Intoxicating substances used to go hand in hand with creative writing. Is it time for a change?

A few weeks into my creative writing MFA, a bunch of us new writers were sitting around a cramped table at one of New York City’s staple “writerly” bars. It was never one of my favorites to be honest—the prices are high, the seating limited or nonexistent and the waitstaff generally hostile toward the writers who overrun the place, with the exception of our favorite bartender who knew every writer in the program by name after only a day and often snuck us drinks on the house. I’m sure for years our loyalty helped keep the place in business.

Still I never felt that magnetic attachment to the place others did; it invariably made me anxious, most conversations (on my part) beginning, “Man, this place is really not conducive to conversation, huh.” Mere “conversation” was rarely the point, though.

“So …” said one girl, breaking the ice. “Favorite drug. Ready, go!”

“Opium.” “Ecstasy.” “Probably … blow.”

They kept rattling them off with ease.

“That would be my vibrator,” said one self-professed “Sober Sally.”

A couple writers, myself most likely included, seemed to scoff into their beers.

It’s no shocking revelation that for a long time writing, drinking and taking drugs have gone hand in hand. Often the very culture around writing seems more defined by this lifestyle than anything else. On more than one occasion throughout my MFA, events were attended simply for the open bar, others abandoned in favor of the closest bar. “Writing meetings” quickly devolved into 4 a.m. drinking competitions, and some classes were “drinking classes,” the professor occasionally most intoxicated of all. I have to admit, I didn’t always mind.

Every year, the creative writing community nationwide descends on one major U.S. city for the Association of Writers & Writing Programs (AWP) conference. While there is certainly valuable information to be gleaned at AWP and good networking to be done, there’s no denying that for many it’s an excuse to spend three days drunk in a hotel room with friends under the guise of literariness.

This year, however, with AWP rapidly approaching, something a little different is happening. This year there is Sober AWP, public, to my knowledge, for the very first time. “Anyone in recovery from anything is welcome,” notes the recurring, bare-bones event description on AWP’s events calendar.

As someone who has been enabled in the past, and done my fair share of enabling, I may have at some point laughed off Sober AWP (“that’s not the point!”) or at the very least overlooked it. Now, one year out of my MFA and much further along in life, I applaud it; I’m proud to see it exists.

More so, I’m impressed the event description does not play Sober AWP off as the “most amazing time ever.” It does not try to compete with all the other debauched festivities, but rather calls it what it is: daily meetings for sober writers.

The creative writing culture will never lose its emphasis on getting obliterated, and for many that’s just fine. While it can be extremely hard for sober people to merely coexist alongside those who are actively not sober, hopefully others in the national literary community will in some way follow suit in the future, and help carve out that place for sober writers that isn’t always behind closed doors.

After thirteen years teaching at the New School, Luis Jaramillo has helped his fair share of students get book deals. Now, with The Doctor’s Wife (Dzank), the Fort Greene, Brooklyn resident, who lives with his boyfriend of eleven years, has released his own. During an interview at his Greenwich Village office, Jaramillo, 37, explained why being in the heart of New York’s publishing community can sometimes be depressing.

JV: Has there been an advantage to being at the center the writing world with your job at the New School?

LJ: Going to publishing events always makes me really depressed because the way the editors talk about books is different than the way the writers talk about books. Editors and agents talk about books purely about how something can be sold. That’s the opposite of how many writers view books. To spend all your time writing something, you have to really like what you’re doing.

The poetic novel is set in the Pacific North-West.  Although it recently became a book of the week on Oprah’s Book Club, it’s not exactly John Grisham or Tom Clancy territory. How did you get it published?

When I first showed the book to my agent he said, “Sometimes writers write things that they only write for themselves.” Of course we want to sell the things we write but it’s hard to write a something that you’re not emotionally vested in. I put this book aside for year. Then my grandmother died and I thought, “Screw it, I’m just going to send this thing out. What’s the difference, who cares?” Basically I sent this book out as a manuscript for the Dzank literary contest in 2010 and totally forgot about it and got a call three months later from Dan Wicket, the editor of Dzank Books. I’d won and they wanted to publish my book. They are a small publisher from Ann Arbor, Michigan known for their experimental fiction.

You started off as a student at the New School and are now the Associate Chair of the writing program. Did you get free tuition?

In a way. While I was doing my MFA at the New School I started working as a receptionist. After the MFA I worked as a secretary and did some teaching. When the Creative Director of the writing program left, I was offered the job which was around 7 years ago.

