by Kristin Huggins, Consultant
This week marks the first anniversary of my time with the Graduate Writing Center as a Writing Consultant. A whole year. How did that happen?! I’m not sure whether the concept of time has altered due to the state of our post-pandemic world, because of my doctoral work with the School of Education (a venture that arguably feels as if it will never end), or simply because life at 35 is now punctuated by a series of rapid-fire changes that one must face with an alarming blend of nonchalance and alacrity.
This year has undoubtedly been marked by growth and change. Twelve months after my first day at the GWC, I no longer feel like the same woman, writer, or consultant.
I remember my first consultation. Within the first five minutes of meeting my client over Zoom, I felt sure that my supervisor had made a mistake when they hired me. I wasn’t ready. I didn’t know what I was doing. I didn’t have all the answers, and I certainly wasn’t the best writer in my program. As I shared my screen and dove into my client’s document, the grips of Imposter Syndrome began to tighten. Maybe I could ask for another week to study the GWC training resources more. Maybe I could pretend I died and move to Portugal. I had to do something other than sit here and masquerade as a writing consultant to graduate students and – shock of all shocks – professors?!
Now I look back on that first consultation and smile. Growing pains are natural in any profession, and this was no exception. Spoiler alert: I didn’t fake my own death and move to Portugal. I slogged my way through that first meeting. And then another. And another. Until I finally found my groove. And somewhere along the way, I discovered what it meant to be a “good” Writing Consultant (and, in turn, how to be a “good” writer):
- Listen first, write second.
- All writers are communicators. Not all are experts. And that’s okay.
- Writing (and consulting) is grounded in the human experience.
Listen First, Write Second
Early on, I felt pressure to lead consultations with a clearly defined “plan” or “agenda.” I developed a list of macro- and micro-level concerns with each document, intending to walk my clients through these issues methodically during our time together. While there isn’t necessarily anything wrong with this idea, I quickly found that my idea of where we should begin and where my clients felt we should start the meeting didn’t always align. Often, they would pose questions that I hadn’t considered and that certainly didn’t fit my “plan.” I had to pivot.
For your reference, dear reader: I am not a “pivot” person.
However, after making concessions and altering my routine consultation plan, I discovered that clients were happier and felt more confident at the end of our time together when they had the option to “drive” the meeting with their questions and concerns.
The same concept is true for writers. How often do we write ourselves into a box – a methodology, a theoretical framework, a seminal source that we feel CERTAIN will spell our success… only to discover a hiccup in our “plan” and the need to altogether scrap and restart the process. Writing, after all, is similar to the human experience. It is not a static activity. It alters, shifts, and evolves as we discover threads unseen or narratives unheard. Writers must approach the act of writing with the same concession to LISTEN FIRST, and write second.
All Writers are Communicators. Not All are Experts. And That’s Okay!
Another mistake I made in my early days of consulting was the idea that “writing consultant” was synonymous with “writing expert.” I studied for hours before my first meeting, pouring over various style guides, exemplars of document reviews, and tips and tricks provided by senior consultants. To this day, remembering rules for Turabian footnotes (a style I rarely traverse professionally or academically) is the stuff of nightmares for me.
But my clients didn’t need an expert. They needed help communicating with their audiences, which was an entirely different skill set altogether. Was their argument clear? How would their audience interpret this statement? How was the readability of that section? Did this make sense?
It was as if clients needed a translator, not a consultant, who could take the intent straight from their cerebral cortex and translate it into comprehensible words on a page.
This was not what I expected. But maybe it should have been. How often had I stared at a blank Word document on my computer, willing the words to transpose themselves from my brain to the page through sheer will? And how helpful would it have been if someone had told me that it didn’t have to be perfect – that I didn’t have to be an expert at the craft or the content? That simply starting the act of writing and following it through was a feat unto itself.
Don’t worry about being an expert. Talk to your audience. If you focus on the act of communication and not perfection, you can consider yourself a successful writer.
Writing is Grounded in the Human Experience
Echoes of my mother ring in my ears: “mind your manners,” “follow the golden rule, Kristin,” or “you attract flies with honey, not vinegar.” As a child, the last one didn’t sit well with me; why would I want to attract flies? It was only later when I sat in a one-on-one meeting with a director who was tearing apart my most recent work in an opera production that I realized what my mother was trying to impart to me at such a young age: success and growth hinge on collaboration, and effective collaboration only happens when all parties treat one another with basic human decency.
As a Writing Consultant, I quickly discovered that humility, transparency, and kindness removed barriers to creativity (perceived or inherent) during the consultation and writing processes.
This should seem obvious – after all, no consultant goes into a session with the intent to bulldoze clients with their work. Rather, my eagerness as a new consultant to dive into the writing led me to neglect other areas of hospitality and relational learning that are equally as important as identifying hanging participles.
Likewise, as writers we have an ethical obligation to our intended audience to write with humility and respect, no matter the subject. By approaching the act of writing as an extension of the human experience, we acknowledge the imperfections of our craft while simultaneously situating our content through the lens of humanism.
Final Thoughts
Do I live up to these ideals? Not always. I’m an imperfect creature. But knowing the recipe at least gives me guidelines to aspire to as I continue to forge relationships with writing clients and hone my academic writing skills. Someday, I hope to make these ideals as natural as breathing air. But like any craft, consistent practice is the key to progress, not perfection.
Keep writing, dear readers.
