We found the perfect place to camp. At eleven-thousand feet in the mountains of Eastern Nepal—the sky filled with puffy white clouds and a panoramic view of Kanchenjunga, the third highest mountain in the world.
My friend Elizabeth and I traveled with five porters, two cooks, and a guide. The porters set up four tents—a toilet tent with a hole dug into the ground inside, a larger dining tent where the guys, after dinner, rolled out their sleeping bags, and one tent each for Elizabeth and me. I threw my duffel into my tent and turned to look at Kanchenjunga. I knew these clouds, swirling, changing, growing darker, moving as if the hilltop itself was spinning.
As a child I loved watching storms roll in. The sky roils and shifts, clouds transforming from gray to black. Rain pummeled the house like bullets—thrilling me. If the sky turned a yellow grey-green color, and tornado sirens went off, my mother headed for the wooden crucifix that housed six crystal rosaries, one for each of us. As a group we sat in the basement where we listened to our scratchy transistor radio and said the rosary until the tornado passed.
This storm, so far away from home caused me to abandon my interest in the every-changing sky for so many storms to come. I became afraid to drive my car in the rain. I couldn’t sit by the window to watch the wind or go out into my yard during lightning. Every rumble of thunder recalled the panic I felt that night.
We were on a long-awaited hiking trip, where we’d spend three weeks hiking through Nepal’s ferns and fog, rock and mist. We’d been there four times before, but this was a part of the country we had never seen. It was different than the Everest Region. Warmer, with unfamiliar bugs, flowers, plants. Pink Rhododendron blossoms littered the ground like magenta-colored snow.
LOVE
noun | \ lev : an intense feeling of deep affection; a great interest and pleasure in something.
LUST
noun | \ lest : very strong sexual desire.
One dreary winter day, nearly two years into dating, he ended things rather oddly: “I don’t think you’ll be okay if we break up,” he explained, “which is why we have to break up.” Though confounding, I suppose it was not surprising—he often resented how much I seemed to need him.
I met you by the river the first time while the mist rose from the banks like it was trying to change elements. You were more fun to run from the cops with than anyone else I’d met, and man you made me reckless. I never had to test my legs though, the minivan did it for us while Jerry blasted through the blown speakers in the cornfield. You walked 2,000 miles up the country on trail and wrote me letters back home while I watched, sidelined. I could have walked myself from Georgia to Maine with you, but it was your own pilgrimage to undertake, your season spending nights under a green tarp.
Just after the pandemic, I went to New York City with my aunt Mimi. We had planned the trip as a way for me to learn everything I could about my mother, who died thirty-five years ago from an aggressive form of breast cancer. It was the hottest day on record for the month of May and we sat in an air-conditioned restaurant in Greenwich Village.
Mimi listed things my mother loved: dancing, parties, fashion, Bailey’s Irish Cream.
In the Beginning
I went to a Christian elementary school that taught me A. God loves me and B. God can send me to hell.
We had a tradition for birthdays: a call once it was midnight so that we’d be the first of everyone else to groggily whisper our well wishes for each other. It started as a promise from me that I’d do it every year for you, no matter what I was doing, who I was with, or how tired I was.
A few summers ago, I sat next to my dog on a pile of ice-coated rocks in the Brooks Range of Alaska, afraid that my soon-to-be-husband had fallen off a cliff.
You listened to Joni Mitchell’s Blue while you were abroad. Some say an unhealthy amount, but you beg to differ. Something about the timbre of her voice resonates with traveling, long-distance train rides and loneliness. Because that’s what the feeling was, right? Loneliness?
I balanced on the side of Mt. Yale, quietly crying into my knees. Rory hopped from stone to stone ahead of me, following my husband, Julio. Between only weighing thirteen pounds (mostly fluff) and having the start of cataracts—and being a dog—Rory did not notice the four thousand-foot drop on the other side of the rocks. Once she realized I was no longer a step behind her, she came plopping back to where I froze and wiggled her way onto my lap. Panting and licking my face, in her obliviousness, Rory pulled me out of my panic and helped me make it the rest of the way to Mt. Yale’s fourteen thousand two hundred-foot summit. I had stopped just a short scramble from the top because the trail was more exposed than I expected, and I was sure I would slip and plummet to my death. Predictably, I did not.
