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staff assembled and wearing funny hats UNC Writing Center staff and coaches.

Full-time Staff

Kimberly Abels, Director, (919) 962-4426
Dr. Abels has led the student-centered, tech-savvy professional and student communities that comprise Carolina’s Writing and Learning Center for over twenty years. She collaborates with colleagues and campus partners to build Writing and Learning Center services and fosters environments where students imagine, discover, reflect, and stretch into new ideas and academic habits.

Gigi Taylor, Senior English Language Specialist, (919) 962-0725
Gigi helps writing coaches, faculty, and staff provide effective writing support for students whose first language is not English. She also provides instruction about academic communication, English language, and American culture for UNC’s international students and scholars.

Warren Christian, English Language Specialist (919) 843-9604
Warren helps writing coaches, faculty, and staff provide effective writing support for students whose first language is not English. He also provides instruction about academic communication, English language, and American culture for UNC’s international students and scholars.

Alex Funt, Writing Coach Specialist, (919) 966-8924
Alex hires, trains, and supervises the Writing Center’s team of undergraduate and graduate student writing coaches. With the assistance of the writing coaches, he manages the Writing Center’s digital media presence.

Ben Grace, Administrative Support Specialist, (919) 962-7710

Get To Know Our Writing Coaches

The Writing Center’s writing coaches are undergraduate and graduate students from a wide variety of academic disciplines. They receive extensive training in teaching writing one on one. New graduate coaches undergo more than 40 hours of preparation at the start of the fall semester, and undergraduates take a 3-credit-hour course (English 402) to prepare. All coaches receive ongoing training and supervision.

Since each writing coach has an individual approach, we suggest trying out several coaches in order to find the style that works best for you. You can learn a little more about some of our writing coaches by reading their responses to the question “What is writing like for you?”


Writing is like washing a sink full of dishes. On occasion I am diligent, and clean up any and all used kitchen materials and surfaces right after preparing and consuming a meal. More often, I just kind of toss everything in the general direction of the sink and call it a day. In the morning, I am confronted with a quagmire of dirty pots, plates, and cutlery—made that much crustier for having sat in the sink overnight. Try as I might, it is impossible to ignore the sinking feeling of impending obligation. Eventually, once the hot water is flowing, I can feel my anxiety melting away like a dried crust of cheese being vigorously attacked with steel wool. Slowly but surely, dishes that I thought would have to be confined to some sort of toxic waste dump return to their respective shelves, sparkling clean and ready for the next meal.


Writing is like pottery. I’ve been trying to make a teapot for years. I still haven’t figured it out. Once, I made a sugar bowl. Mostly, though, I sit on my potter’s wheel looking at pictures of teapots while I spin out all manner of strange and hideous earthenware. Along the way, I’ve become quite good at knowing which processes don’t lead to teapots, and I’ve also produced some interesting pieces whose components I’d like to incorporate in my teapot, whenever I figure out how to make it. I’ve also learned that all manner of pottery are ultimately made from the same stuff. It’s a matter of process what ends up coming off the wheel, and there’s always something worth recycling in even the worst cases.


Writing is like hiking a new trail. Sometimes this trail exists in a landscape that you’ve already explored countless times before; at other times it twists and turns through an entirely new landscape. In either situation, you have no idea what precisely you’re going to see and experience even if you’ve read descriptions of the trail from other travelers. There might be a steep two-mile stretch in an entirely new landscape that, according to previous hikers, supposedly requires scrambling, but you might discover that you don’t need to scramble at all. Or perhaps there’s a four-mile stretch on that new trail near where you’ve always hiked that previous travelers have claimed is challenging but certainly do-able, but you find that you simply can’t do it because it’s strenuous and constantly near precipices that send you reeling from fear and anxiety. You just don’t know what the trail has in store for you until you start hiking it. Sometimes the hike is easier than expected and you make it a lot farther than you initially planned. Sometimes the hike seems impossible to accomplish and you have to make the decision to turn back and either re-focus and re-fuel before trying again or, maybe, you simply search for another trail that you can complete as a practice run before trying the hard trail again in the future. You might discover gorgeous, panoramic views on your hike, or you might see nothing but undergrowth the whole time. But despite all of this uncertainty, you eventually learn, after several hikes, that the joy of hiking consists in seeing the beauty and sublimity of everything you encounter, and that the trek itself is as important as reaching your destination. Writing, like hiking, requires embracing the expedition—even if it’s a long one—that you must experience in order to reach your goals.


Writing is like cooking. Depending on the context, it can be anything from a tedious chore meant to satisfy a utilitarian end to an elaborate process intended to bring pleasure to the writer and her readers. Regardless, writing and cooking always require deciding what you want to make, gathering your ingredients, and drawing on a basic skill set to produce your desired outcome. If you cook–or write–like I do, this process also invariably involves some amount of frustration, several unexpected adjustments, some input from friends, and an acceptance that the results can be delicious even though they’ll never be perfect.


Writing is like hiking an Appalachian trial. When looking down the quickly evasive wooded path, the task ahead seems daunting and unknowable. Yet, as with all things, the first step is critical in surmounting the ever growing fear in your chest. Once that threshold is passed and the foot of the trail is behind you, the journey becomes automatic as your feet beat across the dirt and rock in some primal ritual. The path is at times arduous and unknowable, and at times as simplistic and familiar as a neighbourhood short cut. Your path might cross a river, a rocky vertical climb, or a thick and verdant swath of trees and bushes. At each of these intersections, there is no other option but to ford the river, scale the rocky obstacle, or push through the brambles and bushes. Yet, as the first rays of the sun brush your skin, as your legs rest from their primitive push, all that is left is to look back across the path which was taken, and appreciate where you began and now where you have ended as the next trail stands open before you.


