Lessons from the Writing Workshop #19 — Difference

We live in a society that is unjust. Some people have greater access to resources and opportunities, as well as safety and protection, than others. This is not due to individual luck or merit, but to the socially constructed categories they belong to—race and ethnicity, gender, economic class, sexual orientation, religion, age, and physical and mental ability. Although these categories don’t tell us much about us as individuals, they are used to describe our place in the social pecking order. Our position in this order serves to shape our experience and perceptions. We do not all encounter the world in the same way.

People who have advantages often take them for granted, and may not even realize others are not getting them (that’s part of the privilege). It gets complicated, too, because many people experience both privilege and dis-privilege. A white lesbian will gain the benefits of white skin, but may experience discrimination or even threats because of her orientation. Sometimes we focus only on those areas where we are disadvantaged and overlook those categories that give us privilege.

These issues show up in our writing, and in our writing workshops. In the workshop, you find participants whose experience with discrimination is different than yours. People who experience privilege may be insensitive to someone who hasn’t. People who face injustice daily are infuriated by it, as well as by the seeming lack of awareness they encounter. This can create conflict, as well as opportunities for dialogue and learning.

Those who take their privilege for granted may create misrepresentations in their work. Whether it’s men writing stereotypical depictions of women, or white writers creating one-dimensional characters of color, these writers have the opportunity to further develop their tools of research, observation, and empathy.

Those unaware of their privilege may also challenge the writing of non-privileged writers when it doesn’t reinforce their ideas of the world. I’ve heard such phrases as: If you’re going to use words in Spanish, don’t you have to translate them for the reader (this assumes the reader will be a monolingual English speaker); How dare you write negatively about the police; don’t you know they risk their lives to protect us (this ignores the fact that some people have experienced being targeted by law enforcement); and Two women together would never do that (this asserts that LGBTQ experience is identical to heterosexual experience.) Sometimes I’ve even heard the claim that one aesthetic is better than another. This kind of feedback can make non-privileged writers feel at best misunderstood and at worst negated, which can produce fury or despair. This is not what anyone wants in their writing workshop or in their lives.

Culture—our literature and art and plays and films and music—is a big part of what shapes our perception of the world. If categories of people are misrepresented within or absent from cultural products, it perpetuates dis-empowerment in our institutions and in our social behavior. Additionally, because so much of the culture in the United States has been created by white, straight men, usually from privileged economic backgrounds, women, people of color and LGBTQ people have not had the same opportunities to tell their stories and to represent themselves. This is the backdrop to discussions of difference in the writing workshop, along with each participant’s individual history of injustice.

When we encounter misrepresentations in the writing or the commentary presented in the workshop, it creates tension in the group. For those who feel misrepresented, the stakes are high. For those who have created the misrepresentation—due to ignorance or lack of awareness—shame may kick in, and that can produce defensiveness. While it’s not easy to navigate, it’s crucial to create a climate in which these issues are discussable in a manner that is respectful to all.

We begin with the assumption that every participant has valid things to say, and that every participant has important things to learn—be that craft or content or about the world. We acknowledge that we come from different circumstances and work to establish a climate of respect for those differences. We make an agreement that we will respond solely to the work on the page and not make judgments of the individual. These guidelines help, but hard conversations still happen, because the workshop is a microcosm of the world.

It’s easier to hear something like, I didn’t find that female character’s behavior believable or Why do you only describe the racial characteristics of the people of color in the story? than it is to be called a sexist or a racist. At the same time, if a participant has strong reactions to a piece of writing based on issues of social difference, there has to be a safe space for these feelings to be expressed.

When an issue of misperception or misrepresentation arises, the non-privileged person hopes someone else will notice it and raise the issue. They hope that I, as the instructor, will bring it up. Or they hope their classmates will step up as allies and address the issue. Internally they wonder, why do I always have to be the one to bring it up? Do the others really not see it? This leads some members of non-privileged categories to seek out groups or workshops of others like them—a women’s workshop, an LGBTQ writing group, a program for people of color, a class for seniors. While solidarity groups have great value, there is also much to be learned from reading and dialoguing outside our social categories. Ultimately, I believe this is what brings change.

Here are some strategies to help you to address injustice in the writing workshop:

1. Cultivate an expanded aesthetics that incorporates work from traditions you are not part of. Open your mind.
2. Work to educate yourself about groups you are not a member of. Be open to admitting what you don’t know.
3. Don’t disparage the cultural traditions or aesthetic output of groups you are not a member of.
4. If a student is writing about experiences or history about which you are not familiar, or in a language you do not know, take responsibility to familiarize yourself with it, rather than demanding the work explain itself.
5. Don’t demand more of characters unlike you than you would demand of characters like you.
6. Don’t assume you are the intended audience (and therefore the work should be changed to conform to your aesthetics.)
7. Don’t presume to challenge the factual accuracy of experiences you haven’t lived.
8. If you observe an act of negation due to unexamined privilege, speak up in the moment. Your silence implies tacit agreement.
9. Take the time to examine your own privilege, and how it has shaped your experience or limited your perception.
10. If someone in the workshop calls out an instance of misrepresentation in your work, thank them. They are helping you to expand your perception of the world.

 

Text by Terry Wolverton
Photo by Yvonne M. Estrada

Thinking about joining a writing workshop? Writers At Work offers weekly, ongoing opportunities for writers of fiction, poetry and creative nonfiction, as well as creative counseling and manuscript review. Learn more at http://writersatwork.com/education.html. In 2017, we’re celebrating our 20th anniversary of inspiring, encouraging and empowering writers.

 

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Lessons from the Writing Workshop # 18 — Your Writing Practice

I tell students that it is the job of every writer to determine and shape your own writing practice—how often, when and for how long; where and with what tools and under what circumstances? There are many writers who offer advice about these matters, but I find it’s mostly useless, because each writer needs to figure out what works for you.

How Often
Many well-known writers will tell you that you need to write every day, and I respect and understand the powerful discipline of that daily practice. That doesn’t mean I adhere to it. Like most writers, I juggle earning a living; running a household; paying attention to my partner, friends, animal companions and family; attending to other interests and community commitments; self-care and more. There are things I do every single day—meditate, email my mother—but writing is not one of them. There have been particular books or writing projects that I did work on daily, but I can’t claim they got done faster or were any better than books for which my practice was more irregular.