In June of 1993, I was twenty-three and pregnant—again. Despite having been on the pill for years and using a diaphragm correctly, this was the third time my body tried to make me a mother before I was ready. Nothing had changed since the last time it happened: I was still living in the Ocean Beach enclave of San Diego, still in a rocky relationship with Richard, still a part-time student inching my way toward a bachelor’s degree, still a waitress, still broke. Things were worse, in fact. My roommate informed me that she was moving to Guatemala, and as I couldn’t afford the whole apartment, I had to move out. Richard had just graduated college and planned to ride his motorcycle up the west coast to Seattle, so we decided to break up (again). When a co-worker heard me complaining about a lack of summer plans, he suggested a hospitality company that hired seasonal workers in Yellowstone National Park. Employment included room and board, so I applied, they accepted, and I packed my bags.
We found the perfect place to camp. At eleven-thousand feet in the mountains of Eastern Nepal—the sky filled with puffy white clouds and a panoramic view of Kanchenjunga, the third highest mountain in the world. My friend Elizabeth and I traveled with five porters, two cooks and a guide. The porters set up four tents—a toilet tent with a hole dug into the ground inside, a larger dining tent where the guys, after dinner, rolled out their sleeping bags and one tent each for Elizabeth and me. I threw my duffel bag into my tent and turned to look at Kanchenjunga. I knew these clouds, swirling, changing, growing darker, moving as if the hilltop itself was spinning.
It’s my first Christmas Day with my family in two years and Scott’s first Christmas with us ever. After packing up our lives in Austin and moving to Brooklyn to fulfill a mid-twenties obligation to ourselves, we spend our vacation time not on vacation and instead doing the work of family visits. Now that I’ve dragged him for the four hour flight and the five hour car ride to the southernmost tip in Texas, he can enjoy December in shorts and a tee in what locals call the Valley.
We stand together near the bus station, inhaling the smell of cow shit, watching miniature dust devils swirling around in the street like tiny tornados. Two hippie imposters, my boyfriend Don and I, wait for a Greyhound bus to take us from Stockton to Pasadena, California.
Once settled, we met outside the dining tent to discuss dinner and plans for the following day. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a photo in the making as clouds drifted over the midsection of Kachenjunga, revealing only the peaks poking through the cloud cover. I ran to my tent to grab my camera before the light dispersed and the photo dissolved. As I ducked in thunder boomed. Then lightning. I poked my head outside the tent as golf ball sized hail fell, pounding my tent like a thousand angry fists.
The sky changed to black and driving rain blasted divots into the ground. I couldn’t hear anything beyond the storm or see my hand in front of my face. I sat with my eyes closed, a self-imposed darkness that did not block out the continuous flashes of light outside and plugged my ears for protection from the loudest and lowest thunder rippling through my bones. I put on headphones and cranked the music to deafening levels. Even that wasn’t enough to neutralize the booming outside. Our tents were rated for back-country rough weather, but crouched inside, I didn’t think any tent would hold up against these winds and rain.
Chandra, our guide, unzipped my tent and slid in soaking wet. He said they were trying to keep the dining tent from collapsing, leaving all but Elizabeth and me without shelter. As I clenched my phone like I was ready to call for help he removed my headphones, took the phone from my hand, and set it in my duffel bag.
“Don’t use the phone, don’t touch the tent pole” he insisted. I begged him to stay, but he was off again, into the storm. I curled up and held myself tight.
I couldn’t think about what I would miss if I didn’t return home. I couldn’t think about my daughters, or the newspaper headline that read ‘Minneapolis woman dies at eleven-thousand feet in the one of the worst storms ever to hit the Eastern Himalayas’. Alone in the inky blackness turning myself over to the storm as a human sacrifice.
Chandra appeared with Elizabeth. Her tent was down, and she was crying, gulping air between sobs. She dragged a soaking wet duffel bag, her sleeping bag and some plastic bags to put on the ground beneath us. I tried to put my arm around her, but she shrugged it off, crawling into her sleeping bag with her back to us. She wasn’t afraid for herself, she said, but for the crew who had nowhere to hide.
Meanwhile, the porters and cooks had taken shelter in a shallow cave nearby. The dining tent had collapsed. Our toilet tent had blown off the mountain. Elizabeth’s tent was down; mine was the last standing shelter. Only my belongings remained dry.
After an hour, the thunder and lightning moved off and the rain gentled. Chandra changed out of his wet clothes, and I patted the ground next to me for him to sleep. We lay three across in my two-person tent. I focused on slowing my breathing. I could hear my inhale and exhale, my heart still beating.
Elizabeth continued to cry, letting fear seep out of her like air from a balloon. I rubbed her back with one hand and, with the other, turned on my headlamp. In the beam of light, I made bunny ears on the roof of the tent. Chandra smiled with relief and joined in.
