Teaching Sans E-mail

An interesting article from Inside Higher Ed concerning a college instructor’s “Don’t email me” policy – which she says has increased students’ in-class preparedness and improved their writing.

First, I’m interested in the policy itself – and the parsing one can do with it. Then I’ll look at how such a policy could be applied in an online course where students and teachers aren’t on the same campus – or even in the same town, state, country or continent, as is my experience – and how such a policy could be introduced. Or not.

First, the policy:

Email is allowed in two instances: First, to set up a face-to-face meeting. Second, to send links to material that could be used in class. That’s it. Any questions the students have ought to be asked in class, by phone, or in person. No more emails.

The instructor, Spring-Serenity Duvall, who teaches communications courses, grew tired of questions that could be answered with a mere “it’s in the syllabus.” Thus the policy.

Her original post on the matter is here (scroll down a bit, the blog is laid out a bit oddly).

Now, I’ve never read any of her syllabi. Maybe they’re as thick as country music. Maybe they’re not readily available to students (and I’ve discovered that figuratively pinning them to their shirts by either handing out physical copies or posting them on a public spot on the Internet doesn’t mean they’re “readily available” because the students lose them, forget the link, or just outright don’t read them).

And I have to wonder: How many emails was she getting a day? A week? I’ve been teaching online classes for more than three years now, and I can’t say I’ve had a week where I got more than a dozen emails from students. And maybe that’s because of the already online nature of the courses I teach – I’m “in class” on a daily basis, responding to student questions there, and students are in class where the syllabus is only a click away, as are assignment rubrics and such. Having a physical classroom, where such stuff isn’t readily available, probably makes things different.

This leads me to the second question: Does a no-email policy make sense for an online course?

Probably not.

As mentioned, I’m not flooded with student email.

Secondly, face-to-face meetings are highly complicated, given that, as in semesters past, I have students in vastly different time zones attending class. Last semester I had students literally half a world away. Telling them they have to meet with me face to face, even virtually, to ask a question introduces some significant logistics problems – juggling flaky Internet service and trying to figure out the difference in time zones. Allowing for email access is clearly the simpler route for both parties here.

Nevertheless, I do enjoy Duvall’s de facto re-emphasis of face to face meetings, where she and students are able, one on one, to get to know each other better. There is something about hearing a voice or seeing a face that makes people want to connect better and to help each other out more.

So for my online efforts, probably keeping the email pipe open is a good practice. A better practice is to make myself more “physically” available through chats and online classrooms, with camera feeds.

Unfortunately, she doesn’t quantify or qualify her statement that the policy led to students writing better papers. (She writes: “It’s difficult to convey just how wonderful it was for students to stop by office hours more often, to ask questions about assignments in the class periods leading up to due dates, and to have students rise to the expectation that they know the syllabus. Their papers were better, they were more prepared for class time than I’ve ever experienced.”)

One can assume that the questions asked in the face-to-face sessions made the papers better – but wouldn’t questions asked electronically have had the same effect? To bolster this part of her argument, Duvall needs to delve more into what made her students’ papers better. Frankly, I’ve had semesters where, overall, student writing was better than the past – I chalk that up more to student age, experience, and comfort with writing than any face-to-face conversations or electronic conversations I might have with them. I’m a realist, not an idealist.

Forget Peer Review. Try Fark.

“As you know, the concept of the suction pump is centuries old.  Really that’s all this is, except that instead of sucking water, I’m sucking life. I’ve just sucked one year of your life away. I might one day go as high as five, but, I really don’t know what that would do to you. So let’s just start with what we have.”

Would Count Rugen, I wonder, turn to the Internet for help in his research? Part of me – the part that remembers that secret knot that even the Count said was always so difficult to find – says no. But that’s not stopping others.

Behold:

And it gets even beholdier. (You have to click the link to understand that I'm ranting about an inventor seeking advice on an invention at Fark.com -- a site dedicated not to inventing or engineering or marketing, but to snarky news commentary.

Now I’m being presumptuous in thinking that the inventor of this nifty pump isn’t going to like-minded scientists to find real-world applications for his or her invention. But going to a snarky website where juveniles run maturely supreme doesn’t seem like a natural for scientific inquiry or commercial development outside of anything than a new and improved Whoopie Cushion.

But I’m being unfair. Why not go where the public is on the Net? It should be clear enough to filter the snark from the comments to find the germ of a great application. Unless someone posts the next collection of mugshots or a roundup of what politicians did or didn’t do over the weekend. Going where the public is good. Going where a more scientifically-minded public goes might be even better. Surely there are places . . . 

I shouldn’t be one to quibble with such a choice: I’ve got Facebook friends beta reading a book right now. If someone from Fark opted to beta read it, I’d be thrilled.

