Amy L. Wink, Ph.D. Educator ~ Writer ~ Morgan Driver ~ Welshie Owner

Writing Mentor

Welcome to my website. I am the author of She Left Nothing In Particular: The Autobiographical Legacy of 19th Century Women's Diaries (University of Tennessee Press, 2001) and the editor of Tandem Lives: The Frontier Texas Diaries of Henrietta Baker Embree and Tennessee Keys Embree, 1856-1884 (University of Tennessee Press, 2009). You can find out more about my work on these diaries by visiting My essays have appeared on, in the Austin-American Statesman and, most recently, in YogaPlus Magazine. I started learning to drive horses after I bought my first horse for my 40th birthday present to myself. I now own two Morgan horses, Will and Blessing, as well as 2 Welsh Springer Spaniels, James and Lily (not named for Harry Potter's parents but I'm okay with that connection.) I am now in my 30th year in the classroom and working toward a new book, Small Voices and Encounter Narratives: Notes from a Creating Life. I teach at Austin Community College in Austin, Texas.

What Would Stacey Think?

amywink May 16th, 2018

The Sunday after my birthday, I told the story of my faith journey with the Creating Spirit to my Sunday school class at First. I was nervous but some people knew I could do it and I felt their support as I talked. It was the first time I’d narrated my experience this way, but I had thought about it for a long time. I closed my talk by saying that I had come to church in March the year after Stacey’s and my mother’s deaths to grieve and I spent a lot of time crying in the balcony until by September I started laughing again.

Though I am still in such deep grief some days, I am laughing so much more than I ever expected to be, just 2 years into this new life, and every time I laugh, I know Stacey is with me. She worked so hard to make me laugh sometimes, and she usually succeeded because she was very funny. And we had laughed a lot together in our last months, when we knew the end was coming. Even when she was diagnosed with terminal cancer, we fell back on our sense of humor after our initial shock. She had spent a lot of time worrying about having an old age like her mother, who had several major health issues and had been on the brink of death many times, and also, ironically, outliving her money because her grandmother had lived to be 92. When Stacey was diagnosed, it was clear she wasn’t going to make 92, or even 52, so she could start spending the carefully gathered hoard of money she had meant to use to get to her old age. As we talked about the 3-year-deadline she’d been given, she said, “I guess I’m not going to have to worry about being old either.” I replied “yeah, I guess you should have been more specific when you said you didn’t want to be old like your mother.” And we laughed. All the times we laughed are what I hold dear now, and what I remember most fondly. I can make myself laugh by thinking of those moments, even the ones when we joked about death, because what else is there to do?

When it became clear that the experimental drug (the one that worked for Jimmy Carter) was not working (Why not Stacey, Lord?) and she felt she had been betrayed by her doctor who had not really informed her of rules of the study she’d agreed to enter, she sat in her own darkness but I could not leave her there, just like she never left me. I texted her “your mind is a dangerous neighborhood right now, and you know how I feel about leaving people alone in bad neighborhoods” and we sat together, via our phones, in that dangerous neighborhood until I said the right thing and she laughed. Then she thanked me for making her laugh and we walked out of that bad neighborhood together. I am grateful I was able to do that. Thank you, God, for a sense of humor.

Recently, BFF Caroline asked what I thought Stacey would think about my return to the Methodist church, (and becoming so religious) and I have thought about that for a long time. My answer at that moment was she would be ecstatic about my writing, having walked with me through my long darkness as well as some of my most creative times. But I imagine she’d have been taken aback by the startling depth of my faith, something we never talked about specifically–preferring the “spiritual” not “religious” discussion. She had been similarly surprised when I mentioned a desire for chickens, a hereditary craving that I wrote about for our City Ancestor/Country Ancestor project, and just like she had been floored when I decided to buy a horse, something she never knew because she’d come into my life in the middle, when I had almost put that dream away for good.

But early in our friendship, I had mentioned that I didn’t think I was very good at being Christian (given public perceptions of what is deemed Christian, re: Baptist, and I was a free-range, unchurched person-of-faith), to which she, my Jewish-turned-atheist friend who had read the entire Bible on her own, had replied, “Oh, no, I think you are exactly what a Christian is supposed to be. You do all the right things, you just don’t talk about them.” Once, much later, after a moment in which I ranted against some public idiocy I can’t recall and wrote a rather fiery response in an email about how we are saved by grace, she had carefully asked “so, what is your religion?” (after 20 years, she asked!) and I replied “ecumenical Zen-influenced Christian” and she said “well, I thought so.” I should have just said Methodist.

