The National Weather Service has put out a warning for a winter storm tomorrow and into Thursday, seven to fourteen inches in our area. I see it as the final goodbye of winter, the last storm. Today was a warm and sunny and beautiful day, we walked the dogs and felt warm for the first time that I can remember.

Spring is a creative season for me, I am kicking it off with a short story class I am teaching at Hubbard Hall in Cambridge, N.Y. It is a small class, limited to eight people, and I think there is one spot left. I am excited to teach this class and especially wanted it to be small.

It runs for four weeks, two hours each Saturday morning. We will come up with ideas, write the story, maybe find a way to publish them. This will be a personal class, intimate, lots of one on one. I have been teaching writing on and off for several years now, I have learned a  lot about it. It is not easy to teach writing, it is not easy to learn how to do it. It takes a lot of work and focus and most people don’t have the time or inclination to do either.

Writing classes should be fun. They should be supportive. People need to be encouraged and affirmed in their work, not knocked down. I consider it a sacred thing when somebody lights up, when the creative spark is set off and I see a writer being born right in front of me. I have learned not to expect this or demand it, it has to happen naturally and spontaneously. Writing is internal, it has to come from the heart, it cannot really be taught, only encouraged if it is there. I know most people don’t want to do work too hard at it, I have learned to accept that, it used to bother me, but it is not my place to push.

I believe my students can go as far as they wish, or not go anywhere if they choose.  Mostly I want them to leave feeling good about themselves and their work. I can’t wait to hear their ideas and talk about them. As far as this last and foolish storm goes, the cats are back inside, we have plenty of wood stored up, Maria and I are both scoffing at this storm, it seems a messy and pathetic thing, a last cold snarl, a last chance for me to capture the winter pasture.