The Writer's Workshop
A definition of terms and the dangerous prospect of reading aloud
“I write in a solitude born out of community.
~ Terry Tempest Williams
The day came, sooner than I expected actually, when Tom fished me out of the scummy pond and gave me a place at his Dangerous Writer’s table. I believe Spencer was about six months old.
A combo Behind the Scenes and Exclusive Writing Lab on the agony/joy of reading aloud, workshopping defined and how to best apply feedback.
That’s how I was looking at the world back then. Regular time had vanished and I was on Spencer-time. ⏰
Though being a mother was intense and the sleep deprivation stunning, my little guy buoyed my spirits and kept me afloat with purpose. He was so funny, loving, and adorable. And with his pressing needs, my job was to be there for him 24/7. That was good. That was right. My boy was, in a way then, my spiritual teacher and my compassionate practice.
On Saturdays though (or maybe it was Sunday?) Spencer stayed with his father for five hours, and I went to the Dangerous Writer’s class.
Until the day I was called to read, I had been sitting in the back of Tom’s dining room with a notepad on my knees and a pen in hand, scribbling down everything he had to say while understanding none of it.
“Go deeper,” he had told one writer.
“Where’s the verticality?” he asked another.
“Get closer here, and here, and here,” he said to yet another while hunched over the student’s pages and making slashes through paragraphs.
Tom was a big man but not a loud man. He wasn’t the abrasive or overbearing type. In fact, he often spoke in such a soft voice that I had to shift to the edge of my chair to better hear. But he was passionate. He had deep emotions that bordered on melancholy and even tipped toward a funk that many an artist feels when they believe they are misunderstood. Tom was an artist in the truest sense. He spoke with conviction. And he insisted on diving into taboo aspects of the human experience: Politics. Religion. And sex. (Thus the religious icons and phalluses littering his table).
On the day I stepped up to his table with my own writing, I was nearly apoplectic though I played it nice and cool, strolling in with a messenger bag slung over my shoulder and inside, a Kinko’s paper bag stuffed with a dozen or so copies of my submission.
A maximum of eight pages were allowed. (I might be wrong on this. Don’t quote me.) Double spaced. Twelve point font. New Times Roman. Name on top. Page numbers too. And enough copies to pass around the room. Plus a copy for me and one for Tom.
I took a chair at the far end of the big table. A few of the seasoned, and insanely talented, writers gave me sidelong looks with brows lifted. I hadn’t been in the pond for very long, or “long enough” many would tell me later. Some writers languished there for months, apparently. There was a hierarchy in this creative writing circle, and it was one that rippled out to the larger literary community of Portland which was home to upper-deck icons like Katherine Dunn, critic, reviewer, and author of Geek Love and Ursula LeQuin, the grande dame of speculative and science fiction. Portland was a serious hub for serious writers (with serious egos) and there came an expectation that a new writer would “serve her time” before advancement…which included sitting at a workshop table. A rise to higher levels like publication and fame…that was simply unacceptable, as you will discover in future posts.
📝 Eight pages of writing is about two thousand words. That’s nothing when you think about it.
A final book is about 85,000 to 100,000 words. I believe Blackbird came in at 120,000. But you would have thought I was bringing in a copy of my soul that day for the terror I felt as I waited for my turn. 😵💫
Several other writers read before me and with each one, an oceanic roar filled my head and grew louder. By the time Tom finally called my name, I couldn’t hear at all but did see a motioning of his hand in my direction and a steady gaze over the top of his glasses that remained on me longer than usual. And then, horribly, an expression of slight confusion.
I jerked into action, pulled out the sleeve of copies from my bag and distributed my pages to the others.
People…strangers…were skimming the lines, turning one page, then another. Tom had his copy and did the same. Then he picked up his pen and nodded for me to begin reading.
(Go directly to the next post on the Blackbird journey now).
Writer’s Workshop Defined:
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