Elizabeth finally roused and climbed over both of us to go outside and pee. The toilet tent was gone and, as she squatted, we heard her let out a long sigh. Maybe because we were all together, very much alive.
After she returned and was tucked into her sleeping bag, I poked my head out as the clouds parted like a stage curtain at a theater, exposing a rich black sky with a perfect round moon pasted above the mountain peaks. Silvery clouds floated quietly by.
-Jane McCauley
This product gives you access to all four weeks of the workshop. Purchase one or more drop-in sessions here.
Build a habit in 20 sessions. In this 4 week workshop that meets Mondays through Fridays from 8:00-9:00 AM CST, we will focus on generating new writing—making headway on a current project, reviving an old project that’s been gathering dust, or writing based off of the daily prompts Leigh provides.
The first 45 minutes of class are a gentle, camera-off, silent writing session. The remaining 15 minutes are an opportunity to share excerpts of our work, reflect on progress made, and set intentions for the following day. Then we will read a passage together on the writing life and close each class with a new learning about habit formation. By the end of this course we’ll have a morning writing habit that is each our own to continue and build upon.
This listing is for an individual class. To purchase access for the full 4-week workshop, click here.
Build a habit in 20 sessions. In this 4 week workshop that meets Mondays through Fridays from 8:00-9:00 AM CST, we will focus on generating new writing—making headway on a current project, reviving an old project that’s been gathering dust, or writing based off of the daily prompts Leigh provides.
The first 45 minutes of class is a gentle, camera-off, silent writing session. The remaining 15 minutes are an opportunity to share excerpts of our work, reflect on progress made, and set intentions for the following day. Then we will read a passage together on the writing life and close each class with a new learning about habit formation. By the end of this course we’ll have a morning writing habit that is each our own to continue and build upon.
Many writers feel drawn to write about their lives but struggle with uncertainty: Why this story? Why now? And who is it really for? This workshop is designed to help writers move beyond doubt and toward clarity by focusing on the deeper meaning and purpose beneath their story.
In this interactive, craft-forward session, participants will be introduced to the Memoir Compass, a practical framework that helps writers articulate their motivation (why they are writing), mission (who the story serves), and message (what meaning or insight the story carries). Through guided reflection and writing exercises, participants will begin shaping a personal narrative rooted in intention rather than overwhelm.
This workshop is ideal for writers interested in memoir or personal narrative, as well as fiction writers drawing from lived experience, who want to move forward with greater confidence, focus, and direction.
Some of the most compelling creative nonfiction begins with the feelings we are tempted to avoid: anger, resentment, shame, fear, or the sense that we have an axe to grind. In this six-week workshop, writers will explore how to follow that emotional heat toward deeper, more honest work—without sacrificing compassion, complexity, or craft. Through close readings, writing exercises, discussion, and constructive feedback, we’ll consider how to transform strong feelings into writing that reaches beyond catharsis and connects with readers.
IT’S NO SECRET THAT FEEDBACK IS AN IMPORTANT PART OF THE WRITING PROCESS.
In fact, we argue that it might be the most important part of the process.
But it’s hard to find a writing community. It’s hard to find the people who are willing to take the time and the effort to read your work and give the feedback you really, truly deserves.
That’s where HerStry Critique Groups come in!
HerStry Critique Groups are small groups of 6 women who gather online for 6 weeks to share their writing, give constructive feedback and gain skills as writers.
Weekly online sessions last approximately ninety minutes, with three women sharing their work each week. Writers of all genres and levels are welcome and you may share both works of fiction and nonfiction.
Sessions take place on Mondays 7PM CT, Tuesdays 11AM CT, Fridays 11AM CT
WHAT’S INCLUDED IN THE HERSTRY CRITIQUE GROUPS?
Six 90 minute live workshop sessions
Three 20 minutes sessions in the “hot seat” to get you work critiqued
Written and verbal feedback from your fellow workshop participants
A weekly in depth edit and critique of your work from the group leader after each session
Weekly writing goals and accountability check ins
Full video recordings of each session to keep for your records
Say goodbye to the lonely, stuck in your head writing life!
LET’S WRITE!
From conception to submission. Let’s make summer sizzle with stories.
Writing a short story doesn’t happen in one session. It takes multiple drafts to get it exactly right, to create characters that come to life for the reader and a world they can’t stop thinking about. In this seven week course we will work on a single short story from conception to submission ready. The seven week session will include generative brainstorming sessions, short story craft talks, multiple workshops for feedback from fellow writers, and detailed line by line feedback and edits from your instructor. Plus, we’ll talk about submission venues, cover letters, and when to know if your story is ‘finished.’