Name some of the authors who have changed your life.

Abigail Thomas,  Mark Twain, Graham Greene, Tolstoy. Hilton Als and Abigail Thomas were great teachers. I got to know them well. Abi’s advice to me was “Everything can be used” which is a nice way of living in the world as a writer. Hilton’s advice was “write everyday.”

I heard you are also a yoga instructor?

Yes it’s something that runs alongside everything else I do. It helps you live in the world in a mindful way.

What’s your advice to aspiring writers?

Write a book. I teach a novel class and I meet lots of people who want to write a book and a lot of times they think that an idea is all that they need. You really have to put the time and effort into it and then, good luck. Persistence can never be under estimated. My advice is “keep on trying.”

Photo Courtesy of Wiki Commons

The blustery winter months are fast approaching, days are getting shorter and mulled wine, fireplaces and Snuggies (a safe distance from those fireplaces) are starting to sound pretty good, just about all the time. It’s the perfect time of year to hunker down with a trashy novel, tucked discreetly behind that Snuggie.

So how’s that novel — the one you’re writing — coming along?

Two weeks ago, The Protagonist featured two Seattle-based folk, both in the tech field, who were respectively trying their hands — or keyboards — at NaNoWriMo, an almost cult-like collective of sorts that annually urges its followers to write a novel throughout the month of November. Like something you might bring to a potluck, the novel doesn’t have to be great, it just has to get done.

Two weeks ago, our amateur writers were just starting out. The Protagonist decided to catch up with them to see how — and if — things were coming along.

“I’ve been telling lots of people about my novel so I’m going to feel really lame if I don’t finish,” said Mark Phair, in what struck The Protagonist as an optimistic tone.

“Things traditionally fall off for me around a week in, so to still be moving along is pretty exciting,” said Phair. “I think the secret this time is a combination of accountability…and amusing myself way too much.”

Unfortunately Phair’s real, live writing group has fallen apart, so, aside from his fellow NaNoWriMoers, he’s going it solo this time.

Phair draws the inspiration to keep going from his inspirations themselves. “Sometimes I read or re-read some of the things that I’m parodying in the book,” he said. “I have to look back to Da Vinci Code now and then and I’m in the process of reading Fifty Shades of Grey. I actually watched Twilight last weekend, in the interest of getting source material.”

The Protagonist did not push Phair to find out if his interest extended beyond mere “source material.”

“My cast of characters is growing at a somewhat silly pace, but I think that is one of the things that has kept me moving. Whenever I’m worn out on a particular plotline, I just introduce a new one. I’ve got some characters that only show up in a single chapter so far,” explained Phair.

“With conspiracy novels…it always pays to get more people involved,” he added.

Phair also amuses himself with extraneous internet research: “I’ve never been to Sudan, but that isn’t stopping me from sending my characters there,” he explained. “I can see what it looks like on Google Maps; that’s good enough, right?”

“In the spirit of poorly-researched best-sellers everywhere, onward!” he said, concluding our interview.

Molly Watson appeared slightly more flustered about the process. “Curse you Netflix instant play!” she tellingly “shouted” at The Protagonist, via email.

Watson, who spoke more philosophically about the experience, cited author Steven Pressfield as an inspiration.

“Resistance is that little, sometimes very loud, voice in the back of your head that convinces you not to work on the thing that you want to work on. It reminds you… ‘who are you trying to fool, why don’t you go become a sandwich artist at Jimmy John’s?’” explained Watson, of Pressfield’s definition of “resistance.”

Watson said some days she manages to overcome this resistance, but other times her attempts seem futile. Though Watson finds herself behind where she’d like to be, certain things help urge her along, including regular NaNoWriMo pep talks, which are disseminated to WriMoers every few days.

Other motivations for Watson include public radio personality Ira Glass, and advice that extends well beyond the realm of fiction-writing:

“This is just today, tomorrow will in all likelihood be different.”

WriMoers now have 14 days to finish their novels, or reach the 50,000-word mark. (NaNoWriMo official rules make it explicitly clear this cannot be the same word repeated 50,000 times.)

—Alissa Fleck 

“Oh, a little of this,” I said, staring at my shoes, knowing exactly where this conversation was headed, “A little of that.”

“Like what? What’s one of the things you get paid to write about?”

“Wine.”

My single-word answer was followed by an unconscious frown from the gentleman I had just met. Indeed, he now knew all he needed to know about me, and he excused himself to grab another drink.

“It’s going to be a beer,” he sneered as he walked off. “Hope you don’t think less of me for that!”

