Ten Things I Love About Teaching Online (Bear With Me Please)
Having gone from never having done an online literary event to (literally) taking part in one hundred plus online events in the last six months, I have had to radically rethink my relationship with Zoom. We got off to a somewhat frosty start. Back in March my first online book events left me exhausted, hoarse, migrainous and capable of nothing for the rest of the day save lying on the sofa watching re-runs of Inspector Morse. Since then, relations have improved somewhat. I have learnt to drink copious amounts of water when facing a day sat in front of the screen, how to lower the screen’s brightness and raise my laptop up on a stack of books, (this has worked wonders on the migraine situation). I’ve learnt how to use, (and enjoy), the mute button, how to take frequent breaks away from the screen and how to utilise the share screen function so every so often I get some respite from staring at my own face and obsessing about my wonky front tooth.
There are plenty of things I miss about real life events, (unstilted conversation, wine, travel, retiring to the pub for post-event chat, book shops, not having to look at my own stupid face). And there are a dose of things I genuinely loathe about teaching online, (having to remain animated when 90% of your participants have switched their video feed off, ensuring that one six foot square section of my dining room remains clean, tidy and laundry free, frozen video feed, slow wi-fi connection and all the cats I keep getting shown nb. I am not now and never will be, interested in your cat). But as I launch into an Autumn jam-packed with online workshops, I’m beginning to admit there are some things I like, (actually prefer), about teaching writing workshops online. I know most of you will disagree fundamentally because, obviously, on live will always be better than online, but here are my top ten things I have come to love about teaching online.
Timings - Classes now start and finish at the time they’re scheduled to start and finish. I don’t have to make awkward conversation with that one weird person who turns up twenty minutes early for every session or try to dodge the participants who’ll follow me to the car park demanding I introduce them to my agent. I’m in. I’m out. I’m much more efficient than before.
Travel - On a similar theme to timings, as someone who was regularly traveling 2-3 hours there and 2-3 hours back in order to teach a two hour workshop. I now find teaching takes approximately a third of the time it did before. On a really basic level I’m getting paid the same fee but it’s not taking up a whole day to teach a workshop- what’s not to like about that?
People who are not Irish - It is lovely teaching people who are Irish, (i’d go as far as saying, it is the best) but it has been so nice, (and quite exciting), to have people in my class from all over the world bringing along new ideas, new writing recommendations and lots of wonderful enthusiasm. Also sometimes, when I am teaching, I get to glimpse the sun through their windows. This is nice when you live in Belfast.
I am much more popular online than in person - On a similar theme to people who are not Irish, it turns out my classes are much more popular online than they were live. I don’t think I’ve ever had a waiting list for a workshop before but every class I’ve taught since Lockdown began has sold out and had a waiting list. I have various theories about why this is. Very Optimistic theory - I have garnered an enormous amount of new, devoted readers since Lockdown began. (unlikely). Slightly Optimistic theory - My writing skills and subtle brand of wit and humour has been wasted on the Irish and is actually better suited to exotic readers in places like New Zealand and San Francisco who are prepared to get up at 5:30am to join my classes. (possible but unlikely). Realistic theory - Because more people can come to an online class, more people are coming to my online classes.
The mute button - Isn’t the mute button wonderful? Why is there not a real life version? It is perfectly equipped to deal with even the most annoying workshop participants. I can now cut people off mid-flow when their short reading has breached the 3 minute mark and mute at the first mention of the unpublished manuscript they’ve brought to share with the class.
Unsolicited proposals - In an online class it is virtually (see what I did there) impossible to be presented with a carrier bag full of handwritten poems or an unpublished memoir entirely written in blank verse and then be asked quite forcefully if you might be willing to cast your eye over the 4 millions sheets of A4 contained within.
Bad coffee - This is both a positive and a negative. Online you are incapable of sharing the coffee and good cake which occasionally accompanies a writing workshop. However, you are also saved from the bad Nescafe and stale custard cremes which more frequently accompany a writing workshop. You can bring along your own jammy dodgers and a French press of something nice and tasty so I’m going to count that a win.
Standing up dresses- Much has been made of the freedom which the online event offers all of us who’d prefer to wear pyjama bottoms and slippers to work but have, until this point, felt hesitant to venture out in public only dressed professionally from the waist up. Might I add a kind of caveat to this sentiment? I have a wardrobe full of blouses and dresses which look fine when I’m standing up but tend to bunch, gape and creep up in a most undignified fashion the minute I sit down, (particularly if I’ve been forced to perch upon a barstool - see previous angry blog). I am finally getting wear out of all of these outfits as they’re quite capable of looking convincingly well-fitted from rib level up which, if I angle my laptop correctly (atop three Knausgard books), is exactly the point at which Zoom guillotines me.
Bookshelves - Online workshops have finally allowed me to present to the world a kind of six foot by six foot showcase of everything I am. (A vintage typewriter, a tiny statue of Mr T, postcards of Seamus Heaney and Charlie from Casualty, a sunset painting by a friend and a range of earnest books). It is like having my own pocket museum of myself or at very least a kind of retrospective. Don’t think for a moment the rest of my house resembles this neat and tidy slice of wit and intellect. Nor are these books representative of my current reading habits. I just want my participants to think they are.
Unleashing my inner CBeebies presenter - I have a theory about presenting anything online. The screen seems to siphon off a huge amount of your energy. So, in order to come across as even slightly more exuberant than a hibernating sloth you need to be approximately 40% more animated than you usually are. If you’d told me this six months ago I’d most likely have been horrified, but it turns out my decade wasted as a children’s worker didn’t actually go to waste and I’ve quite enjoyed getting on like I’m in the Broom Cupboard trying to enthuse a bunch of reluctant viewers about first person narration or sticking to the future tense.