thoughts and feelings valued by teachers. Events that
promoted the exhilarating freedom of choice of reading material and that promoted the
satisfaction and excitement of receiving sound direction about how to write well from
compassionate teachers encouraged Arthur to become a creative writer. Words in these
themes such as ')oy," "wonder," "intrigue," "excitement," "exhilarating," and
"satisfaction" describe feelings Arthur had. I chose those words through my analysis and

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interpretation of the data and through repeated participant review that established their
validity (McMillan & Schumacher, 1997; van Manen, 1990).
I will now discuss those themes and events that support each of those themes.

Theme One. Arthur was encouraged by events in school that promoted the joy
and wonder of silent reading of poetry and fiction. The words "joy" and "wonder" show
he enjoyed "the benefits and pleasures of...reading" (The Ministry, 1996a, 1996b, 1996c,
p. 1). The Ministry's three guides refer to those benefits and pleasures repeatedly. In fact,
Arthur remembered "reading more than writing." He spoke about how he had become
"intrigued with literature .... Books . . .were important, ... always intriguing ... because ...
people ...in literature, in writing, .. .in poetry, and in adventures" were more intriguing than,
he felt, himself.
I asked if reading in one grade stood out from another. He said no. He had loved
"literature. Poetry," especially "poetics .... Even though I was reading, say an adventure
story [like Tarzan], the poetic imagery that came through was important to me."
He remembered other specific reading texts. He said, "I took English 91 which I
think is [now] called English 12 or Lit 12," and he recalled reading Beowulfin class. He
had loved "silent reading" opportunities of such fine works. He recalled feeling intrigued
by great writing such as the work ofRalph Waldo Emerson and the fiction ofD. H.
Lawrence. The imagery of their texts, of a myriad of good texts, had intrigued him to the
point of fascination.
That fascination had transcended the arousal of curiosity found in intrigue. In
participant review sessions, Arthur described feelings of joy and wonder rather than just
intrigue as the most accurate emotions that had often filled him as he read in school. On

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reflection, I relate to his feelings. I too felt joy and wonder during silent reading of many
texts in school. I felt such a wide and powerful range of emotions while reading that I
wanted to know how people can write with such expertise.

Theme Two. Events in school that promoted the joy and wonder of listening to
poetry and fiction fluently read aloud and of listening to songs encouraged Arthur to
become a creative writer. He said, "I remember songs ... that we used to sing. I was
intrigued with the words .... 'Put your left foot in, put your left foot out.' 'I'm a little
teapot.' Things like that. I can remember the words of stories ... .! was intrigued ... by the
teacher who would read to us. I loved listening to the voice ... .I fell in love with the
voice ... .Loved listening." Although these singsong events helped establish a "resourcerich learning environment" (The Ministry, 1996a, p. 8; 1996b, p 9; 1996c, p. 10) for
Arthur, The Ministry's three guides do not specifically encourage language arts teachers
to consider the benefits of singsongs.
"The fun part of language ... was," for Arthur, "always ... the intriguing .... saund that
words made." Sometimes he didn't know the meaning of a "word, but [he] was just
intrigued with the sound, how it would move through [his] ear, how it would sound when
[he] said it, and then putting ... words together." Arthur distinctly recalled an early
intermediate experience of his teacher reading aloud a Pauline Johnson poem, and how
the words had opened up "wonderful feelings" inside of him while he had been "swept
along by the reading." He had "loved the sound of the word in poetry'' and he had "loved
music too, but. .. hearing the words really, really clearly... was always the intriguing part for
[Arthur] ."

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He did not recall participating in the singing of songs, most often sung in the
primary grades; however, he did recall "listening, and being very cognizant of this." One
of the feelings he had had while the students sang was "isolation, being alone, but being
brought into the classroom by the sound of...music and the words." That had made him
"feel happy, .. .inclusive."
For Arthur there was a certain musical quality to poetry read aloud. As he said,
"What came through to me was the word: the cadence, the music, ah, poetry
reading, ...listening to the teacher read out loud." But he had loved to hear fiction read
aloud too. He mentioned, "In grade eight the teacher read Treasure Island ....I was
intrigued by the sound of the words and the way they fit into the picture I was building.
Even though the language is really difficult, I didn't know all ofthe words, ... that didn't
upset me." Again Arthur referred to "the sound. It was beautiful. It was .. .like .. .parrots.
Colourful parrots flitting about.. .. That was the feeling I had with the language. Colourful
parrots just flitting about. Moving. Moving. Intriguing." [Arthur moved his hands about
as if the parrots are flitting about before him.] The joy and wonder he had felt in school
clearly filled him during the interview.
I, too, had an experience in school, in grade seven, in which our teacher read
fiction aloud, and that experience, like Arthur's, encouraged me to become a writer. My
grade seven teacher read aloud A Christmas Carol by Charles Dickens. I remember
saying to myself, "I don't know who this Dickens guy is, but he sure knows what he's
doing." I wanted to know how one goes about using the printed word to make others feel
emotion. The wonder of that grew inside me through junior high school. I wanted to

