I volunteered to teach an eight-week writing course on Tuesday afternoons titled “Telling Your Story: Start It, Finish It & Share It” for a group devoted to providing education to people aged 50 and older. My motivations for doing this were multifold: to inspire people to write for their families and/or for fun and profit, recruit future members of the Atlanta Writers Club, and hopefully sell a few books. One of the additional benefits to me, though, has been the preparations I do every week so I can teach with clarity and confidence.

There’s an old method among professional trainers, which originated in surgical residency programs, called “see one, do one, teach one.” The notion is that people will learn the lessons quicker and more profoundly if they must explain them to others. I’ve been writing for publication for more than twenty years—you’d think I would’ve internalized the lessons of writing so deeply by now they’d be fused to my marrow. However, it’s not until I teach a writing topic that I delve into why and how questions:

  • Why is it so hard to begin a habit of writing?
  • How does someone find time to write?
  • Why do we feel compelled to write at all?
  • How can someone best tell the story that’s banging around the inside of their skull like a bird trying to get free?

And on and on. Anyone who’s ever taught anything formally, from schoolteachers and college professors to corporate trainers and military instructors, will recognize this phenomenon. You know how to do something and do it every day without analyzing it, but when you need to figure out how to explain the subject matter to others, you see it with fresh eyes.

Teaching something as subjective as writing is different than showing students how to do a task where there is an objective and verifiable (i.e., “right”) answer. There are an infinite number of ways to write about something. Any approach is valid—which is why it can be so hard to choose. There are no rules in writing except to do it well, and few people can agree on what “well” looks like, though plenty will tell you what’s wrong with what you wrote.

It’s far easier to help someone who’s written something to figure out ways to make it better. We can discuss word choice, tone, logical flow, lyrical flow, conveying emotions, setting up readers’ reactions, and much more. If the person hasn’t written something yet, though, talking about all these intricacies is more likely to paralyze than inspire.

Teaching writing, for me, comes down to problem-solving. Can’t find time to write? Let’s talk about what you can give up for 15 minutes a day (for starters) so you can use that time for writing. Want to write but can’t figure out what to write about? Think about what you like to read and write about that, or write about whatever your mind conjures in that moment and see where that leads you. The important thing is that you’re stringing one word after another.

Figuring out how to assist beginning writers solve their problems helps me interrogate my own issues. Why do I keep telling myself I need to do more research before beginning my new historical novel? How do I handle the multi-year span of the story without creating a Michener-sized tome? I’ve now begun to talk to myself as if I were advising a writer in my class, breaking down big problems into small, manageable ones. Had I not volunteered to teach this class, I probably would’ve remained stuck for much longer.

Even if you don’t feel comfortable formally teaching others about writing, participate in a critique group where you can help fellow writers while seeing lessons you can apply to your work. At the very least, try to address your problems as if another writer has presented them to you with a request for assistance. What would you tell that person? Why?

For The King and I, Oscar Hammerstein II wrote the famous lyric, “If you become a teacher, by your pupils you’ll be taught.” What I’ve discovered is that you will also teach yourself. Give it a try!