A Different Kind of Labor: Writing in Prison Ryan M. Moser “It’s never too late to become who you might have been.” —quote on a prison library wall The Writers Guild We called ourselves the Writers Guild: three raconteurs brought together by a creative writing workshop and our mutual passion for words. There were others in the class, but none as dedicated as us. Brad was quixotic, always stretching his vocabulary to defend the relationship with the soul; Ethan was my sounding board and a master of the metaphor, layering image upon image to deliver his messages of hope or loss; and I was the storyteller. Between us, we’d won the monthly short story contest six times in a row, besting our fellow classmates over and over with our collaborations. The workshop met once a week in an old classroom by the chow hall, and after returning to our cellblock, the three of us would sit in the noisy TV room at a small table comparing notes, establishing outlines, developing characters, and revising our work until it sparkled like a polished diamond. Some months, we would labor on just one story, toiling away by the faint night light in the cellblock hall or whispering comments back and forth; other months, we’d each write our own and pick the best to submit—a friendly competition within a competition. Trying to find a quiet place to study or write in a state correctional institution is difficult on most days, and impossible on some. We were lucky to have a space to meet at all. The Florida Department of Corrections has stabbings and drug overdoses almost every day, and these emergencies result in lockdowns with no movement to classes or programs. Everybody knows that when you see a wheelchair and two medical orderlies running down the sidewalk, or the Emergency Response Team (aka the goon squad) taking pictures of a crime scene, we’re about [End Page 85] to be sitting on our bunks or confined to our units for an indefinite amount of time. Violence is prevalent at many institutions in the state, so programs, volunteers, educational and technical training, and recreation time are scarce. With officers pulled in so many directions to address major problems, everything else stops. “What are you writing?” I would hear all day long from each passerby. Imagine sitting in Starbucks with every customer who walks past your table asking you a question about your work, even though you are wearing headphones. There were also constant interruptions for head counts, chow, and the daily fist fights that are a part of our struggle, but we were assiduous and produced some gratifying literary work. One month in 2018 I wrote an ekphrastic short story called “The Farmer’s Pond,” an autobiographical piece inspired by a photo of a young farmhand in a book about Amish life. The Writers Guild refined the plot and edited for grammar. We revised scenes on the weekends while everyone else played Texas Hold ’Em, watched football, or got inked with gang tattoos. Eventually, I was able to complete a final draft that everyone considered my best piece yet, and I basked in the glow of having finished my first quality short story. “This one has some real potential,” Ethan told me as we talked over lunch. “You should send it out to magazines.” I balked. I didn’t want to submit my writing to serious places because I knew I wasn’t as good as the other authors I’d read throughout my life, floating across the thought clouds of the sage guides before me— Franzen, Homer, and Burroughs. Basho and Keats. Hirshfield. The immortalized Jung. Self-doubt prevents me from even trying. But when my story won the monthly writing contest, I decided to take a chance. I mailed copies to several literary journals listed in my Writer’s Digest and felt like I’d taken a step toward something credible. The Writers Guild was my personal dream team, but the creative writing class was my favorite time of the week: it was my first formal workshop, and a glimpse into the possibilities of collaborative creativity...
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