For three years, I took a roundtrip bus ride—one hour each way—to an all-men’s prison to teach fiction writing and screenwriting. The process to get clearance from the Oregon Department of Justice was long and sometimes arduous. But my desire to do this work in this particular environment was something that had been tapping me on the shoulder for years. It felt like a calling.
My reason: As a writer and educator, I’ve always had a soft spot for marginalized voices, those with stories to tell—stories the world needs to hear—but who are often dismissed, disregarded, even silenced. And my keen intuition had told me for a long time that a wealth of creativity and brilliance lives behind prison walls. The Adults in Custody I met and worked with proved that, and a whole lot more.
Before retiring, I taught thousands of college students over the years as an adjunct writing professor. Since then, I’ve been working with people who write and want to write in online and in-person workshops. I often hear common refrains: “I want to write but…” They’re too busy. They believe they’re not talented enough. They’re not ready yet. They want to figure out the entire story before they can start.
On the inside, I saw none of that. Men with no prior experience, no perfect conditions, and no excuses. Just a willingness to try.
It’s easy to assume that the incarcerated have all the time in the world, but they don’t. Many have jobs on the inside. Many are in other programs, working to better themselves. Their days are full.
And their conditions are less than optimal for creativity. They’re told where to be and when, and with virtually zero chance of finding a quiet space. Always in close proximity to other humans, how can they gather their thoughts, tune in, and get words on the page?
One of the reasons the AICs I worked with were so successful was their willingness to be vulnerable. There’s something about prison life that strips away the facade. There’s no reason—and no room—for pretending.
Many of them had never written a story before. Yet they did it. They would pass me their handwritten pages, which I took home, typed up and made copies of to take back to class for workshop. They accepted the guidelines we discussed and sat quietly while the other writers in the group critiqued their work, always in the spirit of helping.
Many were moved to tears in class. Because they were finally expressing themselves. Because they learned they could do something they never dreamed they could do. Because they were touched by each other’s stories.
Many had never read their work aloud in front of others. Not only did they read in class in front of their peers, they also took part in public readings, sharing their stories with a supportive audience of people from the outside.
Standing alone at a mic—also a first for most—wasn’t easy for them. But they did it anyway. And inside a setting rarely kind to emotional risk, no less. Sometimes courage looks like trembling voices giving life to stories that have never existed before.
The community that grew and the mutual support I saw between them took my breath away. They showed up for themselves and each other. They listened, encouraged, built each other up. If someone started to get cold feet about reading to the public audience, others offered to read for them, or turn pages for them, anything to usher each other across the threshold from would-be writer to writer and public speaker.
I saw a certain kind of preciousness—even innocence—in those men. In some cases, it came from a lack of development due to circumstances beyond their control at an early point in their lives. In others, it was because they had enjoyed a kind of success on the outside and for reasons only they know, made choices that led them to the inside. And still in others, it was because they had been incarcerated unjustly.
Every week, they showed up with humility and gratitude. So. Much. Gratitude. Simply because I showed up. Simply because I cared. They told me how much they appreciated that I treated them like humans. Some told me that our time together had changed their lives, in different and particular ways. One even told me that his wife and son sent their thanks to me because through writing, he was becoming the man they needed.
But as I always told them, they were the ones doing the work. They were the ones taking the chances. And I received just as much—if not more—from them as they did from me.
When I first started my three-year stretch working with those men on the inside, I was at a place in life where I questioned my reason for being. It was shortly after the pandemic, and like many, the whole experience had taken me to a pretty dark place.
What did I have to offer? What was the point of my existence?
What they did for me changed my life and my direction. Their commitment and courage, their hunger for expression, re-lit my own sense of purpose. Teaching them wasn’t charity or service. It was an exchange. I walked out every Thursday more alive than when I walked in, always acutely aware that I could walk out.. No matter my mood, no matter the struggles I faced on the outside, when I stepped through the two chainlink doors and heard them clang behind me in succession, when I scanned my badge and walked down the main hall to the chapel where we met, all that disappeared.
In class, we laughed. We cried. And the lack of pretense was astounding. I felt welcome. I felt safe. I felt appreciated. Something I hadn’t felt on the outside in a long time. It brought me back to myself. And it reminded me how important my own writing is to me.
Writing doesn’t wait for the perfect conditions. It asks only for presence, honesty, and the willingness to take risks.
If those men in that prison can face the blank page and share their stories, what excuse do the rest of us really have?
Writing and telling stories is less about skill and more about courage. The courage to show up. The courage to be vulnerable. To make mistakes and learn from them. And to know that time spent putting words on the page is never wasted. No matter how many versions of a piece need to be written.
So while I taught fiction writing and screenwriting, the men at the prison taught me purpose and belonging.
That will stay with me for the rest of my days. I will never forget them. I will always be immensely grateful for them. And some day, I’ll write about them.
