Acronyms in English Teaching – Why We Need to Rethink Them

Teaching writing isn’t about ticking boxes — it’s about making meaning. True learning happens in the messy, thoughtful space beyond the acronym.

In a recent TES article, Zoë Enser urges English teachers to be wary of relying too heavily on acronyms like PEE and AFOREST to support students’ writing. Her central argument is a compelling one: that learning in English is complex, messy and slow — and that oversimplifying it with neat formulae can do more harm than good. Writing, she reminds us, should come after thinking, not in place of it. If we rush students towards structured outcomes before they’ve truly engaged with a text or an idea, we risk mistaking compliance for understanding.

This is a sentiment I find myself agreeing with wholeheartedly. I’ve never been one for acronyms, especially in literature. A text is more than the sum of its parts — and writing about it should be too. When students follow a rigid structure like PETAL or PETER, their responses can start to feel like “writing by numbers”: technically accurate, perhaps, but lacking fluency, flair or authentic engagement. Worse still, these frameworks can actively limit higher-attaining students, who often have a more instinctual grasp of analysis and are capable of producing elegant, interpretive responses — if they aren’t forced to contort their thinking into a prescribed shape.

That said, my experience of working alongside learning support teachers has given me a more nuanced view. We are often addressing the same challenges — how to help students access difficult material and express their ideas clearly — but from different perspectives. For some students, particularly those who struggle with working memory or language processing, acronyms in English teaching can offer much-needed scaffolding. They provide a sense of order and security. Structure, in these cases, isn’t a straitjacket; it’s a lifeline.

The real problem is when acronyms are introduced too early or used as a replacement for actual thought. Students need time to explore, discuss, reflect and grapple with ideas — especially in literature. If we leap straight to paragraph structure, we risk skipping the thinking stage entirely. A student can churn out a PEE paragraph without ever really engaging with the question.

Personally, I’ve moved away from using PETAL. It encourages students to treat each element — Point, Evidence, Technique, Analysis, Link — as if it needs its own sentence. That makes for awkward, mechanical writing. It also reinforces the idea that techniques are found in the quotation, rather than something you lead with: “The writer uses the metaphor, ‘The wind was a torrent of darkness…’” is a much more natural and confident sentence than one which scrabbles to name the device after the evidence has already been dumped on the page.

I prefer PEA: Point, Evidence, Analysis. It’s neater than some of the alternatives, but even then, we have to confront the awkward truth that “analysis” is a word most students find mystifying. What does it actually mean? I often describe it as the ability to make connections — not just between quotation and technique, but also between technique and meaning, between meaning and wider ideas, between the text and the world. Good analysis links the effect of the language to the reader’s response, and then explores how that response is shaped by the writer’s intention, the context of the text, or broader literary patterns. Crucially, it also connects everything back to the question — not as an afterthought, but as a guiding thread that runs through the whole paragraph. In short, analysis is about linking and layering. It’s not a stage in a paragraph — it is the paragraph, or at least the thinking that drives it.

But the bigger issue — and perhaps the most uncomfortable one — is the system that encourages us to reach for acronyms in the first place. English teachers are under enormous pressure to produce results. We are expected to conjure progress in every lesson, often in ways that are tangible, measurable and immediately visible. In such a high-stakes climate, it’s no wonder that acronyms in English teaching become appealing. They promise structure, clarity, teachability — and they get results. Or at least, they get marks.

Nowhere is this pressure more apparent than in the GCSE English Language exam. Take, for instance, Question 2 on AQA Paper 1. It’s worth 8 marks. That gives students roughly a minute per mark — eight to nine minutes in total. In that time, they’re expected to read the question, re-read the extract, identify three language features, and write three structured analytical paragraphs. That’s three minutes per paragraph, including thinking time. Where, in that model, is the space for hesitation, exploration, or risk? It’s no wonder students burn too much time on the early questions and run out of steam for the higher-tariff ones. The paper rewards formula over flexibility. It encourages speed over sensitivity.

All of this contributes to a sense that the joy has been sucked out of English. We want students to discover the power of language — to notice, to respond, to care — but so much of our energy is now spent preparing them for exam conditions, not for real engagement with literature or writing. And so we turn to acronyms — because they offer the illusion of mastery, when there’s no time for the real thing.

But perhaps that’s exactly why we need to resist them — or at the very least, reframe them. Acronyms in English teaching shouldn’t be the starting point of a student’s writing. They can be a useful scaffold, a revision tool, a way of prompting reflection. But they should never replace the slow, untidy, deeply human business of thinking. That’s where the real learning happens. And it’s the part of English that no acronym can capture.