When people generally think about how writing is taught they tend to think of workshops, small rooms filled with large handfuls of students sitting around tables doing exercises suggested by a tutor. I often teach that way as well. But the teaching I’m now beginning to do in my capacity as Writer-in-Residence at SOAS is going to be different, I think.  Yes, there will be the occasional workshop where I’m going to surprise a group of unsuspecting undergraduates into writing poetry. But mostly the teaching I’ll be doing will fall under the heading of mentoring, and that’s something very different.

Friday was my first day. I am lucky to be able to use the office of one of the faculty members who will be on sabbatical all year. I put a sign on the door and although it simply says my name, my title and a hand-written “Just Knock and Enter,” what it really means is “The Doctor is In,” because as a mentor I am only part writer. Mostly, I am psychologist, trusted listener, even mechanic. My students at SOAS will be anyone stuck, undergraduates, post-grads, faculty. People about to start writing, people mystified at where their essays have gone wrong, people who find themselves staring at a title for three hours and not being able to write a word. Basically, I ask questions and let them talk.

So, what are you writing about? How well can they explain their topic to me? Are they energised when they’re discussing it or are they already bored to tears? Do they say they are writing about one thing when actually they start talking about another topic entirely?

What is getting you stuck? Is it the structure? Overwhelmed by too much research? Nothing makes sense when you write it down? Or are you already worried about the dissertation defence two years away and paralysed because  you don’t really believe you can do it in the first place?

I have already had two discussions of this type with my first two students. The talks last an hour — once they start talking, they can’t stop. And clearly I become a sort of Mother Confessor. And I’m thrilled because this is exactly what they need. They need someone not embroiled in academic writing to be able to step back, look at what they are doing and listen to what they are saying. Yes, I then also give all sorts of handy tips I’ve picked up along the way, like my index card method which I wrote about here. I talk about setting an egg timer to an hour to force them to get away from their desk, make a cup of tea or comb their hair whether their brain is in mid-flow or not. I talk about engaging one side of your brain by doing something with your hands so that the other side of your brain can be quietly left alone to come up with writing solutions. I write about all the little psychological tricks you can play on yourself to make your writing time seem special, even self-indulgent.

 But basically, I’m playing shrink and I think that’s fine. Because let’s face it, most writers are fairly neurotic, overly introspective people. It’s part of the personality type, alas. The more we write, the more we have had to figure out how to write. And most people actually find that very comforting to hear because it gives them permission to be as crazy and obsessive and self-flagellating as I am myself. And it shows them that they, too, can get past it and actually get those words down on paper. And it does something wonderful to me, too. Talking to them, I am talking to myself, reminding myself of all the lessons I have learned from other writers over the years and am always in danger of forgetting myself. It’s so true — misery does love company. Or as  Firesign Theatre once said, “We’re all bozos on this bus.”