What I learned in writing school

Sometimes learning is poignant. It hits your face like a smack of glue and it sticks. Sometimes it’s subtle. People and things go about, and you simply absorb. Last week I was in school to learn about the craft of writing and it was a mix of both. But this, this is about the latter.

***

There were several of us in the group. There were two Elizabeths, both had curly hair, one was immaculately sculpted, the other was frizzy. One was absorbed in culture, any culture, and the worldview of Canada being the epicentre of immigrant culture fascinated her. The other was a matter of fact, Canadian. She said her family line could be traced back to the colonizers. As she told us, she laughed, a little embarrassingly, as if her culture was out of style. The first Elizabeth said she didn’t think people like the second Elizabeth existed anymore.

Tuyn had an aura to her and moved about in a bubble of self-possession. She had a strong grasp of the language and the craft. She knew people. She was smart. She showed keen interest in her own work, a kind of perfectionist rigour that was reserved for herself. She was an immigrant from a faraway place who made Chinatown her permanent home. Her mother, she said, used to buy day-old bread because it was cheap. Her tone carried a mixture of honour and defiance. Her motions were swift and precise. Her smile was generous, providing room for our naivete.

Marion was practical. She had the voice of a radio host and the pragmatism of a city dweller and budget keeper. Her mouth curled in a way that looked like a smile upside down. She mostly smiled, and although it was hard to tell, she did frown at mumble jumble feedback. She had a wicked sense of humour, she was funny even when she wasn’t trying. One day she wore a Mary Poppins kind of dress to class. We complimented her. She thanked us and smiled with what looked like a frown. She was among writers who could appreciate a bright yellow flannel dress with flying books printed all over it.

Our mentor grew up in a tangled family. Her parents were well known journalists. She was an amalgamation of two worlds, of two people who fell in love at one point and then decided that it was more of a fall, an accident, than it was love. She’s a published author and winner of several awards. But she seemed to carry a sadness, a sense of disappointment that her parents bestowed on her as a parting gift. Anger festered inside. She was gentle on the outside. I connected with her the most.

***

These are some of the things I learned last week. A mix of truth and of stuff made up. A mix of getting to know people and imagining things about them. We call it creative non-fiction, apparently. We were each interesting in our own way and brought a kind, honest posture, literally, to the table. I couldn’t have asked for a better group.

They’ve taught me many things, both practical and subtle. But more than anything, they’ve opened my eyes to different kinds of people, the way we exist, and the shapes we inhabit. And when we’re up close, how the curves and the edges echo, how familiar and jarring they feel, and how similar we all are.

Our mentor reminded us gently to craft our characters with empathy, that no person is one dimensional, there is never a pure villain or a flawless hero.

How true is that.