Can You Write It Better Than Taylor Swift?
How-To Dept.An appreciator of “Speak Now” and “Folklore” joins a roomful of young writers at the Thurber House, a literary center in Ohio, for a class inspired by the pop star.By Henry AlfordDecember 9, 2024Illustration by João FazendaRegrets, you’ve had a few. Ever since you first admired the Taylor Swift lyric “No amount of vintage dresses gives you dignity,” you’ve wished there was a way to appreciate the writerly side of Swift without the interference of postproduction wizardry or a level of screaming that registers on the Richter scale, as was heard two summers ago at a concert in Seattle. So when you learned that the Thurber House, a literary center in Columbus, Ohio, was offering a class, open to writers of any genre, called Write Like Taylor Swift, you thought, Bingo. Still, the prospect of joining a roomful of young people to write bracingly personal accounts of love lost and wisdom gained was so daunting that you spent much of the flight to Columbus anxiously trying to think of words that rhyme with “tryna.”The class was held in a large, fluorescent-lit classroom in a building next door to the former house of James Thurber, a humorist and a former editor at this magazine. Once the fifteen students had seated themselves at three long tables, the instructor, a forty-three-year-old local writer and editor named Shelley Mann Hite, teased out various techniques employed in the lyrics of the woman she called “the breakup artist.” These included figurative language, literary references, and the use of Easter eggs. Hite sheepishly admitted that all the songs she would be playing during the next ninety minutes were from Swift’s introspective, stripped-down 2020 album, “Folklore,” prompting a thirtysomething student in the front row to say,“That’s her best writing.”Hite put forth the opinion (beloved by writing teachers everywhere) that the more exacting a recounting of an event, the more widespread its potential appeal: “Specificity equals universality.” As an example, she offered “Invisible String,” a song Swift wrote with Aaron Dessner, from the sad-dad band the National. She read the lines “Green was the color of the grass” and “Gold was the color of the leaves,” and suggested that the students use them as a template for a five-minute writing exercise. Directing your mind to some of Swift’s songs thought to be about her exes—Harry, Jake, Conor, Taylor, John, Joe, Joe—you wrote, “Taupe is the color that has no hope / Puce is the color that set the letter “k” loose / But what’s the color for feeling like you’re in a cage? / Cuz baby you made everything feel beige.”In a subsequent discussion of the exercise, one of the three men in the class said it was interesting that his piece had used purple as a symbol of comfort, whereas another student had used it to evoke choking.The other student responded, “Purple is the color of domestic violence.” Schooled.For a second writing prompt, Hite referenced the reversal contained in the lyrics from “Cardigan” that go “And when I felt like I was an old cardigan / Under someone’s bed / You put me on and said I was your favorite.” She told the class to write about someone doing the opposite of what you thought they’d do. You wrote, “I trust you, I buy 100% into us / I do a lot of things just because / But now it’s time for me to board the bus / Cuz baby this relationship is totally sus.” You worried that you were leaning too hard on the construction “Cuz baby,” but you longed for your work to be called “voicey.” When the students read their lines aloud, Hite compared one contribution to a roller coaster, and another student said that the same piece reminded her of someone who’d been in a car crash.Cartoon by Roz ChastCopy link to cartoonCopy link to cartoonLink copiedShopShopPointing out that Swift also sings about disruptions in non-amorous relationships, like those with her management or her fans, Hite asked the class to write about a platonic breakup. Five minutes later, one student read aloud her lines about breaking up with a friend, and an older student murmured, “My daughter’s going through that now.” Sighs all around.At the end of class, a pupil mentioned the imminent publication of a book called “Invisible Strings,” to which a hundred and thirteen poets, including Diane Seuss, Joy Harjo, and Maggie Smith, had each contributed a poem about an unnamed Swift song without quoting it. This wasn’t specifically a fourth writing prompt, but, in the hour after class ended, you couldn’t help tackling “We Are Never Ever Getting Back Together.”The result: “Don’t tell me about true love, or that there’s nothin’ finer / Cuz baby when it comes to loving ya, I’m no longer tryna.” ♦
Regrets, you’ve had a few. Ever since you first admired the Taylor Swift lyric “No amount of vintage dresses gives you dignity,” you’ve wished there was a way to appreciate the writerly side of Swift without the interference of postproduction wizardry or a level of screaming that registers on the Richter scale, as was heard two summers ago at a concert in Seattle. So when you learned that the Thurber House, a literary center in Columbus, Ohio, was offering a class, open to writers of any genre, called Write Like Taylor Swift, you thought, Bingo. Still, the prospect of joining a roomful of young people to write bracingly personal accounts of love lost and wisdom gained was so daunting that you spent much of the flight to Columbus anxiously trying to think of words that rhyme with “tryna.”
