Making a Community that Promotes Creativity
by Sarah Aronson
When I first decided to study the craft of writing, long before I applied to Vermont College of Fine Arts, I enrolled in an online class. The format seemed perfect. The teacher posted weekly lectures and once a week, she invited a few of us to submit. There was a weekly discussion, too.
Unfortunately, I was the only person who submitted anything, and after the first week, no one showed up for the discussion. The lecturer preferred fantasy to contemporary fiction, and I immediately had that sinking feeling that she wished she didn’t have to read my work at all. It was very discouraging. I was a working single mother on a budget. There wasn’t a lot I could afford to do. I felt alienated. Needless to say, the class did not foster my creativity.
Fast forward twelve years, and I am starting to teach my ninth class for writers.com. I recognize that online classes have obvious obstacles and inconveniences, but they also offer amazing opportunities for a wide variety of writers.
What’s the secret?
For me, it is all about creating and maintaining a safe, welcoming community that promotes creativity and self-discovery.
That doesn’t just happen. Like a good chapter or transition, it takes work and commitment and some attention to detail to create the optimal learning environment.
Recently, when I enrolled in a Bikram yoga class, I experienced the power of community firsthand. Bikram yoga is the practice you do in the very hot room. The concept both frightened and intrigued me, but I needed something to kick-start my routine.
Before I introduced myself to the instructor, I almost backed out. I was ready with lots of excuses.
I have very tight muscles.
I’ve never done yoga.
Man, the room was hot. Can I leave if I want to? Has anyone ever had a heart attack?
I was scared. But she wasn’t. She said, “Just do the best you can. You may hate it today, but trust me—your practice will change every time you come in. Every class, listen. Try. Do your best. You will discover new things about yourself. Whatever you do today—it’s perfect.”
I laughed out loud. Almost word for word, this is what I tell my students. When students enroll, I smile (virtually…with a lot of exclamation points), and I remind them that writing (like yoga) is a journey. Then I enforce the following laws. They may seem basic, but by following them, I am able to create a sacred space where every writer learns.
Listen to Miss Manners. In every class, we start by getting to know each other. We talk about our work and our kids and our favorite recipes. We talk about our goals for class and what we love (and hate) about writing.
Structure is freedom. First, I ask my students to say, “I am a writer” and mean it. They need to think and read like writers, and I promise to help give them the tools to do that. Then I insist that we never offer criticism without compliments. Vague comments never help as much as concrete ones do. Most important, I create reading assignments with weekly deadlines. That way, everyone will get the feedback they signed up for.
These rules don’t just keep the class moving; they also foster trust. They defuse fear—as much as we ever can. I feel strongly: If you don’t feel safe, you cannot write.
Humility and participation are important. My best teachers have been humble ones. When they ask us to jump off a cliff, they jump, too. My best teachers are honest about their own careers, the hardships of writing, and the surprises that stem from engaging every day in a process of discovery. They lead by example. They work hard every single day to develop their craft.
Therefore, if I ask my students to submit, I’d better be ready to submit, too. I remind them over and over again: Writing is a skill that takes time to develop. Story comes from imagination and intention. I remind them that I may be the leader, but I am also a student.
Remove obstacles. Of all the reasons I teach online, I am proud to offer a class that is both accessible for working writers and not too expensive. I worry that writers must be rich to afford learning the craft of writing. I am always delighted when writers from diverse backgrounds find me. Readers need all our voices and all kinds of books.
Don’t save your party hat for a sale. In my class, you have to learn to celebrate every step of the process. Try something new? Celebrate. Revise that chapter that was giving you heartache? Celebrate. Whatever you have tried—a new point of view or a new secondary character—pat yourself on the back.
There is no such thing as a stupid question. I know I’m not the first teacher to say this, but I can’t exactly leave it out. Questions lead to discussions. Discussions lead to learning. In class, we read craft books. We cite well-written fiction. We embrace failure. I believe you will never succeed until you do.
Last, everyone needs to eat chocolate. I’m not joking. We all have things we love—things that nourish us. These days, I don’t just write and teach. I take that yoga class. And I like to eat lunch (and gelato) with friends. In a class, I encourage my students to honor who they are and forgive themselves if they can’t accomplish every goal every day. We all need to develop balance. No one writes 24/7. There are times when all of us need to spend a day watching reruns.
Every time a new writer signs up for my class, I remember that writing is hard. I think about the cliffs I’ve leapt from: the first time I wrote a story or applied to Vermont College or met with an editor. I remember the first packets I sent to my advisors. The yoga class.
When we create a warm and safe place to experiment and discuss the craft of writing, we make a productive writing environment not just for our students, but also for ourselves.
