I am learning, all over again, about the generosity and power of writing, alone and with others. I have been learning about writing all my life. I know it well and I am grateful. Writing has become an old friend, one who continues to surprise me; one who reminds me, gently, of what we have learned together. Writing was there when I fell in love and stood by me in dark times. Writing has helped me keep a record of my days, required me to focus, shown me how I can be a teacher, shown me what I think and helped me to discover more. Writing keeps me in touch. Writing allows me to create new possibilities. Writing steadies me. And when I write alongside others, I am enriched by their writing, by hearing our words on the air, learning new ways, new perspectives, acknowledging our shared humanity and our unique selves.  

Most of us, just now, have more time than usual to write. The need for writing, always there even at the best of times, is accentuated, suddenly acute. I have been moved to see how many of those I know have turned to writing as one way of engaging with this personal and worldwide crisis. 

A month or so ago I began to post ten-minute writing prompts on my Facebook page. I was encouraged to do so by a friend who is not a teacher and would not, I think, describe herself as a writer. She was finding it useful, she said, to write. I have continued to post these prompts. They are on this website also. And sometimes I wonder what on earth I think I am doing. Who am I kidding? More junk.

But I notice quiet responses. A like. A simple comment. A note of thanks: ‘I am loving this 10 minutes a day of writing. It's 10 minutes’ sanity.’ Another friend sends me a beautiful piece of writing about necklaces. I love it. I think there is a poem within it. She sends me the poem, the first draft and the second. We are connected as we are usually connected when we write together. Perhaps even closer. 

And then something else happens. People are beginning to write beneath the prompts. It began with a prompt to write about a recipe –and a photograph of some of my cookery books on the shelf. Crank’s Recipe Book, amongst the line-up, provoked a memory of vegetable crumble, cheese jacks (baked that very day), homity pie. On Easter Sunday, an invitation to write about eggs brought photographs of lovely Sussex Light Chickens and a small tousled headed boy with his stash of chocolate. On Bank Holiday, memories came of other Easter Mondays. And one, glorious, exuberant, personal account of the writer’s  annual family celebration: painted eggs, the woods, children showered in pink blossom, the wild throwing and batting of eggs ‘to smithereens’, then ‘All children must then have their turn with the bats until our party breaks up- the smallest children and their mothers or fathers return home while the rest of us walk on to catch up with important less frivolous news of each other. Next year it will be very special indeed ...’ The writer said she felt better for having let it all out. And we, the readers, were enriched and amused and strengthened by her words. 

This is why we meet to write together. This is why we learn to teach children about writing. Go well and go safely, dear fellow writing teachers. Keep writing. Ten minutes a day. Write with a friend. Tell yourself. Tell each other.