“You teach English? I’d better watch what I say!” pops up frequently in the nonclassroom life of all English teachers. I used to complain silently, “As though all English teachers do is correct grammar!” yet there are limitations to what we can and can’t teach.

What we can’t teach is exactly what parents would like their children to learn: how to write well, how to appreciate the English language, how to appreciate literature. We do teach writing and language and literature, but we can never teach how to love and appreciate the material we present. That we can only model.

Modeling, though, can be a wonderful guide. We know, as parents, that what we model is exactly what our children are absorbing—even when we think they don’t notice. Teachers, likewise, convey their love for the subject they teach.

Yet my students are always surprised when, in my Advanced Composition class, I inform them that I will not be able to teach them how to write well. They look even more skeptical when I tell them they will learn as much from one another as they will from me.

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No one can teach how to recognize the right “sound” of a sentence, yet repeated exposure to good sentences helps train the ear. No one can teach how to provide a satisfying and non-repetitive ending to an essay or short story, yet recognizing that certain endings are better than others conditions students to know when a piece of writing is finished.

The workshop method in composition classes has the effect of facilitating better writing in students, but it is thanks to the continual reading and commenting on others’ writing that they learn to set the bar higher for their own writing. Good writing simply begins to sound good to many students; to those who are “tone deaf,” it remains all about grammatical mistakes.

My favorite illustration of this concept comes from a writing text by William Zinnser, “On Writing Well.” Zinsser rewrites Thomas Paine’s first line from “Common Sense,” and shows that you can’t explain why one line sounds better than another, even when they say the same thing. “These are the times that try men’s souls,” sounds better than “Times like these try men’s souls” or “Soulwise, these are trying times.” A good writer hears the difference.

One student asked me last week why, if a paper had “nothing wrong with it,” it wasn’t an A+. Like Zinsser, I had a hard time explaining why one piece of writing is better than another, even when they are both “correct.” Workshop groups help to guide students to the level where they recognize when language begins to soar. I try to model good writing, but ultimately their own ears teach them.

Students recognize good writing when their eyes widen and they exclaim, “That’s REALLY good.” And then they go off to replicate that effect themselves—not through imitation, but by utilizing their own voices in prose.

I still haven’t taught them how to write better, yet their writing has improved. Their ears know the difference; it isn’t about correctness, but about what sounds exactly right.

Erica Jacobs teaches at George Mason University. Email her at ejacob1@gmu.edu.