Why I Love AWA
The summer and fall workshop schedule
This newsletter begins with me waxing rapturous about The Amherst Writers & Artists Method. Next is a piece I wrote about my dental hygienist. Then a glimpse at the summer and fall workshop offerings. A little something for (hopefully) everyone.
Oh, and stay tuned because AWA is getting ready to launch their own Substack…
One of the most rewarding aspects of writing with the Amherst Writers method is the invisible yet tangible forcefield it provides to keep writers safe. Safe to write honestly and with vulnerability, knowing their work is listened to in a particularly unique fashion. Although it may sometimes appear clear that the writing is memoir-inspired, we listen to the writing; for what is memorable or captivating, how a particular craft is effectively utilized, what was moving, how universal the sentiment, and so on. Never, ever any suggestions to change or edit, never any questions about how the content might apply to the writer. In a way, we take the “writer” out of the equation to focus solely on the strengths of a freshly minted piece.
After losing my literary confidence the AWA method gave me what I needed to jump back in.
I’ve written about the method before, I know, but when I listen to the writers in my workshops, or in any AWA workshop, I’m struck again and again by the vulnerability exhibited in the writing, and how each person is held with deep respect as they are offered strength-based feedback. It creates an intimacy I find profoundly touching.
Now onto one of my latest pieces that isn’t particularly vulnerable. The prompt I offered had to do with pharmaceuticals. So, true to the “rule” that one needn’t follow the suggested prompt, I wrote about a recent visit to my dental hygienist.
For what it’s worth:
Mathilda flashes bright like a neon OPEN sign. She is from Romania, a rare naturopathic dental hygienist. No fluoride. We discuss its known harmful effects.
She repeats, “Good. Good. This is good,” as she taps my teeth, her little silver mirror exploring the minutiae of the mysteries therein. “So good. You’ve done so well,” she tells me regarding my flossing and brushing. I’m missing four teeth, have I-don’t-know-how-many crowns, and one permanent bridge that’s been redone twice. But apparently, I’m doing well.
She remembers everything I’ve shared in previous visits, and between probes and after rinsing she asks after my son, the novel, retreats. She tells me about the book she’s been writing for fifteen years. Hmhm, I murmur sympathetically, because I’m no stranger to a book that takes fifteen years to write. But she isn’t complaining; she’s bubbling.
Then, on to toothpaste. This is where it gets interesting.
When she was a child in Romania—not so long ago by my estimation, since she appears to be in her mid-forties—toothpaste came in lead tubes. I startle up and she laughs. “When they were empty,” she says, her face fluorescent, “we moulded the lead into figurines. We made parties with the dolls.” Lead dolls.
Pompeii’s sophisticated water and irrigation system had a tragic flaw—all the pipes were lined with or made of lead. So Vesuvius’s ash would have been the final solution to madness resulting from poisoned water.
I regard Mathilda, her fingers recreating her long-ago toys, as she describes the fun they had, their creativity. She is animated and knowledgeable about all things dental. She scrubs my tongue, runs floss between my remaining teeth, and hands me Xylitol toothpaste in a tube that may or may not have aluminum layered inside plastic.
I’m off to Spain tomorrow. After three days in Barcelona, we’re off to Andalusia where I’ll be leading a 10-day writing retreat. This may be my last one. Although I adore these international retreats, I’m just one person and I’m a bit tired. I’ll be travelling to Italy afterwards—first to Rome, then Rimini and Puglia. After this brutal winter, I am so looking forward to this time of respite and fun.
When I return, I have a full schedule of workshops up on the site. A little something for everyone.
Several two-hour online workshops every month.
One Saturday each month features an in-depth four-hour session.
Explore archetypal traits for your characters in 4 bi-weekly sessions - June 26 to August 7 or August 21 to October 2
The following series is available as a package or as individual sessions:
June 30 - Hemingway's Iceberg Method
July 14 - Braided or Personal Essay/poem
July 28 - Character-building techniques
August 11 - Jack Grapes Image Moment to build tension
August 25 - Long-Armed poem or prose
September 8 - The Freewheeling Mind & Word Play.
Excited for your trip to Spain. I spent part of my youth in Spain and those three years growing up there feel like twenty. Spain delights me. Have fun and happy writing.