When
Find the time of the day when your energy is best. For those who have demanding jobs, I often suggest they write first thing in the morning, when they are fresh and before other demands assert their claim on you. One novelist used to get up at 4 a.m. and write for 60-90 minutes before getting ready for work. For others, writing in the early morning would be unthinkable; they’d rather burn the midnight oil. I know parents who schedule their writing around chauffeuring their kids to and from school, game practice, the dentist and playdates. While we’d like to find the optimal time of day and write then, sometimes it’s a matter of finding any available time in a crowded week.

For How Long
I’ve heard writers claim that it’s not even worth it for them to start writing unless they have a 3- or 4- or 6-hour chunk of uninterrupted time. I would never write if I waited for that. My personal attention span is about two hours at a stretch, but I’ve also learned to work in smaller increments. It’s possible to do something even in 15-30 minutes. I once wrote the first draft of a novel in a half-hour a day. For some writers who have a lot of competing demands, shooting for smaller increments of time makes it possible to keep going with their work.

Where
I’d rather not write at home, although I sometimes do. I feel more distracted by all the other facets of life—email and social media and the ringing telephone and my cat jumping into my lap. Other writers seem better able to insulate against those distractions. But neither do I like to write in public, except maybe on an airplane. I know other writers who love to write in coffee shops; a student at Writers At Work used to say she loved “writing out” (like eating out, but literary) but the noise level defeats my concentration.

Some writers have created perfect havens in their home—their desk, their bookshelves, their special candle, their window. I imagine that for myself sometimes, but in reality, my workspace is cluttered with the debris of other work, bills to be paid, unopened mail, unread copies of magazines I hope to get to, things to be filed. I am fortunate to have a workshop space that allows me to have writing dates there.

With What Tools
Other artists sometimes envy writers because the tools of our craft can be inexpensive and portable. Paper and pen—that’s pretty simple, right? But of course, these days one eventually needs to get it into the computer and print it out, and that starts to be more costly. However, most public libraries offer free (if time-limited) access to computers and printers. One fiction writer I know writes on his phone, and I’ve seen plenty of poets stand up at readings and read from their phones.

I have found that my practice changes depending on the book or project I am writing. Some works seem to require that I draft them first by hand, and by that, I mean in actual ink on actual paper. With other projects, it feels okay to draft directly on the computer, but I am aware that for me they are very different kinetic experiences that definitely influence the way my brain is working. The computer is a good tool for me to get ideas down, but if I am trying to woo a voice for or craft the diction of a work, that needs to be done by hand.

When I work on paper, I like to work on lined pads of recycled paper, preferable white, and with an extra-fine point Pilot pen. I need to feel like every sheet is easily disposable; a bound book or something with fancy paper just shuts me down. I’ve known writers who would only write with fountain pens, or who love those bound books, or who haven’t written anything by hand except their signature in ten years. The point is to try things and find out what works best for you.

Under What Circumstances
I know writers who listen to music while they write. I’d rather have quiet. Some like to write outdoors; that’s not my first choice. Some people say they can only write when they are in a certain kind of mood. Some write to avoid other tasks; a poet once told me, “I always write a lot of poems when I’m taking a math class.” Others turn toward those tasks for avoid writing; reports one, “My kitchen is always very clean when I am working on a book.”

My own practice is greatly assisted by proximity to other writers. For decades now I have been making writing dates, wherein another writer and I sit down to work on our individual projects. Solitude is not one of my favorite things about writing, so I appreciate the companionship a writing date offers, as well as the accountability. Also I find that in the company of another artist working on their work, the creative juices multiply exponentially. I have had some incredible breakthroughs in the middle of a writing date. But I know other writers who cherish the solitary time writing provides; nothing could be less appealing to them than having another person in the room while they work.

One poet I know likes to pair writing with exercise; she gets her energy going and then moves to her desk. I teach a workshop, “Meditate/Create,” in which we start with some warm-up stretches, move into meditation, and then turn our attention to writing. Meditation can be a good way to gather focus before a writing session.

Some writers like to start with a warm-up exercise. That might be a few minutes of “fevered writing” (spontaneous writing, writing without intention), it might be the “morning pages” recommended by Julia Cameron in The Artists Way. It might be finding a prompt in a book or a news headline and starting with those words. It might be recopying a passage of your own work to get yourself back into the flow of that project. One novelist tells me she never ends a writing session by concluding a segment or chapter; she always likes to start the next one to give her a little boost for the next day.

When you write for a while, you begin to discover what most stimulates your creativity. It’s part of your job to figure that out, and then see how you can give yourself the most ideal circumstances possible in which to do your work.

Text by Terry Wolverton
Photo by Yvonne M. Estrada

Thinking about joining a writing workshop? Writers At Work offers weekly, ongoing opportunities for writers of fiction, poetry and creative nonfiction, as well as creative counseling and manuscript review. Learn more at http://writersatwork.com/education.html. In 2017, we’re celebrating our 20th anniversary of inspiring, encouraging and empowering writers.

 

Lessons from the Writing Workshop #17 — Legacy

I drew up my first Will and Power of Attorney when I was twenty-eight. Not because I expected to die but because I wanted to be sure my wishes were carried out. As a lesbian, I didn’t want family members to be responsible for my creative work. Not because they are terrible people, but because they would be clueless about its value, about possible venues for making it public, and because they would be embarrassed, if not scandalized, by the content. If they were left in charge, I knew, my writing would end up in a box in the basement or in the trash can.

In the late 1980s and 90s, I taught a writing workshop for people with HIV and AIDS. These were the years before the “cocktail” made survival more possible. Many of the writers I worked with were sure they would die, and many did. While some workshop members were just looking for a creative outlet, several were serious about their work; they were publishing or working toward that. Some were already creating legal documents designating health care preferences and end-of-life decisions, and naming a literary executor.

Even specifying your wishes can have its limitations. One writer had left some money to have a collection of his poetry edited and printed, but left his family ultimately in charge of his estate. His sister contacted me, and I edited the work, hired a designer for the cover, and printed 500 copies. I arranged a public reading and enlisted local writers to read his work. I outlined a series of steps for them to take to get the book distributed to other LGBTQ bookstores, to libraries, and to publications that might review the work. But the effort stopped there. Whatever books did not sell at that initial event are, I’m sure, in a box in the attic or have already been disposed of. Not because his family didn’t want to carry out his wishes; they were consumed by their own grief and loss, and knew next to nothing about poetry, the HIV/AIDS community, or what this book might mean to others, even those who had never met the poet.