IT’S NO SECRET THAT FEEDBACK IS AN IMPORTANT PART OF THE WRITING PROCESS.
In fact, we argue that it might be the most important part of the process.
But it’s hard to find a writing community. It’s hard to find the people who are willing to take the time and the effort to read your work and give the feedback you really, truly deserves.
That’s where HerStry Critique Groups come in!
HerStry Critique Groups are small groups of 6 women who gather online for 6 weeks to share their writing, give constructive feedback and gain skills as writers.
Weekly online sessions last approximately ninety minutes, with three women sharing their work each week. Writers of all genres and levels are welcome and you may share both works of fiction and nonfiction.
Sessions take place on Mondays 7PM CT, Tuesdays 11AM CT, Fridays 11AM CT
WHAT’S INCLUDED IN THE HERSTRY CRITIQUE GROUPS?
Six 90 minute live workshop sessions
Three 20 minutes sessions in the “hot seat” to get you work critiqued
Written and verbal feedback from your fellow workshop participants
A weekly in depth edit and critique of your work from the group leader after each session
Weekly writing goals and accountability check ins
Full video recordings of each session to keep for your records
Say goodbye to the lonely, stuck in your head writing life!
October 7, 14, 21, 28, November 4 and 18 CT
There is no class on November 11.
WRITING THE SEX SCENE.
Writing a sex scene can be delirious fun, a harrowing challenge, a literary milestone—possibly the most important part of building your short story or book. In our six weeks together, you’ll experience just about every possible emotion as you explore the erotic in different modes: comic, tender, harrowing, soul-shattering … because it really is all about the characters’ feelings, not just the mechanics. So we’ll talk about tone. Vocabulary. Metaphor. Sensory detail. How to get big emotions on the page … and when to pull back and let the reader’s imagination go to work.
This is a course for writers who want to explore the intersection between the novel and short stories, and would like to weave their short stories into a story cycle (or collection of "linked stories" or "composite novel"). This is also a class about the interaction of form and content, and how one influences the other. We will read works of interlinked stories by writers from diverse cultural and ethnic backgrounds, focusing on modern classics and contemporary practitioners of these hybrid forms. Weekly discussions will center on elements of craft, such as the expansion and compression of time, setting as an organizing and connecting principle, character development within and between stories, structure and plot for interconnected stories, and responding to literary influences in the same genre.
This six-week course guides writers through the literary submission process, offering insider insight and practical tools to help you get your work into the world. We’ll demystify everything from reading submission calls to writing cover letters and choosing the right journals. Along the way, we’ll workshop short bios, develop submission trackers, and build personalized plans that align with your voice and goals.
By the end of the course, you’ll walk away with a polished piece ready to send, a tailored submission list, and the confidence to navigate the lit mag world with clarity and purpose.
Ideal for writers of literary fiction, poetry, personal essay, memoir, and hybrid forms.
Tension feels tangible to a reader, an active experience. But from a craft perspective, tension is often a function of restraint, palpable from what is withheld, delayed or left unresolved. Why do some stories feel urgent even in stillness while others fall flat despite dramatic events? Our impulse to resolve tension often comes from a deeply human instinct to seek coherence and moral clarity, but resisting that instinct creates compelling narratives. When we let characters misbehave or allow ambiguity in their actions, we pull readers closer to them.
This course examines tension as a narrative force. We’ll consider how writers can counter the impulse to resolve too quickly, to justify wrongful acts or to redeem a character’s behavior. By looking at ways to sustain tension without escalation into spectacle, we’ll experiment with evoking it in the ordinary and the unspoken. The class will combine close reading, craft reflection and writing prompts to practice distinct approaches to writing tension. This course is designed for writers working in fiction, nonfiction, and hybrid forms who are interested in deepening the psychological and structural complexity of their work. Ultimately, tension is what compels the reader to turn the page.
In this generative writing workshop, ecologist and poet Anne Marie Wells will introduce participants to some of today's eco-poets and essayists and guide participants through a series of writing prompts that will use the outdoors and personal experience as inspiration for creative expression. No writing experience is necessary to participate.
Jane is a re-emerging writer after a hiatus to raise a family and explore the world. She has been a featured reader for the Walker Art Center Poetry Series and published in a collection of broadsides to commemorate the event. Aside from writing, Jane loves to hang with her husband and pup. She also loves to pack up the car for a road trip, get on an airplane to anywhere, and hike in the mountains. Sometimes she even likes to stay home.
Dear Ezra,
I know we’ve never met…
And yet my hungry mind keeps feeding me
slow-burning images of you in your kitchen.