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know how one writes words that make people feel, that make people feel so deeply that
they cannot forget the stories.
Jack Hodgins (1993) also had a somewhat similar experience. In his A Passion for

Narrative: A Guide for Writing Fiction , he describes a teacher reading to his class as an
example of a school experience that encouraged him to become a writer of fiction.
Books were forms of magic, once you could read them. From the moment I'd
learned to read, I wanted to be one of those people who put magic between the
covers!
In high school, the young English teacher who had introduced us to the

poetry of Robert Frost and the essays of Roderick Haig-Brown persuaded the
school board to buy five copies of The Old Man and the Sea for the school library.
Then--perhaps he wasn't sure we'd make use of them otherwise--he read one of
those copies aloud. Something during that reading--which he strung out over
several days, as I recall--a longing that had been with me all my life suddenly took
on sharper focus: I would devote my life to the writing of serious fiction. (1993,
p. 13)
Arthur, like Jack Hodgins and me, was encouraged to take up creative writing, in
part, because of being read to in school. The Ministry says "the learning environment
should ... foster enjoyment oflanguage in all its aspects" (1996a, 1996b, 1996c, p. 2). For
Arthur, his being read to fostered such enjoyment. The Ministry's (1992) Primary

Program: Resource Document says, "Research implications emphasize ... reading to
children" (p. 182).

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Because of the flowing nature ofbeing read to, generally an uninterrupted flow of
words, Theme Two relates to Theme Three.

Theme Three. Arthur was encouraged to become a creative writer through events
in school that promoted the wonder of uninterrupted language experiences. These
experiences allowed him to truly consider himself in relation to others and the
environment, and to consider his own thoughts and feelings without having to step out of
his considerations to answer teachers' questions. For Arthur, these experiences were
definitely beneficial and encouraging. The Ministry (1996a, 1996b, 1996c) does refer to
many videos--plays and movies--and to much reading material that could serve as
excellent resources for uninterrupted language experiences.
Arthur said, "The very first experience I had was a film, and it was in grade one,
and I was five years old, and it was a film about a milkman. [Laughs.] And I was
intrigued by the images on the screen, but also by the voice. I remember it almost seemed
like one of those CBC announcer's voices ....There was a guy named Morry Westgate that
used to be the voice for the NHL hockey games. I think he would sell ESSO oil or
something. But I loved his voice. And I'm sure it was his voice, or someone like that, a
very trained ... CBC radio voice. And I could just hear the cadence, you know, rise and fall
of the language. Of course I was turned on by the visual because I am visual too, but I
was also turned on by what I was hearing. And so, the voice ... describing this milkman's
ordinary day... wasn't mundane for me. Hearing the words and the language and the
cadence and the rhythm .... ! can remember being intrigued by the sound." When Arthur
used the word intrigued, as he often did, he often implicitly referred to wonder as part of
the experience. In fact, in participant review, Arthur chose the word wonder as opposed to

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intrigue as the emotional element of Theme Three. Wonder takes the curiosity of intrigue
and adds surprise, even astonishment.
When Arthur discussed Theme Two and Theme Three with me in participant
review, he agreed with me that both are related through sound-based events. But he
believed that Theme Three needs its own category apart from Theme Two. Theme Three
does not require any sound-based events, as in the case of uninterrupted reading events.
Arthur created a clear picture of his grade one uninterrupted experience by filling
in many other details. "We were all taken down to this kind ofbasement. It was very
damp .... I was aware of dampness and ... sounds and ... people's movement--and smells .... It
was like going down into a dungeon in a way.... And it was a dark place. And those metal
chairs ... would make that scraping sound on the cement down below .... ! was intrigued. I
was very intrigued .... I was definitely paying attention and I was into myself. Like I knew
there were people around me, and I knew I was part of a crowd. But I was ... one with the
film and the experience .... I was alone in a way. I was there with other people, but I was
kind of alone .... Alone and experiencing things .. .I had a feeling that other people weren't
around me because I was hearing and seeing and smelling."
This uninterrupted experience allowed Arthur to be swept along with the sensory
information the event presented. In grade ten he watched Romeo and Juliet during a class
visit to a theatre in Vancouver, Canada, and that uninterrupted event also encouraged him
to become a creative writer. He revelled in the sound of the words and the imagery. They
swept him along. The wonder of the experience lives with him now. He had the same
experience when his teacher read a Pauline Johnson poem, and when his grade eight
teacher read aloud Treasure Island--the whole novel--over many, many classes. Arthur

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had great lengths of time to create pictures in his mind and to revel in and wonder about
the imagery.
These uninterrupted language experiences likely relate to flights of imagination
fuelled by the connotative and imagistic value of words, but in Arthur's mind, confirmed
through participant review, these flights are elements of Theme Four.

