Many, many moons ago when the promise of eternal summer was enough to have me reaching for a notebook in order to “be a poet”, my brother Carl and I enrolled on an evening class for creative writing. I was big hearted, big headed and very pretentious. I thought I was Bukowski’s British Brat offspring and frankly, listening to all of these boring people was not what I enlisted for. Unsurprisingly, I was missing the point.
There are two, as I see it (from a distance of seventeen or so years), major schools of thought on this subject. The first involves something called innate or naturally possessed talent. The second school is populated by those who buy into the hard work, practice and improvement philosophy.
As a student, I felt somewhat stifled in many respects. I had this voice, I was sure, that needed to be heard. Why was I wasting my time with the Menopausal Mafia who seemed wholly intent on selling a short story or witty letter to a cross-stitch magazine? (I was really missing the point).
The tutor was a good natured, lovely woman past retirement age by the name of Jane. I used to meet her rolling eyes and hippie beads with an ‘I know’ attitude. Don’t get me wrong; she was the very soul of discretion. It’s just that, well, sometimes and with the best will in the world, it is tough to hear a good idea murdered by clichés, pastiche and plagiarism. Life can imitate art but imitation is not the highest form of flattery, it’s an express way to ridicule.
This year, I am very fortunate to be working with young adults in a creative writing class that I plan, deliver and attempt to sell as a viable alternative to the social disturbances and developmental unrest of the students’ backgrounds. For the most part the writing is marked by enthusiasm and an honest approach. I am genuinely humbled by some of the things I hear in that room. Will I unearth a gem? A bestseller? Who knows? IS that even the point?
You see, what I didn’t realise as an arrogant young student, is that creative writing for most is an outlet. It’s an escape. It’s a chance to get away for a while. It’s much like reading and as far as I know, reading has never been about competitiveness or marketability.
It is fine to write for the sake of writing with no greater goal than to say, ‘I enjoy it.’
As for Jane, I have no idea if I sent her eyes skywards, I was too busy looking at the page and listening to my own voice
There are two, as I see it (from a distance of seventeen or so years), major schools of thought on this subject. The first involves something called innate or naturally possessed talent. The second school is populated by those who buy into the hard work, practice and improvement philosophy.
As a student, I felt somewhat stifled in many respects. I had this voice, I was sure, that needed to be heard. Why was I wasting my time with the Menopausal Mafia who seemed wholly intent on selling a short story or witty letter to a cross-stitch magazine? (I was really missing the point).
The tutor was a good natured, lovely woman past retirement age by the name of Jane. I used to meet her rolling eyes and hippie beads with an ‘I know’ attitude. Don’t get me wrong; she was the very soul of discretion. It’s just that, well, sometimes and with the best will in the world, it is tough to hear a good idea murdered by clichés, pastiche and plagiarism. Life can imitate art but imitation is not the highest form of flattery, it’s an express way to ridicule.
This year, I am very fortunate to be working with young adults in a creative writing class that I plan, deliver and attempt to sell as a viable alternative to the social disturbances and developmental unrest of the students’ backgrounds. For the most part the writing is marked by enthusiasm and an honest approach. I am genuinely humbled by some of the things I hear in that room. Will I unearth a gem? A bestseller? Who knows? IS that even the point?
You see, what I didn’t realise as an arrogant young student, is that creative writing for most is an outlet. It’s an escape. It’s a chance to get away for a while. It’s much like reading and as far as I know, reading has never been about competitiveness or marketability.
It is fine to write for the sake of writing with no greater goal than to say, ‘I enjoy it.’
As for Jane, I have no idea if I sent her eyes skywards, I was too busy looking at the page and listening to my own voice