Reader,

Every few months, I lead a pair of workshops in an old mobile building with rackety air conditioning and thin walls. It sits on the campus of a local ministry that helps men re-enter society after a stint in prison. (Multiple stints for many.) For ninety minutes, we gather around plastic folding tables arranged in a broad circle. The men aren't showing up to improve their writing. They're showing up to do some expressive writing.

I doubt any of these men knew these workshops were part of the package when they enrolled in this program. To their credit, they still show up for the work, both physically and emotionally. They pull out pencils and loose sheets of lined paper. They write with intention, embracing the exercise, even though handwriting is hard and school was seldom kind to them. And then they take turns reading aloud, generously sharing what they've written with the rest of us.

The prompts I give them are seldom softballs. Once we get past the icebreaker, the writing prompts are designed to dig deep. "What do you want people to know about you when you first meet them?" "Write a letter to your future self, celebrating the person you've become." "What words do you wish someone would you say to right now?" And, my personal favorite: "Write something that begins with the phrase, 'I remember.'"

Sometimes, we hear stories about their childhood, glimpses of happier days. The first time their grandfather took them hunting. A recollection of Grandma's blueberry pie. Their teenage sweetheart, the first person who ever took them seriously. But these glimpses are often overshadowed by the harsh conditions that set them on the path they're desperately trying to leave. The childhood friend whose life was ended by a shotgun blast to the face. The dad who crushed twelve-packs every night and taught them to guzzle beer when they were ten. The sister who wandered into the woods, high and strung out, never to be seen alive again.

When they write, these men aren't making excuses. They're simply telling the truth. This happened. That happened. I felt this way. I didn't feel that way. These truths are precisely what makes their writing so powerful. They're not trying to spin. They're not trying to sell something. They're just trying to give words to what's inside them.

One morning, I gave a group a simple prompt: "I hope..." Their assignment was to finish the sentence, either as a paragraph or as a series of sentences. A quiet, burly giant rocked me with his response: "I hope this works." His voice betrayed no emotion, but his sparse words spoke volumes. It was as close to a perfect sentence as I've ever heard.

Keep your stick on the ice.

Frank Ewert
Book Coach, Editor, and Aspiring Truth Teller
Author of Embrace Your Writer's Block and Blue Ice​