Some very kind words about my classes, and teaching. Thank you so much, Jenn.
My first writing teacher was my high school’s gym teacher. What could go wrong?
There we were: a small group of sensitive, bespectacled book nerds, our heads full of poetry, our thoughts a jumble of hormones and innocence, eager to pursue our dream of becoming a writer.
Toss in an angry meathead who doesn’t want to teach writing or have any respect for the craft. Boom. Mentally dismembered young writers, their unwritten stories bleeding on the linoleum floor, wondering what the hell hit them.
The experience turned me off writing classes for decades. I wrote here and there for the following year, a twinge of remembered horror with every word. That passed with time, and writing became a joy again.
After my first small publications, I wanted my writing to grow further and faster than craft books and critique partners could take me. I took a deep breath and hunted…
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