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Learning to Teach Creative WritingLesley Thomson aa West Dean College , Chichester , UKPublished online: 07 Mar 2013.

To cite this article: Lesley Thomson (2013) Learning to Teach Creative Writing, Changing English:Studies in Culture and Education, 20:1, 45-52, DOI: 10.1080/1358684X.2012.757060

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Learning to Teach Creative Writing

Lesley Thomson*

West Dean College, Chichester, UK

Is it possible to teach people to write fiction? A more important and helpfulquestion is: how do we teach creative writing? And who are the teachers? Apublished writer is not necessarily qualified to teach creative writing. To help-fully share their declarative knowledge with students, a writer must embrace theart and craft of teaching, consider how different students learn and create theoptimum setting to enable learning. There is a parallel challenge for the writerwith the student, as each is faced with challenges around their previously heldassumptions about ways of learning.

Keywords: learning to teach; creative writing

Is it possible to teach people to write fiction? This question has engendered a welltrodden debate. How often do we hear: ‘can you teach fine art or acting or dance?’Defending creative writing teaching, Andrew Motion makes the point: ‘…aspiringdancers go to the Royal Ballet School, and actors to Rada – why should writing beany different?’ (Murray 2011). Do we expect all graduates of, say, Trinity LabanConservatoire of Dance and Music or the Slade School of Fine Art to be greatdancers or painters? Why do we have different expectations – or low expectations –for students who undertake creative writing courses?

I believe that the craft of writing legible, engaging fiction can be taught. How-ever, as with any creative discipline – actually any discipline including teaching –the technical skills required can only serve better to express the preoccupations ofthe individual. They are not a panacea that, once grasped, renders a student whocan string sentences together into a spell-binding story teller. That could happenover time with the concerted practice of skills learnt on a course alongside thedevelopment of the writer’s creative expression.

This rumbling debate distracts us from a more important and helpful question:how do we teach creative writing? Who are the teachers? I will address these ques-tions here. I suggest that while possessing the knowledge of their profession, toteach inexperienced and motivated writers, a writer needs knowledge of effectiveteaching approaches. Recognising the different ways that we learn, they wouldplace considerable value on growing their teaching skills as well as their creativeskills. I do not think that my experience as a published writer, armed with technicaland creative skill, is enough to qualify me to teach creative writing.

I want to show how the process of learning to teach has enabled me to sharemy knowledge as a writer with students. This is a parallel journey: the students

*Email: lesley@lesleythomson.co.uk

Changing English, 2013Vol. 20, No. 1, 45–52, http://dx.doi.org/10.1080/1358684X.2012.757060

� 2013 The editors of Changing English

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learning to write and my learning to be a teacher. Like the students, I have had toundergo loss as I take on new concepts (Atherton 2011).

I take as a base a series of three supervision tutorials with students completingnovels – the equivalent of a dissertation – at the end of a postgraduate degreecourse. I shall focus on two of these tutorials held with two different students. Toillustrate the challenges and successes and for confidentiality reasons, I have createda composite from separate teaching incidents involving different students whosenames I have changed. This is the extent of the fiction.

Two years ago, supported and guided by teaching colleagues, I began teachingcreative writing. I immediately found the work engaging; it ceased to be a means ofsubsidising my fiction and was an end in itself.

Now I define myself as a writer and a teacher. I teach on one-day workshops,short courses and regularly on an MA programme run by Greg Mosse, an experi-enced teacher and writer. The students within these varying settings come with arange of motivations. On a weekend course, a few have completed novels, whileothers have not dared face the blank page. Afterwards, some may never write some-thing substantial, but they have learned to experiment with a mode of expressionwhich has meaning for them. Some will embark on a project like a novel or a play.Others, after attendance on several short courses and committed to developing theirskills, enrol on a degree course.

I might describe myself as ‘consciously-competent’ (Burch, cited in Adams2011). I continually question and reflect on my teaching; I read pedagogic texts andshare my experiences with other teachers. I strive to create the optimum setting inwhich different creative writing students can learn the craft. If I were not doing this,regardless of my experience and knowledge as a writer, I think what I could offerstudents would be of limited value.

