Just before Covid descended, I applied to an online writing program. As a high school math teacher, it was a stretch to convince my boss to convince his boss that an online master’s degree in creative writing and literature should be paid from the school’s professional development funds, but the fates intended for me to study writing, I guess, and he and his boss agreed to pay my tuition. I started just before Covid did.
I finished my classes a year ago, and now I’m done with my thesis and everything that came after the thesis. I officially graduate on March 5. At first, I found the idea of finishing the classwork very disappointing. I wanted the small group interaction, the workshopping, and the study of craft to continue. I wrote with more focus and effort when I knew my classmates would read my work. I planned more thoroughly, edited more carefully, and always met my deadlines. I didn’t want to lose that.
So, I did what math teachers do: I solved the problem and explained my solution to others. I talked with my favorite classmates, whose work and critique I’d found the most helpful over my time in the program. I did my best to present the problem in the same way that I’ve been teaching math problems for fifteen years; I witheld my solution and I coaxed them to the same answer I had found. It was easy. Most of them were already struggling with the same calculations that troubled me.
More than half of the people I approached joined, and what started out as my group became our group. In six months I transitioned from the founder to the leader of weekly meetings, then to the convener of the meetings, and finally to the least talented writer in a small community of mutually supportive friends. I’d love to have the accomplished and well-published professors I learned from in our Zoom meetings, but my new writing community drives me even more effectively than my professors did. Now, when I shortchange my work with a lack of effort or missed deadline, I’m letting down more than just myself; I’m disappointing my friends, who challenge me every day to do more and to do better.
I have a stake in their growth and success, as well. Four weeks ago, we finished workshopping Elisa’s novel. It’s young adult fiction that belongs in the classroom, higher on the reading list than the canonical novels I read in high school. In that workshop Zoom call, we were all so proud of her, and she was beaming. It was a lovely moment, but it didn’t last because we didn’t believe she was done. We wanted major story edits. The characters had not earned the gentle ending. They didn’t have to work for the resolution. They fought through mid-story challenges, and the five of them came to know and care for each other. Her readers, the seven of us, also came to care for the characters, but the conclusion fell into place with unsatisfying perfection. Her wonderful seventy thousand-word YA novel, we believed, was missing the final ten thousand words.
Elisa was troubled, but she knew we were right. Her internal editor had already told her what we were telling her, but she didn’t want to listen to him. She wanted to listen to her internal cheerleader, who told Elisa that she’d worked hard on her novel, which was perfect. We, her writing group, speak to her as both editors and cheerleaders. We told her how much we love this novel, and we gave her dozens of ideas for the conclusion. By the end of the meeting, Elisa was smiling again. She told her internal editor to take a one-month break, then return rested and ready to work. She told her internal cheerleader to go to Starbies and order an iced pistachio latte with two pumps of sugar-free vanilla syrup and double sweet cream. One month from now, her cheerleader, her editor, and her writing group will read and discuss her new conclusion. We’ll all have notes, I’m sure, but I do not doubt that her fantastic book will be even better. Within a few more weeks, it will be in the hands of her agent.
Elisa’s book will find a publisher, but what if I never find an agent, a publisher, and a readership? Writing definitely has its own rewards, and I want those intrinsic rewards, but they’re not all I want. I want extrinsic rewards as well. Writing is an opportunity for existential confirmation, which I receive when our group discusses my work. Writing is my therapy, where I reveal and explore facets of my secret self and my undiscovered self, and my fellow writers are my team of therapists. And, of course, I want a million people to read and love my work. I probably won’t get everything I want, but it’s more likely with the support of my writing group.
I’ve learned that writing is a solitary occupation, but it’s not solitary confinement. The writing life, at least for me, is a pack activity. We started Story Street Writers to support writers everywhere. I hope you will join the Story Street fun.
When he's not swimming or paddling in the ocean, Jack works on his current project, We, a novel of love, loss, vengeance, and peace. An excerpted chapter of We has been published in Harvard's The Brattle Street Review. He also writes the twice monthly column "A Work in Progress" for Story Street Writers.
- A Work in Progress: If You’re Not in a Writing Group, Find or Start One Today - July 26, 2024
- A Work in Progress: The Value of Short Fiction Contests, Even for Novelists - June 27, 2024
- A Work in Progress: OK, I’ll Focus, But on What? - April 18, 2024
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