This is not only an issue with the LGBTQ community. For a few years, I worked with a student who’d been diagnosed with cancer and given a very short prognosis. But he refused the recommended treatment and lived years beyond the doctors’ expectations. During that time, he started writing a book, a memoir about dying, about not following the doctors’ protocols, about finding a richness to life such as he had never known before. His voice was bold and humorous, his declarations provoking and his research meticulous. He asked me to help him finish the book, and I tried to put him on a timeline that would allow him to see the finished product, hold it in his hands before he died. As that time grew nearer, he chose to travel and have more experiences, rather than writing; I don’t blame him. He died with the book unfinished, but close enough that it could be edited and published. One of his friends told me that he left some money for me to do that, but his family is in charge of his entire estate, including his literary output. They’ve never contacted me.

We need these provisions not only for after we die, but in case we become unable to manage our own affairs while still alive. I’ve been thinking about this a lot because a former mentor and friend of mine was consigned to an assisted living facility when she became unable to care for herself. A visual artist, she produced paintings and sculpture and two movies, as well as lots of documentation of her life and her community. I recently found an archive that agreed to take the documentation and ensure that others would continue to appreciate her artistry and her legacy. However, I learned that the family member who had been designated to hold on to the artwork had disposed of almost all of it, as well as the documentation. They could not appreciate the value of my friend’s life’s work.

Periodically, I talk to students about this issue; it’s a hard conversation to introduce, because none of us likes to think we are going to die. But if you are a writer or artist and you care about your work surviving you, it’s essential to consider it.

• First you want to think carefully about whom you designate to be your literary or artistic executor. Ideally it is someone who 1) cares about you and really appreciates your work and 2) someone who is familiar with the professional world of that art form. For me that means someone who understands the publishing process, from submitting to contracting, someone who has an understanding of the audience my work is intending to reach, and ideally who has some contacts in that literary world. As much as I love my mentor/friend and admire her work, I was not in a good position to help with placing her work for exhibition, because I don’t have those contacts in the visual arts world.
• It’s ideal to designate two different people, in case one of them becomes unable to carry out the task. It’s good to have an alternate.
• Once you identify those people, you’ll want to have a detailed conversation with them about what it is you want them to do (Try to get unpublished things published? Oversee the fate of works that are already in print? Handle inquiries for reprinting or other literary business?) If someone is hesitant, don’t push them. You want people who will really follow through on what they’ve promised.
• Then you’ll need to set up a legal document that designates these individuals as your literary or artistic executor and alternate. This can typically be a provision in your Will; it doesn’t have to be a separate document. You are not required to hire an attorney to produce your Will, but if you have the means, it’s helpful. If not, there is a lot of information available online about how to write your own Will; be sure to search for the provisions particular to the state where you live. LegalZoom.com provides some relatively low-cost options. You will need to have your Will notarized and signed by witnesses.
• If possible, try to leave your literary/artistic executor enough money to do what you want them to do, whether that comes from your estate or from the future publication or sale of your work (although not all publication produces income). The terms of this provision can also be spelled out in your Will.
• Make it easy for your executor to carry out their tasks. Keep your files organized (whether digital or hard copies.) Date your drafts, so someone can identify the latest version of a work. Update your resumé or CV, so it’s clear which works have been published. Check in with your designees periodically so they know what you are working on now, what’s complete, what’s in progress, what you’re excited about. Sometimes as writers we get used to working alone, and it’s hard to share information about our process, but if someone is going to be your representative, they will need to know about your work.
• Be prepared to revisit this issue every 5-10 years. Do the individuals you’ve designated still seem like the right people for the job?

Understand that if you do not specify an executor, the legal default will be your closest living relative. That might be the brother you adore, but it might end up being a distant cousin you’ve never met. If no relative can be located, the state takes possession of your estate.

I’ve heard writers say, “After I’m dead, I won’t care what happens to my work,” and that’s a reasonable attitude. But if you do care, if you want people in the future to read your writing or appreciate your artwork, then figuring out who will help you do that is an important step to take.

 

Text by Terry Wolverton
Photo by Yvonne M. Estrada
Thinking about joining a writing workshop? Writers At Work offers weekly, ongoing opportunities for writers of fiction, poetry and creative nonfiction, as well as creative counseling and manuscript review. Learn more at http://writersatwork.com/education.html. In 2017, we’re celebrating our 20th anniversary of inspiring, encouraging and empowering writers.

 

Lessons from the Writing Workshop #16 — A Continuum from the Imagined to the Real

Some people talk about fiction and creative nonfiction as if those were different and separate categories, the former encompassing works of pure imagination, the latter the whole truth and nothing but.

I don’t find this construct to be that useful. I view writing that is primarily invented and writing that is primarily drawn from lived experience as existing, not as polar opposites, but on a continuum. Something that is entirely invented and does not in some way reference familiar life would be almost impossible to write and likely disorienting to read. Something that is utterly documentary and includes no element of imagination would not seem like a story at all.

We might be making up a story, but set it in a real place and time period. Belinda Vidaurri’s novel is set in Paris in 1968 and on the island of New Caledonia in 1988. Even though the characters are invented, she’s had to research those times and places to make sure she is describing them accurately. When Matt Knight was working on a speculative thriller about genetic engineering, he had to draw from existing real science in order to project where the technology would be in the near future. A writer might invent a character, but endow her with the qualities or habits of his favorite aunt. The fiction writer is always investing their imaginative work with true elements.

Dawn Akemi uses the tension between real and imagined as the premise for her novel set in Hawaii, where she grew up. Part of the story reflects realism, but she is also weaving in myths from traditional culture to give her protagonist entrée into a fantastical spirit world, parallel to the human world.

It’s no different for those who start from lived experience. Kathleen Brady is writing a novel that is primarily drawn from an experience she had when she was younger; she went to study the Chinese language in Beijing and fell in love. But life doesn’t always follow the dictates of plot. In order to shape the meaning of the story, she’s found she has to alter some details, heighten conflicts, accentuate some events and leave out others altogether. She now sees her work as fiction.

Angela Brinskele started her book as a work of non-fiction, but found the material was “too close” and hard to write. When she began adding elements of fiction, she found it much easier to tell the story, because she felt she had more distance, and therefore more control of the material.

Sometimes we want to tell a story from our lives, but don’t want to expose our friends and family to readers’ scrutiny. This is the case with Pat Alderete, who has shaped stories of her growing up in East L.A. into a form she calls “Authentic Fiction.”

When I sat down to write Embers, a novel in poems based on the life of my grandmother, she was already deceased, as were her children. There was no way to verify details about her life, and she was known to have lied about some of those details. I had to speculate about some things, and therefore called it fiction.

When we write memoir, we may not remember every detail. Do we recall the exact words someone said, or just the feeling they conveyed? Do we remember the color of the drapes? And does it matter?