So, what would Stacey think? I don’t think she’d be surprised for long, having known I had a deep but private faith– though an equally deep lack of faith in myself– and I know she’d be very happy that I am so deeply happy and creative again. And I have made myself laugh by thinking about her arrival in Heaven, because I know that after her surprise wore off, she’d have marched right up to Jesus and threatened to break his arm if he didn’t help me after all I had done for her and everyone else in my life. I imagine He said “It will be all right. Don’t worry. I have my best people working on it.” And He would laugh.

Thinking about Scout

amywink May 7th, 2018

This weekend, I found myself talking about Harper Lee and Emily Dickinson, two singular writers and icons of literary difference both of whom our culture would like to make much more manageable and comfortably definable than either wanted to be. Saturday, as I sat with friends, I told a little story to the child who had climbed onto my lap about Harper Lee and her great book, To Kill a Mockingbird. When one friend brought up Lee’s second book, I explained I had not read that to my surprised audience (among whom I am notorious for reading). So I continued, saying that I was disturbed by what happened to Harper Lee and the push for the publication of her “second” book, which was clearly an early draft of her original masterpiece and one which she had not published without significant pressure from others who desperately wanted to make her into a different writer than she was (and cash in her reputation as well)–I may not have explained all of that because the 4 year old sitting with me might have found it all quite dull and I am pretty sure if she wants to know, she’ll ask me again some time. I know she was listening.

Sunday, I spent some time explaining how I came to be who I am now and how I discovered the route by which I would eventually come to know myself as writer and autobiography scholar. In the context of my narrative, I talked about how I had finally found the cache of women writers culture had hidden when I took the first Literature By Women class at Southwestern University (now famed in song and story) and was introduced to writers I had not known (Julian of Norwich, Hildegard of Bingen, Margery Kempe, Virginia Woolf, Alice Walker, etc, etc, etc.) and writers I had been looking for: Emily Dickinson and Charlotte Bronte, whose novel Jane Eyre I had read when I was in 8th grade (by myself, not in school). At the moment of those revelations, I had only known Emily Dickinson as “the” woman poet who in my education had only been described in terms of her oddity: how she was weird, how she never married, how she only wore white, how everyone wondered what was “wrong” with her, how she may have had epilepsy, or migraines, or agoraphobia, or. . . .(and the other woman poet I knew of in high school, Sylvia Plath? Crazy.)

But in that class, and others I took at Southwestern, Dickinson was recognized not just for her oddity but also for her poetic genius. One of my professors, herself an oddity and poetic genius, explained to us in our writing class that if we had only seen a single poem of Dickinson’s (I think it was A Narrow Fellow in the Grass), we would still have to recognize her as the poet she was, even if she never wrote another thing. Of course, Dickinson’s own poetry, bound into chapbooks for her friends, or left stuffed in her desk to be found after her death, was simply for herself and her circle, which I found out much later was quite large and she kept up correspondence with at least 90 people. That is hardly a recluse. But once her family decided to publish, they ended up wrecking what had been her unique voice in an effort to make her poetry more like other poems of the day. It wasn’t until I was in graduate school that I heard what I continue to think and hold as the most succinct and apt description of Dickinson: “She just didn’t like stupid people.” Amen.

I have been thinking of both these writers and how our culture likes to box them up into a nice package, surrounded by speculative questions. Harper Lee “only wrote” the one book, how sad. “If only” she had written more. And yet, To Kill a Mockingbird is an amazing autobiographical novel. If that was the only thing I had written, I’d retire quite happy thinking “my work here is done.” If the book I wrote interrupted my quiet life and forced me to be more public than I ever was comfortable being, I’d retire from public life as well with a “No, thank you.” (Anne Tyler keeps to herself and does just fine. Mary Oliver too. We are not all able to be aggressively public as publishers want us to be, jumping through hoops on command). Perhaps this is what disturbs me most about Harper Lee, that we forced her to be more public, to be the center of constant speculative demands that she perform more for her audience, that somehow we are more important than she was to the production of literary art. We would have preferred she perform for us, instead of listening to her own still voice and choosing the life she wanted. But she gave us the amazing story of a little girl, suddenly coming into understanding of the world around her and remembering what her life had been like because of that moment. That’s plenty.

Dickinson chose the life she wanted and seemed quite happy at it–she wrote over 2000 poems. I have no demand for “if only” from her– but our culture continues to wonder about her, particularly speculating on her relations with others: Was she a virgin? Did she have an affair? Was she a lesbian? Was she a pawn in hiding the affairs of others?

Seriously. What is wrong with us? Did we never graduate from junior high school? The woman wrote 2000 poems!!

What is wrong with us, of course, is sexism. That we view writers who are women through a different kind of lens than we do writers who are men. It’s the lens that Joanna Russ explained in her book How to Suppress Women’s Writing, first published in 1983, the year I graduated from high school, and a book that continues to be relevant to this day.


