Georgina Parfitt talks about the expected and unexpected benefits of joining a writing class

When I started studying fiction, I signed up for every class I could; I just wanted to sit in a room and be allowed to talk and think about stories. 

I knew what I was craving. I wanted to be noticed, by these mysterious teachers who had written books. I wanted them to tell me I was doing well; even just that what I was writing counted as a story. I also wanted to meet other people who were thinking about stories — a roundtable of fiction writers seemed like the surest leg-up I could think of for finding good new friendships. And, I just wanted the motivation — I knew if I had somewhere to be every week, at a certain time, and something expected of me, that I would be able to churn out a draft, an edit, whatever was needed. 

My time in fiction classes did give me all these things, many times over, and they were just as rewarding as I’d hoped. But now that I’ve spent a large portion of my life in rooms like these, I can also pinpoint some things they gave me that I didn’t know I needed. 

Appropriate feedback

The word “appropriate” would never have entered my head back when I started applying for writing classes, but the biggest helping hand any fiction teacher has given me is to see where I’m at in my work, and to give me tangible, usable ways forward. In my first class, I didn’t know how to structure anything. I didn’t need plot advice or editing tips; I needed questions and curiosity. I needed to know what a reader was interested in — I needed to know what to do more of. 

By my twentieth class, I had the ingredients of a story, and I began to need a different kind of feedback. My teachers got deeper into the weeds of my writing, and began to pick out my patterns. They questioned me about style and consequences and character. I learned how to defend my writing, or how to change it for the better. 

A safe place to open up

I didn’t realise how much of writing fiction was exploring very personal feelings. Opinions and politics and experiences — all seemed to seep into my writing, and having a safe environment, where I could unravel these feelings, surrounded by people who were also opening up, was a joyful, deeply fulfilling part of writing class.

Permission to play

I had previously seen writing as a highly-skilled craft. The best drafts, I believed, would come from a careful honing of sentence by sentence. What I didn’t know was that my best, truest stories would arrive when I was most playful. Whether it was being given a first line that I never would have chosen myself, or being asked to go out into the hall and overhear someone’s conversation and form it into dialogue, the biggest leaps out of my comfort zone often yielded the most “alive” prose. 

So, if you’re craving being in a space with other writers and readers, and spending time working on stories, joining a class could give you more than you bargained for. 

How we can help

In Writing Fiction Online, we’ll spend ten weeks crafting a story from scratch. I’ll get to know you and your writing, and help you make progress, whatever that means for you. 

And if you need a different way in, maybe just a space to think and reflect on your own life, Writing for Wellbeing could be a great first port of call. Here, we form a regular, relaxing practice of writing to help organise and untangle our personal narratives. 

Autumn sessions for both Writing Fiction Online and Writing for Wellbeing start on September 6th.