I didn’t mean to go to prison. For years I’d earned my living as a freelance journalist. But 15 years ago, out of financial necessity, I took a job as a writer in residence in a 1960s-built, high-security male prison. Initially, I was terrified. But I soon became addicted to helping prisoners through the arts. I still am. So when I saw the film Sing Sing, the newly released film about a theatre group in an American men’s prison, the memories came flooding back.
My brief was to be a “literary pied piper” and run writing workshops for men whose crimes ranged from theft to murder. I started by putting up notices in the prison wings with headings such as “Would you like help with writing a letter home/writing a short story/poem/novel?” To my amazement, a trickle and then a flow came to my classroom (which reeked for nine months, supposedly due to a dead rat underneath).
At first, my pupils and I were deeply suspicious of the other. I was terrified that someone might knife me. They couldn’t understand why I was here. According to one of the guards, I was a novelty because of my RP English and a string of romantic novels to my name, which happened to be in the prison library already.
But within a week of being given the keys to the wings (lose them en route down the myriad of corridors and you’re sacked), a strange thing happened. I saw that some of my men were really excited about the poems we had written together. I watched their faces move through a kaleidoscope of expressions as fellow students wrote about gang rape and hold-ups. Nearly all these led to heated discussions (the rapist and murderer each vilified the other).
Educational backgrounds ranged from illiterate to MAs. A scrap of paper with three lines proved more powerful than a full-length novel. One young man dictated poems in his head to his cellmate (a former lawyer). I watched men grow in creative self-confidence; overheard officers referring to them respectfully as “the writing group”. I spent nearly a year typing someone’s crime story, which had startling similarities to a terrible accident I’d witnessed at the age of six. A guard later told me that his behaviour had vastly improved. In a strange way, this also helped me face my own demons. Until then, I had tried to block out the accident in my mind but now this had brought it back and I had to face it.
And therein lies the nub of it. Writing unlocks doors to dark places. It helps us to look our fears in the eye. It’s real and yet it’s not real. We can put something on paper that we might not be able to say out loud or even admit to ourselves because it’s so awful. When our writing is praised, we feel good about it. It makes us want to do better; to be better.
One day, a chance remark by a guard that men “either find gym or God in prison” gave me an idea for a collection of sayings by staff and prisoners alike to help them get through the years ahead. I called it The Book Of Uncommon Prayer. Staff were intrigued to read what prisoners had written and vice versa. One, by a buddhist called Christopher, said: “No matter what obstacles are put in our way, always stay positive and focused.” Another was: “Life’s a task – you have to still continue. Never give up. That’s it.”
I also brought in writer friends to talk to the men, such as the best-selling author of the Morse novels Colin Dexter, who went down a storm. When asked how he got his inspiration, he said, “A large…” then he paused for dramatic effect, “bottle of malt whisky.” The guards were not amused.
With permission from the governor (a great supporter of the arts), I put on a recital of written work for staff and local dignitaries. One murderer read a poem about ‘How I broke me teeth when I was eight’. Our laughter made his face glow. Yet he’d murdered someone. Was I right to make him feel good about himself? “If it makes him reassess his actions,” the governor told me, “you’ve done your job.”
But there were times when it was impossible to do this. One day, a man on the sex offenders’ wing asked if I could edit his “memoirs”. After reading them, I had to go to the loo to vomit before telling him that I couldn’t continue. I was told I had every right to turn him down. Yet I couldn’t dismiss that fear of failure.
I helped a man record an audio story for his son and saw his face shine when he told me how much his six-year-old had loved hearing his voice. I teamed up with the artist in residence to help men write about (and illustrate) the stories behind their tattoos. We laughed a lot.
If I’m making light of this, it’s because it was the only way I could cope with the pounding fear that hit me every morning because you never knew what was going to happen. No two days in prison are ever the same. In fact, I was told by an officer that “being on constant alert could save your life or someone else’s.” At 5pm, I’d fall out into the fresh air and go home to make dinner for my teenager.
Once when the lockdown siren went, indicating a missing prisoner, I was stuck on a wing for five hours with lifers and guards. I felt claustrophobic but safe. Naïve? Maybe. Another time, I was ‘gently’ stalked down prison corridors by a student reeking of male cologne, asking for advice on his novel. I broke my rule about not looking up crimes. His girlfriend is lucky to be alive. Did I mention that I didn’t have any guard supervision and that my only recourse for help was a whistle on my belt?
After three years, I knew I had to get out. I was addicted and yet constantly on edge. It was hard to relax during my non-prison days. I also developed anxious thoughts about breaking the law accidentally and ending up behind bars myself. But I couldn’t cut off my ties completely, so I became a judge for the Koestler Awards for arts in criminal justice. These were started in 1962: they provide feedback and encouragement to entrants of all abilities in visual art, design, writing and music. The exhibition opens in November at the South Bank. Meanwhile, prison changed my genre. I’ve now written eight “warm but realistic prison-led” bestsellers. When one was optioned for a film (which never got made), I used the money to fund the journalist Simon Booker as my replacement at my old prison. Tragically, Simon died this year. If only we could find a sponsor to continue our work.
Prisoners can’t contact staff. But I was permitted to receive this letter:
“I cannot express how helpful, how empowering, how humanising it has been to have a space in which to come together and to write, to exchange ideas, to grow. Thank you from the heart.”
I Died on a Tuesday (Penguin) by Jane Corry is out now.
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