On the first day of class, while students are combing through the syllabus, I often watch for their reactions as they look at the assignments for the course. Regardless of how writing-intensive the course is, most immediately raise concerns about the amount of writing. Hands shoot up in the air with questions:

“What is the topic for the final paper?”

“Will you give us a prompt for the essay?”

“Are reading responses graded?”

“How do I do ethnographic writing?”

“Can I get feedback on a draft?”

“How exactly will these be graded?”

Their concern is understandable. Ruth Behar famously wrote that “anthropology has always been vexed about the question of vulnerability” (Behar 1996, 5), and anthropological writing even more so. When we write, we share not only how we think, but a piece of who we are. That can elicit uncertainty, hesitation, and trepidation, especially in the context of a classroom or in academic writing. Even advanced scholars and established writers struggle with writer’s block (Lamott 1994). As I write this post about writing, I myself am not immune to the powerful forces of procrastination either.

The problem isn’t that there is a dearth of advice about writing, or that students aren’t taught how to. Throughout their elementary and higher years of schooling, students are schooled in grammar, the five-paragraph essay, a thesis statement, how to cite a book, and more. At the university level, many institutions mandate an introductory writing or rhetoric course for first-year students, which is meant to introduce students to the art of effective scholarly arguments. After that, students are expected to begin producing their own writing: term papers for classes, theses and research papers for honors, applications to jobs and graduate school, and so on. In anthropology, we claim ethnography as our own unique yet wide-ranging genre and expect students to master this “peculiar” genre through imitation (Pandian and McLean 2017): pore over Malinowski’s (1984[1922]) journal; read against the grain of Rabinow’s (1977) reflections; immerse yourself in Zora Neale Hurston’s (1935) life and words. Then, go out into the field, take good field notes, and come back and write ethnography.

While this approach has its merits—allowing students to experiment and develop their own voice—it also reinforces the fear of writing because the undergraduate students might not be able to relate to the specific genre of writing. They are also understandably concerned about grades and how to write in a way that meets the instructor’s expectations. Writing assignments are most effective when they are embedded within course material, not just writing as its own skill (Gottschalk & Hjortshoj 2004).

In this post, I highlight how anthropologists can embed writing within their classrooms in a way that enhances students’ abilities to engage with ethnography not only as source material, but also as a craft anyone can practice. Alongside teaching core anthropological theories and exposing students to a range of ethnographic writing, we should also attend to helping students develop their writing skills and confidence. These tactics and writing exercises tackle fundamental elements of academic writing: What is a scholarly conversation, and how do you enter one? How do you situate your argument within the relevant literature? Who are you writing for, and how do you convey to that specific audience why this is important? These questions have the added advantage of building on previous writing experience that students have and exposing them to the rigors of academic writing. They are less focused on grammar and format, and more focused on the analytical and rhetorical aspects of writing.

Through my experience as a teaching assistant and as a fellow at my university’s writing center, there are common tactics that students consistently find helpful across disciplines. The following three exercises are best conducted through peer or group discussions, so that students can get live feedback and support on their writing process.

1. Mark Gaipa’s “Breaking into the Conversation: How Students Can Acquire Authority for Their Writing”

In response to the question, “What is an author’s ‘authority,’ and where does it come from?” Mark Gaipa argues that it comes from relating one’s argument to those of others writing about the same thing (2004). This boils down to telling your reader what your contribution is in a piece of writing. This can be intimidating for an undergraduate student who has been told until this point that they have no authority and must rely on research by “experts.” However, even an essay that relies entirely on research conducted by others still needs to tell the reader why the essay itself is important and interesting. Gaipa states that the goal is to encourage students to feel confident in finding their voice while also acknowledging that entering a conversation with experts exerts significant expectations of students. Helping students to identify how they can “break into” the scholarly conversation is essentially about helping students synthesize what they are reading. Does the evidence support the author’s claims? What might they do differently? Can a particular author’s stance be compared to or juxtaposed against another’s? Importantly, Gaipa’s strategies facilitate students’ ability to communicate what they think about what they are reading.

Gaipa lays out eight strategies that are not mutually exclusive and may be used as a way of framing an argument. I find that talking through these with students helps them to “see” what they are trying to say. For instance, one strategy a paper might take is to “pick a fight”: discredit or refute a scholar’s argument and suggest an alternative. Another one is to “play peacemaker”: identify a conflict or dispute between two or more scholars and resolve it using a different perspective. Each strategy is accompanied by a hand drawn diagram that illustrates each maneuver. Have students articulate what it is they are writing in terms of these strategies, and it becomes more obvious to them what their argument and “authority” is. As students flesh out a draft of their piece or ethnography, this exercise can clarify their thesis argument and the way in which they present their evidence.