Theme Four. Events in school that promoted the intrigue and wonder of flights of
imagination fuelled by the connotative and imagistic value of words encouraged Arthur to
become a creative writer. Sometimes those events were simply Arthur left alone by his
teacher to "daydream," to play with words in his head that a poem or story brought to his
attention. He said, "[I] looked out the window, formed pictures in my head." Sometimes
Arthur had been left alone by the teacher to experience intrigue over the "connotative
meanings and the association with the rest of the sentence and the paragraph" that the
teacher and class had been considering.
These were imaginative events for Arthur. Sometimes those events were a result
of"teachers that were ... focussed ... on .. .imagination" who respected Arthur's need to sit
and daydream and imagine and play with the connotative and imagistic value of words in
his head from poems and stories considered in class. The Ministry in effect supports such
events through comments such as "the learning environment should stimulate students'
imaginations" (1996a, 1996b, 1996c, p. 2). Arthur's intrigue lay in the ability of those
events "to arouse and hold [his] interest or curiosity'' (Intrigue, 1992, p. 514), and his
wonder lay in the ability of those events to create "a feeling of mingled surprise and
curiosity" (Wonder, 1992, p. 1132).

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Theme Five. Arthur was encouraged to become a creative writer by events in

school that promoted the excitement of verbally punning and joking and of informing
others about what he had read and learned. The logic of placing "punning," 'joking," and
"informing others" together in this theme rests in their verbal expression. This logic states
Arthur's view as he expressed himself in participant review. Direction related to this
theme from The Ministry comes from the following: Students need "to manipulate
language for. ..expression .... [and) students should ... have frequent opportunities to
talk. .. about what they have learned ... from a variety of stories, poems, essays, documents,
and other media" (1996a, 1996b, 1996c, p. 3).
Arthur said, "I remember punning as early as grade ... two or three .. .! was twisting
the language to suit myself and making jokes." By grade six, he "was becoming the class
clown." He explained, "I was quite funny. I would play on what the teacher said, made
fun of that. I would make fun of what people said. So I became a little comedian."

Teachers who had allowed him, within reason, to pun and joke, were actually furthering
his "intrigue with language."
Arthur had been sharing a humanistic part of himself that others had showed
appreciation for through laughter. His sense of the ludicrous and incongruous, his
"humorous use of a word in a way that suggest[ ed) two or more interpretations" (Pun,
1994, p. 591), and his celebration of"the foibles and inconsistencies ofhuman nature"
(Wit and Humor, 1993, p. 217) had brought him reinforcement that he had thoroughly
enjoyed, that he had found exciting. "There was great humour," he said about a senior
English teacher's class. "[My teacher] encouraged humour in me. She encouraged me to
say things. Because I would often say weird things and get the kids laughing." I asked,

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"So her validation of humour: You feel that encouraged you to become a writer?"
"Yes ....l think that writing involves a huge sense of humour. Humour is a sense of the
world."
He broke down, emotionally overcome, when he related how in grade ten English
he had shared his knowledge in class. "I was putting my hand up," he related, "and-irrelevant information. I had just tons of it. I was reading dictionaries, encyclopaedias.
Ah, .. .I'mjust emotional right now." He had to stop to compose himself. The experience
of informing others had created a wonderful sense of accomplishment in Arthur.
Arthur's punning, joking, and informing has a definite entertainment value that I
relate to . In grade five, I played my guitar for my class. The exhilaration of entertaining
those students was almost more than I could stand. For me, events in school that
promoted the excitement of entertaining others encouraged me to become a creative
writer. This broad statement does not focus on the entertainment value of only words. For
Arthur, however, Theme Five draws squarely on the excitement of punning, joking, and
informing through the use of words.

Theme Six. Events in school that promoted the joy and exhilarating freedom of
writing down his thoughts and feelings based on poetry and fiction read and having those
thoughts and feelings valued by teachers encouraged Arthur to become a creative writer.
This theme draws support from The Ministry through many statements. For example, "As
students come to understand and use language more fully, they are able to enjoy the
benefits and pleasures of...writing ... Students should ... feel that their ideas are valued .... An
English language arts program should encourage students to ... communicate effectively in
written .. .forms" (1996a, 1996b, 1996c, pp. 1-2).

