I recently finished another writing course with Oxford University. I’d been floundering for so long, reading books on writing, listening to podcasts, and doing free online courses, none of which I committed to. There are not enough boundaries for me on free, or cheap courses. I need to feel that I have to sit down and do the exercises as instructed. I need feedback, encouragement, or critiquing, anything that will help me become a better writer.
On yet another online search, I came across the courses run by Oxford Uni. I wanted a course that started from the absolute beginning. One that had structure, and one where I had to interact with other students and, most importantly, one I could do around my other life commitments. It was also important that it was from a recognised and respected teaching institution. I wanted serious learning.
As soon as I found the Writing Fiction (Online) course, I knew that it was the right one. It sat perfectly in my belly; there was no doubt, no resistance. The fees, also, were precisely what I had in my bank, and for an extra £10, I could get points towards further courses. It was a ten-week course, with weekly manuals, an online forum with tutor feedback and two moderated assignments. The only thing lacking was video, which I would have found useful because I need the visual input as well as the intellectual.
In the first three weeks of the course, my personal beliefs were challenged. I found that I was terrified of judgment. I was scared to discover I might actually be a lousy writer and that the past fifteen years had been wasted on self-delusion. I didn’t want to open my writing to others, to put it out there. That was far too risky. I’d been listening to criticism since my teens when my father used to read my diaries having been presented them by my jealous step-mother, (yes, they do exist). I was also moderately dyslexic, another thing I had not been aware of until one of my daughters was diagnosed. I don’t understand theory, unless I have experienced it and know the word, or action, in practice. If it is simply a word, it floats around in my head with nothing to anchor it.
I remember, in my third year of an archaeology degree, trying to remember The Harris Matrix rules (the theory of strata) during an exam. I understood the rules perfectly as we had to learn them during digs, but my memory for written rules is abysmal and I barely scraped through the exam. I have a terrible memory for facts and figures too. I had the same experience doing a Psychodynamic Counselling Diploma. I could never apply the right terminology and lost points in exams for that, even though I had complete understanding of them in practice.
This was a challenge in the writing course student forums, where we had to give feedback on each other’s writing. I wanted to be sensitive because we were all learning, but struggled with giving constructive feedback because I could never remember the terminology. I had to rely on patterns and feeling instead. (I saw the story as a shape, a direction that had a definite physical image).
I need to study terminology thoroughly, word by word, so I can see it in practice. As a result, I have spent a fortune on books. For example, I bought books written from a particular POV, or on omniscient narration, etc. (I’m getting it, finally), just so I could gain a better understanding of how the terminology was applied. I also watched how the other students gave feedback.
The tutor on that course was terrific. He was supportive and present and I learned far more than I ever expected. He was genuinely excited to be teaching the course and wanted us all to do well, so he went out of his way to make sure we understood everything. I thoroughly enjoyed it.
And, I also overcame the fear that nobody would be interested in my work, that I didn’t have the ability to write fiction; that I was an imposter. I received such good feedback from tutor and students alike, that I finished the course feeling I was actually capable of doing this writing thing.
Filled with enthusiasm, I applied for a second course: Getting Started in Creative Writing. I wanted to get the foundations right, so I could do the advanced creative writing course. This was a different experience from the first. There were not enough exercises, and it felt that each week was a Lilypad on which we spent very little time. I often had the impression that we were alone in a classroom, expected to know what we were doing and every now and then the tutor would pop his head in the door, just to see how we were getting on. For what we were paying, it was not enough.
I understand these courses are the equivalent of the foundation year of a degree, and that self-learning is an expected part of that learning, but this felt very different. There was an odd power dynamic with the tutor, too, which perhaps many people might not recognise, but having trained in counselling it felt apparent to me, and uncomfortable. But, to take responsibility for my own reactions, perhaps I was expecting too much, having experienced a different, more supportive teaching style in the first one.
Four weeks into this course, a little voice in my head suggested I pay the fees for the next one: the advanced writing course. Once again, trusting that voice, I used what I had in my bank account and applied. A couple of weeks later, I understood why. The wiser part of me knew I would probably decide not to take any more courses with Oxford, which did happen two weeks later. It was important I learn as much as possible, the good and the bad. To stick with it, no matter what the power dynamics. The lessons were not simply about writing.
The beginner’s creative writing course, which I finished two weeks ago, taught me one thing more than anything else: the right tutor makes all the difference. I could go into all the things I felt about this particular tutor and his teaching style, but I won’t. It may be that we just weren’t on the same page; the wrong fit. Other people might have thought he was wonderful. But for me, it wasn’t the right fit and I learned far less than I thought I would. It was a disappointment and I found myself pulling my involvement back for the final three weeks.
One of the experiences I had with him illustrates the power dynamics I was grappling with. All the students were required to give feedback on each other’s work, as usual. There were many students whose first language was not English, so this added to the difficulty. I didn’t know what the guidelines were, so I watched to see what others were doing. Starting to feel more confident, I gave more feedback and at one point, gave feedback on punctuation to an English student. She appreciated it, as I had appreciated similar feedback from her, but the tutor told me that for this course punctuation was not important. He was more interested in the creative flow.
That was fine. I got that. Because most of the students were not English I appreciated that technicalities were not so important. But although rationally, I understood his logic, I still felt like a child in school, being slapped with a rule and put back in my place; whatever that place was.
In the next module, we had to write a building tension exercise. I wrote it, posted it and then read the feedback. It was good, he thought, but then he pointed out my mistake with a point of punctuation. I hadn’t added double quote marks to a quote in the dialogue. There were no other mistakes. Now, although I appreciated the information, as I had forgotten I had to do that, I felt he was somehow putting me in my place, telling me he was the only one qualified to give certain feedback. Once again, I was filled with self-doubt and unsure of what we were ‘allowed’ to give feedback on. So I gave little or nothing but I was none the wiser.
But, there was personal healing in that too. I had had a similar creative struggle with my father as a teenager just before doing my leaving Cert (A-Levels) in Ireland. I lost interest in learning and gave up, realising that no matter what I did, it would never be good enough.
But I completed this course because a) it was for my benefit; b) I am no longer a teenager; c) although he looked, and behaved, like two of my less healthy exes, he wasn’t them; and d) I’d paid for it and was going to damn well finish it.
In my line of work, everything is a healing opportunity.
My next course starts in September, so we’ll see how I get on then. That course is run by another tutor, so maybe she will be a better fit. I’ve bought her book so I can get a feel for her. I wish I’d done that for the second tutor. If I had, I might not have taken the course. When I did buy his book, it was too late. I couldn’t get past the first two chapters. He’s too much in his head and I couldn’t get past the first two chapters.
His writing reflects his teaching style and it would have been a help to know that. But, I know it now, so I can add that to the processing.
After the first course, I felt like a writer. After the second, I feel pushed back to the starting block again, feeling that all the hard work I had done to get better was pointless and that really I was a useless writer, after all.
Not a great outcome!
But, sometimes, on a personal level, courses might end up teaching you something you had not anticipated learning. And maybe that is exactly what you need to learn. It is all grist to the mill and nothing is ever wasted.
So onwards and upwards, as they say.