Teaching & Coaching
UPCOMING CLASSES
The Most Personal Essay
This class meets IN PERSON at Hugo House in Capitol Hill. Start date: April 18
The personal essay asks us to move beyond plot points to explore the universal elements at the heart of your story.
Learn to cultivate vulnerability without self-indulgence, pathos without sentimentality, and sharing without oversharing and leave with a complete, polished piece that’s ready for publication (if that’s your goal). . Essays from this class have later appeared in literary journals and major outlets including HuffPost Personal and The New York Times’ Modern Love column.
Ordinary Wonders: Crafting the Lyric Essay from Everyday Life
This class meets online and via Zoom. Start date March 25
Together, we’ll practice noticing, recording, and transforming the small, human details of daily life into brief, luminous essays.
We’ll study Ross Gay’s very short, funny, thoughtful, sometimes rambling “essayettes” from The Book of Delights and The Book of (More) Delights, using his work as both companion and invitation: to pay closer attention, to follow curiosity, and to trust that even the most ordinary moment can open into something meaningful on the page.
Testimonials
Sometimes a writer needs structure and accountability in order to keep pace on a project; Nicole's class gave me both of these, and the social aspect I needed in my writing process. If you want a fun teacher with great prompts that inspire you, let Nicole be your Captain!"
Lance Garland, author of Out There, an Indie Pubs #1 Bestseller.
"Nicole's editing always pushes my writing further. With her background in poetry, she instills a command of each line and has a way of making everything sound better. She's edited my fiction and essays, and, as in her own work, she can go hilarious or heartbreaking."
"Nicole is an amazing instructor. It's sometimes hard to find the right mix of generative inspiration, craft and structure - but Nicole does just that. She brings it all the elements together in a way that feels fun and intuitive. My writing has not only improved thanks to Nicole, but I always feel energized and ready to produce more after class."
Allison Ellis, award-winning creative nonfiction writer.
"Nicole gave me insights into writing that will always stay with me. She helped me take a huge, valuable leap in my writing. Nicole knows how to give concrete feedback with sensitivity and honesty."
Kate S, private coaching client
I can already tell I’m going to get a TON out of this collaboration and I’m so grateful. You are so astute and right on. Amazing. Perfect. You saw exactly what I couldn’t see.
Minda Lane, private coaching client
Fo the first time getting feedback, my response is YES YES YES. I can see how and WHY to change these things and I’m excited to get back into it. Nicole really helps lay out HOW to do it so it seems like something I can do. Her notes are really so helpful.
Hira Bluestone, private coaching client
PRIVATE COACHING
MOMENTUM CLUB
Get what you need, switch it up when you want. Select 3 coaching services per month:
The 5k Sprint: Send me up to 5,000 words. I’ll give a quick, high-level read, tell you what’s working, and offer two big-picture suggestions for going forward.
The Creative Rant: A 30-minute phone call or—if you’re in Seattle—a one hour walk and talk at Lincoln Park. Great for those moments when the work isn’t working.
The Strategy Hour: A one-hour working session where to map your book’s thematic journey.
The Craft Talk: Email me a specific "how-do-I-fix-this" craft question; I’ll send back a 5-minute voice memo with practical advice, and a list of helpful resources.
The Accountability Call: Three scheduled 10-minute calls where you touch base about your project, set small goals, and give yourself deadlines. No feedback, just someone low-key breathing down your neck.
The Mentorship Library: I’ll suggest three mentor texts specifically chosen to inspire you or model some aspect of craft.
A Boutique Virtual Residency for Creative Nonfiction Writers.
A Boutique Virtual Residency for Creative Nonfiction Writers.
COMMUNITY
ALWAYS AVAILABLE, ALWAYS OPTIONAL
Writer Lunch: A 60-minute Zoom every Tuesday afternoon. Talk about roadblocks, celebrate your wins, and build a creative community with other writers.
The WhatsApp Commons: A private channel for writing inspo, reading recommendations, submission calls, and creative sparks.
PUBLICATION LAB
Get what you need, switch it up when you want. Select 3 coaching services per month:
The Edit: Send me one or two essays (up to 3k words). I’ll provide the edits that help you get your work ready to submit.
The Creative Rant: A 30-minute phone call or—if you’re in Seattle—a one hour walk and talk at Lincoln Park. Great for those moments when the work isn’t working.
The Strategy Session: Choose a specific outlet (like The Sun, The Rumpus, or Modern Love) for a 30-minute 1-on-1. I’ll offer insider intel, tips for success, and a vibe-check to see if one of your drafts is a possible match.
The Author Q&A: If you could ask any essayist any one question, what would it be? I’ll do my best to get the answer for you!
The Form Challenge: Want to shake up your style? I’ll pick a form—like a braided, hermit crab, or flash essay—and give you my Top 5 Tips for success, plus a curated list of outlets that fit your style.
The Call For Help: A 30-minute 1-on-1 to untangle a draft that’s lost its way. Together, we’ll diagnose the problem and make a plan for getting back on track.
The Craft Talk: Email me a specific "how-do-I-fix-this" craft question; I’ll send back a 5-minute voice memo with practical advice, and a list of helpful resources.
