In a glass-walled conference room at Multnomah County Library’s Albina branch, Benny flicks on the overhead lights. He’s one of the first participants to arrive for Some People Press’ post-prison writing workshop, and tells me he’s already finished his autobiography—about 83,000 words, edited down from 90,000. We reposition the tables scattered around the room as Benny explains that Harrell likes them arranged in a square.
He means Harrell Fletcher, one of Some People Press’ co-founders. Fletcher is an artist, educator, and founder of Portland State University’s Art and Social Practice MFA program. In 2022, he created the micro press with Laura Glazer, who’s also the director of programming at King School Museum of Contemporary Art, a social practice art project inside an elementary school.
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Just west of the airport, Columbia River Correctional Institution (CRCI) sits within Portland city limits. For four years, Glazer and Fletcher held a weekly workshop there; over 100 incarcerated people participated. The writers developed autobiographies, several of which have been published by the press. But the workshop—advertised via flyer at the prison—only required two things: to be present and to listen.
Participation varied. “Sometimes we’d get the same guys every week for years, and other times we’d see guys for [only] three weeks,” Glazer explains. “A lot of the writers wouldn’t think of themselves as writers. But many of them knew they had a story to tell. When they saw the flyer, or heard about the workshop from somebody in their unit, it ignited a spark that was already there.”
“When a writer finishes their autobiography, we work with them to edit it, have them sign a contract, and then publish their book,” she continues. “We share the profits with them, 50-50.”
Some People Press’ final class inside the prison took place in early October. As more writers leave CRCI with manuscripts, Glazer and Fletcher have transitioned to working with them on the outside. The workshop at the Albina Library branch reflects their next chapter and continued focus on formerly incarcerated writers. It’s open to the public and visitors are welcome, though Glazer and Fletcher like to be contacted in advance.
The library’s conference room slowly fills. One participant has brought his fiancée. It’s their anniversary, and they’ve got dinner reservations later. Another, a freelance writer who completed probation in Albuquerque, is attending the workshop for the first time. Benny and Alex are seasoned participants with finished manuscripts. During introductions, several of the writers mention sobriety milestones.
Karleigh Frisbie Brogan, author of Holding: A Memoir About Mothers, Drugs, and Other Comforts (2025), serves as the workshop’s co-facilitator today. Glazer and Fletcher are also present and remain closely involved, offering each participant feedback.
The format will feel familiar to anyone who’s workshopped before: participants read selections of their writing, then share impressions with each other. Sometimes they laugh. Other times they note similarities in the grueling psychological experience of incarceration. Fletcher and Glazer steer commentary toward what they notice about the writing—how it’s working, where meaning might develop. Brogan points out effective metaphors and moments when characters change. Fletcher emphasizes “dialogue, details, description” and identifies areas where writers could dive deeper.
The writing is often striking. Some drafts capture reflective states. Others reveal formative childhood experiences. One writer describes the meticulous theater of a scam attempt. Another weaves research into personal narrative, illustrating the infuriating bureaucracy of probation.
Brogan reads a selection from Holding: “It was fine at first, balancing a job with a heroin addiction, but soon it became impossible… Being around other adults who had their own apartments, their own tiny patios with tiny grills, their own tabletop Christmas trees, flocked and pink… I wanted to be like my coworkers, who could spontaneously go to the bar and grill after work and gossip, laugh, eat fried things, play pool, with no clue of heroin’s pleasures and pains and urgencies at all.”
The details feel ordinary and tender, which is also why they’re devastating. Listening, it became clear how functional addiction asks a person to occupy two worlds at once.
Brogan says conversations about addiction recovery often start with “war stories,” then evolve toward a wider capacity for compassion and growth. Sharing her memoir hasn’t always been easy—she describes the process as “summoning ghosts”—but the reflective form also clarifies how experiences across a lifespan are interconnected. “If you never sit down to write the memoir, you don’t hear the click,” she says.
That process of revisiting the past, finding language for it, and using language to move forward seems to be a throughline for the workshop’s writers. Alex mentions that he previously had a writing practice, but stopped; the CRCI workshop felt cathartic and rejuvenating. “I never would have written again if not for that class,” he says.
The post-prison workshops give Some People Press time to bring pending projects to completion while taking on new manuscripts, like Sean Kennerly’s Memoir of a Hyena. Published in June, the press’ first fiction release features illustrations by Portland artists Johanna Jackson and Chris Johanson. Kennerly, a Brooklyn-based musician, isn’t a formerly incarcerated writer. Glazer feels his link to Some People’s mission lies in the novel itself.
“[The press] challenges the idea that only certain people get to write and publish. Maybe a story, or a voice, or an image that doesn’t quite fit in a traditional, normative publishing ecosystem fits here. It’s a lovely thing to be open to the unknown,” she says.
But as is the case for many small presses, marketing and distribution remains a challenge.
“The guys coming out of CRCI… They’re not working with an audience already,” Glazer explains. “We advise them on steps they can take to read their works in public or market themselves, but it’s difficult. They’re on strict schedules and juggling family, trying to get a job, going back to school and rehab.”
Some People Press’ Substack has helped build an audience for the writers’ work. Their books can be purchased locally at Partly, Belmont Books, and Up Up Books, as well as on Amazon.
As the workshop winds down, Benny ducks out to take a call. Others leave early for evening plans. Life continues.
Their books might take months or years to finish, or the writing may remain in vignette form, smaller gestures toward processing complex lives. At the workshop, the finished product is important, but so is the process. What matters most is listening as new voices take shape.