There’s been a lot of controversy over the veracity of memoir, based on a few authors blatantly making up stuff that was not remotely like their lives but calling it memoir because they thought it would sell better. This breaking of trust with the reader has resulted in a kind of fundamentalism that asserts that everything in a memoir has to be 100% “true.”

Wendy Fontaine, a journalist I worked with in the Antioch University MFA program, conducted research into brain science and discovered that memory is never 100% accurate, because every time we recall a memory, it changes. Memoir is not documentary; the term “creative nonfiction” implies that some degree of selection and emphasis, as well as imagination, is at work. Yes, memoirists have to keep faith with readers that the experiences we are asking them to invest in emotionally are true, but readers need to understand that we are presenting an interpretation of those experiences.

What we are ultimately after is emotional truth, the careful rendering of experience in a way that resonates with our readers and helps reflect their own lives and feelings. It is often said, the facts are not the truth. Whether we start in invention or draw from lived experience, whether our characters are from the future or the past, it is the emotional veracity that readers seek. It’s what keeps them reading.

 

Text by Terry Wolverton
Photo by Yvonne M. Estrada

Thinking about joining a writing workshop? Writers At Work offers weekly, ongoing opportunities for writers of fiction, poetry and creative nonfiction, as well as creative counseling and manuscript review. Learn more at http://writersatwork.com/education.html. In 2017, we’re celebrating our 20th anniversary of inspiring, encouraging and empowering writers.

Lessons from the Writing Workshop #15 — Cultivating Our Readers

As much attention as we might lavish on our work, we know—unless we are journaling or doing other writing just for ourselves—a piece of writing is not complete until it is received by a reader. Communication is an important part of what we do, and we not only want to speak; we want to be heard.

This is why rejection from a publisher or a journal can feel so devastating. We are trying to send out our message but it isn’t being received.

We might fantasize that there is a large pool of voracious but undifferentiated readers just waiting to gobble up our latest poem or story or essay. The truth is somewhat different; most authors these days have to do the hard work of identifying their potential readers, figuring out how to reach them, engage their attention, and satisfy them enough that they will want to read your next work too.

Of course you have friends and family and colleagues, and ideally they are a core part of your readership. At their best, they cheer you on, read your work, give you constructive feedback, buy your books and tell others to do the same. They might even throw you a party and invite their friends to introduce you to new readers. To make this happen, you need to train them by talking about your work (what you’re excited about, not just your neurotic doubts), telling them what you need and letting them know how they can help.

But even if every single person you know is perfect in their support of you, you probably don’t know enough people. Publishers want not dozens or even a few hundred people to buy and read your work, they wants many thousands of people to do so. So you need to start building additional support among—gasp!—strangers. It’s part of the process many writers, who by nature may be introverted, don’t relish. But even for the shyest person, there are techniques that can help. Let’s take these one at a time.

Identify: Frequently when I ask a newer writer who they imagine their readership to be, they will tell me “Everyone.” Then I get to explain to them that there is no “everyone” anymore, that capitalism has segmented us into niche markets and interest sectors, and that you would need an impossibly large budget to reach “everyone.” Even Ford or Apple, who have bigger marketing budgets than you or I will ever have, don’t try to reach “everyone.”

We are always making decisions in our writing that are either based in an idea (conscious or unconscious) of who we want to reach or that determine who we are going to reach. As my mother said to me (and I choose to believe she was trying to be helpful), “If you want heterosexuals to read your work, honey, then you need to start writing about heterosexuals.” The decision to write in English gears your work to people literate in that language. The kind of diction you choose—writing in a particular vernacular, or using really elevated language—creates parameters of audience.

We might be primarily speaking to women, or a specific cultural community, or intellectuals, or young people. Even among these broad categories, there may be further specifying: African-American women aged 18-25 who attend college, for example.

Having a solid sense of who you want to speak to may help you in the crafting of your work—if you are primarily intending to communicate with a bilingual audience, for example, you can use Spanish freely and not worry about translating, something you might need to do if you imagine your audience as primarily English-speaking.

Reach: Knowing whom you want to reach will save you a lot of time in your efforts to connect with and grow your audience. Ways to get on your selected readers’ radar include: publishing in literary journals (both print and online), give public readings of your work, use social media to increase the visibility of your work, and use real world networks of groups and organizations connected to your topics. No matter which strategy you pursue you want to choose the appropriate venues to reach your intended audience. When Sage Bennet published her book Wisdom Walk, she used the network of New Thought churches throughout the U.S. to set up speaking engagements and workshops. Kim Dower set up readings all across the country to promote her poetry book Slice of Moon, and arranged to be interviewed on broadcast media about caring for someone with dementia, one of the themes in her book. Cara Chow conducted a blog tour to promote her novel, Bitter Melon, penning content for other writing blogs to reach new audience. Yvonne Estrada’s chapbook, My Name on Top of Yours, also included photographs, and she arranged for an exhibition of those photographs in a gallery which serves the community about which she is writing; she even arranged to participate in a reading at the gallery. The exhibition helped spur sales of her chapbook.

Engage: But you don’t want to wait until you have a book to start thinking about reaching and engaging your audience. You want to start right now. Anytime you meet someone, let them know what you’re writing. Again, talk about it in a positive way, not about how you are suffering over it. What’s interesting to you about it? What are you learning from it? If you are enthusiastic, that will spark their enthusiasm. Chances are, when you see them again, they’ll ask you about your progress, and you’ll tell them. They become invested in what you are doing and are potential readers when the work is finished.

Find opportunities to read your work in public, and get good at doing that. Many independent bookstores and coffeehouses host open readings, at which anyone can get up a read for 5 minutes. Sometimes you have to show up early to sign up for a limited number of slots. Make sure your work is strong, and practice with a friend to make sure your reading of your work is powerful. If you live in a community that doesn’t have a bookstore or coffeehouse, you can have a house party and ask your friends to invite their friends; your reading will be part of the entertainment. Or, if your work is appropriate, you could volunteer to read at a senior center, the local chamber of commerce, or in a bar (you can open for the band.)

When you do read in front of people, definitely stay for and meet the other readers, and take the time to hang out with the audience. If appropriate, collect contact info from people who seem to respond to the work. Start building a list of emails or mailing addresses. One thing I do is send out an annual holiday poem, designed in a postcard format, to my list. People like receiving work from me and it signals that I am engaged with them as well.