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Many events that support Theme Six come from English classes in grades 10 to
13. Arthur spoke about "writing about the poem, ... elucidation.... Paragraph work .... some
essays." I asked, "Would you say that writing about poems encouraged you to become a
writer?" "Yes .... Because one of the things it did is it helped me to figure out my own
processes in writing ... .lt was a learning thing."
His grade 13 English teacher "was fantastic .... We'd write," he said, "about...our
feelings .... It was, how did you feel about. .. ? What did this make you think about...?" I
added, "And to write about how you felt, to write about your thoughts--" "Encouraged my
feelings," Arthur said, "to write about me and my feelings . So that led to my writing and
my poetry. My sense of writing as a writer."
He recalled how, in general, other students had complained about writing
assignments based on their thoughts and feelings. But Arthur's reaction had been
"Yippee!. ..Here is a chance to express myself, not just verbally." He laughed. "I got A's
for saying things on paper! ...1 was getting great encouragement." He spoke anecdotally
about how the English teachers for grades 10 to 13 had said, "You've expressed this
really well." "And that encouraged me," he said, "even further to want to go on to express
myself on paper more and more ... .lfl hadn't had that encouragement, I might have
become stultified as a writer. ... Perhaps only gone so far."
He contrasted these teachers to others who had appeared to expect only limited
quality or limited depth of writing. These teachers had encouraged in Arthur an unlimited
quality and depth, an unlimited exploration of "language and feelings." They had
encouraged him "to explore feelings with language. To explore poetry. Especially
poetry." These teachers "were all lovers and proponents of poetry, and great lovers

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of.. .literature." "They encouraged you," I asked, "to express your feelings and your
thoughts about what you read?" "Not just orally," he answered, "but.. .on paper. ...That
expression on paper as a writer began to take hold. It' s .. .like .. .little drops from above that
nestle down and ...ifthey're immediately noticed and encouraged, ...then great things
come. But ifl hadn't been encouraged, those drops would have ...just evaporated. And
perhaps I wouldn't be where I am today."
These writing events promoted joy along with a sense of exhilarating freedom for
Arthur to express himself; teachers valued what Arthur had to say, and he recognized that
they valued it. My grade 12 poem-writing experience, described in the "What Arthur Did
Not Say" subsection carries, to at least some degree, joy and a sense of exhilarating
freedom, but I consider that experience more, much more, as one of the events that
promoted the joy of my ideas being appreciated, or valued.
In view, then, of the thorough classroom discussions Arthur had experienced that
preceded his writing down his thoughts and feelings, I have to say Arthur did describe
rich and deep analyses of creative writing in school as examples of experiences that had
encouraged him. I referred to the possibility of such experiences in the "Bracketing in
Possibilities" subsection, and I bring them up within this Theme Six discussion because
the rich and deep analyses of poetry that his teachers had promoted in class had helped
germinate the thoughts and feelings Arthur had included in his writing, writing that his
teachers had valued.
These teachers created "frequent opportunities [for students] to talk and write
about what they [had] learned about themselves and others from a variety of stories [and]
poems" (The Ministry, 1996a, 1996b, 1996c, p. 3), providing their "students greater self-

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awareness and a deeper appreciation of the richness and complexity of human
experience" (1996, p. 3; 1996b, p. 3; 1996c, p. 4).
In the "Bracketing in Possibilities" I wondered whether Arthur had chopped up

stories and language the way many Ministry-prescribed books do and whether that had
been just the sort of activity that had encouraged him to take up creative writing. Arthur
mentioned discussions of poetics in his senior English classes, which had included
interpretations of poetry, but he mentioned nothing about chopping up stories and
language up into bits of plot, theme, character, point of view, symbolism, and irony (see,
e.g., Ball, 1969; and Perrine, 1966). He also mentioned nothing about class discussions
that had chopped up stories and language into bits of subject, verb, and other mechanical
elements oflanguage (see, e.g., Hart & Heim, 1982; and Shaw, 1986), but that does not
surprise me. He said, "The thing that I wasn't good at was ... the parsing of sentences and
things like that." "The grammatical?" I asked. "The grammatical," he said with certainty.

Theme Seven. Events in school that promoted the exhilarating freedom of choice
of reading material encouraged Arthur to become a creative writer. The great variety of
reading sources mentioned in The Ministry's three guides (1996a, 1996b, 1996c) provide
ample freedom of choice for today' s students.
Arthur experienced Theme Seven's exhilarating freedom of choice one day after
school when he was allowed to stay in his grade ten English classroom and read whatever
he wished from his teacher's class library. "Four o'clock in the afternoon and I'm sitting
there. I'd been sitting there ... since the end of the bell for an hour. And on [my teacher's]
shelf there were a whole series of books that I'd never heard of. I picked off the shelf

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Biccaccio's Decameron ... .It was written in the ... plague years, and considered a bit of a
naughty book. .. [My teacher] was a very liberal lady. And that's part of my intrigue here."
He continued: "The story is that [this] group of people trying to escape the plague
went up to a villa in Italy, where ...there were no rats that carried the plague ... .It was a
thick book. I'd never heard of it before and it's sitting on the shelf there. I...was intrigued
by the title. I've always been intrigued by titles. This was ... the Decameron. I thought,

