On the lessons I learn in teaching creative writing, and the sense of creative collaboration it brings
I truly adore teaching creative writing, but my natural curiosity about other people means I learn a lot in the process, too
I will be back in England in September for a few days and am excited to be hosting two memoir writing retreats in Oxfordshire. These are going to be extra special dates, as I’ll be hosting them from my old house! These will take place on Tuesday 17th September (a handful of spaces remain on this date, after being filled from a waiting list), and Wednesday 18th September, a date which I have just added. I would like to offer my Substack subscribers priority booking - and a flat rate - to join me on one of these really special days. If you are interested, please email theresa@cloverstroud.com with the subject line ‘ Writing Retreat - Substack’ and she will send you all the details.
At the weekend something quite significant happened during my writing process, and it made me think about the creative process, and the quiet ways in which other people collaborate in it.
Last week, I mentioned I don’t really like giving new writing the frankly terrifying title of “my new book” and instead tell myself I am working on “some new writing.” This helps me feel less scared when I sit down to write; it’s incredibly motivating too, reminding me that writing is a creative process. There is something more playful about sitting down to ‘some writing’ than to go into battle with ‘my new book.’
Anyway, by Friday I’d got a significant chunk of words written - close to 20k - and so I decided to share them with Pete, for the first time. This is always nerve wracking. Until then, they had been a secret I was keeping to myself. My editor is in on that secret, of course, but in the very early days of writing, it’s basically just me and the page in an intense relationship with one another that no-one else really knows about.
Much of what I write is deeply confessional, and this new bit of writing more so than ever, since it’s about sex, marriage and commitment. I’m taking certain risks every time I write like this, but it was incredibly gratifying, and a massive relief, to be able to show him what I’ve written, and share with him some new ways of expressing things which I am trying out with this draft.
It really, really matters to me that each book does new things, and that I take myself to new places as I write it. These places are often quite uncomfortable, even scary, places to be, but I’m constantly curious about the process. Of course I want my writing to be compelling and interesting for the reader, but I cannot think too much about “the reader” when I start writing. Instead, I have to write what I need to express. Writing for a certain market, with a certain “reader” in mind, is, I think (for me at least), a dead end street. I need to be able to take risks in my writing, and if you are constantly worrying about whether something will land creatively, you cannot perform the necessary tight rope that real creative expression demands. So often that means writing in a fairly private place. Like dancing when no one’s looking, maybe: you just have to give it your all, throw everything at it, and allow yourself to try new shapes, new rhythms, new steps, without worrying if you look ridiculous or out of time or just… crazy?
And as a result there’s a challenge in striking the right balance between working away alone, and sharing work with the outside world. I know from previous experience that it’s really important NOT to talk about a book too much during the process of writing it. I love talking about writing and process, and would happily chat away about what it is I’m writing and how I’m trying to express it to pretty much anyone who asks.
But based on previous experiences, I know this is a dangerous thing to do, since a kind of dilution of creativity can take place at that point. I have found that the more I talk about the idea of writing, the less powerful and potent that idea becomes. The dilution of an idea means it can drift away into nothing, if you’re not careful.