Writing Class Changed My Life
and Allison's too. Writing class can also change yours.
Hey Story Lovers,
Allison Langer is leaving me/Writing Class Radio. At least I didn’t bury the lead. She’s going to law school. Maybe “Allison’s going to law school” is the lead, but since I’m writing this newsletter, I’ll make it about me.
I’m so impressed and happy for Allison, but I’m also sad as shit for me. Allison and I met 16 years ago, when she took her first writing class. Since, she’s gotten a million stories published, she’s become my editor, podcast co-host, co-teacher, co-producer, writing partner, work-wife, and one of my best friends.
She’s going to law school because she wants to make a difference in the criminal justice system, which I think is the most noble and coolest thing.
The other day, in a writing class we teach together at the University of Miami, Allison brought in this story. I’m posting it here because I want everyone I know to know what writing class means to her and to me. If this resonates, join me for a class this Saturday (tomorrow). I’ll put the free Zoom link below.
Writing Class Broke Me Open
I met Andrea at a weak moment.
I was on the way home from the grocery store, still struggling to get through the day. An ad for her writing class came on Miami’s local public radio station. I wasn’t a writer, though I’d written about my failed two-year marriage ten years earlier. Back then, I’d asked my friend for edits. She’d said, “You need a writing class.”
Andrea’s class didn’t come at a good time. My photography season was ramping up, and a night class 25 minutes away made no sense. Night was when I edited photos. My three kids were asleep and the phone was silent. Still, after putting the groceries away, I opened my computer and signed up for the class.
Back in 2010, classes were in person. We met on the ground floor at Miami-Dade College. I was a little nervous, having been out of school for 20 years. I was early, as usual. Our teacher was late. Just as I was coming back from the bathroom, a curly-haired woman about my build (muscular and of average height and weight) ran into the building. “Where’s the writing room?”
I pointed to where 16 others were gathered and waiting. “Teacher’s not here yet,” I said with an eye roll.
“I’m the teacher,” she said bursting into the class apologizing. She arranged the seats in a circle and complained about traffic. Something about her tardiness made her seem vulnerable. I liked her immediately.
That day, Andrea gave the prompt Write about someone you love and said, “Go.” After ten minutes, each person shared their response. It felt weird to share but not too painful. I’d written about how much I loved my dog, Molly. The next class, the prompt was Write about your biggest regret. I regretted getting Molly spayed. For the next few classes, my answer to each prompt was Molly. Writing about Molly was how I kept the class and my pain separated.
The woman who sat in that classroom was so afraid of being exposed. She was fragile and scared someone would see how weak she was. She’d just had a baby boy six months earlier. She had two other children at home, 3 and 5. This woman had her babies alone, through anonymous sperm donation, because her perfect man had not appeared and she was strong enough to do it alone. But her interior was nowhere near as strong as the façade. Inside, she was suffering. Two years earlier, this woman lost her 16-month-old daughter, Maclain, to a congenital heart defect. And she didn’t want a bunch of strangers to know.
Looking back now, I’m not sure what I was hoping would happen in writing class; I just felt compelled to be there.
After Maclain died, my friend Desiree urged me to find a good therapist. “You can’t do this alone,” she’d said. Desiree had been my best friend in high school and we were 42 going on perfect. Only, anyone who has lived long enough knows nothing and nobody is perfect. Desiree’s advice may have been what I needed, but it didn’t feel right.
After the fifth writing class, Andrea was done with Molly. She could see I wasn’t being vulnerable. She said, “Write about the thing you don’t want to write about.”
Is she crazy?
By that time, she’d already discovered her house was on my way to class. It was after the second class when she said, “Can I get a ride? I hate to drive.” So, every Wednesday, I sat in her driveway blasting her with texts, “You coming? Hello? Ten minutes and counting…” Just before we reached the parking garage, she’d say, “Just drop me off here. I don’t want to be late.”
I tried for weeks to write about Maclain and spent most of that time in tears. I didn’t want to disappoint Andrea or myself, so I kept at it. I also didn’t want to be the only person who showed up with nothing. My classmates had read some crazy stories. There was the addict, the cheater, the lady with more than one failed marriage. I owed them something real.
At the very last class, I did it. I read my story of losing my daughter, how she’d been struggling to swallow food and breathe without wheezing. I told them how we went to lunch with my dad on a normal Sunday. And how Maclain choked at the table, turning blue in my arms. 911, paramedics, CPR, rescue truck, emergency room. Doctors, lights, a bag over her mouth. Five days, no brain activity, walking through the exit doors without my daughter.
The class was quiet. I didn’t look up while I read. I didn’t want to see their sad faces or feel their pity. I would now be the lady in class who lost a child and I didn’t want that label.
When I wrote about my daughter’s death, I realized my tough exterior was nothing more than fake armor. Underneath, I was a mess. And not dealing with that mess was debilitating. I spoke to a therapist, eventually, but only a few times. Writing and sharing is what helped me work through this loss and the other wounds I’d pushed down.
It’s been almost 16 years since I sat in Andrea’s class. Since, I’ve attended or taught a weekly writing class. There are remnants of the old me. I’m still obsessed with timeliness and not looking like a total wreck, but before my mom died, we’d worked through our bullshit and were enjoying each other. I’ve worked through countless issues with my dad and kids. The biggest change is my ability to be vulnerable and let people in. That is something I learned from writing class and specifically from Andrea.
Writing class forced me to write the scary stuff, sit in the muck, and shuffle through the pain. That class, and every class since, changed me for the better. The secret I carried into my first writing class was more than a protective wall; it was a barrier blocking my escape. Exposing that thing I didn’t want to write about helped me to become much more than just that label.
Not only that, but the tardy professor became one of my best friends. We created a podcast and a writing school together—Writing Class Radio—and held business meetings on the tennis court or during long bike rides, and though our podcast never hit the top 10, we got more than a million downloads. We enjoyed a good 16-year run.
Andrea’s writing instruction is the foundation I return to every time I need to work through a new problem. Hers is the voice that says, “And your role in the argument?” Some of these problems even became stories that are published in major publications.
Andrea and I are 58 now. We’ve written about every up and every down. We’ve become each other’s sounding board and greatest supporter. I had no idea I would change so much back in 2010 when that curly-haired teacher burst into my life late and long overdue.
You’re invited to the Tips Clinic this Saturday and it’s FREE because I want you to take a writing class. We’re talking about planting seeds and avoiding false leads. All of it boils down to knowing what your story is about and leading your reader/listener there from the start. Let’s practice together.
TIPS CLINIC
SATURDAY, May 16, 2026
12 to 1:30 p.m. ET
Zoom
The TIPS CLINIC is FREE. Use this FREE Tips Clinic Zoom link.
As always, we have two First Draft weekly writing groups where you write to a prompt and share if you want.
Click here to join Allison Langer Tuesdays 12-1 ET. I will be taking over First Draft starting in August.
Click here to join Margery Berger on Mondays 12-1 ET. The first session is always FREE.
Thanks for reading.
Love,
The end of an era! There’s no place like Writing Class Radio.
Allison, good luck and I hope law is a good fit for you (it wasn't for me). Andrea, if you want help, I volunteer!