2. Multi-Layered “Why” Cake:

This tactic was initially developed by Delaney Thull, with input from Genevieve Creedon and Amanda Irwin Wilkins, and is currently used by the Writing Program at Princeton University. While they named it the “Motive Layer Cake,” I find it more broadly applicable when framed as “why.” The strategies in this tactic answer the question, “to whom is this writing relevant, and why?” There can be multiple layers to the answer, and those layers add depth to the main argument and thesis of any writing. In the tactic developed by Thull et al., the layers are the personal, the textual or empirical, the scholarly, and the global.

First, students often choose topics or research questions based on what is interesting to them. They are also often instructed to take themselves out of academic writing. This tactic allows them to bring in their own voice and stakes to their writing, as a way to claim authority. Ethnography is particularly well suited to this kind of “why.” Second, what tension or puzzle in the literature or primary data requires explanation? This level of “why” asks why you are examining the evidence that you are and how that evidence will help answer the proposed research question. Third, why is scholarship about this topic particularly relevant and why should an academic community read this? This level of “why” is closely related to Gaipa’s strategies. Finally, what is the big-picture or global “why” of what the student is writing? How does this research contribute to broader questions?

In the classroom, particularly while teaching Introduction to Anthropology, I have used this strategy in two ways. First, students are assigned an autoethnographic prompt to reflect on a “cultural” aspect of their lives and asked to analyze it with one of the frames we discussed in class. I ask students to devote time and effort to answering their “why.” Why is their experience being analyzed in this way, and what does that tell the reader about the broader “why” of them as an author? Second, I ask them to read an article and look for the motive or “why” in ethnographic works. This practice allows them to identify the multiple ways in which anthropologists have talked about the stakes of their research question.

There are several other ways to adapt this tactic to the anthropology classroom. In pairs or small groups, have students make a table with the four layers of “why”: the personal, the empirical, the scholarly, and the global. For each, they can brainstorm which “why” is relevant for which audience. More often than not, students find that they can incorporate the answers to these “whys” directly into their writing.

3. Free Writing:

Free writing is exactly what it sounds like: Have students take fifteen to twenty minutes during class time to free write based on a prompt or a previous class discussion. For example, if students had to write ethnographic observations or fieldnotes for a previous assignment, have them synthesize these into any form of writing they are inspired to. The short time limit often means students stay focused on the task. I also tell students that they can write whatever they want to, and if they don’t want to use it, they can throw it away. This builds their confidence by eliminating the anticipation of a grade or the teacher’s evaluation. Free writing can also be incorporated as one way to practice using Gaipa’s strategies or fleshing out a “why layer cake.” The goal is to get them writing anything, not writing perfectly.

Almost always, students want to keep writing at the end of the fifteen minutes. The classroom is usually silent, save for typing or pens on paper. Even if they only get out a few sentences, the momentum enables them to break through the inertia of getting started. This tactic also eliminates the emphasis on “perfect” writing in favor of simply writing. Time permitting, you can also have students share aloud or with a peer what they wrote, to practice receiving feedback in a low-stakes setting. Receiving feedback need not always be about critique, and students are often pleasantly surprised to hear positive encouragement from their peers, as well as to hear how much others also struggle with writing!

These are just three examples of ways we can incorporate writing-focused exercises into the classroom. In the anthropology classroom in particular, it is important to circle back to the notion of vulnerability. This can include centering students’ own voices more. For example, having students practice writing in the first person, to undo the prior conditioning that often trains them never to speak of the “I.” It can also include writing reflection posts not only on the scholars they read, but also about the class discussions about those readings. As they work towards the “why layer cake,” students can respond to the prompt: “How did the class discussion change what I thought about the book?” The strategies here can be modified for the particularities and nuances of different anthropology classes, but they are all centered around helping students engage with the material more rather than less.

As we grapple with the challenges posed by generative AI and related technologies that are now ubiquitous in classrooms, it is more important than ever to return to the basics of writing and communication. Students need time to develop a care for reading and writing (Hunter 2026). Even before the advent of such digital tools, students have always looked for assurance and support in how to write and develop their authorial capabilities. By the end of the semester, the same students who asked questions about how much writing they would have to do in the course are also the ones who tell me that they enjoyed each writing assignment and gained confidence in their writing.