Kevin Fitton, a former student of mine,  contacted me recently to tell  he’s been writing. I have so enjoyed our correspondence, I’ve decided to post one of his letters (with his permission) as my first guest blog.

Kevin pastors and is the author of a forthcoming children’s book, Higher Ground, the story of a Vermont dairy farm which lost part of its herd in the flooding that followed Hurricane Irene.  The publisher is The Radiant Hen, and will be illustrated by award winning artist Mary Azarian.

Kevin Fitton reflects here in his letter to me on his experience as an undergrad in the Hope College creative writing program—what he learned, what he wished he’d learned, and what he knows now.

LESSON #1:  SURFACE ACTION VS. UNDERLYING MEANING.

I’m not sure why I had so much trouble grasping the difference between the surface level of action which is propelling the story forward versus the underlying meaning which gives the story its emotional resonance.  But clearly, I didn’t grasp the difference.  And I suppose, based on the stuff my peers were writing, they didn’t really get it either.  At some point, perhaps several years after leaving Hope, I recalled you saying, “Your character has to have a project.”  Somehow, that began to make sense to me.  For example, I recently wrote a story that was about a young man who, more than anything else, needed to grow up and learn to see outside himself.  This time, though, I gave him a project.  He decided that he wanted to become a farmer, and it was as he headed out on this journey that he began to understand (in some ways) that his view of the world was both idealistic and narcissistic.  I am also currently working on a story about a divorced man who is trying to re-discover a sense of purpose in his life.  For this story, I used a day-in-the-life structure where he decides with a friend that they are going to “get laid” before the end of the year.  And, of course, while he doesn’t find what he thinks he’s looking for, he does find something of what he needs.

If I were sitting in a classroom with students, I suppose the most helpful thing I could do for them would be to layer example upon example in an attempt to illustrate the difference between the action and the meaning of the story.  I know you did this with us, but for some reason it is very difficult to penetrate the brain of the student-writer.  This is something else which I am coming to see that I couldn’t wrap my mind around 10 years ago: the student writer is, most often, in love with language, and is interested in shaping words, phrases, and scenes, but does not want to respond to the needs of the reader .  For the student writer, to focus on the needs of the reader feels like selling out.  This, then, is another thing that I would seek to communicate to student-writers: that the writer must write for the reader rather than for the self.  Writing is a form of communication, and good communication is something which speaks to its audience.  I would tell student writers that writing for the self (aside from journaling, perhaps) is selfish, that it misses the point, and forgets that we all began are journey into writing as readers.

Furthermore, to write and make a connection with an audience is deeply rewarding.  My first book is a children’s picture book.  This is not a form that I was interested in until I began reading books to my own children.  When I began reading with my children, two thoughts occurred to me.  The first is that I was discovering some great writing in some of these books.  Of course, some of the writing is atrocious, but some is fantastic.  And I realized, as I worked through this whole library of books, that what I loved more than anything isn’t the high and mighty novel but the well-told story.  Great stories make me want to leap out of my seat even (or perhaps especially) when that story is simple enough to be understood by a 3-year-old.

My other discover in coming to kids’ books (we’re now into a lot of chapter books with my 5-year-old) is that kids are a great audience for writers because they read.  Adults are often too busy, too self-important, too worried to sit down and read a good book, especially a book that does “nothing more” than tell a story.  I began writing stories for children, then, because I wanted to find an audience, and I have to say, having an audience has made me a better writer, and it has made my writing much more fulfilling.  Of course, a book doesn’t have to be published to be worthwhile; a story doesn’t have to be picked up by the New England Review to have merit.  That’s not the point.  The point is that the audience is an important part of this equation, and writers should write toward an audience, because that orientation will benefit their writing as well as complete the process through which the story is intended to travel.

One of my goals these days is to write well, to work my piece until it is truly ready for an audience (which always takes more effort than we anticipate), and then to find some sort of home for that piece, where it will be read.  Maybe it will end up with Houghton-Mifflin; maybe it will end up in the smallest of all literary journals; maybe it will be read at a campfire among a group of friends.  The point is that I no longer write for my self but write, as much as possible, so that the process is completed by telling really good stories and finding a place where those stories will be shared.

