So. Clearly I can’t sleep. Anyhow. Here is the response I got from a friend who took a Young Adult workshop with me:

Korin McGinty is a determined and passionate writer but she is a phenomenal editor. She is neither the first nor the last in terms of speaking order but when popping into the middle of an often heated debate Korin interjects with a potent literary aptitude. The phrasing she applies to her critiques generates an overall feeling of comfortable commitment and dedication to pull the best out of a writer, particularly a student who may still be completing undergraduate coursework. At times Korin can become distracted, it is not unusual to see her pen flicking over the pages in a journal but even during those moments it is rare for her to become detached from the workshop conversation. Her inexhaustible knowledge of young adult fiction, which was crucial in our workshop, was intimidating to myself but a powerful aid in providing helpful examples to others in the class. She is enjoyable to watch because she wears her emotions on her sleeve; if frustration is the feeling of the moment she will no doubt tap the tip of her pen onto the table, finally jamming the cap on. The same applies to her comments; she says what she means and means what she says. That alone is a characteristic worthy of respect.

First, I love how this reads almost as a letter of recommendation. Which is more of a side note and also, I realize, a critique but it really does have letter of recommendation tone.

Second, I asked for clarification on the phrase “potent literary aptitude,” (because I’m a big fan of clarification), and was told, “it means that your intelligence is persuasive”. Which I feel is incredibly high praise, and at the same time may not necessarily be fully warranted since I do not always feel so intelligent. However, I also know myself to be horrible at accepting compliments and have been working on accepting them with grace so I’m saying thank you and moving on.

Third, I had no idea that I create a feeling of “comfortable commitment…” but I am terribly dedicated to Story. I love it beyond most things in this world and I’m a pretty big nurturer so I can see how this might be the case.

Fourth, I do write in class. In fact I write in our class. I can’t help it. I multi-task a lot. I hate feeling unproductive and I went to a high school that fostered productivity in a hectic, often unsettled, working environment. Beyond that though, there’s a security I feel in writing in workshops and classes. And also there is fear. Fear of the moments when I’m almost overcome with the force of writing. Fear that I will be lost forever to sitting at my desk writing page after page after page. Because when the act of writing is good, when there’s magic, and the whole world falls away, you forget yourself because you’ve been transported to a place without name. So I use my surroundings as an anchor almost. To make sure I’ll come back. And yet, for some reason, when I do slip back into reality, I still haven’t lost the thread of the conversation. (It’s because I’m nuts. I’m aware). But I’m really grateful to have that space, to hear all of your voices murmuring like currents around me. It’s very soothing.

Fifth, this response was written by someone who’s taken a young adult workshop with me and I wonder how the response would differ if I asked someone who’d taken a non-fiction workshop with me. Because it’s true I seem to have this font of knowledge about young adult fiction. I love YA. I mean love. I pick up young adult books and things start thrumming in my heart and at that spot at the base of your spine that’s like your gut and your soul or something all wrapped into one. I get depressed when I finish reading one, especially if it was a really gripping one. YA is the genre I turn time for comfort and peace and understanding. But surprisingly I’m in the MFA under non-fiction. How did that happen you ask? Yes, well, I asked myself that very same question. It’s perhaps the greatest fluke to date in my life. I have, or rather had, very little knowledge of non-fiction as a genre before being forced to take a class in undergrad. I still feel I have very little knowledge of non-fiction today. I don’t thrill to read non-fiction books so they’re not the first reading to fall into my hands but I have come across some amazing non-fiction writing. However, I think this lack of knowledge, or this feeling of a lack of knowledge, has affected my workshopping in those classes. I’m quieter. I hold back because I don’t trust myself, or my instincts and sometimes I think that may be a detriment to the person being critiqued. So what I tend to do is try to talk to them one on one or put it all in my letter, even to the point of adding thoughts in class, if I’m really feeling like there was something missed that needed to be expressed, or if something was put down that really shouldn’t have been etc. What this lack of knowledge has done for the actual writing of non-fiction though is a different thing entirely.

Sixth, I do wear the emotions on the sleeve. I like to have them there. It’s really easy to look down if I’m ever in doubt on how I’m feeling and know that yes I truly am delighted by that sentence. I also get frustrated frequently. I think partly because there is so much pushing on the author in workshops that really irritates me. There have been moments where all of a sudden there’s this big slam of opinion moving its way across the room to this person who’s put so much work and effort into their writing and is seeking some guidance but instead of guidance is getting at times squabbling among their peers, and at times flat out pettiness mixed with selfishness and a huge lack of clarity. It really pisses me off. Which is probably where the stepping in instinct comes in. But then again, I’ve worked with children a lot, and not just children but children and swimming pools combined so, the need for stepping in sort of gets ingrained after awhile.

And I’ve run out of thoughts. Night all.