So You Think You Can Write?
By Sarah Callender | April 10, 2019 |
Early in the fall of 1994, I had a terrible realization: I did not know how to write.
This was problematic as I, fresh out of college, had been hired to teach high school English. In other words, I was supposed to teach something I couldn’t do myself.
But how had I never realized I couldn’t write? Worse, how was it possible that not one of my high school English teachers, not one of my college professors, had taught me how to write?
I promptly began working my way through the Ten Stages of Writing-related Grief: Shock, Betrayal, Anger, Humiliation, Chocolate, Half-hearted Acceptance, Chocolate, Despair, A Decent Amount of Acceptance. And finally, Peace.
I hunkered down in Shock and Betrayal for quite some time, wondering how this could have happened. As I hunkered, I soothed myself with chocolate chips and episodes of Seinfeld.
True, my high school English teachers were crummy and weary. They assigned writing, but assigning writing, I finally understood, was not the same as teaching writing.
My 12th grade English teacher was one of those old school, sweet-but-tough-but-good teachers who cracked her feedback whip with lovely, looping, curving, cursive penmanship.
A few decades earlier, she might have whipped me into shape, but by the time I became her student, she was getting along in her years. And losing her filter. As well as her ability to focus. On several occasions, she’d pause herself mid-lecture, tilt one ear to the ceiling, and–I am not kidding–shush us so she could listen to God. This was public school, but God, they say, is everywhere, including in AP English Lit class. So He’d interrupt our class, our teacher would listen thoughtfully, after which she’d take time to relay His messages to us. By then, class would basically be over, and we’d have gone another day without learning how to write. Because God is everywhere.
In college things were no better. Pursuing a degree as an English major, I found myself surrounded by tough and salty professors, none of whom (I see only with hindsight) spent time teaching us to write. Instead, the gnome-ish Medieval English Literature professor nearly daily recited The Canterbury Tales in a wobbly, sing-songy voice that indeed sounded Chaucerian.
In Theories of Deconstruction, the goatee’d professor spouted confusing things about Jacques Derrida’s theories (pronouncing Derrida like “Dairy-daaaahhh”). There was no writing instruction in that class either. Nor any in my Shakespeare class, nor my African American Lit class, nor my American Lit class. Nor, nor, nor. Zero, zero, zero.
It wasn’t until I stepped into my own classroom, charged with teaching 155 students how to write essays, that I realized the magnitude of this issue. What would I teach if I didn’t know how to teach writing?
Dairy-daaaahhh, the goatee’d professor whispered from the depths of my memory.
The Medieval Lit gnome then chimed in, warbling, And gladly wolde he lerne, and gladly teche.
I tilted my head to the ceiling. God was silent.
I had no wisdom to share, no role model or mentor to use as my guide. But I needed to pay rent, and I needed to fund my chocolate habit, and this meant I needed to keep my job, and keeping my job meant I needed to teach students how to write. So I wiped the Kit Kat wafer crumbs from my face and started teaching myself how to write.
Acceptance.
I was happy to learn it was rather easy to learn to write essays. I was sad to learn it was rather difficult for teenagers to learn to write essays. But armed with my newfound knowledge and plied with Halloween-size Nestle Crunch bars, I was reenergized.
Peace.
“You don’t learn this overnight,” I sing-songed to my students nearly daily. “So be patient. It takes years of practice and many, many revisions of every essay. You cannot master this right away, certainly not in a week or even a year.”
They’d grumble, and I’d cajole them into revisions.
They’d grumble, and I’d remind them to stick with it.
They’d grumble, and I’d write alongside them, practicing my own essay writing, also doing every creative writing assignment I gave them.
Then one night, after five or six years of writing my own creative writing assignments, I woke, and as if in a trance, I crept downstairs and started to write a story. Right there, pajama-clad and sitting in the dark with the very heavy, very bulky laptop that required floppy disks, not only did I know I wanted to be a story-writer, I knew I needed to be a story-writer.
With this weird and inexplicable need propelling me, I started writing really amazingly amazing stories. I am not kidding: these stories were amazing. I was an amazing-story writing machine. All the many thousands of novels I had read in my life had taught me how to write. It was like magic! You just had to write what you knew, and I knew stuff!
