I was asked recently about my experience writing a book.

It was one of those casual questions that slowly opens a door you didn’t expect. As the conversation unfolded, it inevitably turned to students—specifically, what it takes to get kids to write.

That question lingered with me longer than I expected, probably because it pulled me back into my years as an English teacher.

Here’s the thing: kids want to tell stories.

They always have.

They are natural storytellers.

Anyone who has spent more than five minutes with a group of upper elementary or middle school students knows this instinctively. Watch how they interact with each other. Listen to how they explain things—an argument on the playground, a video game strategy, a family story, a moment they need you to understand. The narrative is already there.

And yet, as educators, we often wring that storytelling impulse out of them—usually unintentionally—through standards, formats, and rigid definitions of what “good writing” is supposed to look like.

It’s like taking a square peg and forcing it into a round hole. Sure, with enough pressure, you can make it fit. You can widen the hole or shave down the edges. But something gets lost in the process. Either the piece no longer resembles what it was meant to be, or it fits with gaps—empty spaces where voice, curiosity, and authenticity used to live.

Writing my own book made this painfully clear to me.

My stories don’t sit neatly in one category. They’re a blend of autobiography, essay, and short story. They drift between memory and reflection, humor and observation. By traditional classroom definitions, they’re not “pure” examples of any one genre.

But they work.

More importantly, they work because they’re honest to how I think, remember, and make sense of the world. I didn’t start with a checklist of standards. I started with stories that wanted to be told—and then shaped them so others could enter them.

That’s exactly what kids do.

Students don’t naturally separate their thinking into tidy academic boxes. They mix personal experience with opinion. They weave narrative into explanation. They tell stories while trying to make a point. And instead of seeing that as a flaw to be corrected, maybe we should see it as the raw material of real writing.

So why not work with that instinct instead of against it?

If the goal is communication, clarity, and meaning—if students are writing with purpose, voice, and intention—then maybe the format matters less than we’ve been taught to believe. Maybe the mission isn’t perfect adherence to genre, but helping students refine what they already know how to do instinctively.

In the end, if the writing does what it’s meant to do—connect, explain, persuade, move—then mission accomplished.

And maybe that’s the lesson writing my own book taught me most clearly: real writing doesn’t start with rules.

It starts with stories.

There’s more waiting at https://xinkblotz.com Telling stories, sharing thoughts, and drinking coffee. A blend of fiction, reflection, and whatever’s brewing – one post at a time.