Writer's Workshops

I stumbled on this post by Doug Murano, in which he eloquently states his thoughts on writer's workshops and what they do and don' t for writers in general -- probably better than I can.

I've been writing since adolescence (like most writers, it seems) but I was lucky enough to discover early on, around 14/15, what workshops could or could not do for me. I attended a college class, a summer camp that allowed students to work with a professional editor. I was already sending out my first stories to magazines in those years before the internet became inescapable during '93/'94.

What I learned was that I had nothing to learn from these people. My best encounters were with rejection letters that had useful commentary on why my stories failed. This trend would continue, from college professors to professional writers, and I've become a misanthropic cuss the more disillusioned I am by the failure of anyone to demand more of themselves professionally, and worse yet, their failure to demand more of me.

As Murano notes, there are good things to be had from writer's workshops: positive reinforcement being a major one. And perhaps I have been unlucky in my experiences that I have not encountered a setting in which I felt I flourished instead of languished, that my talent did not gutter and extinguish instead of blazing forth; no workshop yet has been able to do this for me. Thus, my skepticism runs high -- how does one justify charging money and profiting off would-be hopefuls who receive, in return for their attendance and money, what is little more than an ego stroke? Again, my experience may not be typical.

But I for one, edit and work with several peers; I pass on what I have learned as a copy-editor for a weekly paper, and what I have learned by bitter experience in matters of life and how it might transfer to the written page. I give them a new viewpoint to bounce their thoughts and insights off of, and I gently push them in the direction that can best suit their work, while retaining their artistic integrity.

My payment for this? Passion. Passion for what I do, and the privilege of working with passionate people who enjoy telling a story.

I am in poverty. And were I in a gutter -- again -- I still would not charge to teach what I consider something akin to a divine gift; how dare I divide and manufacture this inner fire, and claim a monopoly on it? It offends my sense of character. Anyone can learn the mechanics of this writing skill, its seams and bolts and how it connects and comes apart, and no one needs a workshop to do it. It is ever there for you to discover. I would sooner buy and sell shafts of sunlight.