Just a month or so into my story-writing amazingness, I started submitting these very stories to a few small publications: The New Yorker, The Atlantic, a few others of that ilk. When I got cordial “no thank you” responses, I figured the fiction editors were probably as joyless as the college professor who had tried to teach me about Jacques Dairydaaaahhh. Or as batty as my God-loving English teacher. In other words, the problem was they, not I.
As the months passed however, and more and more “no thank you’s” arrived in the mail, I started to wonder if, in fact, it was I, rather than they.
Going back to reread and reexamine my amazing stories, I felt myself flush with shame. The clarity that comes with time and distance revealed that these stories were not amazing. They were not even stories! They were descriptions of characters and scenes. There was no conflict. The characters wanted nothing. And the plots were so weird! I wrote a story where a guy blankets himself like a burrito on his therapist’s sofa and vanishes into thin air. And I sent it to The New Yorker!
I added Regret and Overwhelm to the Grief Stages and thus began my journey through the Twelve Ten Stages of Writing-Related Grief. I wallowed and wandered, at every stage popping M&Ms into my pie hole, until Chaucer’s words finally saved me: And gladly wolde he lerne, and gladly teche.
Yes! I thought. I wolde gladly teche myeself story-writing just as I had gladly taughte myeself essay-writing!
But as I wrote and wrote and wrote, I had yet another epiphany: I still didn’t understand what a story was. I could pick a story out of a line-up, but I didn’t know how to teach myself to write one.
And gladly wolde she lerne, and gladly wolde she fynd sumone else to teche her.
Yes. I needed to find a teacher who could teach me how to write.
Stephen King, as luck would have it, was available. As was Anne Lamott, James Scott Bell, Donald Maass, and David Corbett. Priscilla Long, Robert McKee, Lisa Cron and John Truby. All by way of craft books.
I practiced. I studied. I practiced. I gave up. I ate chocolate. I returned to the craft books and my computer and my chocolate. I studied. I bought a lighter computer. I threatened to give up again and again. Again and again I realized I couldn’t give up. I read more craft books. I practiced. And on and on.
Now I have a very light computer, and I still study the craft of fiction. I still look for wise writer-teachers who can school me in the art of p-a-c-ing. CONFLICT. Narrative voice. Pantsing and Plotting. Narrative stance. Narrative perspective. Story StRuCtUrE. Scene b-b-b-beats. The ♥desires♥ of a character. The importance of butt-in-chair. The importance of a good critique partner. The importance of hope, humility, and hanging in there.
Coulde I teche ye ta writ a storey? No indeede, naught now.
But maebe sumdae?
Aye, maebe sumdae.
Your turn! How and where have you learned the craft of writing? Which instructors have you “hired” via craft books and how have they been useful? If you’ve been in a traditional MFA program, will you share how those professors and classes helped you improve?
Thank you for reading and sharing, dear WU’ers.
Photo complements of Flickr’s Elusive Muse.
A Middle Grade novelist (and Middle School English teacher), Sarah Callender lives in Seattle with her family. Because Sarah dislikes cleaning anything that will just get messy again, she tidies the house and weeds the yard only when absolutely necessary. This allows her time to focus on her true–and somewhat fraught–passions: writing, Abe Lincoln, and Tony’s Chocolonely chocolate bars. Equally passionate about mental health advocacy, Sarah is a member of The Stability Network. Sarah’s first novel, LUCY IN BETWEEN, will be published by Margaret Ferguson Books/Holiday House in 2026.
Sarah, you are soooo funny–“Ten Stages of Writing-related Grief: Shock, Betrayal, Anger, Humiliation, Chocolate, Half-hearted Acceptance, Chocolate, Despair, A Decent Amount of Acceptance. And finally, Peace.”
I wish I were sitting in your class! Isn’t teaching wonderful? I love it–even when I’ve been thrown into it with very little preparation. And it sounds like you are thriving. Our ability to learn is phenomenal. no?
I have to admit that many English teachers ruined books for me but books were my greatest teachers. When I started writing in my late 30s, I took it for granted (see, my whole life I say I’m going to do something and just do it, so I’ve never had that grief, except maybe when my mother told me that Einstein had already discovered relativity–we were on a train and I felt as if I were moving even though we were stationary). Hubris?