'Decameron? What could that be?' So I picked it up, and turned to the middle, and I was
reading a passage that was a bit naughty ... Each of these people in this village had to tell a
story to keep themselves entertained. So I think there's ten times ten days, a hundred
stories or something like that. Each of them three or four pages long. At any rate, I'm
getting right into this. A. .. boy with testosterone." The experience had allowed him to
revel in and wonder about the sexuality of male-female relationships, and to wonder
about his own adolescent sexuality. "I'm reading the stuff. I'm right into it. I'm totally
oblivious. 1.. .couldn't even hear a sound. There was nobody else in the world. And all of a
sudden I looked up and there was [my teacher]."
I was captivated by his story and his intensity. He said, "Now I'd expected
because of my deep conservative religious upbringing to be berated. That's what my dad
would have done. Or my mum ....But she just smiled and she sat down and she said,
'What are you reading?' [Arthur grew too emotional to continue. He needed time to
"collect himself."] "It was ... a pivotal point for me. A really important point. My
appreciation ofnotjust the word, but the freedom that comes with me and the word ... .It's
me and the word and the word and me ... and it's very inclusive."

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I wondered: "Do you mean that you learned something in that experience about
language that you didn't know before?" "Oh, phenomenal. Phenomenal. Not so much
language, but, ... the freedom. This is the feeling I have. The freedom to explore words and
associations and thoughts and processes. Unbidden. Completely free. Completely free to
associate. To think. To read a word, to understand it, to put words together. No
constrictors. Nobody saying, 'That's bad. You can't do that. You can't think that.' I found
that freedom in literature. I didn't find it at home. I didn't find it in the ... Church. I didn't
find it in school generally because school generally was very logical, linear. But I found
that freedom that day. Well, many days, you know. There were experiences before that,
but that was a pivotal day for me. And I tell you, I thank [my teacher] ... That was just
phenomenal.... I'm ... still emotional today about it. It was just mind-blowing."
For Arthur, the exhilarating freedom of his choosing Biccaccio's Decameron to
read had translated into a Joycean epiphany--"the sudden awareness ... caused by a simple,
casual event that takes on a new and intense meaning" (Epiphany, 1993, p. 70). During
one participant review session, Arthur described that he believed the strictness of
Catholicism, the strictness of home rules, and the logical precision of math and science
had formed a backdrop for encouraging him to in a sense break out and enjoy the freedom
oflanguage expression, such as the "naughty" anecdotes ofBiccaccio' s Decameron. His
teacher had not criticized his choice of reading material. That had validated his choice.
His epiphany had told him that he could reach into the universe of literature and choose
what he pleased.
He recalled going out to buy Lady Chatterly 's Lover simply because he was not
allowed to read it according to the Church and his parents. In school, his freedom of

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choice of reading material had become an exhilarating choice because his choices had
introduced him to a vast and wonderful world of language expression, some of which had
borne him up to question mainstream standards of morality, ethics, religion, and politics.

Theme Eight. Arthur was encouraged to become a creative writer through events
in school that promoted the satisfaction and excitement of receiving sound direction
about how to write well from compassionate teachers. He referred to English teachers
from grades nine to thirteen who likely would have agreed with The Ministry's following
comments:
By reflecting on their ideas and using language to express them, students become
more adept at expressive [and] artistic ... thought and broaden their foundation of
written ...use .... Feedback from others ... helps students assess their own language
development. This awareness motivates students to ...manipulate language
for. ..expression. (1996a, pp. 2-3; 1996b, pp. 2-3; 1996c, p. 3)
"There were times when I didn't express things well," Arthur said, "which of
course was probably more important as a writer. To be told that this wasn't effectively
said. Or this went nowhere. They [his teachers] weren't afraid to say those things. But all
of that was still encouragement as a writer. Because they were encouraging me through
their critiques to write better, to write more effectively, to write more cogently, to write
with feelings, to write with the whole mind and heart and soul. .. In other words, they
weren't Polly Anna in their encouragement. They weren't saying oh that's fantastic .. .in
everything I did. No, no. They.. .would take something of what I did, critique it, and then
ask for something better. So there was always this directional thing happening." Arthur

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had found these times of direction satisfying and exciting, but they stood out in particular
because of the compassion his teachers had showed him.
I too have had compassionate teachers who have given me sound direction. One
was Canada's Professor Harlow, who taught me fiction writing in 1976 at the University
of British Columbia, another was England's D. M. Thomas, who taught me poetry writing
in 1996 at the Humber School for Writers, and another was the USA's Paul Bogdan, who
taught me novel writing in 1997 at the Writer's Digest School of Writing. Arthur's grade
nine to thirteen English teachers encouraged him to become a creative writer. These three
teachers encouraged me to continue learning my art and craft.
I wondered in the "Bracketing in Possibilities" subsection whether Arthur would
mention excellent direction about how to write as an example of an activity that had
encouraged him to continue learning the art and craft of writing, and whether he would
describe lived school experiences that relate to the wealth of information I reviewed in
chapter two (see, e.g., Bickham, 1996; Block, 1979; Bryant, 1978; Clark, Brohaugh,
Woods, Strickland, & Blocksom, 1992; Dessner, 1979; Dickson & Smythe, 1970; Drury,
1991; Fredette, 1988; Hall, 1989; Irwin & Eyerly, 1988; Jones, 1978; Leavitt, 1970;
Leavitt & Sohn, 1979; Powell, 1973; Roberts, 1981; Seuling, 1991; Thomley, 1976;
Wakan, 1993; and Wyndham, 1972). In view ofTheme Eight, excellent direction from
teachers clearly had encouraged him, although he mentioned no specific how-to-writing
direction.
I also wondered in that subsection whether writing activities in school that
motivate students to write creatively encourage some to pursue creative writing. I cannot
discuss this in reference to Arthur because although his senior English teachers had

