Today was the next-to-last class for the current run of my Creative Non Fiction course. I don’t talk much about my classes here. That’s because for any person taking a writing (or any kind of art) class, there is a level of personal risk invested. For lots of people, just signing up for a class like this requires a measure of courage. Whatever kind of art you make, it’s part of you. And when you share that art or even your own special process of making it, that’s like baring a part of yourself for what is to you, scrutiny and judgement. My job as facilitator is to create a safe space in the hopes that people will take those kinds of risks and take their art to a new level. I like to think of those classrooms as a nest: where ideas are born and fostered, where the world is not allowed in until those ideas are let loose to fly.
I know what the rewards are for anyone who dares tell a story, that’s why I do it. And being able to participate in the unfolding of a story is a greater gift than its new (or old) writer could ever know.
If I’m honest, after twelve weeks I am looking forward to getting Saturdays back for awhile. But, as always, I’m also thinking I’m really going to miss spending Saturdays with a group of people who have grown and evolved into something very special. Kind of like a snowflake – most beautiful and utterly unique. Today I’m feeling like I’ve grown a bit more, and that I’ve got an even greater appreciation for the story than I did when I came in. Each person in this class has contributed a little bit more to who I am – as a faciliator, and as a person. I couldn’t be more grateful.