Even in prison, there is a freedom that comes through writing

For someone who writes for living – an opinion here, a story there – listening to a group of prisoners trying to make sense of what has happened to them through the medium of words and music is a sobering experience

(Stock image (Peter Macdiarmid/Getty Images)

In a week when the talk has been of making mathematics compulsory – presumably to encourage children to become business-savvy little wealth-creators – I have been at the dreamier end of the academic spectrum, listening to stories and poems. If George Osborne had been with me, he might have considered adding creative writing to his list of subjects which should be an obligatory part of the school curriculum up to the age of 18.

In fact, the term “creative writing” is not quite right in this context. It sounds self-important, a busy little industry designed to appeal to the many people who now dream of becoming Lee Child, J K Rowling or E L James. In the class I attended, there was little talk of publishers or of writing an eye-catching synopsis for an agent. The words, and the feelings that words can convey, were the thing. I was reminded, as powerfully as I can ever remember, why writing matters.

We were in an old Nissen hut on the ex-army base on the bleak and beautiful north coast of County Antrim, which is now Magilligan Prison. There were 14 of us sitting around a table and we took turns reading, talking and, towards the end of the day, singing songs.

One man had written about visiting Peru, meeting a girl in a bar who convinced him to smuggle drugs back to the UK; at Dublin airport, a sniffer dog walked over to his suitcase and sat down beside it. There were poems about not fitting in at school, appearing in court. Someone had written a Wonderland-like fantasy for his daughter. A slight, pale man in his twenties read a poem for his sister, who had killed herself last year.

Someone had a guitar and sang three extraordinary songs he had written about addiction, regret and faith. Then there was a strange tale of alien creatures featuring a giant red button which, when you press it, changes the world around you. The man who wrote it explained that the button had been his favourite fantasy as a child, when he was raised in care homes.

For someone who writes for living – an opinion here, a story there – listening to a group of prisoners trying to make sense of what has happened to them through the medium of words and music is a sobering experience. Although there was a lot of laughter, every piece of writing contained sadness and regret, often a longing for family, but surprisingly little anger.

In most creative writing classes there is more than a hint of competitiveness. Here, in this group, there was kindness, an understanding of what it has taken to write a story, poem or song. Each reading received a round of applause. The comments and discussion were generous. There was a remarkable lack of bravado, not a hint of macho bragging.

I have, until now, been sceptical of the theory that writing something down can act as therapy. The idea that storytelling makes a person saner, happier or more emotionally evolved was hardly supported by the characters of some of those who do it for a living, after all. It was easy to see why the creative writing industry should peddle the idea of storytelling as a spiritual purge: even if you don’t get published, you will somehow be improved. I had never been convinced. But now, listening the writers of Magilligan, I was reminded how it can order thoughts, give a sense of perspective, sometimes make sense of the senseless.

For prisoners with children, writing stories kept them in touch with their families. Magilligan, an enlightened place where the importance of connection to the outside world is recognised, works with the Northern Ireland Library Service on something called the Big Book Share. Prisoners are encouraged to record stories for their children, grandchildren, nieces and nephews, who are then given a CD of the reading with a copy of the book or story. One prisoner told me that his eight-year-old son, who had never previously liked books, was now one of the best readers in his class – thanks to his imprisoned father.

Perhaps it is time for governments, local authorities and teachers to recognise the restorative power of creativity. For too long, it has been seen as a namby-pamby add-on to more important subjects. The day I spent in Magilligan showed me how people with unimaginably harsh backgrounds can articulate their feelings and thoughts through the medium of fiction. It helps them communicate and provides a much-needed empathy. These are more than merely personal benefits; they must help in the world of interviews and jobs, too.

Successive governments, obsessed by business, qualifications and exams, have ignored the other kind of growth which creative writing provides. In the same Budget which championed compulsory maths for all, cuts in business rates will reduce still further the funds of local councils with the result that public library closures, a great scandal of the past two administrations, will be accelerated.

It is time to press the giant red button and change this resistance to creativity. Libraries and schemes such as the Big Book Share provide hope and potential for young and old. There is no reason why storytelling and writing poetry should not be within the curriculum, developing parts of the brain and spirit which mathematics cannot reach.

Back in Magilligan, the writing class was interrupted by a two-hour lockdown. While the writers were in their cells, I was shown around an exhibition about Auschwitz that the prisoners had curated in three of the Nissen huts. Schoolchildren visit the prison, hear the grim stories from the past. Imaginatively, a connection has been made to bullying in schools and respect for minorities. The message conveyed to visitors was simple, personal and timely: Don’t Stand Back.

Howard Jacobson is back next week