What it meant to me
It was the middle of the week and our
afternoon session had finished. I was sitting in my chair talking to everyone
around me, beckoning them closer to have a word with one person or another. As
the time ticked away people slowly trickled out of the room until there were
only a few of us left. Andrea, who had been seated near me during the week, was
collecting her belongings, she looked at me with concern, and asked if
everything was all right. I remember saying something vaguely positive,
gathering my book bag, standing up, and leaving the room. I may have said
good-bye to a few people as I exited, I like to be friendly when possible. I
gave no weight to the question she asked or my reaction to it.
Ten minutes later when I was halfway home.
I was in my car, speeding down the highway, when it struck me. I suddenly
became aware of the reason I hadn’t stood up. I sat there for fifteen minutes,
calling people to me, talking to anyone who would listen, for one simple
reason. If I stood up, it was over. I didn’t want to be done yet. It’s now a
week later, the sessions are all done, everyone has gone home, and there is
nothing left but a pile of notes.
The workshop was six days of hard,
wonderful work. I learned new things about poetry, fiction, non-fiction, and
publishing. I saw how my work will be affected by the things we talked about
every day. A series of daily discussions about point of view and how it works
in each and every story. How active language focuses a reader on the story and
keeps their attention moving. How the very idea of dragons can make full grown
women squeal like six-year-old girls. I got insight into summer camp, comas, sarsaparilla,
and not-vampires. I watched people’s eyes light up as things clicked into place
about their work and how they could make it better.
I felt my own writing improve as the
week went on, even when we weren’t reviewing my own piece I saw problems in my
own words. I learned new tricks, tips, and skills to help me direct the reader
to the conclusion I wanted to guide them to. I watched as new ideas poured
themselves out of my pencil and into my thick college ruled journal that I have
filled well past half with pages of notes.
I woke up every morning earlier than
I’ve had to in a long time. I did it happily, ready to rush to Antioch where I
could sit in the amphitheater and bask in the words and lessons of the day. There
were four hours of lectures every day and while I may not have been perfectly
riveted by each one I picked up something new from each person that spoke.
At breakfast, lunch, and after
session I got to talk about writing. Sometimes we spoke about mine sometimes
other peoples. It was thrilling. I don’t have people I can readily talk to
about writing outside of my education, I have a few friends that will let me prattle
on occasionally, and a few who will read through a few pages when they have
time. Mostly, I am on my own. People are simply too busy to help, there is too
much to do anymore and yet for one week, I got to talk about writing, and it
was glorious.
We spoke about anything we could
think of: the stories we brought, things we’d read outside of the workshop,
books we liked, and even a day where we talked about Harper Lee and the news
about her new book. We discussed everything from classic fiction to the writing
in the Marvel superhero movies. I was so energized all week long that I
couldn’t wait to see everyone the next day.
On Friday the workshop ended and the
entire group went to dinner together. I suspect that like me they wanted a few
more hours as a whole, being able to talk and laugh for just a little while
longer. Even after we had finished a few of us stood on the sidewalk and around
our cars talking about anything that came to mind. I was one of the last two
people to leave. Clutching the last few moments as tightly as I could for fear
of what would happen when they were gone.
That night I did a little bit of work
on a page from my manuscript, not one I brought with me that week, a different
page where I tried to apply the things I had learned in the six days prior. I
posted it on face book and asked for opinions. I got some, a few words here and
there. People were supportive, helpful, and gave sound advice. It wasn’t the
same.
I’ve written some other things; a few
pieces here and here. Not my manuscript. At the point I’m at now I’ve been
writing for roughly forty-five minutes. I’m not bragging or trying to be snide,
just showing that clearly I want to write. I look off to my left, just slightly
behind my monitor and I see a stack of papers nearly an inch thick, sitting on
top of a green plastic Easter basket. The gathered efforts of everyone who
attend sessions with me. Each page covered in notes giving me their thoughts,
ideas, and insights.
They had some really brilliant observations.
There I things I learned about my writing that I need to work on, and yet, I
cannot bring myself to go through them and make the changes. Once I do, I’m
done, and I’m still not ready.