How can students apply my or any writer’s methods and approaches to theirown way of working? Will my talking about how I write enable them to explainwhat plot is, or to create a believable character or an imaginary world? We all do itdifferently. My experience of collaboration with stake-holders in the publishingindustry – agents, editors, copy editors and publicists who can offer the ‘reality’ ofwriting and publishing fiction – has given me valuable knowledge to share with stu-dents. A teacher can guide students to craft legible stories, to perceive what worksin published texts, to critique their work and that of their peers. Within a structuredlearning context students can take risks and experiment; learn to devise questionspertinent to their learning needs. A writer who understands the complexity of theteaching role can be a facilitator helping students to reflect constructively onperhaps blunt feedback from visiting authors, agents, editors as well as from peersand to consider their work within the professional sphere.

This is a realisation that as a writer who teaches I have learnt and am stillrelearning. The two sessions I shall describe had opposite outcomes: one I couldsee was rewarding for the student and it was for me. The other was horriblyunhappy for both parties. Yet each of the sessions has contributed to my learning asa teacher and to my enthusiasm for the role. Let’s start with the session that for sev-eral hours afterwards I considered a total total failure, even though I could see thatthe student had played a part in that ‘failure’.

A specific learning outcome for these meetings was that the students have a pro-fessional response to purposeful criticism. This was set within the context of awarm and open discussion centred on sections of text submitted for each session by

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the student. Each session was an hour. We would look at the text and discuss a spe-cific issue that I identified from reading it. My comments were geared to helpingthe student achieve their intended purpose for the episode. These comments mightbe specific, but often they highlighted a general issue that the student could applyto later writing too. Students were encouraged to consider how to use skills learntthroughout the course when reworking the text.

After the first round of meetings I was tired; I had done a lot of talking. I had, Idecided, talked too much. This was a revisiting of the first weeks of my teachingcreative writing, particularly group sessions. However, through encouraging studentsto explore ideas, engage in exercises that ask them to practise a point just madeand generally gaining confidence I had reduced the threat of expounding. My struc-ture of these supervision tutorials meant I spent the hour expanding on my annota-tions to their text; dealing with one comment after another. I was speaking and thestudent was listening, or worse, maybe they had tuned out and were not listening.

So I structured the second tranche of sessions differently. I wanted the studentto take an active part in the discussion and to go away to consider using what wassaid – by me or by themselves – in the next phase of their work.

While some students had brought questions to discuss in the first session, manyhad not. In advance of the second session I emailed them to encourage them toconsider what they would like me to keep in mind when reading. For clarity I gaveexamples of questions that might arise. When they attached text, some students didarticulate issues such as: could I give guidance on how to keep consistently to theprotagonist’s point of view? How successfully had they portrayed complex topogra-phy and their protagonist’s movement within it? Did a piece featuring minor charac-ters maintain dramatic momentum and so on. Even before the meeting thesestudents were taking an active role.

I began these second meetings with a question of my own intended to encour-age each student to reflect on the work and consider their relation to it. I wantedthem to maintain attachment to their stories and not be bogged down by the task.Which areas of the text were they pleased with and which had caused difficulties?This worked well for those who could easily express their process; they gave con-sidered responses and in doing so identified problems and possible solutions them-selves. This seemed gratifying for them and they were enthused by their reflections.We then examined their text in the context of this discussion. There was seldomtime to cover all my comments, but equipped with their own observations and withmy suggestions they would look at the rest and build on their learning. Lovely, Ithought, the students spoke with energy and professional fluency; I talked muchless. Such signs showed me how they were benefiting from the session.

This new approach did not go well with Steve.Steve did not bring questions to his first session, but for the second he had

asked me to consider the introduction of his protagonist. Had it worked? Prior tothe meeting Steve had tested stated boundaries. In a succession of emails herequested changes of times, including times outside available slots. His responses tomy replies showed that he had not properly read the details of the unit or my mes-sages. He submitted his text later than the requested deadline, which squeezed thereading time I had available. He compounded this by sending another extract twodays later; I did not read this. This behaviour was not untypical of him. I had foundthis protracted electronic interaction frustrating. This is a symptom of my inexperi-ence; I believe a seasoned teacher might have minimised the frustration felt.

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Although I made a conscious effort to quell this, I did enter the workshop for ourdiscussion in a guarded state. While this would not have been apparent to Steve,the writer in me believes it must have affected the atmosphere in which we were towork. However, I was welcoming and endeavoured to help Steve settle in for thesession: ‘Kettle’s just boiled, that’s fresh coffee in the machine.’