But I take a class every so often. My first was from Peggy King Anderson (Sarah, you’re in Seattle and if you ever want to write for kids, look her up–she’s amazing!). More recently, I took StoryMasters. I learn so much right here on WU (thank you Therese).
But I have loads of book mentors, gosh, I even learned how to be a better mother from the Oliver and Amanda Pig books by Jean van Leeuven. Talk about books doing triple duty!!! The most recent story that’s plunged me on a quest is An Equal Music by Vikram Seth. Oh thank God for this writing life!
I LOVE THOSE PIG BOOKS! (Those caps are my excitement and camaraderie, not me yelling at you.) And yes, as I am about to tell Barry K. below, books absolutely have been my best teacher. I’m definitely with you on that. MORE CAMARADERIE!
Thanks for the tip on Peggy King Anderson! I will look her up. And thank you for sharing your beautiful words and ideas. You’re amazing, Vijaya. :)
Sarah, this is one of your best posts EVER! I loved it. Your students are soooo lucky to have you as a teacher. As Chaucer might have said: Keepeth on keepin’ on.
Ha! Thank you, Lorraine. I tell my own children (ages 14 and 16) that my students think I am fun and cool, and they’re like, “Ha. That’s because your students want A’s.” ;)
Happy writing and happy springtime! Thanks for taking the time to comment and encourage. That means a LOT!
Verily, Sarah, thy storey is not unlike myne.
I did have some GREAT English Lit teachers and professors, and I learned how to write a great critical essay…but that’s all we really wrote, right? I learned practical writing on the job (copywriting) and I learned some of the art of storytelling through reading of folks like Stephen King and Noah Lukeman and Donald Maass. But mostly, I learned by failing for a while, being told “no,” and then being determined to hear “yes” someday. And, like you, I learned by teaching others–as a writing tutor in college and as a workshop leader at conferences.
Turns out, all those years of pulling themes and symbols from the writing of old dead white men taught me a lot about how to write. I just needed a bit of a push on what makes a story a story. :)
Dear Erin,
I snorted: “Verily, Sarah, thy storey is not unlike myne.”
Thank you for making me snort. It’s always good to snort on hump day!
And this is fabulous too: “But mostly, I learned by failing for a while, being told “no,” and then being determined to hear “yes” someday.”
We absolutely need that grit. We also need the willingness to pay attention to why the “no” happened, and then figure out how to avoid that “no” in the future.
We’re a stubborn bunch, no? Thank you for these helpful words. May you snort many times throughout the week!
Best post ever! How can you tell? I read ALL THE WAY to the end. You have a beautiful way of capturing your audience, know your reader, and know how to be an encouragement. Wait, I am tilting my head … Yes, God is everywhere … and I think I can hear something … faintly … “Don’t Quit!”
THANK YOU!!!
Yes, Heidi! That totally was God! It’s that darn still small voice that I wish were just a little louder, but that was most certainly He!
Thank you for your generous compliment and encouragement.
Let’s not quit together. :)
Hi Sarah. Although I recognize the names of your mentors, and have read some of their books, the craft books I’ve relied on most heavily were written by Jane Austen, Katherine Anne Porter, Ernest Hemingway, Clive James, Evelyn Waugh, Saul Bellow, Katherine Mansfield, John Updike, John Cheever, Graham Greene–et al.
But to be honest–and well before the internet and self-publishing led to a permanent deluge of craft books–I had two favorites: Macauley and Lanning’s Technique in Fiction, and William Zinsser’s On Writing Well. More recently, I’ve added Dave King’s (with Rennie Browne) Self-editing for Fiction Writers.
Please don’t take this wrong: I am a strong believer in the “whatever works” school, and if craft books work for you, who shall say you nay? I just thought the absence of any reference to The Thing Itself–wonderful works of long and short fiction as the traditional means of teaching oneself how to write–probably meant you took this for granted. IMO, that always needs inclusion in What We Talk about When We Talk about Writing.
But: what is diametrically opposed to learning how to be a writer (or for that matter learning how to teach it) is to be obliged to grapple with French literary criticism. That is almost certainly the path to oblivion and paralysis for 99.9% of aspiring writers. For which you have my sincerest sympathy.