You can also engage through social media—Facebook or Twitter or Instagram. This method can be easier for the introverted than those face-to-face encounters. Build your list by connecting with friends of friends. Some writers build their networks by writing a blog and inviting comments so that you begin a dialogue. Retain info for everyone you make contact with, and find ways to communicate on a regular basis. It’s important that you post content that is of value to those that follow you, and not only self-promoting messages. Engagement is about building relationships, and that is of course a two-way street.

Satisfaction: We’d like our readers to find satisfaction in what we produce; we can control some factors but not all. We can write with as much skill as we can muster; we can work to deliver clarity and interesting characters and significance in the themes of our work. We can consider the reader’s experience as we write, and make sure they’re given what they need to understand and enjoy the journey. We can intelligently select the appropriate audience for the work, and we can communicate accurately about it up front, so that readers have a good idea what to expect.

Still, we have to accept that not everybody is going to love everything we produce. Even then, we hope we have given them enough that they will be willing to continue to check us out next time.

In the writing workshop, talking about getting your work to its readership is an important part of the process. Brainstorming with other writers about techniques that work for them, venues for reading, which publications are looking for work, and how people are using social media can provide vital support on your journey to cultivating readers. Although writing can appear to be solitary, it is ultimately about communicating with others, and the experience of your writing being received by readers will bring new richness to your writing life.

 

Text by Terry Wolverton
Photo by Yvonne M. Estrada

Thinking about joining a writing workshop? Writers At Work offers weekly, ongoing opportunities for writers of fiction, poetry and creative nonfiction, as well as creative counseling and manuscript review. Learn more at http://writersatwork.com/education.html. In 2017, we’re celebrating our 20th anniversary of inspiring, encouraging and empowering writers.

Lessons from the Writing Workshop #14: Ego

We want our writing to reflect our brilliance, our depth, our wisdom, our poetic souls, the very best of who we are. Sometimes we achieve that. Usually after a lot of hard work and self-doubt and not knowing and feelings of failure. And that process is tough on the ego.

The ego is the part of the psyche that is most connected to external reality. It allows us to regard ourselves through the eyes of others. But too much external focus can take us far away from the source of our creativity—our intuition, our inner guidance.

This can be tricky in a writing workshop. I was reminded of this truth recently when a student said he was often surprised by the feedback he received, and wished he could learn to better anticipate it. He said, “Sometimes it makes me doubt my own instincts.” This concerned me. Although I believe that respectful, constructive feedback is vital for writers, I never want it to undermine a writer’s inner guidance. At its best, the feedback process can invite new possibilities, open up new ways of exploring the work. I suggested to him that feedback is only information, other perspectives; it can never supplant one’s own instincts and intentions for the work.

But the ego wants to feel gratified, wants to feel we have done well, wants others to acknowledge we have done well. The ego wants to feel it has accomplished something, that the task is complete. Feedback may reflect things in the writing that are already satisfying, but it is also likely to suggest we still have more work to do.

The ego is not in love with process. And so much of writing is process. Another student reported that she was growing discouraged with her work, because she just couldn’t find a way to make it come together. She was thinking of abandoning her project, which concerned me, because I really believe in her book. She did give me this opening, “There are parts of it that I like…” I suggested to her that she spend additional time working on those parts, expanding them, writing more in that arena. She returned the following week to say she’d gone back to that section of her project and had made progress. Her ego had needed a boost; she needed to experience some satisfaction with her effort in order to continue. We all do.

Writing is hard. It is ego-bruising. It is stumbling around, taking lots of wrong turns, not knowing where we are going, finding our skills lacking, confronting our imperfect wisdom, falling short of our desires. All this is not because we are bad writers. It’s because all this is required to make something out of nothing.

The truth is that literary writers are not just wordsmiths or documentarians. We are inventors. Whether our initial inspiration is a real event or a product of pure imagination, it is our job to build a world with words through which our readers can journey and in which they will find meaning. Inventors in science or technology know that failure is part of the learning process; when one solution doesn’t work, you try another and each brings your closer to the result you’re seeking. But words seem so personal; our egos have an especially hard time when words don’t do what we intend them to do.

The ego is an important companion as we go through our lives. It helps us to be aware of ourselves with others, it gives us the drive to achieve and to accomplish. It’s not that we want to vanquish the ego, and it’s useful to understand that the ego needs rewards.

On the other hand, we can’t become exclusively identified with the ego, because its consciousness does not include our spiritual growth, our inner journey. If the ego is in control, we’ll do easy things for short-term gain and never tackle the hard work of a demanding project that challenges our deficiencies and forces us to grow in order to fulfill its promise.

As writers we need to find ways to experience enough reward to keep the ego from balking, and at the same time become more comfortable with the humbling experience of working toward the virtuosity we seek. Keeping this balance is a vital part of our writing practice, and a vital part of a writing workshop.

Text by Terry Wolverton
Photo by Yvonne M. Estrada
Thinking about joining a writing workshop? Writers At Work offers weekly, ongoing opportunities for writers of fiction, poetry and creative nonfiction, as well as creative counseling and manuscript review. Learn more at http://writersatwork.com/education.html. In 2017, we’re celebrating our 20th anniversary of inspiring, encouraging and empowering writers.

Lessons from the Writing Workshop #13 —Layers of Meaning

Poet Kim Dower (a former participant in Poets At Work and now the Poet Laureate of West Hollywood) came back from a week-long workshop with poet Robert Wrigley and couldn’t wait to tell the group about it. Slightly giddy with inspiration, she quoted him saying, “Every poem is about a thing and another thing. It’s the other thing that takes the poem into all the complexities — emotional, moral, etc.”

Poems work on more than one level. The apparent subject of a poem is only one layer of what the poem is really talking about. Ann Pibel, a member of Poets At Work, wrote a poem that begins to describe a garden setting, a house with its windows open to the outside. When suddenly she describes the blossoming orange trees as “lonely brides” we start to understand that the poem is also talking about the domestic relationships of those who occupy this house. This metaphor signals a deeper layer of meaning that underlies the description. That’s the other thing in her poem.

Some poets juxtapose more than one event to layer meaning. In his poem “At Risk,” from his book, City of God, the late Gil Cuadros describes the waiting room of a doctor’s office; the speaker is there to receive his AIDS diagnosis. Also waiting are a mother and young son, the mother brutal in her efforts to get the boy to behave. This puts the speaker in mind of his own mother’s brutal discipline, adding yet a third layer to the poem. These layers fuse and deliver a power to the conclusion {“I didn’t dare ask how long I’ve got, / palm over my mouth, / I say mother / softer than I ever did before.”) that could not have been achieved by any one of the layers alone.

