The Best and the Hardest

Hi class,

I just counted, and I’ve completed a dozen semester-length creative writing workshops since and including undergrad. The “best” must have a whole lot to do with this continual need for a feeling I get during the workshop, interacting and collaborating with a like-minded community who speaks the same language. In this way, it is indeed a form of therapy, as the New Yorker article we read alluded. I think many seek therapy for the acknowledgment—for the simple, perhaps transformative, experience of seeing someone nod her head in agreement—that you have had it tough these days, that you can work on this or that. In workshop, the acknowledgement comes through the validation of praise and critique. Despite any and all differences among those gathered in the room, everyone is there to improve their writing, and the workshop acknowledges that.

This “best” feeling can come from an inspiring comment, a plot solution you might never have thought of without the viewpoint of a peer, the suggestion for a defining character tic. The list goes on and on. I’ve noticed the feeling can sometimes come on just as strongly from helping a fellow student tap into such specific inspiration, perhaps even more so because that means you’ve understood and you’ve helped. As Stephen King says, “Description begins in the writer’s imagination, but should finish in the reader’s” (if anyone in the class hasn’t yet read Stephen King’s On Writing, I can’t recommend it highly enough). This gets at the crux of the workshop, as one of the best things about it is the relationship that it generates between writer and reader, roles that switch week to week. And that relationship requires as much healthy communication as any.

I came to Mills to know best how to generate this feeling for others, to contribute to a learning environment, share methods of analysis and craft, and foster the artistic concentration and community I experienced as an undergraduate and while in fiction and screenwriting workshops at Boston College, through Gotham Writers’ Workshops, University of California, Berkeley, Stanford Continuing Studies, and now here at Mills. I’ve experienced environments influenced by a range of teaching styles—the bold and the soft, the demanding and the lax, those that feel under the control of a captain and those that don’t. I try to be compassionate for the workshop leader who gets flustered, as I expect to be in her shoes in some way some day, and Shelly’s blog discussed this empathy quite eloquently. As I mentioned in class, I believe one of the harder emotions to contend with in workshop is timidity rather than brazen feedback, a common trapping during open discussion of peers’ work, especially at the beginning level. The instructor must direct a delicate balance—illuminating techniques at work and ensuring that the discussion given to the writer’s work, often just 20 to 40 minutes, is productive and motivating. So, despite my empathy, I expect the instructor to strive for this balance always.

Another hard part comes in the form of the writer who seems unreceptive to feedback at all. Perhaps his or her skin is thinner that day; perhaps he or she is too attached to the product to be willing to see it from a reader’s point of view. But if that’s not the case, I wonder why these folks engage in workshops in the first place? They have every right to remain secluded, writing away without comment for as long as they see fit. I’ve been in a workshop where the writer has simply turned away from the person speaking, dismissing the rest of her comment, or said, “such and such isn’t changing no matter what you say” or “you just don’t understand what I’m trying to do here.” For me, tolerating a writer reacting this personally is one of the hardest parts by far.

Perhaps my fault is just the opposite—and another hard part of workshop—being too willing to accept feedback. Battling a complex that much of what I write turns out as lumps of coal rather than precious gems, in the past I’ve been quick to incorporate feed back. There is the risk of compromising your voice to the point of losing your way through the story in your charge to tell in the first place. I remember this happening to a movie script I got half way through (didn’t we all) more than once before giving up on it all together. I believe it started as a tension-filled coming-of-age story between an aunt and a niece in New York City and turned into a cancer-stricken tragedy between best friends somewhere on the West Coast. My point being, I completely lost my way and watched the story change shape in my very hands. I had to learn who gave the most helpful feedback for my particular work and appreciate yet weed out as much of the noise as possible. And yet it took half a dozen workshops to feel like I truly had. That vigilance and self-awareness is tested with each new batch of workshop readers.

In thinking about how I would like to conduct a fiction workshop, and the best and the hardest implied therein, I think our exercise last week proved just how critical a respect for house rules is. To set these rules from day one with the students will hopefully give them a sense of agency and help set parameters for constructive honesty on the page as well as around the table. Challenges aside, to guide varied imaginations and inspire the beginning writer, who is learning about the dedication it takes, often in isolation, to explore human truths within alternate times and characters, must be a “best feeling,” no?

I agree with Elmaz that I’d like to include more writing in workshop! Writing exercises offer wells of potential inspiration, and I don’t naturally play around with them nearly as much as I should. Perhaps longer workshops are the answer. I took a one-week intensive course through Stanford Continuing Studies with the SF writer Eric Puchner (his story collection, Music Through the Floor, is a dream). The course was titled “Breaking the Mold” and that’s precisely what we did each day for four hours. We read stories that broke the conventional rules of fiction: that there need be rising conflict, that they never end with the character waking up from a dream, that the point of view shouldn’t switch suddenly, etc. Then, feeling braver, we broke those rules ourselves and tapped into stories we might never have otherwise.

To close on another best note, I believe a creative writing workshop has the potential to provide an invaluable skill set for life. After all, isn’t understanding character, decision-making, and conflict resolution as vital to writing as it is to our personal and professional interaction overall?

Thanks,
Jennifer