The first meeting of the writing class was on Saturday morning. The introduction email did not arrive until the previous afternoon. Jane, our instructor, apologized for sending it at the last minute as she was not feeling well. This was immediately followed by the class instructions. It ran ten pages long, in which the format of the class and the expectations from us were listed in exacting details.
I often thought going to an adult class is like going to a fitness class offered at a resort. You get some workout; you learn some techniques. But mostly, their objective is to make paid customers feel good. I went through the instructions; this does not feel like a resort.
Rule 1: every week, you are paired with a new partner.
Rule 2: you write and send the writing to your partner everyday. A day ends at 12am.
Rule 3: respond to your partner’s write; positive feedback only.
Rule 4: you must write seven days a week without fail.
The writing class was open to people of all skill levels, from newbies to serious writers. I was not sure what I expected out of this. I would not call myself an aspiring writer. This sounds too aspirational. Instead, I thought my writings needed some improvement. Besides, it was recommended to newly divorced people to pick up some hobbies and to meet new people as a way to rebuild their life. That was how I came to register in Jane’s class.
About 15 of us gathered in a living room for the first class (it was Jane’s home). The tall red brick wall was richly decorated with pictures and paintings. This is a home of culture. There were plenty of snacks and fruits in the kitchen prepared for us. People settled down on an odd mix of sofas, chairs and stools. They were from all kinds of backgrounds. There was a chef, an executive, and many retirees. Jane was not there. Instead, we had Suzy as the substitute. She gave us a writing prompt. We took out our notepad and scribed away. I had found out it was not unusual for people to return to this class again and again, some had even been there for years. Suzy herself was one of the long time student.
After the initial meeting, we returned home to continue the rest of the class online. The first writing prompt was “At one point in time…”. It triggered an old piece of memory from my college days. It was one specific evening. I recalled the sight and sound, even the smell from the episode. I put the story into words and then hit the send button. I was off to a great start. Somehow, my mood was noticeably elevated after writing this.
Other days, I sat in front of the computer looking at the blank space that should be filled with my writing. It was supposed to be a 15 minute exercise. My partner was expecting my write. I jiggled my brain trying to force it to dispense some words.
“You will write 15 minutes a day, NO MORE. These are meant to be raw, unedited writes.”
What was taught in the class? It certainly did not teach any grammar, nor any craft, nor any technique. I thought it did not teach anything. Her primary pedagogy device was her whip. EVERY DAY MEANS SEVEN DAYS A WEEK. This was accompanied by regular motivational quotes and essays, often to echo the purpose.
A week after the class started, Suzy gave us the sad news. Jane has passed away. It was revealed that she was battling with cancer for some time. Still, she was teaching classes and running her writing school in the best way she could. Suzy officially took over the class. The writing must go on.
Given the class was done online, Jane’s messages were easy to replay. Suzy often relayed her quotes in honor of her. Another long time student has collected ten years of conversations. There were a lot of quotes to select from. Her presence in the class has continued in spirit.
I did all my writes, seven days a week, without fail. They were not meant to be good but rather unedited writing. Nevertheless, to put thoughts into concrete words has a profound effect on me. I have revisited my past experiences, tried to pin down fleeting emotions, written fictions and counterfactuals. I wanted to tell a story. This was better than therapy.
In a clearing under a redwood grove, about 100 people, friends, colleagues and students, gathered for Jane’s memorial. I met Suzy again. Two other students were also there. People recounted memories of her and the writing school she started. They recited poetry that she loves. I have not met Jane in person. Our paths have not actually crossed; they were so close. Regardless, she has inspired me and taught me the expressive power of writing.