Author: debradesvignes

Near the end of my 24-year sentence, I discovered something I hadn’t expected to find in that stark environment: a place where vulnerability could coexist with safety. The Indiana Prison Writers Workshop, led by volunteers Debra and Tiffany, created something precious within those concrete walls — a space where creativity wasn’t just permitted but encouraged, where we could excavate the stories buried beneath years of institutional survival.

In prison, you learn to armor yourself against a thousand daily indignities. You develop a careful vernacular, a protective cynicism, and the measured movements of someone always aware they’re being watched. But in that 12-week workshop, Debra and Tiffany somehow created conditions where those defenses could come down. They didn’t just teach us about writing; they demonstrated through their presence that we were worth believing in. Having them see potential in us when we couldn’t see it in ourselves became a cornerstone of what would later become genuine self-belief out here.

The skills I refined through IPWW — the discipline to excavate truth from experience, the ability to transform raw emotion into structured narrative, the confidence to trust my own voice — these have become the foundation for everything I’ve published since my release. My writing about reentry, the challenges of rebuilding relationships, and the complex journey of transformation all trace back to what I learned in that workshop. They didn’t just teach us to write; they taught us that our stories mattered, that the very experiences that society wanted to forget could become bridges toward understanding and healing. Programs like IPWW prove that even in the most restrictive environments, transformation remains possible when someone believes in your capacity to change.

READ MORE OF BRETT’S WRITINGS: rcjourney.cloud

When will I live again? It’s a question I often ask myself.
Sometimes I feel like a book of great value collecting dust on a shelf.
Time keeps passing by, and it feels like I’m no longer part of life.

Sometimes I wonder when my demise will come — will I have to face it twice?
I wake from dreams curious about existence, a distant voice echoing to those who miss me.

I tell myself I will never break — but am I even whole?
From the lack of living, I feel like a banished soul.

Still, I believe I will live again — and better than before.
I grow rich not from living, but from what I learn in my absence from it.

Our lives are like books. Many chapters have already been written by us — some humorous, some tragic — but all tell our story. We may not like the chapter we’re in, but it’s part of our book, one we are still writing.

Thanks to the efforts of IPWW, Debra, Lindamarie, and especially our facilitator, Amy, we’ve been given the tools to make our “boring” chapters more creative — at least on paper!

I, for one, didn’t know what to expect when I began this class, and I must say, I’ve been pleasantly surprised. Each of us has grown to be better writers — but more importantly, better men.

We’ve laughed as we’ve shared personal stories of growing up, been inspired by memories of home, family, and Christmas, and even brought to tears by stories of honesty and self-reflection — about choices we’ve made, should have made, and will one day make. From Brazilian princesses to A.J.’s stories of introspection, and Bobby’s eagerness to read aloud everything he writes, we’ve each learned lessons not just about writing, but about life.

And thank you, Randy, Chris, and Nate, for having the vision to challenge us to become the best men we can be as you prepare us to reenter society. Know that your efforts are not in vain. To my fellow classmates: remember, a butterfly can never go back to being a caterpillar. Like the caterpillar, we are in a cocoon of sorts, and there’s a transformation taking place that most on the outside cannot see. We are becoming the men we’re meant to be. We cannot let the struggles of this process stunt our growth. One day we will emerge — able to do more than we ever imagined.

So don’t judge my story by the chapter you walked in on. Stick around to read it all. If I don’t quit, I win.

What I regret saying
is not saying enough.

I regret saying I love you
but never really saying it.

I regret cooking you dinner
that I never even cooked.

I regret holding you longer than I should
when I never held you when I could.

But what I regret most
is not saying it at all.

“This workshop has given me the inspiration and motivation needed to grow. Being surrounded by so many creative minds pushes me to elevate the way I think and write. I am grateful to each of my peers for their willingness to open up and be vulnerable.

Being recognized as the annual Writer of the Year and receiving the Daniel J. Byrd Memorial Award has been the most meaningful achievement of my time in the Indiana Prison Writers Workshop and the past four years of my incarceration as a whole. In prison, I have earned nearly fifty certificates, but none has made me as happy and proud as the day I received this award. I share this accomplishment with my facilitator, Tiffany, and each of my peers. Thank you, Indiana Prison Writers Workshop.”

MORE ABOUT THE DANIEL J. BYRD MEMORIAL AWARD

Daniel J. Byrd participated in the inaugural Indiana Prison Writers Workshop in late 2017. After his passing, IPWW established an annual “Writer of the Year” award in his honor, beginning in 2020. Each year since, one writer has been recognized for significant growth as a writer and for exemplifying the same qualities of fearlessness and vulnerability that Daniel J. Byrd brought to his own writing.

Words are the only things that prisoners possess that cannot be taken from them. The greater our ability to use them, the greater our ability to retain and rebuild our humanity. The Indiana Prison Writers Workshop provided a place to be vulnerable and to connect with other human beings. It was one of the very few places in my twenty-year incarceration where I felt seen, heard, and valued. This program intellectually and emotionally resuscitates broken people, It reinvigorated me and motivated me to publish my first book. Thank you so much for this life-giving program.

