Writing love

I saw an ad for a writing course that I have taken already. Twice. And two follow-up courses. 

The first time I signed up based on two key phrases only: a writing course and a bookshop (my favourite one in Tallinn).

Only after the first lesson I read closely what the course was really about and understood that it was an exploration of self with the help of carefully chosen texts and writing prompts.  I discovered that the teacher was a bibliotherapist, and even if the course was not advertised as such, she clearly used her skills and tools to help us to unlock ourselves. She never pressured anyone to share anything they didn't want to, not as a response to the texts nor any of our own writing. The participants and the teacher accepted and appreciated everything that people chose to share. 

The eight Wednesday afternoons in a small independent bookshop were heavenly for me. I loved being away from my usual environment, listening to so many perspectives and stories, experimenting with topics and structures, and discovering myself as a person and a writer. So when I saw a follow up course, I signed up.

The group had changed a bit, with some staying, some leaving and new people joining. The teacher provided new texts and new prompts. We finished the course with a writing picnic in one of the parks in Tallinn. I had a journal full of snippets of writing. Some finished and polished. Most ready to be continued in more detail if I wanted to. When the course finished, I longed for the afternoons in the bookshop with a small group of people, reading and talking, writing and sharing. 

I saw a new course by the same teacher. The name of the course was different. The description similar. I didn't mind. The only sad thing was that instead of the bookshop we would meet online. I still couldn't resist. I signed up.

During the first lesson the teacher apologised that I might find some of the writing tasks boring since I had already done them. I thought it might actually be good to see how I approached the same tasks for the second time. The meeting environment was new, group mates were new, the reading texts, mostly poems, were new, most of the writing prompts were new too. Only few were the same. I was pleasantly surprised that the online format worked too. The first awkwardness to speak from my living room faded quickly. 

You can bet I signed up for the follow-up eight week course. I didn't have an end goal in mind or an elaborate plan to achieve anything. I didn't envision writing or publishing a complete text. We didn't learn about craft moves or genres. Sometimes, when we had a lot to talk about a poem and our lives, we did minimal writing. The homework was always optional. It all felt so right and so good. I was sad when the course ended. 

This time when I saw the ad for the same course, I made the choice not to join, giving a chance to some new people to experience the course. My teacher would have welcomed me. The prompts would have been interesting for the third time too. New people and new texts would have added new thoughts and perspectives. The writing time would have been magical. I once wrote a list of almost fifty reasons why I write but I have figured out that there need to be no reasons besides that it tugs my heart and I love the magic of writing.