Why Do We Write Together?
Hi friends!
First, about 150 new people have signed up for this little newsletter over the course of the summer—welcome! This is where I share updates about my editing and consulting work, as well as my thoughts about what makes writing sustainable and fun (like hosting solo writing retreats and the case for starting more than you finish). Everyone I work with gets added to the newsletter, but always feel free to unsubscribe if this isn’t your jam! If it is your jam, and you want to help me get 150 more readers, you can feel free to share it as well!
Today, I want to talk about something that’s been on my mind a lot lately—why we write in community. But first, a few announcements…
2024 writing retreats! And other ways to write together
Writing Retreats! The fabulous Mirya Holman of MHAWS and I are hosting another MEE Centered Writing Retreat!! That’s right! You can come write with us January 2-6, 2024 in the Texas Hill Country, one of my favorite places in all the world. All the goal setting. All the writing sessions. All the snacks. All the firepits and stargazing. The details are all here and the application is here, and I’m happy to answer any questions or brainstorm ways to get your university to pay for this. (Bonus: we are planning our next summer writing retreat in Mexico City and the application has information about that as well!)
Only a few seats left in the fall Writers’ Circles! I only have a few places left in our fall Writers’ Circles! I’m hosting two circles: Mondays from 12-130 eastern (1 seat left), and Tuesdays from 12-130 eastern (2 seats left), and we’ll do a group co-writing session from 11-2 on Fridays. More information is here, and the application form is here. Also, you can use the application form to indicate that you’re interested in participating for spring!
Spring editing! This is a great time to set up a time for us to work together in the spring—let me know if you’d like to get on my editing calendar for mid-January and beyond.
We can do hard things
I spent time with my parents in Austin over the summer, and my childhood best friend (I met her and her twin sister on my sixth birthday!) came to visit for a few days. Behind my parent’s house is a huge community pool like the ones you see in the movies…and it has a high dive. Cyrus had made it his goal to jump from the high dive this summer (mission accomplished), and Alma made it her goal to pass the swim test to jump from the normal-but-still-pretty-high dive (also accomplished).
Of course the kids wanted Selda to come to the pool, and of course wanted her to jump off the diving boards with them. So, being the fun aunt, Selda agreed to jump off the high dive…and then she got to the top and kind of froze (sorry they made you do this, friend!)
And then Alma shouted “Aunt Selda, we can do hard things!” (How is my five-year-old quoting Glennon Doyle? I have no idea). And all three kids started chanting “Sel-da! Sel-da!” And…she did it! She walked up to the edge, jumped off, and the whole pool started cheering. Texas is basically just one giant after school special.
The gift of space
What does this charming story have to do with writing? Selda didn’t need us to tell her how to dive—she knew how. What she needed, in that moment, was a little bit of peer-pressure from some tiny kids, and the space to make the decision that diving was something she could do.
I’ve become convinced that the most useful thing we can do for each other as writers is to create communities that give you whatever space you need to get things done. And right now, as the semester is starting and everything is feeling exhausting, is the time to create that space.
I was ABD when Cyrus was born, and my parents gave me an amazing gift: money earmarked to hire a babysitter a few hours a day, a few days a week, as long as I used that time to write my dissertation. They were worried I would be so overwhelmed by parenthood (who isn’t?) that I wouldn’t defend. This did two things for me: it obviously provided resources I needed to pay for childcare, and it also meant that I was publicly committing to consistently working on the dissertation. They gave me the gift of space to finish writing—it took me 15 months, but I did. (Thanks Mom and Dad!)
I’m hosting one of our five-day writing challenges this week, and I’ve gotten so much done on my book just because I made a public commitment to write every day. There’s something comforting and motivating about knowing that people all over the world are also spending the week writing. I don’t need advice, at this point, about what to do with the book: I just need the solidarity of other people committing to write together for the next week.
Why do we write together?
When we write in community—whether a weekly accountability text thread with your grad school besties, or a Slack channel where you post your progress, a writing circle where you meet with the same folks every week, or a retreat where you close the doors to the world for awhile and write—you’re creating the space you need in order to put writing before everything else.
These groups also neutralize imposter syndrome, because what you’re writing is your own business. People aren’t judging your ideas—they are trusting that you know how to get things done, and just need the space to work it out. We get messages all.the.time from academia—the toxic senior faculty member, Reviewer 2, that guy in the audience at the conference—that we can’t do it, that we don’t belong here, that it’s too hard for us, that we’re taking up space.
There is room and reason for critique partners and peer review (though that senior faculty member should just retire already). And of course there is value in having people who can engage with you on the merit of your ideas at workshops, conferences, book talks, etc. Editors and coaches exist for a reason. But as much as we need all of these things, we also need space. We need a place that those voices don’t exist where we can just write through it.
There’s something magical about having a group of people who have never met in person cheer because Oxford is sending a members’ book out for review (yay Hana!), because they’ve been so invested in that person’s writing process they can’t wait for the book to be in the world.
There’s also something magical about looking around a table at eleven people who have given themselves the gift of time to come together and do nothing but write—and realizing that, even though it’s hard, this kind of community is vital to the creative process.
Most of the writers I work with don’t actually need me to teach them anything—they need someone who knows them, knows their work, and is on the sidelines saying “this is going to be great.”
So this fall, find your community—maybe through other faculty at your school, maybe friends from grad school, maybe the online pop-up writing challenges or writers’ circles or giving yourself the gift of a writing retreat. Give yourself the space you need to do hard things. You don’t need anyone to teach you how to dive—you just need people to believe that taking the leap is possible.
You can all do hard things!
PS - Selda and I are taking the kids to Coney Island this afternoon for an end-of-summer celebration. Alma asked me if Selda would take her on the Wonder Wheel. I texted to ask, and Selda texted back “Listen, I’ll consider it, but I HATE Ferris wheels. Seriously. I think they’re terrifying.” I’ll fill you in on what happens, but sometimes the hard thing you have to do is say no to a five-year-old, and just offer to buy cotton candy instead.