Take the Test from the Inside (Part II)

Predict what will be on the exam

So, you’ve got good study notes with good questions and killer summaries, and the exam is looming. You’re good to go, right? One more thing. Predict what’s going to be on the test.

I mean, why gamble? Why let it be a surprise? Predicting the test questions is usually pretty easy to do. Look over the syllabus, which is the design of the course. Review what has been discussed in class. Ask yourself, “What has this professor been emphasizing?” Role-play, pretend you’re the professor: what questions would you put on the test? To make sure your predictions are sound, ask the professor outright: “Yo, Teach, what’s gonna be on the test?” (If you really say “Yo, Teach,” though, I won’t answer for what happens to you.) But before you ask, do make your own predictions. Then after you ask and the professor answers, see how accurate your predictions were. This is another study technique: predict and discover—it tunes your analytical skills. If you make the effort to think about and forecast what the professor is going to put on the test and only then ask, you’ll better understand the answers you get and the implications of what’s going to be on the exam because you’ll already have thought about it yourself. Even if the teacher contradicts one or more of your predictions, it still won’t be news to you; you will be intellectually comparing inaccurate conclusions with accurate information, which is an excellent way to learn. Want to do extremely well on tests? Get on the same page as the professor; develop the facility of being able to think like the professor when you need to, as well as the discipline of thinking for yourself all the time.

The actual studying for the test is now easy. Return to your notes (see Part I). Cover up the answers and summary, and quiz yourself by reading and thinking about the left-column questions you wrote. Next, write new summaries and compare them to the old ones. If you study with one or more friends, together try to come up with questions that draw forth the most complex, complete answers, and summaries that explain the most both briefly and elegantly.

When at last you sit down to take the exam, you will have already thoroughly explored every corner of it. You might feel nervous going in, but when you begin to see questions that are just differently worded versions of questions you yourself have asked and answered, questions that you accurately predicted would be here, the jitters will fly away and you will feel at home. Take the test from the inside. It’s easier.

Everything suggested here is just what any good cat burglar does all the time. You want the ginormous diamond in the laser-guarded museum? Tirelessly case the joint for months, leave no blueprint unexamined, gather exactly the right equipment, and practice doing the job. Is it hard work? What’s it worth to you?

The Pink Panther


Take the Test from the Inside, Part I

Powerful study techniques and the art of higher-order questioning.

Here’s an oldie-but-goodie note-taking system1 that works especially well for a course that has exams.

Draw a line vertically down the page so that one third of the page is on the left and two thirds are on the right. Also draw a horizontal line across the page about a quarter of the way up from the bottom. You can also buy notebooks that are configured this way.

Note-taking sections

In class, take notes on the right side, in the right column. After class it’s best to review and, more important, continue your notes the same day if possible, when they’re fresh. It’s the follow-up work on your notes that will make the difference when it comes time to study for exams.

The first follow-up step is to write in the left column a question to which the note on the right is the answer. For example, let’s say you took notes on Freud’s definitions of id, ego, and superego. Next to the definition of id (in the left column), you could write, “What is the id?” But there are other questions you could write that would help you more. You want to come up with questions that stimulate you to think about the concept rather than simply retrieve factual data like a computer. Questions that begin with “How” work well, because they ask you to think about process and coming-into-being and cause & effect. “Describe the relationship between…” is another good way to begin questions, as is “What does x have to do with y?”

But exams often ask for definitions, so why not write: “What is Freud’s definition of the id?” Well, you can, but then you’ll be relying on brute force memorization (and for memorizing, flash cards are probably more useful than discursive notes). By contrast, the question “What is the relationship between the id and the superego?” is asking you to think about more than one thing:

  • the definition of id
  • the definition of superego
  • the attitude of the superego in relation to the id, and vice versa
  • how the id and superego function
  • what each is like metaphorically (and here you can get creative: the id is like Cookie Monster or Caligula, while the superego is like the sanctimonious angel on my shoulder or my fourth grade teacher)

… And many more subtle things. Process and relationship questions are higher-order in the sense that they implicate multiple layers of meaning, not just one-to-one labels (e.g. “The id is the primitive part of the mind that seeks sensual pleasure and violence for their own sake” is a simplistic this-equals-that formulation). Higher-order questions develop complete pictures of concepts in interconnected webs. In short, coming up with good questions requires solid understanding of the concepts in the first place, and those same questions will promote solid understanding later on when you’re studying for exams.