I don’t blame the guy. I hate wine writers, too. We’re smug and arrogant and we assume that we know more than regular guys. The only thing my so-called wine knowledge has really got me is a handful of trivia answers about vinification and European geography.

I have always said, and I maintain, that the most important idea behind wine appreciation is “know what you like.” The more you drink, the more you know, and the more you know, the more you know what it is exactly that you like. All of the fancy-shmancy wine talk in the world can’t convince anyone that a crappy wine is anything other than a crappy wine.

So today I would like to feature the seven stupidest descriptors that wine writers use when describing the fermented juice. If I can encourage just one oenophile to refrain from using even one of these words, I feel this column will have served the greater good.

Barnyardy. Mmm, nothing like the smell of horse manure, rotting hay and moldy barn wood to whet the appetite for a tasty red from the south of France. Believe it or not, this is meant to be a compliment for a fuller-bodied, rustic wine, like those that come from the area of Cahors. But, honestly, the idea of it kind of makes one want to throw up in one’s mouth.

Foursquare. In case you were wondering, no, your bottle of wine has not decided to check in at the local Irish Pub on its smart phone. This meaning of foursquare is the one that Webster’s College Dictionary defines as “marked by boldness and conviction.” Oh, you mean “bold”? This snotty adjective was popularized by the king of snotty wine adjectives, Robert Parker Jr.

Pencil Shavings. While we’re bashing Mr. Parker, let’s address the No. 1 confounding “positive” descriptor that he uses when talking about older Bordeaux. Perhaps he had some kind of unnatural graphite fetish when he was in middle school, but for the majority of us, a good bottle does not remind one of sucking on a No. 2.

Biscuity. I know that there are droves of sommeliers who will disagree with me, but I have never sniffed a sparkling wine that I thought smelled like a biscuit. Yeasty, perhaps. Doughy or bready, sure, but KFC or Popeyes have never crossed my mind. And if we’re talking about biscuits as in cookies, then just say cookies. We’re not in bloody England.

Playful. Wines are not playful. I’ve never had the occasion to toss a ball back and forth with a pinot noir, nor have I engaged in a game of disc golf with a sauternes. This adjective is a cop-out for a wine writer with a crappy palate. It means “this wine is light and people tell me it’s good, but I don’t really get it.”

Quince. Now I will concede that this adjective is incredibly accurate for describing some wines. There are a handful of whites from specific areas that definitely have the taste of quince, but let me pose this question: When was the last time you ate quince? Using it to describe a wine is like telling a normal person (anyone who hasn’t had quince in the last five years) that the wine is too sophisticated for their palate.

Pipi du Chat. ‘Nuff said.

I will admit that I am guilty of using these descriptors from time to time. But hopefully now that we’ve admitted that the emperor has no clothes, we can all sip with a little less apprehension.

Follow Josh on Twitter: @joshperilo.

Douglas Keister started out as a photographer, but it wasn’t until nearly a decade ago that he married his profession with two of his passions: writing and cemeteries. To Keister, who has documented both foreign and domestic resting places from Scotland and Italy to Oakland and Dixieland, cemeteries are “pure environments, [they’re] extremely evocative.”

This year, Keister published his latest deceased-themed work, Stories in Stone New York: A Field Guide to New York City Cemeteries and their Residents. We picked Keister’s brain to come up with his picks for the best burial grounds below 14th Street.

Keister’s Digs for the Departed

Trinity Church

Located in Lower Manhattan, this leafy plot dates back to the late 1600s and its famous residents, of course, are a collection of distinguished Caucasian men. The notables laid to rest here include Alexander Hamilton; though never a president, Hamilton served as aide to President George Washington, was the first U.S. secretary of the treasury and founded the Bank of New York. Among the other points of interest at this cemetery is the headstone of 5-year-old Robert Churcher (1676-1681), said to be the oldest in the churchyard.

St. Paul’s Chapel

The St. Paul’s Chapel crowd might be less illustrious than Trinity’s, but the space is no less green and meditative. Publisher John Holt (1721-1784) and actor George Frederick Cooke (1756-1812) found a final home here.

St. Mark’s Church-in-the-Bowery

Despite a lack of headstones, this site is home to an underground burial vault that houses one of New York’s more famous founders: Petrus, or Peter, Stuyvesant. Stuyvesant served as the last director general of the Dutch colony of New Netherland, present-day New York. He converted the property into a family chapel in 1660. The crowd at the St. Mark’s crypt is a collection of political bigwigs, including Vice President Daniel Tompkins (1774-1825).