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encouraged him to write down his thoughts and feelings about poetry and fiction he read
in class, he did not say the writing assignments had been designed to motivate him to
write creatively (What is Creative Writing?, 1999).
I also wondered in that subsection whether Arthur would mention activities that
addressed intrinsic motivation as examples that encouraged him to take up creative
writing. Arthur did not explicitly mention such activities; however, they must have
existed. If intrinsic motivation refers to sufficient levels of novelty, autonomy and
expertise (Stipek, 1998) for the student, then the writing activities in his senior English
classes must have addressed intrinsic motivation. Sound direction about how to write well
from compassionate teachers must have provided him with expertise. A great variety of
reading material and class discussion, all food for his writing of thoughts and feelings,
must have provided novelty. The exhilarating freedom he had felt about writing down his
thoughts and feelings implicitly refers to autonomy.

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Recommendations
We may not require all our students to become creative writers, but some
students, given the right environment, like a marigold seed given the appropriate
combinations of soil, nutrients, water, and sunshine, might germinate into a poet or
fiction writer, into an Irving Layton or a Morley Callahan, or into an Earl Birney or a W.
0. Mitchell. Some students might germinate into great dramatists. On the other hand,
some students might germinate into poets, fiction writers, or dramatists ofhumble ability.
That is fine too. If we, as educators, want to think about what that right environment
might be, the themes from this study create a starting place.
That starting place does not offer "generalizability" (McMillan & Schumacher,
1997, p. 18). The themes in this study do not stand as tools "to predict" (p. 18). The
sample size ofn = 1 creates that assurance (Patton, 1987). In terms of"population
external validity'' (McMillan & Schumacher, 1997, p. 190), this study can not "be
generalized ...to other people who have the same, or at least similar, characteristics" (p.
190) as Arthur because his "psychological, sociological, educational, physical, economic"
(Zunker, 1998, p. 7) and spiritual sides make him unique; however, the trustworthiness
(Guba & Lincoln, 1982) or validity (McMillan & Schumacher, 1997) of this study ranks
high due to many thorough participant review sessions, peer debriefing, and my
bracketing in possibilities and bracketing out bias. Therefore, the themes of this study
define a valid starting place.
Educators could reason, in view of"the accuracy'' (McMillan & Schumacher,
1997. P . 584) of Arthur's eight themes, that certain events in school might encourage
some students to become creative writers.

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Theme One--Silent Reading of Poetry and Fiction
Teachers who offer their students a variety of silent reading experiences through
reading programs, through literature programs, through access to class libraries, through
visits to school libraries, through visits to municipal or otherwise public libraries, through
visits to book fairs, and through creative book displays may be encouraging some
students to become creative writers. Silent reading opportunities encouraged Arthur. They
encouraged me. The Ministry lists a vast number of resources for silent reading in each of
its three guides (1996a, pp. B-9 to B-126; 1996b, pp. B-9 to B-122; 1996c, B-9 to B-103).
Theme Two--Listening to Poetry and Fiction Read Aloud and Listening to Songs
The Ministry's (1996a, 1996b, 1996c) three guides do not encourage language arts
teachers to consider the benefits of singsongs and do not address the benefits of teachers
reading to students. But the International Reading Association tells teachers to "provide
opportunities for students ... to be read to each school day'' (Supporting Young
Adolescents' Literacy Learning, 2002; also see, e.g., Goodman, Goodman, & Flores,
1979; and Koltin, n.d.). Teachers who provide, especially in the primary grades, class
singsongs, and teachers who provide quality oral reading of poetry and fiction, may be
encouraging some students to become creative writers. These provisions encouraged
Arthur. Jack Hodgins (1993) relates that one teacher reading fine fiction aloud
encouraged him to take up fiction writing. I had many similar experiences.
Theme Three--Uninterrupted Language Experiences
Teachers who allow students blocks of time, without interrupting their sensory
perceptions or their flights of fancy with questions or other assignments, to enjoy
language experiences such as videos, free reading time, read-aloud poetry and fiction, and

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professionally-performed plays may be encouraging some students to become creative
writers. The Ministry (1996a, 1996b, 1996c) refers to videos of movies and plays, to
novels, to short story and poetry collections, to scripts, and to electronic media that could
serve as content for uninterrupted language experiences.