After you’ve written questions in the left column for your notes that are in the right column, it’s time to summarize on the bottom of the page. Cover up your notes and questions and explain the main ideas with as much intellectual oomph in as few words as possible. This is one way to tell whether your left-column questions are really useful: when you understand the material well enough to ask good questions, you’ll be able to summarize the material confidently. These are your rules of thumb for studying: if you can’t think of higher-order questions and you have trouble writing a summary, you haven’t grasped the concepts sufficiently; when you can ask the questions and when you can give a summary lecture and teach the concepts, you’ve mastered the material.

Now you’re prepared for the exam! In fact, you’re prepared in more ways than you may be aware of. In Part II you will learn how to predict what’s going to be on the exam.

  1. Based on the “Cornell Notes” system, devised in the 1950s by Dr. Walter Pauk of Cornell University. 


The Best Revision Tool Ever

I’ve come across and taught many revision procedures in my time, but this one towers above all the rest. It was first articulated by Peter Elbow, and I received it from Jamie Hutchinson. I give the lineage of this technique because it possesses that timeless quality of a teaching that operates on multiple levels simultaneously and regardless of specific context—similar to the practice of using “I” statements—and because, when employed properly, it opens up writing like only truth can. I have used this process successfully in several areas outside academic writing: creative writing, understanding and evaluating art, directing plays, and coaching clients.

This tool originated as a “Peer Response” procedure (generally in groups of 3–4 students) which I will summarize forthwith. If you practice it regularly and get it into your blood, you can become able to use it all on your own, as I often do.

Peer Response Process

Rules: “The writer is always right. The reader is always right.” Nevertheless, the writer is in charge of the proceedings. Thus, the following is all addressed to you, the author.

Read your piece aloud. Always aloud. Never distribute your writing for silent reading.

There is almost always a powerful impulse for everyone in the group to plunge themselves into uncommunicative isolation by reading the piece individually in silence. For those responding to your writing, taking in your language (words) through the sense of sight is a significantly different cognitive experience from taking in language through the sense of hearing. The sense of sight tends to objectify, divide and classify what it perceives, whereas the sense of hearing tends to be experienced inside our heads. For your purposes, you want sympathetic, understanding responses. Let divide-and-classify come after your writing is published. Without the hearing, the quality of your authorial voice will be easily overlooked and misread. Similarly, hearing yourself speak your own words is a substantially different experience from reading them silently.

Read your piece aloud at least twice. Never once. Always two times—or more.

Another temptation is to read the piece aloud once through, and then let the critiquing begin. This doesn’t work, because the sentences and paragraphs your listeners hear after they’re already familiar with what’s coming are completely different from the sentences and paragraphs they hear for the very first time. Similarly, for you, reading a piece aloud for the first time is almost always about performance and nerves, and little if anything in your own writing is actually heard by you; but the second time around is often quite fruitful; you begin to hear nuances you hadn’t noticed before. So, read your piece aloud at least twice. At any point in the stages that follow, anyone in your group may request additional readings of the whole or any part of the piece, and you may at any time spontaneously decide to read aloud again; the more readings, the merrier.

The first reading is just for the listeners to get an overall sense of what the piece is about. The second and subsequent readings are for them to pay attention to details of language, images, ideas, feelings, intentions. (Also, after the first reading, your listeners may take notes.) After the second reading, lead your group through the following steps.


  • Steps 1–3 are to be performed by all the listeners of the writer’s group.
  • Repeated responses are valuable and not to be withheld—i.e. “I was going to say what she said” is not a valid response. If a listener heard what she heard, that listener should repeat it! It’s crucially important for you, the writer, to hear it more than once if the same response arose in more than one person.
  • Precision is required: your listeners must use the language given below. Why? Because it’s magical and it works. Think of it as a magic spell: say “Abraca-DOH!-bra” and nothing happens.)