But I am glad the book is still out there and is now being discussed in my broader circles than the graduate class on Feminist Theory in which I read the book in 1988, though I do have to keep reminding myself that this is a good thing.

I have been thinking of these two scouts, Lee and Dickinson, lately because I have lived unconventionally as well and recently someone tried to put me into a nice conventional box. It is an odd feeling, that unintentional boxing, and one I had not run up against in a long time (not since my mother finally gave up trying to do it after I turned 40). I bucked against it instantly because I am allowed to live my life to the contrary. I cannot be put in a box. I will keep living and working to make sure no one else has to live in the box that someone else decided was the better fit. And I will keep telling the stories of my resistance.

We can all tell how we lived our own lives differently; how we enjoyed our time on this earth; how we came to know ourselves in new ways so that everyone who listens can think of their lives and how to live despite what the world may tell them is the “right” way to do so. Our lives are far more complicated and interesting than convention allows them to be. Sharing the stories of how we dared greatly ourselves, especially if our own daring is not what others might understand, makes daring greatly even more possible.

The story I want to tell the four-year-old about Harper Lee is not the story of Lee’s “failure” to write more, or the crappy first draft her public demanded to see and claimed was her second novel. I want this child, this scout who climbed into my lap, to hear the beautiful story of someone who wrote an amazing and wonderful book about a little girl named coming to understand her world and that one beautiful book keeps making a difference for those who read it, and that one book was enough to set in motion an enormous change in a world deeply reluctant to shift. I want to let her know that Harper Lee was enough and what she did, in her own quiet and unconventional way, was plenty.


amywink April 27th, 2018

for Stacey 1964-2016

At any moment,
or perhaps just not any
but the moment of
happiness or need,
I stumble into the emptiness
where you were,
and falling I am swallowed
by that deep chasm
of our friendship.

What I missing now,
those moments I’d have turned
to you to celebrate
some teaching glory,
or the moment you
carried me through
some aggravation
on your sharp wit,
or when you stood fierce,
unmoving, against my adversaries,
daring those you would so happily,
so eagerly vanquish,
or when you stood
always ready to help me risk
a leap into the unknown.

What I am missing now
is how you knew me,
how you understood
what troubled me,
how you accepted
who I was without question,
and even in those rare moments
when you discovered some included flaw
suspended in the amber of my self,
how you held that relic
up to the light in wonder
and discovery of a glowing treasure
that you would turn as priceless gift instead.


amywink April 21st, 2018

I walked into my first classroom when I was twenty-two and into my life’s work as if it were the most natural place in the world for me to be. I had thought I would like it but I had no idea how much I would immediately love being a teacher, nor how immediately good I would be at doing the work but I was, as if I understood “Here is what you are.” I had written in my application to graduate school that I wanted to teach writing and literature and had been granted a Teaching Assistant position from the English Department at Texas A&M. In this case, being a TA meant actually teaching two classes on your own. While we took a two-semester course in Composition and Rhetoric pedagogy the first year we taught, we were in the classroom alone with our students at the same time. It did not take me long to leave the confines of the required syllabus and delve into my own approach to teaching. When I was video-recorded by the Center for Teaching Excellence, they told me immediately “You are really good at this. We have nothing to tell you. The only thing we could suggest is write higher on the chalkboard but you are so short. . . .” and they left it at that.

I spent 10 years teaching at Texas A&M while I earned a Master’s and a PhD. in English, and completed one year as a Post-Doc while scrambling to find another job. I spent another 4 years as an itinerate visiting professor while I moved from position to position and began to lose the love for my work. I struggled with the increasing pressure to teach less well, to care less, and devote more time to research to ensure I could land a job–though ironically, the places I wanted to land a job worried about my research taking too much from my teaching. No one seemed to understand that the teaching fed the research and the research fed the teaching. As I was advised to teach less well, to disassociate from my students, I understood that the profession was asking me to be someone I wasn’t, asking me to stop growing. I stopped teaching in 2001, closed my first life as a teacher and returned to Austin to find some other line of work.

I didn’t. I did publish my first book, and thus “became” a writer (the other thing I am).

I returned to teaching in the fall of 2002, when I started as an adjunct for Austin Community College and was given the chance to remember what I loved. I taught a World Literature class in the fall of 2002 and my faculty observer said “Oh, you are so good at this. You have more teaching experience than most of us” and left it at that. But I was a different teacher at that moment than the first time I entered the classroom. I was not only older but I understood more about the joy I experienced while teaching, what fun it could be to engage students in learning, to help them enjoy the work instead of fear it. I remembered that I loved it and I entered my second life as a teacher.

