Getting Schooled
*this blog contains references to sexual assault/abuse that may be triggering for some readers.
When I was just barely twenty-four years old, to my shock, I received a full ride and Graduate Teaching Fellowship in a three-year Master of Fine Arts program in North Carolina. I was in London at the time, with a Cuban sunburn and very worn-out backpack. Given that I assessed most of my work as purple prose doggerel, I suppose I should have trusted loved ones who told me I had real talent as a writer, editor, and writing coach. True, I had browbeaten drunk friends into poetry writing/reading sessions in winter basements in high school and I had come up for oxygen next in small-class creative writing workshops in college. But I majored in International Relations, activism, and partying. Applying to MFAs felt almost not worth the postage.
To say that we were thrown to the wolves as Graduate Teaching Fellows would be a cliché, but fits. A week of pedagogical droning from our graduate professors, a quick section on ethics, and suddenly I was standing in front of about twenty 18-, 19-, and 20-year-olds, about to conduct my first creative writing workshop. To further complicate my fears, prior to the first workshop, three students had volunteered to share essays for workshop by email so we could hit the ground running. One was about the death of a grandmother. One was about surfing. One was from a male student about being repeated raped by a family member for years.
Even though I had been writing through my own myriad traumas (and dramas) for a decade already, I hadn’t expected this somehow. I took the kid aside during a break and admitted that although I was humbled and glad that he felt safe enough to share this piece of his story, I didn’t know what to do with it other than treat it to the group criticism (and praise) that we would any other piece. As people yelled and laughed and bustled around us, as Carolina’s September heat painted sweat on my brow, what he told me has stuck in my hippocampus prominently ever since.
“Eli, if I can turn this into the most powerful piece of art possible, I will be happy—I will be healing.”
And so that’s what I did. And the other students came with incredible respect and caution, but also caught the wave that me and this kid were riding and gave insightful, actionable, genuine feedback.
And we were off. Most of the manuscripts I helped students develop were about trauma and, from what I could tell, the manuscripts themselves - and the action of writing and refining them - were working to help integrate and heal these young writers (myself included).
There is something special that happens when we write about our trauma and our loss. This seems obvious from my seat in 2024, but back then, it hit me like a comet.
Now I would say: Writing, editing, revising, coaching, polishing, and sharing one’s story, with the right guidance and support, is absolutely healing.
I haven’t stopped working in writing and healing since then, even during my twelve-year chapter as a psychotherapist. Prior to that, I worked in places where the notion of creating beauty from suffering was crucial: domestic violence shelters, juvenile detentions, psychiatric hospitals, inner city high schools, and more.
And here I am ready for more - to turn partially away from psychotherapeutic theories and interventions and protocols - and back toward people with a pen and a hunger, whether it be for healing or exploration, be it for joy or for agony, be it for humor or thrill.
Are you interested in joining me on this writing journey toward healing?
If so, let’s chop it up with a free 30-minute consultation to get to know each other and see if we’re a good fit.