Step 1. Positive Pointing: “I noticed/liked…”

Each member of your group, in turn, quotes—verbatim—words and/or phrases from your piece to you: specific language from the writing that particularly struck or impressed or simply stayed with them. The reasons for their quoting back what they do are irrelevant and distracting; stay focused here: you need to hear what parts of your language resonated in them, regardless of why.

Most important: verbatim quotes. Listeners often want to paraphrase: “I liked the part about…” Paraphrases use their language, not yours, and this is about your language, not theirs. You need to know that your words were heard, and which words and phrases in your writing have sticking power—for good or ill. Again, the listeners’ reasons are irrelevant and will mostly introduce impurities into the process. (Reasons for listeners’ responses will become important once you begin asking your own questions—see step four, below.)

2. Center of Gravity: “I hear this saying…”

This is when your listeners “say back” to you what they hear as “the source of energy, the focal point, the seedbed, the generative center of the piece” (Elbow and Belanoff, Sharing and Responding). Surprise, surprise, often this is not your intended main idea, but a segment, image, or anecdote where your writing feels more impassioned, more personally charged—i.e. what’s really on your mind and in your heart concerning the subject—whether or not you were aware of it while writing.

The utility of emphasizing center of gravity over thesis is powerful: It is easy (especially when under pressure to write something for a good grade) to jump to a hasty, underdeveloped thesis with no center of gravity, whereas a substantial center of gravity—precisely because it is heavy with meaning for the author—has zero tolerance for a weak thesis.

The easiest clue for where your listeners (and you) should look for the center of gravity is the language they quoted in step one: those passages drew them in because those passages have the force of gravity.

3. Active Listening: “I’d like to hear more about…” and “Have you considered… ?”

(Author, please insist that all suggestions in this step begin with either the words “I’d like to hear more about…” or “Have you considered… ?” Those phrases keep the authority of the writing firmly with you without diluting it.)

This is your listeners’ opportunity to share two powerful things with you:

  1. “I’d like to hear more about…”: Having articulated what rumblings and nascent ideas and images they hear emerging in step two, your listeners now suggest, based on their genuine interest (genuine not feigned interest is critical!), what you could develop further—what they felt they wanted or needed that is already rumbling in the piece and might be given full voice.
  2. “Have you considered…”: Alternative choices—suggestions of changes—that could strengthen what the piece is trying to say.

If your listeners become too insistent, gently remind them that this piece is your creation, your baby, and you’re responsible for its growth and wellbeing.

4. Author’s Questions

Finally it’s your turn! Ask your group any questions you want about your piece and how to revise it. If you think of a yes-or-no question, first turn it around so the answer will be fuller than a simple “yes” or “no”: for example, instead of “Was my paper clear?” (“No.” Awkward silence.), ask “What parts were clearest?” and possibly add “Where could I be clearer?”

Here is a list of suggested author’s questions from Jamie Hutchinson:

  • What do you hear lurking in this piece (what’s just beneath the surface)?
  • What does it make you feel? Where [in your body] and why?
  • What do you want to hear more about?
  • What kinds of connections do you hear in it? What connections do I still need to make?
  • What don’t you understand? What seems unclear?
  • What holds this piece together?
  • Who does my audience appear to be? Friends? Teachers? Strangers?
  • What’s your favorite part? Least favorite part? Why?
  • What seems unnecessary to the piece?
  • Where do you lose interest as you listen to it?
  • What would you remember about it tomorrow?
  • Where could I use more detail, more examples?
  • What theme(s) do you hear in the piece?
  • Which sections need more development?
  • What tone of voice do you hear in it?

Further Questions to Consider

Again, from Jamie, questions for you, the writer to ponder:

  • What kind of response do you want from your reader?
  • What feels “risky” to you about writing this piece?
  • What do you most care about in what you’ve written?
  • What would you like someone to get out of reading this piece?
  • Where does your voice feel strongest to you in this piece?
  • How will you know when this piece is finished?
  • What was the color of the sky when you…?

As with all deep processes, this one deepens with practice. Enjoy!


Process Writing

Process writing (A.K.A. process notes, A.K.A. metacognitive writing) is the quintessential self-learning tool.