New York City Marble Cemetery

Not to be confused with the nearby New York Marble Cemetery (located at 41½ Second Ave.), this plot was started in 1831 and is comprised of a series of roughly 258 vaults. While the cemetery contains many impressive monuments to mark its crypts, the most famous person interred there was President James Monroe. Though his remains were eventually reburied in Virginia, a monument bearing his name still stands at the site.

Congregation Shearith Israel Cemeteries

While the location of the first Shearith Israel cemetery remains unknown, it is known that the congregation, mostly Jews of Spanish and Portuguese descent, was given a small piece of land in New Amsterdam in the mid-1600s for their dead. Their second burial site, used from 1805 to 1829, is still standing in Greenwich Village, though significantly smaller than its original acreage. Though the residents aren’t notable per se, the uniqueness of this plot makes it a destination.

The Trinity Churchyard in Lower Manhattan boasts one of Downtown’s more famous departed residents, Alexander Hamilton.
PHOTO BY DOUGLAS KEISTER

But, I wasn’t the only spooked member of the herd. June 1973, my sister Jenny was 15, I was 12. At dinner, Mommy said, “Please pass the peas.” As Jenny picked up the bowl, I stared at her white-bandaged wrists.

“Does it hurt?” I asked softly.

She turned her head down to her plate. Her lip quivered.

“A little,” she whispered.

“Anybody want another Tab?” Mom asked. Before anyone answered, she disappeared into the kitchen.

In our Long Island home, generations of ancestors marched in photo display up the foyer walls. I spent hours staring at what a perfect family we appeared to be: Ma, a bestselling self-help author, who looked like Jackie O in jeans; Dad, a radio man with Sinatra’s angular cheekbones and straight white teeth. People often said, “None of you look Jewish.” It was a backhanded compliment, meaning we had nice noses and frizz-free hair.

Later that same year, 1973, I stepped on the third rail of the Long Island Railroad and nothing happened. So I stepped on it again. I was under the impression it would electrocute me instantly.

“Hey, kid,” a station worker called out. “You could get yourself killed.”

Next day in science, I asked a classmate, “Hypothetically, what would happen if I accidentally stepped on the third rail?”

“Nothing,” he said. “You’re wearing sneakers. Rubber can’t conduct electricity.”

At 15, in 1975, I ran away via the same train rails, back to my native Manhattan. I’d absconded to escape despair and shake off suburbia. In Greenwich Village I found my Mardi Gras and became a street urchin. One day, at West Fourth Street, I jumped a turnstile. While I fled from a cop, the subway tunnel summoned me. The iron rails promised an instant solution to loneliness—death. I looked back to see who or what I was running from. Then, magnetically pulled toward my dead heroes, Jimi and Janis, I jumped down onto the subway tracks in front of an oncoming train. Steel hurtled at me with the promise of ram-ming, crunching, killing. At the speed of that E train, it hit me: I could be maimed—and live. Existence would be far worse as an amputee.

I squeezed tight against the wall. Blast of horn and screech of metal blew out my eardrums while manic swirls of grit choked off my breath. After the train passed, I followed the rails to the nearest exit and kept running.

Years later, shrinks attributed my morbidity to low levels of serotonin and poor impulse control. My dopamine receptors didn’t light up. That is, until I poured drugs and alcohol on them. Too bad Mom’s bestselling parenting books didn’t have all the answers. Both of us wished she knew what to do. I was missing the brain piece that signals enough. I might have learned to compensate for my genetic predisposition if anti-depressants had been the Tic-Tacs they are today.

In 1977, when I was 17, Mom’s brother Carl shot himself in the heart. He died before he fell back on his bed. Ma was angry. Words like selfish and thoughtless circled the air until she put the kibosh on that topic.

Last night, I Googled my gene theory—if one family member tried to off themselves, were others more likely to try? The overwhelming proof shone on my monitor like a spiritual white light. I’d never known how to explain my self-destruction before. Questions regarding my suicidal tendencies seemed as cockamamie as asking me why I was allergic to cats.

Junior year of high school, I was in a car crash. Three died and I almost did too. For years I’d prayed to God to get me the hell out of here, but clearly he’d aimed and missed. Apparently, my envy for the three dead was a peculiar response. Along with other deficiencies, I was told I lacked gratitude. Mom and Dad took me to doctors who fixed my broken bones. My reaction to this miraculous recovery was to guzzle Quaaludes, Valiums and vodka, then I laid down and waited to exit in repose. With no note, it would appear accidental, nobody could ever label me selfish. But I popped up again after two days, like the egg-shaped toy in a popular commercial, Weebles wobble but they don’t fall down. My response? I took to shooting up coke.

