Mim Kagol

Thoughts for Young Writers

I decided I might be a writer when I was about 10 or 11 years old. That ambition was actually a ways down on my list of career aims, after fashion designer, hairstylist, A&W root beer stand carhop (oh, those were the days!), cowgirl and horse trainer. And as is often the case with youthful aims and speculations, most of those dreams went by the wayside. By high school, writer was still on the list. However, in college, when I realized I was destined to be a teacher, creative writing became a thing I did now and then. The more I taught (my calling was high school English, a great venue in which to learn about writing) and the more passionate I was about teaching well, the more I realized I didn't have the time, stamina and ambition to aim to be a published writer. 

Yet I call myself a writer. Well, I do have some modest creds. I retired after a rewarding 35-year teaching career, and now I have more time (and desire) to write. I have had a few poems and creative nonfiction pieces published in local and regional chapbooks or anthologies, and believe me—it is a thrill to receive a phone call or letter that opens with "Congratulations! We are happy to accept your ...," even if that message doesn't come from The New Yorker or Poetry Magazine. To know that someone else read your writing and was moved—to think, feel or act—is very gratifying, and especially so if that someone is an editor and thinks his or her readers would value it as well. And herein lies an important aspect of being a writer, worthy of a new paragraph.

A writer needs an audience. An immediate, present audience, at first, before you think about reaching the whole world. It could be there in your school's creative writing class, among others whose hearts and minds are in the same place as yours. Besides such a class, there are writing opportunities for young people in your community: your school district's Community Education program, religious centers, libraries, summer camps and other venues offer writing classes and experiences. Check them out; see if you feel comfortable. (Cautionary note: Be wary of online meet-ups with strangers.)

You could join a writing group, or make your own, something that meets regularly and agrees to treat its members with honesty and respect. I am enrolled in one that I think of as a professional group: members pay a weekly fee to be in the class, and most of them are serious poets, some of whom have published books and/or won notable awards, while others are just serious in our intent to work well with words in order to discover what we want to say. The teacher is a local poet of renown and was a highly esteemed, and adored, university instructor, now retired, but a teacher forever. Her generous wisdom inspires me every day.

Another of my groups is more informal, meeting in our homes or coffee shops, and right now happens to be peopled with prose writers who are pursuing fiction and memoir. As the poet in the group, I learn something from them every time I share my work: what they like, what they challenge, what they don't understand–in short, what works and what doesn't. That latter is so very helpful: when a poem is met with a "Hmmmm...," a "Wait, what??" or just polite silence, I know I have two choices: Either I decide I don't care if they don't like it, because I do, or I realize it needs more work. I can explain all I want why I did what I did, but if they're not buying it, I try to respect that and learn from it.

The other thing this intimate audience, whether class or group, can offer is voices. (Incidentally, these past two pandemic years have muted or garbled those voices somewhat, but Zoom deserves honor and praise for keeping groups going.) First, you get to read your work aloud. Your ear will catch things you didn't intend. Second, you get the voices of others' works, and there is always something to learn in them. And third, you have a space for others to read your work, aloud, for you. Hearing other voices give your words back to you can reveal where there's a stumble or hesitation, where there's a beautiful flow, where there's repetition (effective, or tiresome), where there's something between the lines you hadn't realized was there, and often, when the piece needs to go back into the notebook to be studied another day.

There is it is, a short course from a maybe-not-so-retired teacher, distilled into two assignments: Find audiences to write for and thus teach you, and find voices to speak so you can hear. Notice how entwined they are: The first embodies the second, the audience literally hears. 

Okay, class is over. I appreciate having this chance to share my thoughts and hope it's been helpful. I do believe that when the work is done well, it offers meaning and joy. I hope you get some of that, too.