Details Emerge on ICP Core Contract Timeline

The Department of Energy released today a timeline for the “ICP Core” cleanup contract, set to last from the beginning of the 2015 fiscal year to the end of the 2020 fiscal year.

Details on the timeline can be found here.

As mentioned earlier, the Core contract includes waste remediation at not only INTEC and RWMC but also AMWTP. From the timeline: 

The ICP-Core post FY15 EM mission work encompasses ongoing Advanced Waste Treatment Project (AMWTP) and ICP work scopes that must continue into the future: stabilizing and dispositioning spent nuclear fuel and high-level waste; dispositioning transuranic waste; retrieving target buried waste; closing the Idaho Nuclear Technology and Engineering Center (INTEC) tank farm; maintaining Comprehensive Environmental Response Compensation and Liability Act (CERCLA) remedial actions; and operating and maintaining the INTEC and the Radioactive Waste Management Complex (RWMC) facility infrastructure. 

Additionally, the contract timeline ensures “100% full and open competition” – not really a surprise considering if DOE wanted CWI to continue the work they could have extended the contract again as they did two years ago.

More details will be provided at the Core procurement website. 

Competition is likely to be fierce, as there’s a lot of money involved. DOE’s acquisition forecast on the Core project alone anticipates at least $1 billion worth of work to be completed. (The other three DOE-ID contracts are estimated to be worth (for one) between $25-$50 million and for two others at $50 million to $1 billion. Not chump change. 

CWI, of course, would be foolish not to bid. They’ll bank on their current record of completing work at RWMC and INTEC on time and under budget as serious selling points to the Feds. Cooperative work between CWI and AMWTP on sludge repackaging may also play a role. No surprises there, of course.

UPDATE: CWI may technically not be around in its current form to bid on the next contract. Found this today:

While both parent companies, CH2M Hill and URS (currently being acquired by AECOM) may pursue future work in support of Idaho Cleanup activities beyond 2015, CH2M-WG Idaho, LLC (CWI) was originally comprised by its parent companies exclusively for a specific scope of work; teaming decisions have not yet been determined for future contracts. DOE recently announced its acquisition strategy which will merge ICP and AMWTP work scopes together, yet establish four separate contracts. Considering this strategy, along with the acquisition of URS, it is unlikely CWI would maintain its current form.

Meanwhile, In Russia . . .

NaNoWriMo 2014

The annual question comes up: Will I participate in NaNoWriMo 2014?

On the pro side: I’ve completed the challenge for the past three years.

On the con side: I’ve yet to get any of those novels to a state of completion, though last year’s entrant, DOLEFUL CREATURES, is now with beta readers.

On the pro side: I’m not short of ideas. Like this. Or this. Or this.

On the con side: I’m great at starting things. Not so great at finishing them.

I want to finish something.

There’s good stuff in them thar novels. I’m sure of it. I’ve read enough good novels to know there’s good in what I’ve written. But I have a difficult time separating the wheat from the chaff, and I’m not sure harvesting another field while the crop lays ready to the stooked into stacks in a few others is a good thing to do.

The good thing is if I finish a novel, I’ll likely moan less on this blog about not being able to finish things. Of course, that’ll be replaced with crowing about the completed novel, but a change is as good as a rest, you know?

Meanwhile, here's a fat smurf. What this has to do with the question at hand, I do not know.

Indie Publishing Means You Need EXTRA Criticism. And to Listen to It.

There’s an education to be had over at lousybookcovers.com.

Multiple educations, rather. And only a few of them have to do with making the cover of your book look good.

The biggest takeaway: Don’t spare the beta reading. Or the beta reactions to anything connected with your book. And don’t pick beta readers from within your echo chamber. They’ll tell you what you want to hear.

And then listen to them. Unlike the person responding to the criticism on this thread.

The growth of electronic publishing is freeing up a lot of authors who might not otherwise get past the publishing gatekeepers. This is both a good and bad thing. Bad in that since there’s a lack of gatekeepers, quality is sometimes on the low end. Now, that happens with traditional publishing too – I’ve read plenty of traditionally-published books that were real stinkers. But the ease of electronic publishing is doing the same thing to books that automation is doing in the airline industry: 

Producing too many individuals familiar with the technology and motions, but not really the substance.

Good editors can help turn a good book into a great book. Same goes for good beta readers. I’m lucky in that I’ve got a few who are pointing out the many, many flaws in DOLEFUL CREATURES. But like some of today’s pilots who are so used to flying by wire they’re not able to read the physical language their planes send when there’s trouble, these authors are going through the physical and technical motions of writing and publishing novels while skipping or at least treating very lightly the editing process, which in my mind is the aviation equivalent of pulling up on the stick and slowing your plane down as you’re falling into a stall.