Theme Four--Flights of Imagination
Teachers who allow students reasonable opportunities to daydream; who openly
value flights ofimagination, or "lateral-thinking ecstasy'' (Lukiv, 2001b, p. 17); who
display passionate interest in the connotative and imagistic "life" of words; and who
provide texts rich in connotative and imagistic words or phrases may be encouraging
some students to become creative writers. Many of The Ministry's (1996a, 1996b, 1996c)
resources just referred to in "Theme Three--Uninterrupted Language Experiences" could
serve as connotative and imagistic fuel for students' imaginations.

Theme Five-- Verbally Punning and Joking and Informing Others
Teachers who allow, within the limits of reason, students in class to pun and joke
and verbally inform others about what they have learned may be encouraging some of
them to become creative writers. These teachers provide a classroom stage on which
students "manipulate language for...expression" (The Ministry, 1996a, 1996b, 1996c, p.
3), which refers precisely to what writers do with language.

Theme Six--The Freedom of Writing Down Thoughts and Having Those Thoughts Valued
Teachers who passionately discuss with their students thoughts and feelings based
on poetry and fiction texts read in class, and who openly value students' attempts to write
down those thoughts and feelings may be encouraging some of them to become creative

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writers. The Ministry (1996a, 1996b, 1996c) speaks frequently about the benefits and
pleasures of writing and the need for teachers to value their students' efforts.
Theme Seven--The Freedom of Choice of Reading Material
Teachers who encourage students to explore literature through freedom of choice
and through easy access to literature may be encouraging some of them to become
creative writers. I refer to many avenues in the subsection "Theme One--Silent Reading
of Poetry and Fiction" that teachers could use to provide literary freedom of choice, and
The Ministry (1996a, 1996b, 1996c) lists a great library ofliterary resources that could
also provide that freedom.
Theme Eight--Sound Direction From Compassionate Teachers
Teachers, notably compassionate, who provide students sound direction about
how to write well may be encouraging some of them to become creative writers. The
feedback these teachers provide helps students do the very work of writing:
"manipulat[ing] language for...expression" (The Ministry, 1996a, 1996b, 1996c, p. 3).
Further Research
This study launches a new area of study. I say new because my suspended
literature review located no other hermeneutic phenomenological investigations into what
experiences in school have encouraged other people to become writers. Comments here
and there such as I have found (Hodgins, 1993; Polanyi, 2002) that mention events in
school that encouraged or apparently encouraged some to become creative writers do
exist, but no concentrated discussion based on in depth interviewing exists to my
knowledge. I encourage researchers interested in my research question to consider a
hermeneutic phenomenological approach.

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Arthur, now that he has lived through this kind of study, wishes he had done the
same kind in his graduate studies. He has found the experience illuminating. The wealth
and truth of the eight themes astound him. They fill him with wonder, and the
recommendations validate his experiences, make them seem worth studying.
I have found the experience illuminating. It fills me with wonder. I have taught
senior high school creative writing courses for six years, generally basing my teaching on
my own experiences. But now I have Arthur's experiences too. I feel better equipped to
teach creative writing in the future. I consider Arthur's eight themes alongside my own
experiences in school that encouraged me to take up creative writing as a pastime and as a
profession, and that prompts me to think about what might work for students, what might
encourage some to take up creative writing. I have no rules here, simply direction.
Other researchers who add conclusions and recommendations through
hermeneutic phenomenological study of my research question to the body of this study's
conclusions and recommendations will add depth and breadth to that direction.
Researchers could alter the research question to consider university as opposed to
elementary school and high school experiences, or to consider fiction writers as opposed
to poets. Eventually, a body of knowledge, possibly even a "preponderance of evidence"
(McMillan & Schumacher, 1997, p. 391), based on experiences from the continuum of
education that poets, fiction writers, and dramatists have had could crystallize into
direction in language arts and creative writing programs that better "germinates" future
poets, fiction writers, and dramatists.

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Appendix A: Ethics Information
LETTER OF INTRODUCTION FOR THE POTENTIAL PARTICIPANT
Dan Lukiv
6--602 Elm Street
Quesnel, BC V2J 3X1
Canada
Telephone: 250-747-2610
E-mail: lukivdan@shaw.ca
March 15,2002

Dear (~_ _ _ __,) :
Thank you for your time.
The purpose of this study, which will complete my Master of Education program, is to
explore what, if any, school experiences in school encouraged you to become a creative
writer. The goal of this study is to discover themes in your experiences and to publish my
conclusions and recommendations, possibly in education journals and/or magazines, for
the benefit of teachers who wonder what sorts of activities in school have been known to
encourage at least one person to become a creative writer.
I would like to interview you because I know that your poetry has been published in some
of Canada's finest literary journals and that you write a poetry column in a wellestablished publication. I respect you as a poet, and I know that others do too. You are
definitely a member of Canada's community of poets.
I would like to interview you, asking what, if any, experiences in school encouraged you
to become a creative writer. I will tape record the interview. An interview will be a set of
data. One interview may be sufficient. After an interview, I will transcribe the data, which
I will analyse, looking for possible themes. Other data could include relevant artefacts-poetry, stories, journal entries, or art by you. Your input will help me further analyse data.
Our interpretation of data and themes will determine which themes are incidental and
which ones are essential.
In accordance with established research ethics, you may withdraw from the study at any
time. Your involvement remains voluntary.
Potential benefits from the study are many fold. It should deepen your understanding of
what school-related forces or circumstances encouraged you to take up creative writing; it
should likewise deepen my understanding of myself; and it should delineate themes that

