A little more than a year ago I helped start a creative writing group here at Pleasant Valley State Prison in central California.
At first it was just two or three of us. We met sporadically in our unit’s relatively open-door library, driven by a desire to learn and a lack of formal opportunities to do so. Given the limited scope of Pleasant Valley’s education department, securing an incoming student spot is a daunting task. The idea for creative writing surfaced after some of us shared a few of our personal stories during an initial library chat. “We should write this stuff down,” I thought.
The group quickly gained a small following of about six members. As our group grew, our sessions became more regular. We met in the library once a week, then twice a week. We organized writing assignments for one another. The work ranged from composing traditional American sonnets, to sounding out difficult emotional truths, to just talking about events we thought might make good stories. We also studied fundamental techniques of journalism, creative nonfiction, poetry, memoir — anything we thought intriguing or possibly educational.
This group was for us and by us, something we could engage with outside of our cells and selves.
When asked why he joined the group, Jesse R. said he wanted to explore his “creative side while practicing a new skill.”
“I love to read and have often thought about writing a book telling my story as a warning to youngsters growing up in chaotic environments,” he said.
Eventually, we hosted a few poetry slams and read our material aloud. The focus, though, was always on creating a safe space while we explored a new outlet and developed a connection to one another and our wildly different stories.
“It felt good to be heard by my peers,” Sam H. said. “Most people hide the damaged parts of themselves, but through creative writing we’re taught that’s where the really inspirational content lives.”
I had similar motivations. Creative writing has always been an escape for me, especially in prison, where I spend hours with nothing but my thoughts. Through writing, I have discovered more of myself than through therapy, spirituality or religion. On the page, I can tell myself anything and take time to process it.
But writing with a group was different. I noticed that when I shared my work with people I normally viewed as different from myself, and heard their stories in return, the boundaries between our lives became less stark. We became a community of men built around speaking the truth of our lives, to the best of our ability. And knowing their stories, how could I possibly add to their suffering without hurting myself in turn?
We continued for months without any official oversight from the facility. It was fun. We never gave negative critiques and instead kept our comments light, supportive and constructive. We made space for one another to dive into complex ideas or emotions.
After a while, though, normal prison functions got in the way. The creative writing group was disbanded when most of the original members were moved on to other yards, including myself. Because I stayed out of trouble, my security points dropped during my annual review, usually a good thing. In this case, I was moved to a lower-security yard that also happens to be more transient.
Most of the people coming through my new yard are a mix of newcomers, people who have short sentences or people with a mental illness who require different levels of care. Several counselors, educational staff and housing officers at the prison say it doesn’t make sense to provide expensive and extensive programming for people with such short sentences and different needs.
The lack of programming means that those of us who were moved onto the yard for good behavior, often with years left on our sentences, are at a disadvantage. Most critically for the writing group, the library at my new yard is more restricted. We are only allowed in for 15 to 30 minutes at a time and can only check out books from two shelves. The books on the shelves are rotated in from a bigger room. While browsing, we can glimpse the rest of the library through a glass window, a roomful of stories just out of reach.
Not all is lost. In the end, writing is a solitary act, one that can be done around institutional constraints and distance. Plus, if I get the chance again, I now have a working model for a program that can expose people to a world inside themselves.