In 1983, more family woes. Dad’s sister wrapped a plastic bag around her head. Her sons were livid but relieved they found her in time. When we got the news, Dad slammed the Arts section of the Times down and said, “Jesus H. Christ.”

But it wasn’t all a grim deathwatch waiting for who was going to drop next. There were happy times. Dad worked in radio and cracked us up with on-air bloopers, like the Princeton cheerleaders making a big “P” on the field. Ma framed my artwork and gave great birthday parties. At Broadway plays, we all sat in orchestra seats.

I remember Ma’s soft hands against my forehead when I was sick. But more vivid is how our hard heads rammed into each other. Brutal words we couldn’t take back, scenes we could not rewind. My rebellion became predictable. I found life and everyone in it unacceptable. It wasn’t a fear of death that disturbed me, it was being stuck here endlessly spiraling down. I ached for a connection more intimate than my Washington Square dealer, but alcohol, amphetamines and acid consumed all of my trust and devotion.

At 26, in a typical drunken haze, I wept. In my MacDougal Street apartment, I cried for Jenny’s scarred wrists, poor Uncle Carl and my own failed attempts. I groped in the dark through ashtrays and bottles, dialed the phone and woke up in rehab. Too late for a do-over, I trudged through 20 years of therapy, the Twelve Steps and countless chocolates. I sold my first painting, opened a business, got my first dog. In 1994, I bought a one-bedroom in Chelsea. By 2003, I’d paid it off. I treated Ma and Dad to dinners and orchestra seats. After years of breakups and a heart like ground chuck, I stopped picking what-was-I-thinking men and finally fell in love. Mine was a quick success story—it only took 40 years.

Watching Johnny Depp recently portray John Dillinger, my adrenalin pumped at the thrill of bloodshed. I laughed at my continued fascination with death—bookshelves packed with true crime, OD’d rockers magnets on the fridge, prayers for the new season of Dexter to start—and the occasional urge to poke a bobby pin into the wall socket just to see what would happen.
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Dorri Olds is a web designer and writer whose work has appeared in New York magazine and several book anthologies. Read more at DorriOlds.com.

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Also, congratulations to our two other top finalists in non-fiction: Jessica Safran for “Marry Me” and Christina Gombar’s “Elegy for an Organization.”

The many supporters of this proposed school are calling it the Frank McCourt High School of Journalism, Writing and Literature, named after the famous Stuyvesant High School teacher who won a Pulitzer Prize in 1996 for his poignant memoir Angela’s Ashes. Although city regulations do not allow schools to be named after living individuals, the growing legion of supporters are using his name in the hopes that one day the new school will honor America’s most famous teacher. That’s an idea we can all support: naming a new school after a successful and much beloved educator.

The content and vision of the school has infused uptown parents with excitement; a school emphasizing journalism, writing and literature would highlight a broad spectrum of communications, from expository essays to digital presentations. We live in an age when a multi-media approach to learning is required, but the common thread is good writing and a powerful use of language.

Although some forms of journalism are experiencing challenges, there will always be a need for a Fourth Estate to be a watchdog of our government and those in power. Creative writing will always enchant us and help fuel our popular entertainment, whether on a printed page, a Kindle or the big screen. Expository and essay writing will always be necessary for lawyers, academics and other professionals.

This new high school will be able to draw on a great pool of writers, literary professionals and published journalists and authors to attract teaching talent and guest lecturers. It will become a diverse place where kids of every race, ethnic group and socio-economic background can flourish as writers.

The school’s supporters say they will encourage students to write in other languages, with a strong emphasis on Spanish bilingual writing programs. Already, a few esteemed local institutions have expressed interest in becoming partners, including The Columbia University Graduate School of Journalism, Symphony Space and Fordham University.

We wholeheartedly endorse this idea and applaud local leaders like Borough President Scott Stringer, Council Members Gale Brewer and Melissa Mark-Viverito, Assembly Member Linda Rosenthal and State Sen. Tom Duane, who have been early supporters of this proposed school. Publisher Elinor Tatum of the New York Amsterdam News, the city’s largest and oldest African American newspaper, has also voiced her support of this idea, as have many Harlem parents.

