On Workshop and Changing Your Writing

It's not that the words are good, necessarily.  It's just that they are there.

For me, it is especially those first pages.  I tend to love them because they are there, because they were written first and because they were the bridge between that scary blank page and the thought of oh, ok, this is do-able.  But I can think of at least three stories that I've brought to workshop that my peers have said, "you know, the story really started on page three, for me" and "I think you could edit this down to a paragraph and not lose anything."

But writing isn't easy and I think this fact can betray you into believing that all the words you get down are valuable.  They must be valuable, because all your nails are bitten down to the quick and it took you three hours to get the words out in the first place.  Not that your workshop peers know this.  They weren't there when your fingers finally started moving, they weren't there to giving you high fives after that third page because suddenly you were on a roll.  And those first few pages just aren't quite so exhilirating for them.  It might be good to listen.

I think a good workshop doesn't let you get away with sentimentalizing writing that's not working just because it's writing that has made it to the page.  In this way, workshop should be about changing your writing.  Or maybe, changing the way you write.  Not just about making it better, or looking at a single story and finding its flaws.  Because workshops end, semesters draw to a close and ultimately everybody just goes home, some nights cradling a stack of feedback and some nights not.  So, the first three pages of this story aren't really necessary and I'll go home and look at everyone's comments again and I'll accept it.  I'll shorten it or cut and usually that'll feel like a good choice.  The bigger lesson, though, is that for me, those stiff warm up pages are often a preamble to the story.  It's happened enough times that it's something the workshop has taught me to be aware of.  And if I'm smart, it's something I'll remember to look at in stories I write after this is over.

A good workshop shouldn't just change a single piece of writing, it should change your writing on the whole.

[Previously On Workshop and... Being Hopeless]

On Workshop and Being Hopeless

So I wrote this story. And tonight I'll be handing it off to my workshop and then they'll all go home and sometime during the next week they are going to sit down with it and mark it up, noting sentences they liked and places where there are inconsistencies. They are going to question my word choice and fix typos I missed and maybe they'll write big question marks in the margins when they are confused or, depending on their workshopping style, leave me little smiley faces on the bottom of pages that really worked or squeeze in questions in tiny cramped handwriting in between my typed lines. And then, hopefully after they've read it at least twice, they'll type me a page or so of critique notes, expanding on that scribble there on page 11 or discussing where I lost them, like in that strange scene towards the end, you know the one, that might be a little different? Also, maybe watch how many sentences you start with "and", ok?

This used to make me quite anxious. But not so much, anymore.

And part of this change, I think, is that I sort of know what they are going to say. The end doesn't quite work, yet. And the first paragraph can kind of stand on it's own, separate from the rest. Also, and though I think they'll be sweet about it, they are going to say, hmmm. I don't know if the plot is working. But, they'll add, the imagery is really pretty good (because we are a supportive bunch, for the most part), and you have a good start.

This isn't to say that I know everything they are going to say. I am, of course, surprised in every workshop at what people notice or miss and the ways that people's reading differs from the person sitting next to them. Sometimes everyone will agree on something about the story (an interpretation of a character's action or dialogue, for example) that I didn't intend. But if you get eight people telling me they thought it meant something other than what I thought it meant, then it is a place in the story I have to go back to. If I'm lucky my workshop mates will be particular readers and tell me that someone can not, in fact, cross their arms and also point at someone accusingly at the same time. Unless they have three arms. Which is something I should mention, at some point, about that particular character. Because my readers were assuming she only had two.

Knowing some of what I'm going to hear in workshop next week isn't bad. In my first semesters of workshop, I went in with the secret hope that everyone would just love my story, tell me it was fabulous and write critiques like, "You are brilliant! A wordsmith! This story is so touching!" and wouldn't have a word to say against me. Everyone wants that. (And as far as I know, only Dave Eggers has been so lucky.) I don't wish that, anymore. If that happened I'd feel cheated (because I know it's not a Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius). I think after having almost two years of workshop, I'm able to acknowledge my natural strengths. I know what I do well and I know what I don't. More than that, giving up the idea that I'm am neither the best nor the worst writer in the room is a great feeling. So now I go into workshop not hoping for anything, secretly or otherwise. I know people are going to tell me the good and the bad and none of it will be things I can't handle.