Strongly Worded

Talking (Work)Shop

I just enrolled in a writing class. I have taken a few workshops before, most recently a week-long course at the Fine Arts Work Center in Provincetown. I wanted to do travel writing but "Memoirs of Crisis" was the only class with available slots, so I spent a week in wacky and wild beach-side Provincetown, workshopping pieces about bulimia, AIDS, homelessness, and racism. It was intense.

I'm sure many of you are familiar with writers' workshops. Generally they comprise a mix of talented women, mainly on the friendly and down-to-earth side, many with edgy glasses. Thrown in are a few out-of-the-mainstream types who wear flowy outfits (made of hemp or other natural fabrics) and have names like Thunder. There is usually at least one person who is very thin and very serious and has an MFA. And usually there is a lone guy, one who is jokey and nice, and who gets undue attention and achieves mascot status because he possesses a Y chromosome.

Another characteristic of writer's workshops is that people tend to Put Things Out There, and often write about exceptionally private things in great detail. It is excruciating to workshop their pieces, to listen to them read about their wrenching experiences, and then to say: "That scene with the three acts of sod*my? I found the sentence structure a little off-putting; I noticed some inconsistent use of tense."

I liked the people in last night's class - for the most part, it seems like a good (and super talented) group. However, four very talkative, very macho guys have enrolled. And many of the participants have MFAs and published works, so I felt intimated. And we kicked off with some oversharing. The instructor asked us to write about the best or worst five minutes of our lives. One person wrote about hitting addict's rock bottom. Another person wrote about the birth of a child conceived after years of infertility. A third shared a detailed sex scene followed by a depiction of heartbreak. And we wrapped up with a story of someone's (unsuccessful) resuscitation of a dying relative.

No way in hell was I sharing my piece about a happy five minutes: riding cross-country at horse camp.

Posted by Dori at 9:17 PM