So yes, I was expelled from Jane’s Heirs Writing Collective by the leader, Kendra Hennings, for “straining credulity” and “aesthetic misconduct.” This, from a woman who devoted forty-three pages of her horse memoir to “glistening haunches” and “a soul tethered to a thrusting post unknowable.” Not the horse’s fault, I suppose. Still, I’ve found a more honest audience for my writing: the three-year-olds in my preschool class.
Our first workshop begins tomorrow at Circle Time, which I’ve rebranded as “Kendra Hennings’ Enemies.”
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At our first meeting, I tell the children the name of our new writing group.
Emma’s eyes get wide. “Miss Sara, that’s my mommy’s name!”
Yes. Yes it is.
I explain to my new literary colleagues that we’ll be focusing on raw, unfiltered truth. All they contribute is, “I gotted a new Lego,” “Do you like my Paw Patrol shirt?” and other meaningless trash. Kendra would call this “engaging with materiality.” I call it unfocused.
I read from my recent scribblings—a short piece with the working title “Horse Memoirs Are Not Interesting.”
It works. A lively discussion ensues. Elinor and Devin are only mildly anti-horse, but Liam declares them “stinky,” which I note as insightful criticism. Fiona says she likes baby horses, but when I explain that they grow up to be big horses that some women get weird over, she backs down. Jason puts in a good word for hammerhead sharks. I make a note on his behavior tracking sheet.
Curiously, Emma has no opinion—on horses, sharks, or Jason’s struggles with staying on point.
But for a first meeting? Not terrible.
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Over a game of Hello Kitty Memory, I do a little fact-checking with Emma. I let her get the Pochacco match to loosen her up, but it turns out she’s more than ready to spill.
“Do you know anything about a horse named Starlight?”
“Starlight is Pam’s horse.”
“And who is Pam?”
“On the movie.”
New working title: “She Never Had a Horse.” This story is really taking shape. It’s about a woman named Kendra Hennings who can’t write—and steals horse stories from Nickelodeon.
At recess, I play hopscotch. I haven’t felt this energized in ages. The muse is with me.
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Lunchtime. I read my latest draft:
“So in this piece, a woman named Kendra Hennings lies about having a horse, and also says mean things about a nice teacher’s story about a lady from Ohio who has never once tried pasta. I poured five months, six drafts, and one long-distance breakup into that story. Kendra called it ‘niche.’ Would Kindness Bear think that was a nice thing to say?”
Head shakes all around.
“The teacher should take the horse from her,” Jason says.
“Jason, that’s the thing—there is no horse.”
“She should take her bananas!” Fiona shouts, and everyone laughs.
Emma raises her hand. “Miss Sara, mommy said she washed my nap things but she didn’t. She just putted them back in the bag.”
“Good observing, Emma. I’ll see how I can work that in.”
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Normally during nap, I update the Sunflower app with what we read, learned, and played. Parents love these details. Today I post a photo of my journal cover (Truth Project) and a mug of tea. Caption: “Productive day! The children are learning so much about storytelling and honesty.”
Lots of parent likes.
Only Kendra replies—I’d love to hear more!
I answer with a horse emoji.
Then a trash can.
Then a match.
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Parents arrive for pickup. I’m reading my updated draft of “Lazy and Horseless” aloud:
“And then the woman who pretended to have a horse and do laundry never got a book contract.”
Emma claps. “Mommy, we’re reading about Starlight!”
I look up. Kendra. Late again. In jodhpurs. Her smile freezes mid-formation, like she’s just realized Charlotte Brontë would’ve burned that donkey memoir at Thornfield and cursed the ashes.
A tiny part of me wants to reassure Kendra that I understand. That writing is hard, and we’ve all cut corners. Just to see if she lets me back into Jane’s Heirs. But some lessons are best learned via an email blast to your writing group.
The children all give the story Five Funny Bunnys. Feels good.
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This is what real literary mentorship looks like, Kendra. I’m sure our group could help make Stirrup My Soul less of a slog, but we’re pretty busy. Maybe if you can write a scene where Starlight teaches kids about shapes—with no lingering glances at his glutes—we’ll workshop it during snack.
