“I’m not a writer.”

I hear this refrain or something like it during every group I lead with The Porch’s Writing for Good program. Then the miracle happens. I’ve witnessed it a dozen times with folks around this city, whether it’s the accountant with breast cancer, the young mom who just left the county jail, or the surly man fresh out of detox. Time after time I watch self-described “non-writers” start writing. Yesterday a man at a local addiction treatment center told me, in his deep-South drawl, “I failed my 10^th grade English class. I ain’t in the right place. I don’t do that writing thing.” Fifteen minutes later, his right hand was dancing across a once-blank page. And when I asked if he’d be interested in reading what he’d written, he blushed a little and said, “I mean, I guess.”

I try my best, when I lead an expressive writing group, to counter the negative messages many of us absorbed about writing in our high-school or middle-school English classes. Bad grammar, misspelled words, and expletives are not only allowed, they are encouraged in Writing for Good groups. The evidence-based therapeutic practice of expressive writing is process rather than product oriented. When writing becomes a pathway leading to catharsis and connection, people trust the movement of their pens. I’ve watched all types of hands eagerly journey across many pieces of paper.

When The Porch sent out an email seeking applications for two facilitators to lead expressive writing groups at Mending Hearts, an addiction treatment center for women in West Nashville, over fifty writers applied. There were so many writers in Nashville eager to share the power of expressive writing that The Porch decided to form a cohort of trained facilitators. Since the first Writing for Good orientation in August 2023, over 25 instructors have taught more than 100 classes at various organizations in Nashville.

For me, the launch of this program could not have happened at a better time. I’d stepped away from my work as a psychotherapist last July to tend to some health issues and focus on writing a book of poems. I’d been a writer since I started my “memoir” in kindergarten, and I’d always felt the most connected to myself when I was pouring my invisible thoughts, emotions, and memories onto the page. It really felt like a dream come true to join the Writing for Good cohort. This program gave me the gift of merging my passion for therapy with writing. I loved that I could pass on a practice that had nourished me since childhood.

 I led my first Writing for Good group on a Thursday morning in late August. Nine women in the Mending Hearts IOP program gathered around a table in a big multipurpose room. For two hours, we wrote, read aloud, laughed, and listened. I started the group by asking everyone to share their names and how they felt about creative writing. I heard some version of the common refrain—"I’m not creative,” “I’ve never been good at writing,” and “I can’t write”—from half the women in the group. Then I explained the intentions for writing expressively. I emphasized we were here to practice allowing the motion of emotion, to tend to our tender spots, and to connect compassionately with each other. Before I handed out pens and paper, I asked everyone to pretend they were back in elementary school at story time, then told them I would read a poem aloud. I encouraged the participants not to worry about “getting” the poem. Instead they could simply receive it, try to soak it in like music or a prayer. Many of the women closed their eyes as I slowly read “Once Upon” by Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer. When I finished, the woman sitting to my left nodded her head with surprise and said, “Damn, that was good.” 

I offered four writing prompts inspired by the poem. For each one, I set a timer for one minute. I encouraged them to write for the entire time and to put down anything moving through their heads— “I don’t know what to write,” “I’m ready for lunch!”, “This is hard.” The page could hold it all. After the four timed writing exercises, I gave everyone the opportunity to share. I had predicted that one or two might unenthusiastically read a few sentences they wrote. My prediction proved wrong: every woman wanted to give voice to the language she brought to life on the page. I sat back and let the words of the Mending Hearts poets wash over me. Here are snapshots of the words I soaked in:

Darkness is a place where you can not see, a place where your pain and trauma is beggin’ to be set free. Darkness have no light and brings you the most misery.

Hope is me actually wanting to leave fentanyl alone. Because I know my mind and soul is renewed and set free.

Self doubt is…believing that you don’t deserve, robbing you of being happy, and 

Love is my kids. When I look at them I’m shock like damn those are really my babies, my trophies.

Since that first group, I’ve led dozens more with folks at Mending Hearts, Cumberland Heights, Gilda’s Club, and the Vanderbilt University Counseling Center. Other Writing for Good facilitators have taught to former inmates at Men of Valor and LGBTQ+ youth at Nashville Launch Pad. The power of expressive writing is rippling through our community, igniting creative energy in the lives of Nashvillians facing homelessness, addiction, cancer, depression, and discrimination. While global and national news can make me feel disheartened, I find hope in the company of the courageous writers I encounter in my groups. All over this city people are alchemizing heartbreaks into poems and channeling their imaginations to connect with healing, joy, and the beautiful possibilities of life. 

Yesterday the man who had failed his English class read a poem he’d written in three minutes about his two little girls. In rhythmic free verse, he compared his daughters to butterflies. When he finished, the six other guys in the group and I were silent for a moment, absorbing the reverberations of his language. Then we all clapped. The man who had failed his 10^th grade English class looked around the circle into the admiring faces of the other guys. Then he looked at me, and with a twinkle in his eye, said, “I mean I guess I can kinda do this writing thing.”

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