Let’s encourage the Department of Education to work with this diverse group of parents and local leaders to make this proposed school a reality in 2010.

One proposal in particular dominated the June 11 meeting: the Frank McCourt School for Journalism, Writing & Literature. (See editorial)

Named after the West Side Pulitzer Prize-winning author of Angela’s Ashes and former Stuyvesant High School teacher, the school would focus on creative and expository writing. That would include Spanish classes for English language learners, keeping with Brandeis’ legacy as a bilingual school.

Council Member Gale Brewer started an ad hoc committee for the new school when the city announced the phasing out of Brandeis High School, due in part to low graduation rates. West Side parent Tom Allon, president and CEO of the company that publishes West Side Spirit, is a member of the committee.

Borough President Scott Stringer and Council Member Gale Brewer are both pushing for a diverse, selective high school emphasizing writing and literature at Brandeis.

More than two-dozen community leaders and residents, the majority coming from the Upper West Side portion of the school district, which extends into Harlem, debated the proposal. Most backed the idea, including Brewer, Borough President Scott Stringer, Assembly Member Linda Rosenthal, State Sen. Tom Duane and East Harlem Council Member Melissa Mark-Viverito.

“It’s time to establish a quality high school,” said Marc Landis, a local Democratic district leader. “It is the right step for the Upper West Side and beyond.”

Stringer, who testified at the meeting, praised the level of parental involvement in developing the new school.

“This high school could be a model,” he said. “These parents give us a chance to see if we can do this right.”

The school is being touted as another selective high school, but one that would go to great lengths to ensure the kind of diversity that is engendered in the neighboring school district. The committee that proposed this new school says it is working with middle schools and elected leaders throughout Harlem, East Harlem and the Upper West Side to make sure that they meet the needs of all communities and attract students interested in writing from diverse backgrounds. The proposed school would require writing samples to show a student’s interest in the written word.

The three schools being phased in to the Brandeis campus, which holds 2,200 students, will enroll more than 1,000 students in 2009. The new high school being proposed would also be modeled as a small themed high school, which generally admit 432 students at full capacity. In 2010, there would be a 9th grade class of approximately 108 students entering, and then each subsequent year a new class would be added.

Aside from concern that the school would be named after a living person, which is against city regulations, a few speakers at the meeting expressed fear that a selective school would lead to a body of predominantly white students, a concern that has been raised in elementary gifted programs in District 3.

photos by andrew schwartz

Jane Hirschmann, an Upper West Sider whose children attended public schools, said that the city’s high schools are open to students from the five boroughs and that there are selective schools in the area for students.

“There are so many segregated schools in the system and it’s time to end that practice,” said Hirschmann, a member of Time Out From Testing.

State Sen. Bill Perkins, whose district contains nearly a third of Brandeis’ student population, suggested that the proposal is being “bum rushed.”

“This is not inclusive. It seems to be a step you have to go through for approval, under the assumption you’re really reaching out to get input,” Perkins said in a separate interview. “But you’re not. You’re making the step, but you’re not reaching out.”

He added that few West Harlem parents and educators were aware of the meeting, which his representative, Cordell Cleare, attended on his behalf.

Melody Meyer, a spokesperson for the department, said notice for meetings like this are usually sent out to community organizations, elected officials, school networks, parent leaders, community education councils and superintendents. In this case, the June 11 meeting was first announced in mid-May, Meyer said.

Perkins said he is organizing groups in the neighborhood to make sure West Harlemites are included in the planning of a new Brandeis school.

Elinor Tatum, publisher of The Amsterdam News, the city’s oldest and largest African-American newspaper, also submitted a letter in support of the school.

“A diverse, writing-focused high school that serves Harlem, the Upper West Side and the rest of the city will be a great addition to high school choices in New York,” Tatum wrote.

Assembly Member Linda Rosenthal, who noted the many famous authors who have called the West Side home, said she supports the idea of a high school emphasizing writing but stressed the need for diversity.

“Diversity would be a fundamental quality that would distinguish this new school’s admissions policy through a preference for District 3 students,” Rosenthal said in a statement read at the meeting.

Brewer stressed that she will consult with middle schools and community groups in the northern part of the school district to ensure that all eligible students can apply. To create a “seamless” campus with four schools, Brewer proposed sharing proms, sports teams and Advanced Placement classes among the schools.

“When Brandeis was phasing out, I thought this was an opportunity for a diverse West Side high school,” Brewer said. “If we can pull this off, it’ll be very exciting to set the bar high for other campuses to do the same.”