Writing is like learning to fence. You may have watched others play, but using your blade correctly takes practice. The type of weapon used, the level of competition, and the opponent all have an effect on how each match will turn out. As with writing, the context and audience matter. Are you participating in an individual event or as part of a team? Writing and fencing are both activities that require you to develop muscle memory—an essential toolkit with which to begin. Fencing entails dueling with new and sometimes challenging competitors, but it also allows for extensive lessons with a coach and time for observing others. Writing is often the same, but each tournament (or writing opportunity!) is a new chance to display the skills already mastered and to learn a little bit more than you knew before. Are you ready for your next “bout” of writing? “En garde!”


Writing is like roller skating. You may go without practicing for a few months, and feel as though you’ve forgotten how to do it when you finally step back onto the rink. Starting out can be shaky, and you’ll probably fall more than a few times. But once you get back into the swing, you can finally begin to pick up speed, and the more daring of us may even do some tricks. When you’ve done enough to be satisfied, however temporarily, you’re left with the pleasant feeling of having accomplished something.


Writing is like going on vacation, you have the plan or itinerary of all the places you are going to visit and stops you are going to make. This step can sometimes be a hassle, because you have to bring your “ideal” vacation plan to fruition, kind of like penning an idea down. The actual traveling is sometimes the worst and there are times you wish you could just turn around and go back home, but at the same time you can always look forward to the fact that in time you will have reached your wonderful destination. And whether it is a pristine beach or a dazzling big city, the work can really pay off!


Writing is like taking your dog for a walk. Sometimes she will pause and investigate a new scent. Sometimes she will sprint ahead and drag you along behind her. When she seems unruly, you might find it helpful to take her to training to make your walks more manageable. And, if you’re lucky (and patient), these walks might become an enjoyable and productive pastime rather than a chore.


Writing is like planning a road trip. You must first pick a destination—have an end goal in mind—before you can start packing. Once you decide where you’re going, you must pack everything necessary to get you there (if you’re going to the beach, you’re definitely going to want to pack a bathing suit). The more time, effort, and consideration you put into planning your trip, the more prepared you are for an enjoyable experience.


Writing is like playing a board game. It can take some time to learn the rules, and even once you know them, you might find yourself having to look things up. Success can depend on patience, tactics, and luck, and when things aren’t going well, you might want to flip the table. But once you figure out a strategy that works for you, you’ll likely be excited to sit back down and do it again, and surrounding yourself with good people and snacks always helps.


Writing is like putting together a puzzle. Sometimes, you have a vision of what you want the beautiful, sparkling final product to look like or convey, but you have absolutely no idea how to get there. Once you’ve done the research and taken good notes, you have all the puzzle pieces ready to go. However, reaching your end goal may be difficult because writing, just like a puzzle, is more beautiful yet complex than the sum of its parts. Sometimes, just for the sake of progress, you try to force a piece to fit in a place where it just wasn’t meant to be. If you keep trying to force that piece, something about the picture just might look a little wrong. But just like with writing, rearranging or rethinking your puzzle is completely okay. Once you put that final piece into place, the pride that you feel while looking at the picture makes all the work worth it.


Writing is like a fantasy football draft. Both can be enjoyable or feel like loads of work, depending on how you approach it. The more research, preparation, and practice you do ahead of time, the better your result will be; outlines, mock drafts, and freewriting are your best friends. Both are a careful balance between sticking to your plan and being able to go with the flow. You have to learn from your past successes and areas for improvement. One of the biggest mistakes you can make is thinking that you are done before you really are. Just because you’ve drafted your last player doesn’t mean your team is set, any more than writing your last word means your paper is finished. Between searching the waiver wire, editing, making trades, and proofreading, the best teams and papers aren’t made in one night. They come about through hard work and dedication. That’s what makes the end result so sweet.


For me, writing is like a having a deeply entrenched thirst. You hunger for something to fill the void, often looking and searching for just the thing to quench your thirst. You try a Pepsi—too fizzy. Some tea, perhaps; alas, it is too warm. Even a red bull—the energetic boost is satisfactory, but it does not give you the desired wings you need to soar. Only until you sip a cool refreshing glass of water does your thirst leave. Writing is a thirst that can only be quenched through skillful enterprise. A commitment to try new things, or strategies, is vital. Writing is a process that involves many steps and many tries. Once you find what it takes to quench the thirst, or useful skills that work for you, writing will become a matter of everyday use—to inspire, to connect, to explain, so forth and so on.


Writing is like cooking. Cookbooks, similar to websites and guides full of writing advice, offer seemingly unending streams of tips, rules, and processes for crafting a dish. These instructions might be maddeningly vague or painfully exact. But, in either case, producing something always differs from reading about something. You may have even made this dish before. Despite following the steps as closely as possible, the dish never came together. Or, after some hiccups, it came out just fine. Still, maybe a touch more salt would help next time. As with writing, cooking offers both the sense of freedom and the terror of the unknown. To manage both feelings, of course, you can rely, even build, on past experiences. Likewise, writing and cooking both reward a thoughtful, methodical process. Just as a sauce combined all at once doesn’t taste as luscious as one whose flavors have been layered and melded over time, a paper thrown together the night before never quite coheres as well as one developed over days or weeks. The process can be quick or slow, sometimes both, but it always matters. And, like writing, cooking requires frequent adjustments to fit new contexts, purposes, and audiences.