The Learning and Teaching Cycle

Eric Witchey

Eric Witchey is one of the best writing teachers I have encountered. When I decided to write full-time, I took his novel-writing class and learned how linguistics and story and culture are connected in ways I had never imagined. I've accused him of genius, but he's far too modest to agree. Here is a reflection he recently wrote after participating in the recent Willamette Writers Conference:

Any writer who believes they know their craft is a liar or a fool.

It’s August 11^th, and I’m freshly home from the Willamette Writers Conference in Portland, Oregon—a wonderful conference that happens to be more or less in my back yard. I had the usual good time there. Old friends, new friends, and many new ideas made that possible. At one point, I was sitting next to a woman and decided to strike up a conversation. Since one of my jobs at the conference was to teach, I asked her what she was getting out of the seminars. 

She said, “I’m hearing the same things I heard last year and the year before. I must be getting to the point where I know what I’m doing.”

I nodded and said, “I guess it’s time for you to teach.”

That won me a puzzled look.

While I was teaching one of my sessions, a seminar student offered to buy copies of the modules I hand out if I would tell him where to find them on the internet. 

They aren’t on the internet. 

He was disappointed. However, I then told him that he should write his own. Mine were written to teach me how to write. That is, I have made a habit for many years of identifying my writing weaknesses, naming them, finding techniques to overcome them, practicing those techniques until I’m sure I can perform well enough to sell, and then writing up the techniques in order to prove to myself that I have truly learned them.

Of course, writing them up doesn’t actually prove anything. I must then use the written document to teach another writer to execute the technique successfully. 

You see, my test for whether I have truly learned something isn’t to just prove I can execute it. I must also prove to myself that I can make someone else successful in the use of the technique. Only then do I entertain the possibility I know something about the thing.

Why do I require this of myself? Because I am too good at tricking myself. 

If I am the judge of my own execution, I am much too likely to subconsciously restrict the context of my self-testing, to decide that I did a good enough job, to pay less attention to important details, or to simply move on without actually succeeding at all.

If I require myself to make someone else successful, their story, their world, their hopes and dreams for their fiction complicate the equation to the point that I must adjust perspective on the techniques in order to accommodate all the complexities of context, life, and form that they can, and do, bring to the page.

If I can teach the technique in the context of someone else’s life, story, psychology, hopes, and dreams, then I probably actually understand it and am much less likely to be fooling myself.

So, I suggested to the man that he could write his own modules.

He was not best pleased.

The last session I taught on Sunday was a seminar on how to run a writers group capable of launching professional careers. While talking with the audience about their experiences, one thing came up over and over. The groups that place a premium on new production (not revision) launch the most careers. The people who make their responsibility for analysis more important than their desire to receive critiques are the ones whose careers are launched.

In other words, the entire conference seemed to be focused on reminding me that writing success comes from writing a lot, constantly evaluating skills, learning new skills, practicing, and, finally, teaching. And that last one, teaching, is exactly what brings the writer full circle in this never ending cycle of growth in craft. The responsibility that comes with teaching reveals the tiny cracks in knowledge—the holes and, sometimes, chasms that we overlook if we are only serving our own pursuits. That new knowledge brings us back to the page with new vision. Then, we write a lot, constantly evaluate skills, learn new skills, practice, and, finally, teach.

What do writing groups do if there aren’t enough manuscripts to fill the time? Chat? Cancel? Discuss old stories?

Or, does someone step up and attempt to teach a concept, technique, or skill?

                                            -End-

Eric M. Witchey has made a living as a freelance writer and communication consultant for 25 years. In addition to many contracted and ghost non-fiction titles, he has sold more than 100 stories. His stories have appeared in multiple genres and on five continents. He has received awards or recognition from New Century Writers, Writers of the Future, Writer’s Digest, The Eric Hoffer Prose Award Program, Short Story America, the Irish Aeon Awards, and other organizations. His How-to articles have appeared in The Writer Magazine, Writer’s Digest Magazine, and other print and online magazines. Find Eric on Facebook or Google Eric M. Witchey for more information about him and about his workshops.