gold dust - writers' mentoring programme

Mentoring
by Jill Dawson
First appeared in Mslexia magazine, issue 35

‘Jill, would you perhaps take this home and read this and tell me what you think?’

My heart sinks when I hear this request. I don’t think I’m meaner than other writers I know who teach. Perhaps I’m better at saying no. My life is chaotic. I have children and have to earn a living, like everyone else. How to fit it all in? If I don’t write I go mad so I’m good at protecting my writing time. Sometimes that skill is the only thing that distinguishes a published writer from one who isn’t. And before you protest that you would be able to do this too if you had a two-book deal, I have to tell you that I always had this bloody-mindedness, long before I was published. I advise all those who want to make their lives as writers to cultivate it.

Still, there is another more powerful reason why I dread the above request. Experience has taught me that it usually carries a freight of longing and expectation, which in one shape or form amounts to: ‘Could you read the entire manuscript, help me to structure and re-write it, and then help me get it published?’

A very big task indeed and not one that can be undertaken in a half hour chat over coffee.

There’s nothing wrong with that kind of desire from new writers. I remember the stage vividly myself, when I fantasised that I would send my novel to Margaret Atwood, get her glorious insights and then rewrite the whole thing, vastly improved. A burgeoning industry of MAs in Writing has grown up around this desire, with many students choosing courses precisely so that they can – they imagine – have the input of a writer whose work they admire. Teaching on such MAs (I’ve done guest slots at Bath Spa, Sussex, Birkbeck and UEA, amongst others) I’m acutely conscious of how much this hope influences students’ willingness to part with the thousands that such courses charge.

Many are disappointed. The input from the Big Name writer is often minimal. Wonderful novelists and poets do not always make good or sensitive teachers. Generally such courses are structured so that students spend most of the time studying literature and work-shopping with other students. This can be immensely valuable but is sometimes not what the student hoped for. It can also be bewildering, and an exercise in survival, if the writer is not able to make sense of the feedback from twelve differing voices that she will receive.

Of course, courses aren’t the only way for new writers to improve their writing. Some might be lucky enough to find an individual who will give a thorough reading of a work in progress and sustained, dedicated, intelligent input into the problems of the manuscript. That’s a serious commitment of time and effort on the part of the tutor - no course I’ve ever taught on pays a writer to take that kind of responsibility towards a new writer. But not many of us live next door to well known or experienced writers and editors who could take that role. Some of us, myself included, come from backgrounds where the idea of being a writer is rather a strange one and the publishing world a mystery.

That’s why I set up a mentoring scheme, about five years back and am re-launching it as Gold Dust - the gold standard amongst mentoring schemes for new writers. It is a small scheme with limited places, but offers new or emerging writers what my research has taught me they crave most: sustained, one to one contact with an experienced, published writer usually lasting for up to a year. Writers of the calibre of the late Julia Darling (who mentored for us in the early years of the scheme, when it was called Writers’ Pool) acclaimed biographers such as Sally Cline, Jan Marsh and Carole Angier, or novelists like Kate Pullinger, Michelle Spring, Millie Murray, Catherine Johnson, Ravinder Randhawa, Kathryn Heyman and Jane Rogers have all mentored for us. We can’t guarantee which mentor an applicant will get but all Gold Dust mentors are experienced, have published at least four (often many more) books and have been a Royal Literary Fund Fellow, which means they are good at working one to one, as all RLF Fellowships are set up on this model.

In Gold Dust the mentor and new writer (who might in fact be a published or experienced writer too, simply wanting to have the input of another respected practitioner) meet in cafes or public places (never each others homes) ten times over the course of the year. In between meetings the mentor reads the mentee’s work, for up to ten hours. The sessions are tailored to suit the needs of both, with the emphasis on having realistic goals that can be met in the space of a year. In the beginning it was funded by the Royal Literary Fund and Arts Council and we were able to offer places free to writers; it is now a private scheme and the fee is £2000. Steep, I know, but compares well with other schemes where the work is done by email and not face to face, or to MA courses.

The mentor often learns as much as the new writer. I remember one of the first mentees I worked with. Her prose was beautiful, full of breath-taking similes, so clever I wished I’d thought of them myself. . Her central character was funny, sympathetic, fresh and unlike anything I’d read before. But the novel had no narrative drive. One thing happened after another and there was no momentum. I – The Reader – did not want to carry on reading. I remember feeling stumped by this problem, with no clear idea how to put it right (the same way I’d be stumped if this was happening in my own work in progress). We talked about it for many sessions before there was a shift. In the end the mentee simply made some subtle adjustments, editing sections to move the narrative along, cutting some static descriptions and re-ordering some of the scenes. These were her solutions, not something imposed by me, but our discussions had prompted them. The novel magically emerged from beneath the edits like a newly peeled stick, shining and true.

I have loved working with new writers in this way. Other mentors on our scheme have told me that they would give up other teaching in a flash to do more of it. Mentoring is entirely different to teaching. There is so much more satisfaction in knowing that I’m in for the long haul, that it’s worth really investing time and energy in this person because they too are committed to a full year’s work on their manuscript and we’re both going to see results. Mentoring allows us to value the creative arc of a piece of work as much as the end result and for the new writer to grill the ‘old’ one about such things as writers’ block, dealing with rejection letters, confidence, rewriting, responding to feedback, finding time to write, networking, how to do research – all essential stuff that many new writers need to know.

Of course there are dangers that the mentor’s personality – and greater status and experience - will overwhelm the new writer or inhibit them from rejecting unhelpful advice, but in my experience the regular meetings and one to one nature of mentoring works against this. Maybe new writers are a little shy of their mentors at first. But after three sessions, when they know how their mentor takes their coffee and have seen the inside of that chaotic bag, these things can break down and a more genuine relationship develops. In any case, such possibilities are, I’m afraid, just as likely in any relationship and learning to toughen up and deal effectively with advice is an important skill for a new writer, as Jane Eagland, a writer who won a place on Writers Pool mentoring scheme writes: ‘if the mentor suggests something that you don't agree with, it can help you to realise what it is that you want; it can strengthen your belief in yourself and your work. This is a useful learning experience because, on the way to publication, agents and editors may want to make changes; it's important to know what is negotiable and what is not.

A skilful mentor who respects your intentions can see things that you cannot and help you to achieve the full potential of your work. It can be a hard, painful but also exhilarating process in which you make far more rapid progress than you would if you stumbled along by yourself.’

I like that emphasis on ‘exhilarating progress’ but I’d guard against mentoring being seen as a quick route or sure-fire route to publication. At Gold Dust we state plainly that we can’t guarantee it. Not every writer who is mentored by a published author will write a publishable novel. Even if they do there are other factors in getting a publishing deal – luck, fashion, timing, the state of publishing, to name a few. Mentors will do all they can to help with a manuscript that they believe is publishable but the year’s work should be valued for itself, as an apprenticeship.

Seen that way, mentoring amongst writers is nothing new. Writers have often shared, swapped and critiqued each others work and developed long relationships based on this role. Think of the Bloomsbury set or the way that Ted Hughes and Sylvia Plath commented on and influenced each other’s work. Even the very first year of the MA course at UEA wasn’t a course at all. It was a one to one mentoring arrangement. Malcolm Bradbury only had one student: Ian McEwan. And look how well he’s done.

Jill Dawson