If you’re reading along thinking, “I don’t write poems, I’ll just skip this post,” hold on. Wrigley’s wisdom applies to all literary writing. In the language of the prose writer, he is talking about the difference between plot and theme.

My first published novel, Bailey’s Beads, is about a woman, Bryn Redding, in a coma after a car accident. The central question is Will she awaken? On the surface, that sounds like the plot of a Lifetime movie, but I wove in a conflict between Bryn’s mother and lover over who gets to define Bryn while she is unable to represent herself. I also added Bryn’s writing, which reveals yet another aspect of her. Through the use of subplots, the reader is asked to contemplate whether any of us knows the people we claim to love, or if we just invent them for our own purposes. The plot is necessary to keep the reader moving through the story, but the theme is what rewards them for making the journey.

Setting is another powerful tool writers use to invoke theme. In her story, “Bobby Kennedy Comes to Town,” longtime workshop participant Pat Alderete explores the sexual mores of a group of young women in the late 1960s; you might have sex with your boyfriend in a moment of passion if you really love him, but if you take birth control you’re seen as a whore. Alderete sets this story at the moment of Bobby Kennedy’s visit to East Los Angeles, a moment of hope and pride for the community that ends the next night in Kennedy’s assassination. At this place and time, so much in the United States was about to change, and the girls’ dilemma takes on an even greater significance.

Essays also offer powerful opportunities to develop theme. The reflective nature of the form provides occasion to contemplate the meaning of events. Nina Rota, a former workshop member who works with me privately, is writing an ambitious book of linked essays. A recent essay, “The Wedding at Cana,” makes frequent use of allusions (referencing work by other artists) to create universality to the narrator’s search for some connection to the father who never acknowledged his paternity. Among other things, she invokes the train ride across the sea from Miyazaki’s Spirited Away to describe the displacement felt by the speaker lacking this root to family, and The Wedding at Cana, a painting by Paolo Veronese stolen from Italy by Napoleon and returned to Venice as a reproduction, to talk about how we may feel connected to someone through their art, even a facsimile of their art.

Since hearing Wrigley’s quote, I often find myself asking students and myself, “Okay, but what’s the other thing?” It’s a great reminder to build those deeper layers of meaning into our work.

Text by Terry Wolverton
Photo by Yvonne M. Estrada
Thinking about joining a writing workshop? Writers At Work offers weekly, ongoing opportunities for writers of fiction, poetry and creative nonfiction, as well as creative counseling and manuscript review. Learn more at http://writersatwork.com/education.html. In 2017, we’re celebrating our 20th anniversary of inspiring, encouraging and empowering writers.

 

Lessons from the Writing Workshop #12 — Representing Time

Time is such an important element in writing, and maybe we don’t talk about it enough. There is the time period in which a story or poem is set, the span of time that occurs within the work, how we move through time in the piece, and the reader’s experience of time while reading. All are elements a writer is crafting in their work.

Time as setting
Events take place not only in a particular location, but also in a particular time period.  A love story will have different elements set in the 1940s, the 1960s, or the 1980s.  A story about AIDS will be strikingly different if set in 1981, 1988, 1998 or 2017. It is part of the author’s work to evoke that era through a faithful rendition of its language, its concerns, its mores, its historical events, and its cultural representations. This may require research, which can involve reading books or periodicals from the time period, reading books about the time period, talking to people who lived in that time, consulting online almanacs for the particular year, and/or viewing photographs or films from the time period. Such research can help you immerse yourself in the time period.

Span of time
What period of time the work will cover—is it an hour, a day, a week, ten years, or three generations?

There is always a “present” (although this does not necessarily determine the choice of verb tense), a time in which the protagonist is either undergoing or realizing the effects of his/her arc of change. Change can’t happen in the past, and so the plot advances in the present.

There may also be a “past” (or more rarely, an implied future), revealed through back story or scenic flashbacks. It’s important to keep in mind, the past is always there to be in service to the present, to help us understand why the character is making the choices they are. Sometimes writers will use the present merely to create a frame for a story set in the past, but unless something is happening in that present time, you’re better off to let it go, and let the historical story become the “present.’

Some novels with a broad span of time treat this passage as a continual, unfolding “present,” as with Little Women by Louisa May Alcott.

Ordering of time
When we speak of the structure of a story, we often mean how one arranges time in the work. One may tell a story in chronological order, but this is not the only choice. There are as many structures as there are stories. Charles Baxter’s novel, First Light, for example, is told in reverse chronological order, beginning with the end and working backward toward the beginning.

A story with flashbacks obviously inter-cuts different time periods. It’s critical that flashbacks be triggered by events in the present, and that the reader be returned to the present, which is the place where the plot advances.

A work may contain parallel time periods, such as Michael Cunningham’s The Hours. Or a work may contain multiple points of view about a single time period, so that a moment may be replayed in the work from different vantage points, as with Rashomon by Ryunosuke Akutagawa.

Duration of time
A writer must choose which moments to elongate as scenes and which to condense into exposition. Moments containing action that is pivotal to the plot of the story, or behavior that is specifically revealing of character and motivation are usually most effectively presented as scenes. It’s important not to let major moments take place “off stage” or simply be referred to in exposition.

The author must also decide about the duration of such scenes (are a few lines of dialogue in a specific setting enough, or does the action need to play out in a semblance of “real time”?).

Moments or spans of time which are more incidental are often best dealt with exposition (keeping in mind though that this too should be made vivid through specific observation and sensory description.)

Movement in time
Is the action continuous from beginning to end or are there breaks in time? Movement in time is typically signaled in the following ways: end of chapter; end of section; paragraph or, in poetry, stanza breaks.

It’s crucial to keep the reader oriented as to where they are in time. This may be done by attaching Date/Time headers to chapters or sections, or by building references to time into the text of the work.  (“Three days later, she…” or “A long month passed before he saw his father again…” or “Seven summers blazed and died again before she returned to the island…”)

Reader’s experience of time
What kind of experience does the author want the reader to have? Long, slow, meditative, reflective? Jagged, disturbing, disrupted? Edgy, heart-racing, page-turning, can’t-put-it-down?  Among other elements, the manipulation of time will contribute to this reading mood.

How does the reader perceive his/her experience of reading? If the experience is too slow, they may become frustrated and not finish the work, but if it’s too fast they may feel unsatisfied, as if they’d gleaned no substance. The author can’t avoid such factors as people’s shortened attention span and faster pace of life.

Pacing
Scenes with action and dialogue tend to move more quickly than paragraphs of description or exposition, due to the reader’s involvement in the action.