Dear Barry,
Thank you for sharing all of your mentor-writers. You are a WU MVP! And I laughed when I read your words (I’ll paraphrase here) “Yes, dear, and what about novels?”
I had an entire lengthy paragraph about that very topic, but I removed it because I try to keep these posts at 1000 words, but always end up at 1250-ish, and this was nearing 1600, and I was getting so sick of myself blabbering on and on. But in doing so, I may have cut the most important part: The studying and deconstructing of (American-style) and mimicking great fiction. Thank you for adding that point to the conversation (without adding to my word count).
Thank you also for the Derrida empathy. It’s embarrassing that I still don’t really understand the whole concept, but at this point in my life, I have smaller fish to fry.
Fishily,
Sarah
Another wonderful post, Sarah. From one (former) English teacher to another: boy do I get your drift, Love the Chaucer allusions too!
I never had more than 75 students at a time and can’t imagine making my way through 155 essays at a pop. I learned how to teach writing slowly over many years–lots of samples, dissecting of what makes an essay work, tons of cheerleading, etc. As for creative efforts, however, I haven’t a clue. Some days I think I’ve learned a thing or two. On other days it’s more like “abandon hope all ye who enter here.”
Dear S.K.
Thank you. Thank you especially for these words: As for creative efforts, however, I haven’t a clue. Some days I think I’ve learned a thing or two. On other days it’s more like “abandon hope all ye who enter here.”
I often worry what on earth could be wrong with my brain … I can’t seem to keep all of the facets of writing in my head, at least not all at once. Creativity and creating are such mysterious things! I have come to understand that, because my brain is feeble, I have to write in layers. Maybe it’s like making a painting? Maybe we paint stories. Maybe we can’t use all the colors at once? Maybe I need to be OK with one color. First the protag’s driving desire. That’s blue. Then, after I clean my brush, comes the understanding the “thwarters” of that protag’s desire. That’s red. And so on.
Thank you for making me think (and for making me feel less alone). :)
Weirdly, I take comfort in recognizing I don’t have to do All the Story Things at once. I can go back and layer things in. I’m a polish-as-I-go writer: I write a scene and work it and work it and work it until I’m either satisfied or I realize I’m changing things just to change them, and then I move on. Writing and then working on what I’ve written helps me figure out what a scene is really about (as opposed to what I thought it was about when I started).
But even so, even when I have scenes lined up in a decent story arc, I’m not done. That’s when I go through and tighten things, when I find thematic resonances, when I discover motifs and make better use of them. That’s when I do all the detail work.
I also think that when I’m focused on one thing, the Girls in my Basement will hitch other things to the cart I’m pulling. So while I’m working on the conflict arc of a scene, they’re adding lovely metaphors to the stream of words in my brain, or they’re opening up my mind with an unexpected insight I wouldn’t have seen if I’d gone looking for it.
My first and only actual human present writing teacher, Mary Elizabeth Allen of fond memory and an ‘eight Monday nights for three hours’ course in ‘Writing the Mystery’ way back in 1995 or so taught me one thing: do the work.
That’s it.
My other teachers have been many of the same books you mentioned – and doing the work. Figuring out what I didn’t know how to do yet – and buying a couple of books which would teach me.
That – and putting in the hours.
It works.
But you don’t want to tell students that they’re going to have to put in tens of thousands of hours, so you cajole them along. The ones who want to write will find themselves putting in that time.
The other huge tool I had to develop was the ability to tell the difference between the wonderful story in my head – and its current version on the page. It hurts, and then you realize the process is like putting your writing through a forge – because it needs to be annealed.
The details? Sol Stein taught me about diction, and resonance. Orson Scott Card, about handling point of view. Maass – an enormous number of things about tension and scene construction. Armando Saldaña Mora, plotting with Dramatica. Blake Snyder – to make plotting key. Lawrence Block – that I am not a pantser like he is. Edward Johnson – the why of Good English. James N. Frey – the specific archetypes of myth as applied to characters.
I’m still learning.
And still chuckling at your post.
Alicia. This is beautiful. Thank you.
And these words: “Do the work.” are so true. Writing a novel is joyful and excruciating, and if we only did the work on joyful days, we’d likely end up with a four-page novel.