Despite hot drinks, almost immediately our conversation hit a reef. Steveexpected the format of the meeting to be the same as the last session and wasthrown by my asking him instead to outline his intended purpose for the text wewere examining. (He had responded with a ‘fine’ to my question about how hefound the writing of the piece.) He did describe his intention, but I could see hesniffed a trick. I had hoped my question would inspire an illuminating answer – forhim and for me – but while he was answering I realised that my feedback wouldbe challenging. Too late I saw that my question was like a set-up. It was soon clearthat the piece did not achieve his intended purpose. I had fallen in with Steve’sframing of our discussion in terms of success and failure. I changed tack andpointed to the rich detail in Steve’s description, showing with examples how thiswas undermined by his protagonist’s lack of volition; their lack of an inner voicegave no clue to their thinking, responses or intentions. I said that this had not beenthe case in another of Steve’s chapters where he had portrayed his protagonist viv-idly. I suggested we look at how he could draw upon his other writing to make ithappen in this piece.

By this time Steve was making it clear – with huffing and sighing, sitting side-ways to the table and eventually saying so – that we were wasting limited time. Hewanted to get on with my comments. One after the other.

I might at this point have acquiesced and gone through the document with him;repeating the format of the first session, talking while Steve listened and occasion-ally jotting something down. If I had, perhaps Steve’s own level of frustrationwould have lessened. He might have come away with a sense of ‘job done’ even ifthe job was of limited worth. At the time and still, I thought that such acquiescencewas copping out. I would not be giving the best I could. Steve was due more thanhe was allowing me to offer. So I persisted: referring to his text I asked him to con-sider the impact of particular sentences. This required Steve to be open and curiousand willing. He became increasingly defensive, insisting readers would know whathe meant; it was obvious. We were in a cul-de-sac from which I for one wanted toturn and flee.

He evinced more signs of annoyance: rolling his eyes, shrugging, folding hisarms and shaking his head. Although I worked hard to stay patient and enquiring, Itoo felt defensive. I became so fixed on not giving into Steve – his persistently try-ing to shift deadlines had alerted me to maintaining boundaries – that I did not seehow it might help both of us if I agreed to go through my comments despite mythinking this would not directly help him with the issues with his protagonist. Onreflection I saw that no learning would take place until I had tried to contain Steve’sanxiety. This was an emerging issue in tutorials with other students. I had not bar-gained for how anxiety – the course nearing its end – would block students’ abilityto make considered decisions and use their skills. Anxiety was causing them to for-get temporarily what they knew.

I began to see this when Steve asked me if I had ‘liked’ the piece; a question soout of kilter with my feedback that it arrested my perception. Steve’s defence hadebbed; he just wanted me to say I liked it. I told him that any reply I gave him

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would not help him. My saying I liked it – even if he might see this was a simplis-tic response – would absolve Steve of the challenges I had put his way, it wouldnot help him with his text. His question was a clue to his being anxious.

We were too close to the end of the session for me to rescue the situation; Icould only reiterate that Steve use his other chapters as a model for the text thathad not achieved his purpose. By now he was too fraught and too frustrated to hearme. Later I considered how to address all the students’ heightened anxiety. Myeffort to stop them becoming passive note-takers had inspired panic and increaseduncertainty in Steve and perhaps in others. Had I found a way to address Steve’smounting concerns about the completion of his novel – only articulated in the lastmoments of the session – perhaps I would have enabled him to lower his defencesand benefit from his second tutorial.

If this tutorial had happened at the start of my teaching two years ago, I mighthave been tempted to conclude that Steve could not be taught to write and indeedcould not write. At his dismissal of my observations I might have hotly retorted thatwhen faced with ideas for change from agent, editor and copy editor, a writer oftenhas to abandon cherished passages, rework sentences and consider major alterationsto their work. They respond professionally to feedback for the sake of the story. Imight have expressed the frustration I felt: here was I with experience to share,skills to impart and there was Steve, his arms folded, eyes blazing, determined toprove me wrong and defend a view about which he was actually unsure. I did notshow this frustration, because I knew that however true this might be it would comefrom a less generous place; by assuming the power of the published writer, I wouldrisk closing Steve down. Importantly, I would be side-stepping my own challengeas teacher. If I wanted him to rise to a challenge, I must too.

Besides, I knew that Steve could write; his work had developed during thecourse. How could I help Steve? This meeting with him underlined what wasalready becoming clear to me: as well as knowledge of their subject, the writerneeds to understand how to teach.