Pacing is affected by the density of text — ratio of action/dialogue (through which a reader tends to move more quickly) to description/exposition (through which a reader may move more slowly).

Another element is diction. Elevated language, unusual syntax, or an unfamiliar dialect will all contribute to slowing the reader’s experience of reading. Simpler language, conventional grammar, easily understandable slang will all move the reader through more quickly. I’m not saying faster is better, just that you are determining your reader’s experience of the text.

Then we can consider the following: Sentence length — usually one wants variety with this, but longer or shorter may predominate; Paragraph length — a reader moves more slowly through long paragraphs than through short ones; and Chapter length — how much span of time is contained in each section—a moment, a day, three weeks, a year?  And, are the chapters divided into sections that signal shifts of scene and/or breaks in time?

The element of time may not be the first thing you think about when beginning a first draft. Often the initial rhythms of a piece—languid or breakneck—appear intuitively. However, this craft element is an important part of your toolkit when you begin revising and refining your work.

Lessons from the Writing Workshop #11 — Characters

Whether you are writing fiction or memoir, stories have people in them (even in Disney’s WALL-E, the machines have full personalities; in Watership Down, author Richard Adams invest his rabbits with human-like qualities and behaviors). Characters give the reader someone to identify with and someone to root for.

The skilled writer renders characters that are specific; they seem real. Characters that feel generic or merely formed around an idea (the ditzy blonde, the strong silent type) don’t satisfy readers. Readers look for complexity, contradiction, the quirks that endear or annoy. Whether the characters are like people they know or are incredibly different from themselves, readers are looking to bond.

Writers investigate the lives of their main characters—what they were like as children, what their favorite food is, what scares them, what they keep in their bathroom cabinet, what are their secrets. The writer will know much more information than they share with the reader, but such knowledge helps the writer understand what this character will do in a given situation.

Ideally, the writer is not imposing a personality or set of traits upon the character. I tend to believe characters already exist fully formed somewhere in my imagination; I see it as my job not to decide who the character is, but to listen to them as they tell me who they are. Like anyone, a character wants to be known, to be represented accurately. It’s worth it for the writer to invest time and attention into getting to know them. Listening also helps to bring forward a character’s voice—their unique speech patterns and conversational tics, as well as the content of their expression.

Like anyone, a character is most revealed by what they do. Some beginning writers just have their characters sit around and think about things, or have an omniscient narrator describe who the character is. It’s not that interesting when the writer analyzes a character or tells the reader what the character is like, but it’s fascinating when a character takes action that shows the reader who they are. In a recent workshop, a writer introduced an otherwise-classy-appearing woman who proceeds to key the Mercedes of a driver who’d cheated her out of a parking space; the action conveyed more about the character than any description could.

I mentioned this in an earlier post but it bears repeating—we don’t want to read about a character who never does anything wrong and or a character who never does anything right. Even our heroes are more likeable when they have some flaws, and even the most reprehensible villains have positive qualities that humanize them. People are complicated, and your characters seem more realistic when they are too.

In addition to making characters real, we also want to understand their dramatic function in the story. Are they the protagonist (the character the reader will root for, the character who will undergo the most change in the story)? Are they the antagonist (the character who will try to stop the protagonist from achieving their quest)? They might be a support character (best friend, buddy or sidekick) or a contrast character (someone unlike the protagonist, so the reader can compare them) or the love interest. You might occasionally have characters whose function is to provide weight and mass (a group of bullies waiting after school for the young protagonist; a crowd of neighbors who shun the new arrival to the neighborhood), although these characters may remain undifferentiated.

Sometimes a writer will include too many characters in the story. Sometimes they will write characters who have no dramatic function; they’re just there in the story. I see this frequently in memoirs, where every member of a family is chronicled, even if most of them do not have a role in this particular story. Sometimes a writer will include characters with duplicate dramatic functions (two best friends, for example, where one would suffice.)

Characters need names, unless they are insignificant and/or part of a crowd. They also need physicality. No one wants a list of generic descriptors: “brown eyes, caramel skin, curly dark hair, about 5’4”, 140 pounds, usually wears jeans and tee shirts and running shoes.” Such details don’t help us to know the character. Better to use the opportunity of physically describing them to also show us something about who they are (“Jenna’s olive-green eyes were near-sighted, but she was too vain to wear glasses, so she often appeared to be squinting, as if trying to figure out whether to believe you or not.”)

Characters have histories; they come from locations, from families, from cultures and religions and economic circumstances that have shaped their personalities. Of course you don’t want to stop the story to give a big chunk of description or backstory; it’s far better to interweave such details into the action of the story (“It was only as he stood up to leave that she noticed a slight limp when he walked. She remembered the story he’d told about the war that had devoured his childhood in El Salvador. For a moment she wanted to hold him there.”)

We also want to see how a character changes over the course of a story. The protagonist is likely to have the biggest character arc; the significance of the events of the story is often revealed in the change the protagonist undergoes. But any character we follow throughout the story can have an arc, even if it’s not as dramatic as that of your main character. Depending on the plot of the story, the change may be internal (a change of mind or a shift of perspective) or external (a choice made, an action taken) and the consequences may be modest (the character will have a happier life in the future) or immense (the hero saves the world from blowing up.)

It is frequently the characters that stay with us once we have finished a story or novel. They have become real to us; we’ve suffered with them, cheered them on, and often find ourselves transformed along with them. We may re-read the work over and over in order to spend more time in their presence. Because the writer has been skillful, we’ve come to know these characters, and we miss them like we miss an old friend.

Text by Terry Wolverton
Photo by Yvonne M. Estrada

Thinking about joining a writing workshop? Writers At Work offers weekly, ongoing opportunities for writers of fiction, poetry and creative nonfiction, as well as creative counseling and manuscript review. Learn more at http://writersatwork.com/education.html. In 2017, we’re celebrating our 20th anniversary of inspiring, encouraging and empowering writers.

Lessons from the Writing Workshop #9: Critique

We’ve all been in those workshops. You present a piece of writing and everybody jumps in to tell you what to do to fix it. Some of the suggestions seem like they might be useful, but some are contradictory (one person says, “My favorite part was the first paragraph,” while another insists, “I think you could lose that first paragraph.”) Someone urges you to radically re-direct the work, make it something else entirely than what you had imagined, something more like what they would enjoy reading.

The expectation is that you will go home and revise according to what everyone has said and bring back a product that has been improved by the group’s input. Instead you get home and feel a little discouraged. You’re not sure how to recapture the energy you felt about the work. Maybe you set about to try to incorporate the feedback, but the piece starts to feel like a Frankenstein monster. Or maybe you decide to just put it away for a while until you can get back in touch with your own vision for the work.