I love the story of your own journey, as well as the specific lessons you have learned from specific wise people. I am saving your wisdom!
I always love and look forward to your comments. :)
Ah, so nice to read one of your lovely essays again, Sarah. Not that it’s been so awfully long, but we really were spoiled when you were monthly.
It’s funny you should mention the stages of writing-related grief. Well, the whole essay is very funny, but this aspect is odd/coincidental because I was just thinking along those lines the other day. It occurred to me that I’m working feverishly to finish this trilogy (nearly there – in the final stages of book three), as if I was under deadline or something. It’ll be my second completed trilogy, and it’s almost exactly ten years since I finished a draft of the first (in June ’09). But I’m not under deadline. And although I recognize it’s much better than the first, and that I’ve grown as a writer, after all of these years not only is there no deadline, almost no one will even care that I’ve finished. I say ‘almost’ because my wife and a few others will be happy for me.
And for just a moment there, the thought made me a bit melancholy. I mean, when I finished the first, I never would’ve dreamed that this would be where I stand a decade later. But that feeling only lasted a moment. It was swiftly replaced with acceptance. And honest-to-God inner peace. It’s not mine to know *why* it matters. It’s only important that I’m certain that it *does* matter. And I am. Even if it only matters to me.
So there will be no diminishing of my effort. It’s not a race, and there won’t be cheering or confetti flying, but I’m still going to gut it out through the finish-line tape. Because it matters.
As Chaucer would say, “The lyf so short, the craft so longe to lerne.” Thanks, Sarah.
Dear Vaughn.
I’d like to address your lovely words if I may: “after all of these years not only is there no deadline, almost no one will even care that I’ve finished.”
You finishing a novel, or three or even six or nine, is SO impressive … but not because of the final product. It’s impressive because of what it shows about you, your commitment to the craft, your tenacity, your willingness to take risks, your faith, your creativity. In other words, you matter (all of us matter) because of who you are, not because of what you accomplish. Your Vaughn-ness matters. Your you-ness.
And the role you play at WU matters tremendously. Your empathy, your generosity, your humility, your encouragement, all of those things matter.
You know I’m write! Right? :)
Thank you for being here. And my goodness, I am thrilled that you are nearly finished with the next major chunk of your oeuvre.* It doesn’t change what I think about you (because you are amazing no matter what) but it is, truly, amazing.
Carry on, young man!
* It took me about 16 minutes to figure out how to spell that fancy word.
This lovely and uplifting reply means the world to me, Sarah. I think of you often. You really are one of the biggest inspirations I’ve had, and I know for many other WUers, too. You show us all what perseverance really means. Because it’s not just about toughing it out. It’s tough, sure. But it’s also vulnerable-making and sometimes raw, and often empowering, and there are bound to be many ups and downs–bumps and (perhaps most importantly) laughs and hugs–along the way.
In other words, you show (rather than tell) us that it’s all about the journey. I’m deeply grateful. Thanks for being so authentically you.
I’m just here to heartily (verily!) cheer this post and to throw several buckets of confetti on these comments. I appreciate you both, ever so much. Write on, my friends!
Sarah,
Did you know that writing a novel is difficult? You can’t just take a short story and make it long. So, when I decided to go from writing short stories to writing novels I sought help.
I learned what things readers like to find in novels from Donald Maass.
I learned what things I should include in a thriller novel from Shawn Coyne.
I learned how to write a complete novel from Dave King. He was my very patient teacher.
And now, after rewrite, rewriting, rewritten, I am working with Jim Dempsey.
I also enjoyed in-person instruction from Carol Dougherty. I don’t want to leave Doc Dougherty out.
I appreciate all the craft books, teachers, and blogs like WU.
Hi Tina,
I laughed out loud when I read your words: “You can’t just take a short story and make it long.”
SO true.
I love the humility and the honesty in your comment … I think the moment we think we can do anything on our own–totally on our own–and the moment we feel like we don’t need other teachers, we become sad and stagnant. Thank you for showing that in your words here.
And thank you for mentioning these great teachers. I will make note!
Happy Friday to you … and have a very happy writing day!
Thanks for the romp!
Ha! Thank YOU, Nancy!
:)