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surprise, enlighten, or inspire readers of the study. Those themes, to be discussed in the
conclusions section, should give rise to recommendations for teachers of creative writing.
I will take care to protect your anonymity. In the study, I will keep references to you
general. For example: "The participant lives in a small Canadian city, has enjoyed success
as a published poet, and has received a formal university education at the graduate level."
I will keep all data transcriptions, analysis, field notes, contact summaries, and
interpretations on disks. These disks, any relevant artefacts, interview tapes, and related
textual matter will be kept locked in a filing cabinet at my home.
When my Supervisory Committee considers my study complete, I will return to you any
artefacts I have, and I will erase all disks and tapes. Also at that time I will provide you
with a copy of the completed study.
I will keep an audibility file locked in that filing cabinet for a period of five years. It will
contain a transcription of relevant data, a record of data management, and a record of
analysis- and interpretation-related decisions. Then I will destroy--shred--the audibility
file.
You are welcome to contact me through snail mail, e-mail, or telephone about any
questions that arise. If any ethical dilemma arises during the study, I will gladly work
with you to find an ethically prudent resolve. If you, however, have any complaints about
the study, please contact the Vice President of Research at the University ofNorthem
British Columbia: 250-960-5820.
Please fill out the attached herewith Informed Consent Form after you have had the
opportunity to ask me questions about the study. You and I can sign the form in the
presence of each other. Also attached herewith: the study's Information Sheet.
Thank you for your interest in this research, and for your assistance.
Sincerely,

Dan Lukiv

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Informed Consent Form
Please circle the correct response:
Do you understand that you have been asked to be in a research study?

Yes

No

Have you read and received a copy of the attached herewith Information
Sheet and letter of introduction?

Yes

No

Do you understand that the research interviews will be tape recorded?

Yes

No

Do you understand the benefits and risks involved in your participating
in this study?

Yes

No

Have you had an opportunity to ask questions of and discuss this study
with Dan Lukiv, the researcher?

Yes

No

Do you understand that you are free to refuse to participate in or to
withdraw from the study at any time without giving a reason?

Yes

No

Has the issue of confidentiality been explained to you?

Yes

No

Do you understand that you will have access to the information you?
provide?

Yes

No

This study was explained to me by: _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ __
I agree to take part in this study.
Signature of Research Participant

Date

Printed N arne
Signature ofResearcher

Date

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Appendix B: An Interview Guide
I will begin the first session by establishing neutrality and rapport (Patton, 1987). I
could ask questions such as, (a) "How long have you been a writer?", (b) "Do you have a
favourite piece that you have written?", (c) if the answer is yes: "What do you like about
that piece?", (d) "What do you like to write about?", and (e) "Do you have any advice for
up-and-coming writers who are just starting their apprenticeships?"
My research question forms the foundation of the study (van Manen, 1990):
"What, if any, lived school experiences encouraged you to become a creative writer?" I
could present the question in a variety of ways. For example, (a) "Could you give me an
example of an experience in school that encouraged you to become a creative writer?",
(b) "Could you give me another example of a school experience that encouraged you?";
and (c) "You have mentioned several experiences related to your being in that teacher's
class: Do you recall any other experiences from that class?"
I may need to use probes to draw out the experience in concrete terms. Patton
(1987) provides examples: (a) "When did that happen?", (b) "Who else was involved?",
(c) "Where were you during that time?'', (d) "What was your involvement in that
situation?", (e) "How did that come about?", and (f) "Where did that happen?" (p. 125).
Sensory questions could, if necessary, probe into what the participant saw, heard, tasted,
smelled, and touched (Patton, 1987). Examples of sensory probes could be: (a) "As you
reflect on that experience, do you "see" anything in particular?", (b) "Do you "hear"
anything?", (c) "Do you "taste" anything?", (e) "Do you "smell" anything?", and (f) "Do
you physically "feel" anything?"

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Feeling questions, in the Carl Rogerian tradition (Egan, 1998), will, if necessary,
probe "to understand the respondent's emotional reactions" (Patton, 1987, p. 118). I may
need to ask Rogerian-style questions such as, (a) "How did you feel during that
experience?", (b) "Do you mean that you

(~_

___,) about that experience?", and (c)

"It appears to me that you felt('-----'): Is that true, or did you feel another emotion?"