Writing Courses, Circles, and All That Jazz!

“All writers are weirdly special”

Fall 2022

In the fall of 2022, because of my rude son, I registered for an English class, signed up for a creative writing course, and joined a province wide writing circle. I turned my divided attention towards learning of other ways of getting published, improving my writing skills and, along the way, I met some weirdly special people.

Believe it or not, I still had a bit of writer’s ego left in me. When my daughter helped me register for my very first online university English class, she chuckled while accepting a friendly bet—I was confident that I would beat the 81% she had earned in the same class just the year before.

I’m not ashamed to admit that I found the English class utterly brutal. My imaginary online university professor offered no help, ignored my follow-up questions, and avoided my emails when I sought more information or attention.

Admitting to your child that you were wrong is one of the most humbling experiences for any parent—especially when that child is my beautiful, spirited, and cocky mini-me daughter. Once again, the university course put me in my place, by challenging me at every turn. I poured my energy into sharpening my writing skills by tackling tricky grammar assignments, and painstakingly crafting not one, but three essays. And finally—thank the bloody universe—having to endure a four-hour online final exam, dissecting A Christmas Carol by Charles Dickens. I passed the class with a hard-earned 65%.

I found the creative writing course more enjoyable and interesting. Easily driving the two hours to Regina each month to sit among my peers. Then to listen intently to their crafted stories they would read aloud during the three-hour class. It was then that I began to notice a common trait among all wannabe writers—we are weirdly special.

I’m referring to the handsome, aloof gentleman with the salt and pepper hair that I plopped down beside uninvited, who immediately stiffened and narrowed his grey-blue eyes down at me with great suspicion. It was only after I had badgered him with nonstop small-talk before and after one class that he finally broke down and spoke to me.

Or, that elderly, elegant, well-dressed lady with her perfectly styled silver hair who wore the darkest shade of red lipstick. During one class in particular, a lively debate ensued about writing family histories, especially when discovering secrets of long-past relatives. “Wasn’t that the springboard of any writer’s journey? Why wouldn’t one write about it?” I asked. At the end of class, this regal lady took me gently by the arm and pulled me aside to whisper in my ear, “Maybe it’s not your story to tell?” Which left me rethinking everything I had ever written in my entire life—God Bless her!

I have to say that my circle of writing cohorts that were strung out across the province were the absolute best!

Our Writing Circle would meet once a month for an afternoon on Zoom. During the three and a half-hour session, we would kindly critique each other’s work, but mostly we would cheer each other on. We discussed the mannerisms of raccoons, the pain of writing about drug addiction, the imprint of an unforgettable mother and who could forget that steamy forbidden love affair between the two…. oops, sorry, not my story to tell.

This diverse, talented group of writers was truly something weirdly special.

In June 2024, I drove to Regina to meet up with all of them in the backyard of our newest member, a gentleman with kind eyes and silver hair who generously offered his backyard oasis for us to gather in person.

When I got up to leave, one of my mentors (you know who you are) pulled me aside to offer a possible solution to my obvious frustration with all the rejections I had been receiving.

“Instead of traditional publishing, maybe you should look into hybrid publishing?” She suggested.

I scrunched up my face, but before I could respond, she gently patted my arm.

“There is no doubt in my mind that you will one day get published. But maybe not in the way you think. I’m just suggesting that maybe hybrid is the way for you to go.”

I admired this beautiful, wise, soft-spoken lady. Not just because of her mind-blowing writing, but because of her unwavering support. Since joining the group, she had taken the time on several occasions to email me personally, encouraging me when, at times, I found myself literary spiralling.

So, based on this weirdly special person, I began to research, then meet with hybrid publishers across Saskatchewan during the summer months. To just see if hybrid publishing was maybe my way to go.

After several emails back and forth with one hybrid company that was conveniently close to home, and just when I was about to sign on their dotted line, the universe sent me another sign.

A black rose.

Coming up next: What Means More Than a Red Rose? (spoiler alert: A Black one.)