Open Writing

In the 1990s I conducted over fifty courses in creative writing at two colleges. Enrolment varied from five to fifteen. Ages ranged from the teens to the over-seventies. The student retention rate was over 80%.

At the start of each course, I asked students to tell me privately why they had enrolled. Without betraying confidences, I can summarise their responses and add a few anonymous anecdotes.

Surprisingly, ‘I hope to be published one day’ was well down the list. The main reasons people came included such as: I enjoy something different; want intellectual stimulation; express inner feelings; need to make a fresh start; need motivating; have to get something off my chest.

Some were there for therapeutic reasons. Counsellors or psychiatrists had recommended that they have a go. A few had deep psychological problems; one had agoraphobia. One lad had an intellectual handicap and struggled to write anything at all. With some prompting from him when I couldn’t read his handwriting or interpret his spelling, I shared his short science fiction tale with the group, who roundly applauded his effort. The smile on his face was beautiful to see.

Others who helped us all to learn included a young chap who was strapped at a very awkward angle into an electric wheelchair. Occasionally, one of his limbs would jerk out, beyond control. Like Professor Stephen Hawking, he used a small electronic device to communicate via his carer who sat by his side. I slowly learnt how to interpret his facial and body language, and to converse with him, though he couldn’t speak.
We were equally inspired by the blind student who came every week with his helper. And another participant in a motorised wheelchair, who made her notes and wrote her stories on a small portable computer.

Next on the list are those who responded in terms of ‘I’ve been told that I have the gift/ability or ‘I believe I can do it.’ Some had specific aims. Although the course was a general introduction, several people were working on specific plans in genres such as family history; travel experiences; first novel; stories for their children or grandchildren; faith and beliefs; relationships. There were a few who simply wanted a refreshing change from the daily chore of business writing at the office.

There were, of course, the drop-outs. Although I explained that I was a facilitator, not a teacher with instant answers, one young man asked, ‘At the end of this course, will I be able to write a story?’ I answered, nicely, that it was entirely up to him. He repeated his question, so again I explained that there is no formula for instant success. He didn’t come back for the rest of the course.

The seventh session was about grammar and punctuation. All I could do, in the time available, was to hand out a two-page summary of common errors and work through them. One lady, of a certain age, declared that she had no need for that session, and stayed away. I hadn’t the heart to tell her that she most certainly did need that session. The people who ‘knew it all’ were the difficult ones. A small number came because they wanted honest comment and criticism. They were the best students to work with.

What a motley crowd! A Romanian who mesmerised us with his yarns; a Sri Lankan with a superb gift of whimsy; a Briton who had us in fits of laughter; an Aussie postie* who was writing a novel; a nun in plain clothes, who swore me to secrecy about her calling; a psychiatrist, who kept his secret so that people wouldn’t feel uncomfortable; a retired manufacturer of artificial eyes; a lampshade maker; the owner of a huge building corporation; and so many more.
I believe 500 people from all walks of life learnt something. I know their ‘teacher’ did.

* For UK readers, a postlady. For USA readers, a mail delivery person.

© Copyright 2006 Brian Barratt

Adapted from an article which first appeared in Bonzer!