Portlandia seems to understand what I'm talking about:

Tinkering with Comets and Stars

NOTE: Spent a fair amount of time staring at this photo from Rosetta. And got to writing again.

“Now,” Milson said, “for this cause I know that man is nothing, which thing I never had supposed.”

There was a crackle of static, followed by silence broken only by the sounds of each man and woman breathing.

“But now mine own eyes have beheld God,” Milson continued, his voice sounding far away though he was near to hand. “But not my natural, but my spiritual eyes, for my natural eyes could not have beheld.”

Shadows shifted swiftly on the walls of the valley as the wanderers stood in silence.

He turned to Captain Russo. Russo could not see Milson’s face – the glare shields on their space suits were down; in Milson’s all he could see was his own helmeted reflection.

“Who art thou?” Milson asked. “For behold, I am a son of God, in similitude of his only begotten; and where is thy glory, that I should worship thee?”

Russo shifted uncomfortably.

Milson continued, not moving. “For behold, I could not look upon God, except his glory should come upon me, and I were transfigured before him. But I can look upon thee in the natural man. Is it not so, surely?”

“Milson –“

“I – I’m sorry,” Milson said after a long silence. “I’m feeling a little overwhelmed by all of this.”

Elsewhere on the surface of the comet, breathing continued.

“I know you’re used to me being quiet, being the quiet one,” he continued. “But walking here, standing here . . . I had to say something.”

“Would you mind,” Captain Russo asked, “saying it not so loudly? You’ve got a few people a bit nervous here.”

“I’m sorry,” Milson said. “But I’d like to continue.”

Silence from the inhabitants of the comet.

“God,” Milson said into the darkness, in a whisper over the radio, as the distant sun shot its course through the black sky overhead. “Tell me, I pray thee, why these things are so, and by what thou madest them?”

“I’ve had about enough of this,” Varney growled.

There was no echo of assent, other than the crackle of cosmic rays over the frequency.

“And behold,” Milson continued, “the glory of the Lord was upon Moses, so that Moses stood in the presence of God, and talked with him face to face. And the Lord God said to Moses: For mine own purpose have I made these things. Here is wisdom and it remaineth in me. And worlds without number have I created; and I also created them for mine own purpose, and by the Son I created them, which is mine Only Begotten.”

Shadows crept through the canyon’s arroyos, up one side and down the other like quicksilver.

“But only an account of this earth, and the inhabitants thereof, give I unto you,” Milson continued. “For behold, there are many worlds that have passed away by the word of my power. And there are many that now stand, and innumerable are they unto man; but all things are numbered unto me, for they are mine and I know them.”

There was a long sigh, followed by Varney’s voice. “You’re not one of those nuts who insists the Earth is only six thousand years old, are you?”

“I am one of those nuts,” Milson said, “who believes there is other intelligent life in the universe. I am one of those nuts who believes it is not all an accident. I am one of those nuts who clings to religion not because I’m scared of science, but because I believe God himself is a scientist, tinkering with comets and stars and the dust of the cosmos much as we tinker with atoms.

“Do you believe Moses parted the Red Sea?” Varney asked.

Milson looked from one wall of the canyon to the other. Stars above whirled by, birthed by the lip of the canyon one minute, swallowed by the other lip the next.

“I believe we are the children of Israel, in all their ignorance and stubbornness and promise,” Milson said. “Not destined to the fate of the Egyptians who perished when the parted sea came together again.”

“I’m sorry I have a narrow point of view,” Milson said after a while, after no one spoke and the sound of marching and breathing once again came over the radio as the travelers walked through the canyon, moving around tumbled boulders and easing their way up and down the sides of gullies and through the powder of the comet’s surface. “I’ve studied the Buddhist cosmology, with its world and its gods and goddesses. I know I’m not alone in such thinking. I’m just most familiar with these scriptures, which my father read to me the nights we came home at three or four am, after hours spent staring through his telescope at the stars. We had to go into the foothills east of town, down in one of the dells far from the lights of the city and set up our telescope on a camp table. Our backyard was too light for the Perseids, the other meteor showers. But in the foothills we could gaze up to see the band of the Milky Way and count the stars. Count the stars!”

“And on the way home,” Milson continued, “we’d stop at the crest of the last hill on Lincoln Road, where we could see the lights of the city – three cities – below.”

“’The lights below reflect the stars above,’ my father would say. ‘Never think,’ he would add, looking from the valley floor to the sky above, ‘that we are alone. Some little boy, on a distant world, is looking up into the sky and seeing our sun, perhaps in the constellation they call the Gronkle after some beast on their world, wondering if there’s another little boy looking up at him. Look at the stars,’ my father said, ‘and wave.’”