For many years, I followed this kind of format as a workshop leader, because it was what I had often experienced as a writing student. But I saw too many writers revising work according to feedback they received and sometimes losing touch with their own vision. I saw workshop participants merely reinforcing their own tastes in their feedback, rather than learning to appreciate strengths in work very different from what they would choose to read. I also sometimes saw writers become risk-averse, writing (or at least bringing in) works they knew would go over well in the workshop, instead of taking big chances and trying stuff out even though it might not succeed. To me, creating a climate in which writers feel safe to take big risks is perhaps the most important value a workshop can offer, so it was distressing to see the process yielding the opposite result.

I began to re-think the purpose of a writing workshop and to consider what writers actually need in terms of feedback. The writer’s dilemma is that, because we are so immersed in the material we are writing, it’s hard to step back and see the results separate from our intentions. One thing important workshop readers can provide is a sense of what they are receiving from the work. Not whether they like it or not, not how they would have created it, but what are they getting out of it? This allows the writer to assess how close they’ve come to fulfilling their intentions.

I also believe it is essential for the writer to retain agency over the work. A piece of writing has its own integrity when it is first imagined—content, form, style. I see my job as instructor to be assisting the writer to best fulfill their intentions for the work. Sometimes they need skill-building, sometimes they need permission to risk more, sometimes they need to overcome internal obstacles (fear, self-doubt). Sometimes it’s useful to them to brainstorm ideas. I can provide those things. But it is not my job as instructor, nor the job of other participants, to “fix” the writing of another writer. I have seen it become proprietary (“why didn’t you take my suggestion; it was really good”), and that can actually be harmful to the writer.

So in the majority of the workshops I instruct these days, we use this process:
• The writer reads the work aloud; participants have copies and follow along;
• The group members take a bit of time to re-read on their own and formulate their thoughts;
• Participants first talk about the meanings they found in the work. That might be an overall meaning or a partial meaning. [Here’s an example: “The meaning I found in your story is that the mother is looking to the daughter to rescue her, and it puts a burden on the daughter who thinks she has to be Super-Woman.”)
• Next, the group talked about what they noticed in the work. Notices are not evaluative; they’re observational. [“I notice that a really big event has already happened to the protagonist when we first meet her.” “I notice several words that I didn’t know the meaning of.” “I notice the humor in the piece.”]
• Then the group is encouraged to pose questions to the writer. These might be questions about form or content or what-if questions. [“What if the piece were told chronologically?” “Why does the protagonist lie about where she comes from?” “What are the rules of this alternative reality you’ve created?”]

You’ll notice there is no moment for participants to say what they liked or didn’t like, to say what’s working or not working. These subjective assessments are just not that useful to writers, nor do the other participants learn much from it. If a reader has found something pleasing, they will learn more from identifying what the writer has done to create that pleasure [“I notice the imagery; I really get to experience the scene you’re writing.”] Similarly, if something is disrupting that pleasure, participants learn from being able to zero in on what that is.

You’ll also notice we don’t give advice. The questions are as close as we come. It’s very different to be asked, “What if you started out right in the middle of the action” than to be told, “Cut out that whole first page and start on page 2.” In the first example, the writer gets to consider, “What if?” I might decide that I could let go of most of the first page, but the detail about the protagonist’s secret is really important to understanding the action, and maybe I need to emphasize that more. I retain the vision and the decision-making power over my work.

Following this conversation, the writer is asked to talk about what they discovered in the process of writing the piece (I find that if the writer hasn’t discovered anything, if the writer is only writing what they already know, then the reader doesn’t discover much either). Finally, the writer may ask any questions they have of the group. Sometimes a writer will want to clarify something a reader has said, or the writer may be wondering about an issue nobody brought up in the discussion. They might ask the group to brainstorm solutions to a problem they’re having. A writer could, at this point, ask “What works and what doesn’t,” but for the most part, they don’t.

I’ve found that a lot of the “advice” or proposed solutions that are given in a workshop are not right. It may be right for the person who gave the advice, but it’s often not right for the work of this particular writer and their vision for the work. Most advice is more about the person who is giving it than an appropriate solution to the writer’s perceived problem with the work.

So if you’re a writer, should you even be in a workshop?

YES, but not to find a committee who will “fix” your writing. Writer can be a lonely activity and writers benefit from the supportive community a workshop can provide, a place to share your process and a group to cheer you on. Writers, as mentioned before, benefit from being able to perceive their work outside their own minds; the reflections of other group members help you to see what you have actually created, rather than what you meant to create. The process of receiving questions helps the writer to re-see their work, understand better the choices they made, and engage with expanded possibilities.

Here are a few guidelines that help you to benefit most from workshop critique:

• Make clear to the readers what stage the work is in (there’s no reason to focus on line edits if the work is in an early, conceptual stage, for example. Or if this is an almost final draft and you’re ready to send it out, it won’t be helpful if someone asks you to go back to the beginning and start over in a new direction.)
• Don’t take it personally. I know, this is can be hard. Our writing is important to us and we want it to be brilliant. It’s not fun to find out that the work is not yet brilliant. But that’s the beauty of writing; it can always be revised.
• Write down every comment you receive, even if it seems dumb in the moment. You can’t know what might seem useful later.
• If you get some feedback you don’t understand, ask the person to clarify.
• Give yourself a minimum of 24 hours to absorb the feedback you’ve received before taking any action about it. If you still feel emotional about the feedback, give yourself longer.
• When you are ready to think about the feedback, consider everything with an open mind. Often the proposed solution isn’t right, but it can still point you in the direction of something in the writing you could pay more attention to.
• Keep in mind your own vision for the work and your intentions. Don’t let the group become the authority on your piece. Take what is useful to you and let the rest go.
• If there’s an idea that intrigues you, let yourself explore it and see where it goes. It doesn’t mean it will necessarily end up in your final draft, but often there is further discovery to be gained in pursuing new directions.

In the best workshops, you will learn as much from reading the work of others and giving feedback as you do from receiving critique on your own work. And the reflections you do receive should help spur you to dig deeper, to be more clear, to take more risks, and to find more satisfaction in the work.

Text by Terry Wolverton
Photo by Yvonne M. Estrada

Thinking about joining a writing workshop? Writers At Work offers weekly, ongoing opportunities for writers of fiction, poetry and creative nonfiction, as well as creative counseling and manuscript review. Learn more at http://writersatwork.com/education.html. In 2017, we’re celebrating our 20th anniversary of inspiring, encouraging and empowering writers.