Personalized Coaching for Personal Essayists Who Want More Bylines
Personalized Coaching for Personal Essayists Who Want More Bylines
Pricing Transparency
Rates are designed to reflect a generous partnership based on my 15+ years of experience teaching, coaching, and publishing across genres. When you join the Momentum Club or the Publication Lab, you’re not just buying time, you’re buying expertise, attention, and care. Your subscription also covers the invisible labor that makes our sessions count: Research, prep, admin, communication, reading, giving feedback–everything that allows me to offer the personalized focus your work deserves.
ALWAYS AVAILABLE, ALWAYS OPTIONAL
Writer Lunch: A 60-minute Zoom every Tuesday afternoon. We talk shop, celebrate your acceptances (and rejections; hey, you’re in the game!), and build a creative community with other writers.
The WhatsApp Commons: A private channel for writing inspo, reading recommendations, submission calls, and creative sparks.
The Database: A library of mentor texts (sorted by form), an editor Rolodex, and a calls for submissions, so you never miss a deadline.
COMMUNITY
SAMPLE CLIENT PUBLICATIONS
You’re telling your own story: You graduated college and you’re a grown-ass woman now. Tina Fey is your hero; Beyoncé, your preacher.
You know how to take care of you. You’ve learned self-defense. If any man ever hit you, you’d rip his eyes out. You’ve seen Mad Men, and if anyone ever sexually harassed you at work, you’d tell him to fuck right off, throw your coffee in his face, and wave two middle fingers as you marched out the door.
This past December, after not talking to me for several months, my mother called from her rural Oregon home. I listened from Seattle as she offered updates on cousins in Cambodia, inventoried her latest aches and pains, and noted my father’s failing memory.
Her talk was sprinkled with the Khmer word “gohn,” meaning darling, an endearment she had stopped using with me months before.
When, at the end of our call, she summoned me home, a knot tightened in my gut. “Come alone,” she said.
“Hold Still!” I tell my girls, who are clenching their teeth and smiling, “Cheeeeese.” My daughters, 5 and 9, are kneeling by a pumpkin, my youngest with her missing front tooth, my oldest with her shiny gold hair tickling her face.
I begin to take pictures, rapid-fire, only to be interrupted by my phone flashing: “Cannot Take Photo.” This is not the first time my phone has shamed me for being unable to “Manage My Storage.” It started when my children were born, and now there are 22,383 pictures and 855 videos that I just can’t delete, taking up residence on my iPhone.
One morning, when our son was four months old, my husband noticed a little red spot on the boy’s lip. Like any sleep-deprived parent, my husband went to his computer and Googled “red spot on baby’s lip.” Twenty minutes later, he came back pale-faced and hyperventilating; he even had to put his head between his knees to keep from passing out. He had gone down a dark hole on the internet and found the story of a baby with a red spot on his lip who ended up tragically ill.
I fell fast, to my knees, both hands buried deep in the mud of a newly turned field saturated by the Seattle January rain. I bent to the earth, too tired to move under the weight of my upended twenty-five-year-old world. My mother, now sleeping in the house behind me, had called five days after my wedding to tell me she had officially lost the fight. “Nothing more they can do,” she had said about her ovarian cancer. That night, I flew 800 miles away from my new husband to her farm, reprioritizing yet again on a wing and a prayer; too unable, unwilling, unbearable to answer his relentless questions. “I’m not dying now,” she’d said into the phone. “I see myself dying during a month when there are lots and lots of flowers.” The crows circled above. I pulled one hand out. Would she make it to summer? Would my marriage?
In 1970 I signed up for a class called “Radical Politics” at the Free University on the University of Washington campus. No tuition, no grades, just speakers touting their groups’ platforms. Or guidance in replacing a roof or learning guitar or beginning yoga.
The men in that smoky classroom sported a lot of hair and wore “Workers of the World Unite” t-shirts. One of the scruffier guys sitting next to me was named Mike, tall and slim, in Levi 501s, desert boots, and round John Lennon glasses. In a deep confident voice, with a hint of amusement, he asked a question that raised bristles among competing political factions. Answers left me confused, but Mike invited me to go to the Red Robin for a beer after class. A Seattle landmark for decades (before selling out to a chain), the Robin was a funky watering hole where the smell of weed overpowered the aroma of burgers.
The fire engine swings into the parking lot, no lights or siren, just a flare of bright red and silver in the July sun. I see Clara take note with her superpower peripheral vision. Does she understand they are here for her?
My hands have not stopped shaking in the ten minutes since I tapped out 9-1-1 on my iPhone. I’m dizzy, my face blotchy with tears. Anyone watching might think I’m the one who needs emergency assistance: a middle-aged white woman collapsing of heatstroke or a bad drug trip on this strip mall sidewalk between a Dollar Store and the giddily named Poodle Dog restaurant.
But I made the call for Clara, my developmentally disabled 21-year-old daughter.
The amount I was paid for smuggling drugs varied, but, generally, I earned $1 a pill and $200 per pound of marijuana. The most I moved at one time was around 8,000 pills and 20 pounds of marijuana. I was told that border security was paid off to let me through. I don’t know if that was true, or if I was being naïve.
As the drug quantities increased, I could no longer smuggle them in my wheelchair and on an airplane. I had to hide them in plain sight and take a train. That meant two days across the Northern Great Plains of the United States with a duffle bag stuffed with drugs. As I got off the train in Union Station and made my way through the terminal, my bag bursting at the zipper, a police officer approached me. “Can I give you a hand with that?” he asked me. I politely accepted his help as we made our way to call a cab. He loaded my bag into the trunk of the car. All he saw was my wheelchair.