The Young Writers’ Holiday is made possible through the generous sponsorship of the National Writing Program (NWP). To find out more about what the NWP helps achieve at WVU please click here.

By Connie Pan

Every summer, Keisha Kibler serves as director for Young Writers’ Holiday (YWH) in West Virginia University’s Honors Hall. Due to the negative stigma of summer school, one might assume these students need help with their writing. That is not the case at all; it’s quite the opposite. YWH is a camp that serves students who excel in writing.

Coming from an MFA candidate in fiction at WVU’s graduate program, one of the most important things to a writer is a close-knit writing community. A place where you can hear, read, and see other writers; a place where people encourage you to write; and a place where you can share your writing, get ideas of what is working, what is not, and what is happening under the surface. While the Arts in schools are devalued by suffering budget cut after budget cut, these talented young writers flock to Honors Hall to rub pencils with other writers, younger, older, in school, and professional.

This summer, from June 13 through June 15, thirty young writers (a surprising number that doubled from last year), ranging from fifth to eleventh grade and from seven surrounding counties, met at the writing camp. It consisted of a variety of craft talks, writing into the day assignments, rotating workshops, and focused writing groups led by West Virginia writers and MFA students. The three day camp culminated in a reception, which allowed the young writers to celebrate and share their work with loved ones and peers. Throughout the three days I spent with them, I found joy in recognizing myself in these young writers.

The focused writing groups ranged from poetry to mystery to life stories. I had the pleasure of working with the eighth and ninth grade fantasy fiction group. In our focus group, we completed collaborative descriptive writing about the bottom of the sea, writing prompts drawn out of the bag of otherworldly things, writing with props such as pyramids and stones, and craft talks without and then with an owl. Some of our time was spent undertaking more traditional writerly activities: individual drafting and revision in the computer lab with complimentary zip drives (courtesy of YWH) and practice reading their work in front of an audience.

Prior to the writing camp, facilitators (including myself) and assistants sent letters to the young writers introducing ourselves and highlighting some of the fun things we’d be doing together. I asked them to bring a piece of writing they were proud of for an icebreaker read around and hoped they would appreciate the good news snail-mail. (Writers know good news travels by phone or email. This was our attempt to reverse that stigma.)

I understood when accepting the facilitator position that this camp was for gifted writers, but I frequently found myself jaw-open amazed at the level of sophistication and seriousness these writers had for their craft. At the initial read around, tears of jubilation raced to my eyes and heart palpitations shook my core when I asked a male eighth grader to read a sample of his writing. The young lad pulled out a folder with the last chapter of his first novel, a mystery, and read his typed novel synopsis before divulging the last paragraph of his thriller (a telling preview for me, a brief snippet for you of the talent inhabiting Honors Hall those three days).

In anticipation of the reception, we talked about what they wanted to read. The familiar groans, the groans I’ve groaned myself, filled the room. Eyeballs rolled, fingers fidgeted, sweat beads formed in palms and on brows, and everyone scanned the room, hoping some brave soul would speak first. I have yet to meet a writer that loves reading in front of large crowds. Even if they appear to like reading, it’s bravado, and they’re usually the ones breathing into a paper bag or tossing free cookies in the toilet stall minutes before going on. I told them that even though it seemed like they were dying and their last breath of life was filling their lungs in the form of an anxiety attack, they would indeed go on living. To sequester (not exile) these nerves we’d rehearse 53459845 times. The most outgoing of the bunch spoke first. He said he really liked what he wrote for one of the prompts, but it was new and nowhere near ready (heart flutter) and that he’d be down for collaborating on something, a play, maybe. Two writers knew what they wanted to read and had revised in the labs for the reception. The other eight writers agreed to collaborate.

They wrote their play in one afternoon. In secret, they brainstormed the plot of the play (complete with a funny twist), who would play what characters, and who would bring what props and costumes. They surprised me up to the very last moments. First, during their rehearsals, we timed their performances. When they discovered their play was under their allotted time, they asked if one of the actresses could read her short story because it was really good. How could I say no? Second, the older fantasy fictioneers were sitting up front, in the first two rows. It was an option for them to go first because they were closer to the stage, but they wanted their play to be the show-ender. That’s when I noticed the difference between them and me.

I would have jumped at the chance to go first, get it over with, to be able to finally eat that celebratory cookie from the tray in the back. Sure it would stay in my stomach and not fly up my throat and out of my mouth, but these kids insisted on going last. These kids are fearless, full of guts, and it was inspiring to see passion, practice, and such potential in young folks. Their writing showcase featured a poem, an excerpt of a novel written in journal entries, a short story, and a play. They seemed astronaut steps and pole-vaulting bounds ahead of me. The first time I heard of a MFA program, Poets and Writers, or a writing conference, I was already in an undergraduate program for writing.

Even though the Arts seem to be dwindling in schools, the artists certainly aren’t going anywhere. So, writers, young and old, be aware of these opportunities in this wonderful writing community. Not only is WVU a place where young writers flock to learn, but it’s also a place where MFA students get the opportunity to gain experience teaching creative writing and, in turn, learning from these fearless young folks.