After doing any freewriting exercises, reflect on the writing and thinking process you were just engaged in. Did anything surprise you? What was your experience while you were writing? (—anxious, liberated, fuming, vulnerable, giddy—whatever it was, elaborate on it). What was interesting about the arc the writing took?

Process notes are especially useful and revealing when they reflect on the composition of an essay or the creation of a work of art. Because essays and art projects are long, involved processes, it is best to pause and do some process writing at various stages throughout the project. For instance, you have an Economics assignment on stock investing that initially you’re not sure how you want to approach; but later, while watching an ice hockey game on T.V. it all suddenly becomes clear to you: Of course! an investment is just like the puck, getting slapped up and down the ice! (value fluctuations)—and the players are investment brokers, checking each other on the boards and trying to score! (Can you tell I’m not an economist?)… Anyway, after you scribble down your brilliant idea (in a focused freewrite, of course), follow up with process notes on just how stumped you were when you first got the assignment, and then how you became inspired.

Process writing is done as a narrative, not as an outline. (In that respect, the term itself, “process notes,” is a little misleading, because they’re not the kind of notes you can jot down on Post-Its.) One way of thinking of process writing is to tell the story of what happened in your thinking process and in your writing process;—a story more like a personal essay, less like a report;—a story about how your intimations arose from the primordial goo of your brain, and were fruitful and multiplied, and how and by what/whom they were influenced, and how you nurtured them into ideas, and lo, how you brought them forth and arranged them just so onto sheets of paper, and they were good.

The reflective aspect of process notes is key. Imagine you were going to write about an experience you had with your family: you’d write it reflectively, thinking about what happened and why, just as much as (if not more than) merely recounting the bare events. In this very same way, your process notes should talk about the conception and writing/making of your essay or art project as your experience, not merely as an assigned activity. Why do process notes take this tack? Because an assigned activity ultimately belongs to the class that assigns it, whereas a writing or artistic experience belongs to the writer/artist: you. Process notes are a way of taking full ownership of what you’ve created.

It is true that students and even many faculty have found the exact purpose of process notes elusive. You might feel that this metacognitive exercise is arbitrary and redundant: “I already wrote the paper! You want me to explain it again?” Like response journals, process writing is a method of inquiry and learning, except whereas in response journals you’re writing about the assigned reading, in process notes the subject you’re writing about is yourself—you as learner and author. Patricia Hampl in her essay “Memory and Imagination” makes the distinction between “writing what I know” and “writing to find out what I know.” The benefits of process notes come more into focus if we augment Hampl’s statement to: writing to find out how and what I’ve learned, how and what I think, how and what I write. This kind of reflection is usually not manifest in the essay itself.

In process notes the writer becomes the object of examination and analysis. Some people have found this image helpful: To write the essay, I read, take notes, compose, edit. To write process notes, I step outside of myself and observe myself reading, taking notes, composing, editing… in order to gain insight into the evolution of my thinking. The question remains, though, to what end?

One of my mentors and a former colleague, Jamie Hutchinson, offered this as one of process writing’s many useful purposes: “[To learn] how to make a case for what one has written, both its form and content.” The ability to articulate a case for something you yourself have written implies a capacity to see yourself in a broader context of other learners and authors; to be able to think of yourself on the same plane as and in relation to, for example, Patricia Hampl, or the author of the text you’ve just been assigned to read, instead of being content to sit back and shout praise or criticism at books from the grandstand. In a more immediate sense, articulating a case for your writing enables you to see and think of yourself in relation to fellow learners and writers (including faculty) in your class at your school.

Perhaps more than any other type of writing assignment, process notes build intellectual community. Certainly metacognitive writing directly fosters the conscious (as opposed to impulsive) development of authorial voice.

Despite all these Utopian pedagogical sentiments, many people nevertheless find process notes difficult either to do or to explain how to do, or both. Really the only known remedy for this predicament is to practice process writing until their benefits become self-evident, as when the obscured image suddenly emerges out of a “Magic Eye” pattern. Once you’ve beheld their effects, process notes might very well become a learning tool you never want to do without.


Go Fish in
Streams of Consciousness:

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