“Yesterday” by Terry S.

I am a son, a brother, an uncle, a dad, and also a grandpa — and my days and nights are full of sighs. My heart is a thirst. I sit here, a smoldering fire of pain. Lonely, but here. The air of my surroundings grieves. I look out the window at the leaves about the wind’s swift feet. My soul feeds on the memories. I drink sorrow in cups filled with tears. I mourn for imagined joys that were denied. A place where even grief can weep. To feel the public’s hateful stare, as I walk through this narrow space. At length, I exist within this cage. Will I go unspotted to the grave? To pass from life unheard, unseen, until silence settles over me. Lord of Love and Sympathy: is sorrow the consequence? For the moment, an interval of quietness fills the room, as I lay this day. Fighting with thoughts of death and life, as the scalding tears run down my cheek. I pray for sleep constantly.

Finally, my tears fall fast and free.

Five years ago, I left prison after eighteen years incarcerated, which were life-changing years. Gone was the skinny teen with the “no fucks given” attitude, who focused on emotions and anger. Gone was the desire to have it all like fast cash and a street-mentality and lifestyle. I’ve replaced that lifestyle with a more levelheaded approach and humble practice. After eighteen years behind bars, the world had changed, and so had I.

My first day out of prison was like a dream. Imagine your greatest day, something akin to a birthday because you are celebrated, but also like a family reunion because it’s nothing but loved ones in your presence.

I soaked it all in and shook hands while cherishing every moment of it and prayed for this sweet dream to never end.

The next day, I got a job. It was a role in food services, and I was proud to have gotten it – especially after everyone told me how hard it would be to get a job. Securing a job hadn’t been hard for me. This pattern of jumping back and forth from food service to factory became a constant.

I would do six months at one, then find another company and roll with them. I was looking for a spark in employers that really was not there. I started to understand how people adjust to the everyday grind and do the best they can. You endure because you have bills, responsibilities, and other obligations that must be met. No one prepared me for my return. I felt unprepared.

So I took the bitter with the sweet, learned the lessons from my mistakes as well as others, found purpose, and educated myself to be worthy and ready for the blessings that I knew would come.

I disciplined myself so once free I would be able to resist any temptations and not get caught back up in a system that has no understanding or forgiveness for my circumstances. But I wasn’t prepared for more struggle. I realized how hard it is for the everyday person to juggle the stress of life. It is a part of life.

Now I am a regular working man with a complex past. I became a symbol of change and growth for those that know me. It’s been five years since I’ve been released after 18 years in prison and have been doing well.

I have enjoyed traveling the country and now have a son. My writing has been consistent and an inspiration to others who want to process the past, showing others how to pick up after a fall. It has not been easy rebuilding my life, but it has also not been impossible. Looking back, the best advice I can offer others is that it all starts with what’s inside of you. You must believe in yourself, do the hard work, and dream big. Anything is possible. I was once caged and silent in the world, but through the Indiana Prison Writers Workshop I learned that freedom is a state of mind and writing is a voice that can be heard near and far without saying a word.

Everyone has a story. I had often heard that. I’d also heard everyone could write a great story. That I wasn’t so sure of. Now, through this program, I’ve seen that each of us has creativity and many stories within us.

These classes have given us the tools and the opportunity to develop that talent. Not everyone gets this chance. Because we have, on behalf of the Advance Creative Writing class I want to thank Debra for giving us this opportunity through the Prison Writers Workshop. And I want to thank Amy for being here every week, teaching us, guiding us, giving us the tools, and maybe more importantly, the encouragement that we’ve needed.

I’ve learned, gained confidence, and grown tremendously from these classes and also from my classmates. I’ve used elements of their writing styles to improve my own: imagery from Carlos, reality from Ladaniel, honesty from Larry, timing or pentameter from Billy, word selection from Demetrius, fantasy elements from Chris and plotting from Julius. Each one has taught me something valuable, so I want to thank my classmates for what I’ve learned from them.

To Nate, to Chris, to Randy, and to all the other folks with CORE, thank you for the work you do to make this happen. And on behalf of all of us, again and especially, to Debra, to Amy, and to Lindamarie—this is life-changing!

I am a prison. I’m damp, and I’m cold. I hold men who are young and men who are old. I’m surrounded by fences and gates that have locks; my walls are made of concrete blocks. I am a prison. I’m feared by all. I’ll give you a chill when you hear me call. Your name becomes a number, your face just another. I’ll show you no pity, boy. I’m not your mother. I am a prison. I’m designed to be rough. I’m where society houses its tough. Nobody has beat me, though many have tried. Mostly, they all still remain inside. I have no answers, so don’t ask me why. I put tears in your children’s eyes. I am a prison where nobody wants to be. I confine men who once were free. I control their pace. I slow down their stride. I strip them of their dignity. I take their pride. Like an animal you might put in a cage, I contain these men and watch them age. I am a prison. I’m full of despair. I can be a man’s worst nightmare. I have been here for many years with loud slamming doors. I am a prison; a place you don’t want to live. I’ve so much to take, but nothing to give.