One of my students, S., sent me a really great letter. At great wonderful length she said she had learned so much about writing this past year. I munched on the compliments—as lovely as a candy bar. (I am trying to enjoy nice things said to me at least as much as I burn in the opposite scenario. The goal is to stay neutral in both hard light and beautifying light, but I’m just a baby beginner with that practice. So, I indulged, I relished.) And then I called her up.

“If you could say the most important thing you learned, what would it be?”

S. is bright as a rocket—she said immediately, “I learned to leave things out. It’s all about what you leave out.”

I wrote this down on a post it and hung it over my desk.

There are a couple of things that are interesting here. First, when you teach, you really have no idea exactly what is coming through. Teaching is just like writing in this way. People are going get what they need.  Their intelligence is going to combine with the material and create these amazing sparks.  The teacher has little to do with this, really. Teaching is so creative and energizing and takes such a similar focus to writing. So, when I teach a poem, the students see and know things only they can know. I thought it was so cool that I have never said “you must leave things out” to S. But that’s what she learned.

Second, when we say “we learn so much from our students” I think this is what we mean. They take the teachings, which aren’t ours, they are handed down from previous teachers, and they add on. The interpret and re-make and refine the teachings.

I’m blown away by “leave things out.”  There is a real hoarding thing that goes on in writing—an impulse to tell everything, say it all, wedge in every coyote, every slight, and also, there is this thing about my mother! I think it really fits!

S. is tough. She is actually a cowboy in her real life. I love that she brought me this prize lesson. Writing is about what you leave out. It’s about choosing only a few—very very few—elements, and arranging them in a beautiful way.

So much the opposite of what we think when we go to a writing class.  Not learning to write—we already write.  Learning to shut up. To contain. To hold. To arrange. To not say. To leap. To focus. To leave most of it out.

Thank you S.!

I’m thinking about the value of classes, creative writing classes in particular. I do wish every student took one writing class because in this class, we practice a hard hard thing: delayed gratification. It’s one of the most powerful lessons to be learned in writing class and it is an old lesson, but it’s hard to learn in the new world, the instant-connect world of Facebook and Full Text Articles, the world where love, delight, stimulation, and entire term papers and universes are clickable. You can get a lot on a screen and you can get it really really really fast.

Some of the great things that come in life—garden fruits, cardiovascular health, money, lasting love, osso bucco, good wine, faith, deep friendship—come very slowly, over time.  And these great things don’t just arrive, and stay. There are good things that only stay good with careful attention, daily attention; they require a constant tending.  Constant tending is really hard to do.

Creative writing class teaches the deep practice of delayed gratification. Practicing making poems and stories demands a focus of mind and heart. You can’t just do it a little bit, you have to keep doing it, and you don’t really get good results right away. It takes a long time to feel the rewards. The deeper you practice, the deeper the rewards.

More than the booklets of wonderful writing each student takes home from creative writing class, it’s this process of focusing when it’s really hard to focus because nothing appears to be happening that transforms the writing student.  I believe in the transformative power of this practice. I believe that learning how to stay with something meaningful, something that isn’t giving immediate “hits”, steadies us for the long haul, allows for more complex problem solving, and leads to a kind of maturity that helps us in relationship, at work, out on the field and court.  Parenting is delayed gratification. Just like a poem.

It’s about learning how to practice something.

My friend Theodora has had an incredibly life-limiting fear of heights her whole life. One day, she read my book, about how I finally decided to get help for my own life-limiting condition, face blindness. She was inspired to hire a professional to help her get over her fear. Theodora and her therapist used CBT, cognitive behavioral therapy, to manage the anxiety. In CBT, you make a list of scary places. Then, you put the list in order of least scary to most scary. Then, you and your therapist go to the places, in order.  In ten sesions, Theodora felt herself cured! She could stand on the balcony of a one hundred ten story building, and manage her anxiety, lean on the railing, and enjoy the view!

But here’s the rub.  You have to keep practicing.  You aren’t just cured and then a month later you walk across a rope bridge over the Grand Canyon.  You are never done.  You have to practice the techniques every single day.

A cure is essentially a new habit.  Good writing, the cure for bad writing or non-writing, is essentially practicing writing every day.

Most days, you aren’t going to “feel” any different. But if you write every day, or practice anything every day, and you check in every month, every year, you will be amazed at what you can do!