My tutorial with the student I shall call Anne followed my meeting with Steveand was a different experience. It was stimulating, there was energy in the room,and from the questions Anne asked and the examples she offered I could see thatshe was building on her learning and making the most of our time. Untypically forher, Anne had been mildly defensive in her first tutorial: unwilling to hear my con-fusion about where her characters were in the space. How did the rooms connect?Where were the windows in relation to doors and stairs? Here was the problem thatwriters often struggle with: handling the nitty gritty of a particular space – room,house, landscape without dulling the narrative. In that first session she admitted Iwas echoing a point that her peers had fed back to her. Anne’s manner had beensubdued and doubtful. She insisted I reiterate and expand on what I had not under-stood because she could not see the problem. She said she was unsure how toaddress the problem. Although Anne never argued or disagreed with me at this ini-tial meeting, while I went through the annotations with her, she had not seemedfully present.

At the second meeting Anne responded to my questions about her experience ofwriting with a full outline of her strategy to solve her problem of lack of time towrite. She showed me the section in her text that she had enjoyed writing: her pro-tagonist had quietly triumphed in a scene. Anne had become immersed in herdepiction of the unfolding drama; her story had come alive. She appeared to enjoy

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telling me about her creative satisfaction. She had questions and, sitting forwardover the table, we addressed these – the text between us. I listened and occasionallyoffered a thought or prompted her. Anne herself elicited discoveries from her text. Ihave learnt that this is an example of self-directed learning, with me acting asresource rather than expert. The text was a rewritten version of the passage she hadbrought to the previous session.

An exciting moment for me was when Anne pointed out a paragraph I hadthought out of place: the action is interrupted by description. She liked it so hadkept it in. I reread my comment and said I disagreed with myself: the descriptiongave a sense of place which did indeed add to the scene. Still, something did notwork, but I could not work out what it was. Anne examined the passage again andfinally suggested that the narrative was not from the protagonist’s point of view: hehad effectively gone missing in the middle of a key dialogue. She would rewrite itas a pause in the conversation during which the protagonist notices where they areand takes action. Anne reached this conclusion herself, but the process of ‘discov-ery’ involved both of us. She challenged me, not as a defence, but because shebelieved that my suggestion might not work. Together we found a solution.

While Anne was working hard during the session, I had created the learning cli-mate that made it possible for her to find creative autonomy.

For the final sessions I kept to the respective structures with Steve and Anne. Iguessed that Steve in particular could not cope with more change. But now awareof the group’s greater anxiety, I was specifically conscious of establishing and main-taining mutual trust to enable them to benefit from my experience and knowledge.

The chapter Steve brought to his final tutorial once again demonstrated his feelfor his characters so missing from the previous excerpt. At lunch, the day beforethe session, I let Steve know that I had enjoyed it. Although it had been my inten-tion to reduce any tension he felt about coming to the tutorial, I was surprised bythe relief I saw in his face on hearing this. He sent me a list of questions for thissession which again included: ‘Did I like it?’ However his other questions wereones we could usefully address together.

I began by putting his questions – printed up – between us. I asked if we mightlook at them as we went through the comments. I could see that this brought himfurther relief. Although it was not an approach that would necessarily suit me wereI in his shoes – on the whole it kept us with the specific and missed more generalissues – I saw that it gave Steve certainty, which made it marginally easier for himto consider some challenging points.

It would be inaccurate to portray this last session as a teaching success. Despitethe establishment of a level of trust between us, Steve continued to be defensiveand impatient with my feedback. When I was confused by a sentence or scene,despite my couching this in warm and positive terms, he dismissed my suggestionsas he had in the previous session. He wanted to know the ‘right’ answer and note itdown. His objective appeared extrinsic: to do what I said in order to get the marksrather than explore with me how to do justice to his story and let the marks takecare of themselves. Steve was failing to see, and perhaps I did not manage in thefinal session to help him to see, that what was ‘right’ included his own conclusionstogether with my feedback. While I might possess an answer, telling him would nothelp him write his novel. I continue to look at how I can change attitudes likeSteve’s, but part of my learning is to accept that even with more experience I mightnot succeed. Even without anxiety Steve might have found obstacles that prevented

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him learning. However, without teaching knowledge I would not have offered Steveanything valuable after the second unhappy session. I would have decided that theSteves of this world could not be taught to write.

People flourish when trusted and given authority to direct their own learning. Inthis environment they value their work and learn to trust others. Biggs and Tangdescribe this climate as Theory Y. Theory X, they say, assumes students have to bedirected to ‘what to study, attendances need to be checked every lecture…’ (Biggsand Tang 2007, 38). This, they assert, leads to a climate of anxiety. My objectiveas a teacher of creative writing is to help students make their own decisions andsolve problems for themselves during their creative process. Teachers know this,how many writers do?