The class was held in a large, fluorescent-lit classroom in a building next door to the former house of James Thurber, a humorist and a former editor at this magazine. Once the fifteen students had seated themselves at three long tables, the instructor, a forty-three-year-old local writer and editor named Shelley Mann Hite, teased out various techniques employed in the lyrics of the woman she called “the breakup artist.” These included figurative language, literary references, and the use of Easter eggs. Hite sheepishly admitted that all the songs she would be playing during the next ninety minutes were from Swift’s introspective, stripped-down 2020 album, “Folklore,” prompting a thirtysomething student in the front row to say,“That’s her best writing.”
Hite put forth the opinion (beloved by writing teachers everywhere) that the more exacting a recounting of an event, the more widespread its potential appeal: “Specificity equals universality.” As an example, she offered “Invisible String,” a song Swift wrote with Aaron Dessner, from the sad-dad band the National. She read the lines “Green was the color of the grass” and “Gold was the color of the leaves,” and suggested that the students use them as a template for a five-minute writing exercise. Directing your mind to some of Swift’s songs thought to be about her exes—Harry, Jake, Conor, Taylor, John, Joe, Joe—you wrote, “Taupe is the color that has no hope / Puce is the color that set the letter “k” loose / But what’s the color for feeling like you’re in a cage? / Cuz baby you made everything feel beige.”
In a subsequent discussion of the exercise, one of the three men in the class said it was interesting that his piece had used purple as a symbol of comfort, whereas another student had used it to evoke choking.
The other student responded, “Purple is the color of domestic violence.” Schooled.
For a second writing prompt, Hite referenced the reversal contained in the lyrics from “Cardigan” that go “And when I felt like I was an old cardigan / Under someone’s bed / You put me on and said I was your favorite.” She told the class to write about someone doing the opposite of what you thought they’d do. You wrote, “I trust you, I buy 100% into us / I do a lot of things just because / But now it’s time for me to board the bus / Cuz baby this relationship is totally sus.” You worried that you were leaning too hard on the construction “Cuz baby,” but you longed for your work to be called “voicey.” When the students read their lines aloud, Hite compared one contribution to a roller coaster, and another student said that the same piece reminded her of someone who’d been in a car crash.
Pointing out that Swift also sings about disruptions in non-amorous relationships, like those with her management or her fans, Hite asked the class to write about a platonic breakup. Five minutes later, one student read aloud her lines about breaking up with a friend, and an older student murmured, “My daughter’s going through that now.” Sighs all around.
At the end of class, a pupil mentioned the imminent publication of a book called “Invisible Strings,” to which a hundred and thirteen poets, including Diane Seuss, Joy Harjo, and Maggie Smith, had each contributed a poem about an unnamed Swift song without quoting it. This wasn’t specifically a fourth writing prompt, but, in the hour after class ended, you couldn’t help tackling “We Are Never Ever Getting Back Together.”
The result: “Don’t tell me about true love, or that there’s nothin’ finer / Cuz baby when it comes to loving ya, I’m no longer tryna.” ♦