The next year, I had the chance to teach at Southwestern, my alma mater. I deliberated on what I would do in my classes, what I discerned would make a difference for students. I decided to teach what I wanted to teach, to try something daring and innovative, something I would love to teach and something I hoped students would love. Under the “Writing and Critical Thinking” title, I developed a writing class using autobiography theory and the psychology of writing with the deliberate goal of helping students discover what they might love to do with their lives. While some reacted as if I was forcing them to make “goals”, I gently told them I only wanted to them think about who they were becoming, what would make them happy in their lives, and to figure out a way to get there. It was glorious. I also learned a lot about myself because I did the work as well. I thought about my own Wildly Improbable Dreams. I thought about what I loved. I approached 40 knowing I was beginning again. I remained at ACC while I taught at Southwestern, teaching alternating days at each. While I dreamed that I might land a full time job at SU, what I learned was that I was also no longer suited to the work required of a tenure-track professor.

I did not get a job there.

I did buy a pony. I learned how to drive him. I published another book. I bought a second pony. I learned to drive her lot better. I continued to teach at ACC and I loved it. Though community college students are often demeaned and degraded, I decided to be the teacher I had always wanted in my life, the teacher I had needed and I gave my ACC students what they needed: respect, kindness, encouragement, and attention. I decided to give the students who needed it, who rarely received the best from their teachers, the very best work I could. I decided to teach what they deserved to know. I received so much in return. My life expanded as if those wildly improbable goals I had encouraged my students to write and the ones I had written for myself were answered by a benevolent God, who hoped we would all become who we were meant to be.

All of those things helped me cope when my life began to shrink again with the increased duties of care-giving. I learned not to hate my life even though it was unconventional. Every hard thing I had ever done seemed to help me cope with my father’s declining health and my mother’s increased helplessness and eventual death. Teaching saved my life during those hard days. My students gave back what I had given them and I was grateful.

I have been teaching now for thirty years. I am very good at this work. Everyone who has seen me teach has commented, sometimes with amazement, sometimes with jealousy. This past year, I found a new opportunity for teaching, in an arena I had never considered, when another teacher recognized the teacher in me and asked me to teach at church. I somewhat cavalierly said “oh sure.” But my voice broke that day and I was surprisingly anxious about it until I found my teaching legs again and began to teach something new. I was asked again, and again, and then I volunteered.

I loved it. Deeply, deeply loved it.

I had not realized I was bored until I was suddenly wasn’t.

I did not realize I was empty until I was filled.

And I wrote a third book, a decade after my last one, because what I was learning and what I was teaching fed my writing.

So it came as no surprise that my entire Disciple class said in unison, rather loudly, that I had the Spiritual Gift of Teaching. I did not argue with false modesty. I know what my gifts are and it would be silly to deny that teaching is one of them. I just own the gift, just like I must own the gift of writing. I imagine what they see is exactly what I see when I watch someone doing the work they are clearly meant to do in the world. In many ways, I know am blessed to have such a clear vocation and lucky to understand both the gift and how much I love it.

But I understand that right now, at this moment I am also being asked to grow. I am being asked to expand beyond the boundaries I have understood during my life. And I am being asked to think about what teaching may mean now as I enter my new third life as a teacher.

Tending My Eden

amywink April 14th, 2018


A stranger stopped by
yesterday to tell me he
could make my yard spectacular
by clearing what he deemed
a mess and overgrown.

I asked the price for such
a miraculous change
and knowing that it wasn’t
something I could,
or even would, afford
despite the lower
second offer, I declined
because he didn’t know
where the beauty was
in all the mess he saw.

But I know beyond the mess.

I know what delightful beauty
waits here in this wild unruly green.

What may look like death
is only dormant and
will by my patience
eventually erupt
in spectacular bloom
when I have greater
need of the glory.

I know where the memories are,
the things I’ve inherited,
and my reasons for planting
some of this rough growth
that has endured in my benign neglect.

I do not mind the mess
I am simply waiting to attend.

And by this morning,
this gardener has woken
into this cool Spring day
and with my happy spaniels,
I have begun this seasons’ work,
thinking of the loveliness I have made,
what things I know of deliberate planting,
what I understand of different
rates of bloom or the timing
of my pruning if I am to be rewarded
with the flowering I intended,
what I must by necessity
cull if everything is to grow
as well as it may, and even
what volunteers I will
allow and foster simply
because their surprise will
make this unconventional Eden new
with their blooming
if I will wait
to see what happens
in this greater undertaking.

This garden may not be a landscaper’s dream,
stripped of difference for easy mowing.
Because I have planted something else
and I myself will slowly
tend all that is growing
into the wilder beauty
that I intend for it to be.

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