My tutorial with Steve challenged my Theory Y belief. He ‘flouted’ my assump-tions of trust with attempts to change tutorial times and his need for definitiveanswers to fix in his notebook. He abandoned his fragile authorial autonomy anddemanded I take over. He is perhaps more familiar with a Theory X climate andtherefore more comfortable.

The last session with Steve was an improvement on the second one for severalreasons. I took account of Steve’s anxiety – to finish his novel and get his degree –before we began, and took steps to try to alleviate it before the session as well asduring. I reverted to the original format: addressing each comment rather than usingthe text as a springboard to discuss flagged issues. Immediately, Steve announcedthat he had found my annotations for his previous text useful. He had taken intoaccount much of what we had discussed; his rewriting demonstrated his learning.Despite this, he continued to be unwilling – or perhaps unable – to consider all mysuggestions and allow much exploration. However, now I had some evidence thathe would reflect on our discussion and use what he had learnt. He needed time out-side the session to digest and consider the points I raised and make them his own.

If I had been a more experienced teacher I might have been less rattled bySteve’s persistent transgressions of boundaries and been more flexible in myapproach as the second session began to nose dive. I might have anticipated hisanxiety and avoided the head to head that essentially it became. I cannot necessarilyattribute the rewritten piece Steve brought to the last session to my teaching, but Ido think it helped.

Anne clearly flourishes in a Theory Y setting: she rose to my change inapproach and took up the opportunity to work with me to achieve her end. She fre-quently made major changes to an idea or text after our meetings, not because sheassumed I knew the right answer but because she had considered the points thatcame up in our discussion and drawn a conclusion.

I have been writing fiction for as long as I have been able to hold a pencil butthis is not enough to equip me to work productively with students like Steve orindeed Anne. My teaching experience, my reading, conversations with colleaguesand the mentoring I receive are what enable me to view sessions with Steve asgreat opportunities in my development as a teacher. I was able to be more transpar-ent with Anne than I was with Steve. I felt freer to admit that I might not be rightand this helped us to work together. Steve’s insistence that I follow a strict processmade me less willing to risk admitting when I was not sure. I began to focus onmaintaining my authority at the expense of really working with Steve. I wastempted to subscribe to a Theory X climate: it was less challenging.

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An exercise or discussion that for some opens up possibilities and solutions toissues creates for others anxiety and challenge which prevents learning. Atherton(2011) asserts that new learning involves letting go of previously held knowledgeand assumptions. While not all students come readily equipped to explore ideas andmeet the challenges of being a writer, it is my responsibility to create a learningenvironment which minimises anxiety and maximises curiosity. To do this, I mustrecognise how each of them learns and tailor my teaching appropriately. I did notlearn this through writing fiction, but by continuing to reflect on and practise the artand craft of teaching.

So the question is not: is it possible to teach creative writing? Let’s instead con-sider if a published writer is qualified per se to teach creative writing. Unless theyare willing to learn how to teach alongside their development as a writer, I thinkthey aren’t.

AcknowledgementsThe author of this article would like to thank Juliet Eve and Greg Mosse.

Notes on contributorLesley Thomson is a crime novelist and creative writing teacher. Her first novel, SevenMiles from Sydney, was published in 1987 (Pandora Press). She co-wrote actress SueJohnston’s autobiography Hold on to the Messy Times. She has worked as a journalist,photographer and ghost-writer. A Kind of Vanishing (Myriad Editions, 2007), won ThePeople’s Book Prize in 2010. Her novel The Detective’s Daughter is out in May 2013 (Headof Zeus). She has taught at Sussex University, Northbrook College in Sussex and for theBloomsbury Qatar Foundation. She is principal tutor on Greg Mosse’s Creative Writing MAat West Dean College in Chichester.

ReferencesAdams, L. 2011. Learning a New Skill is Easier Said Than Done [online]. Available at

http://www.gordontraining.com/free-workplace-articles/learning-a-new-skill-is-easier-said-than-done/ (accessed 28.9.2012).

Atherton, J.S. 2011. Doceo; Learning as Loss (Notes) [online]. Available at http://www.doceo.co.uk/original/learnloss_notes.htm (accessed 26.9.2012).

Biggs, J., and C. Tang. 2007. Teaching for Quality Learning at University . 3rd ed.Maidenhead: Open University Press.

Murray, J. 2011. Can you teach creative writing? The Guardian, 10.5 [online]. Available at:http://www.guardian.co.uk/education/2011/may/10/creative-writing-courses (accessed 20.9.2012).

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