I always tell my students that in the goal of the workshop is not to fix the story, but to help bring the writer closet to their intentions.... even if the writer hasn't quite figured out what their intentions are, the clues are in story. I usually try to start by having everyone say what they think the story is about. And also, I tell them that in a successful workshop, the writer should walk away feeling excited to work on their story, and should have a pretty good idea of what they need to do next.
One thing that has been helpful is to ask people to limit their criticisms/suggestions to one thing.... although positive feedback can be limitless. (I wouldn't count small line-edit type feedback if it's the stuff that can be easily fixed, e.g. repetition, clarifying details, etc.) But basically, focusing on one issue seems to help students really think about the major thing the writer needs to look at next, and why that thing, and reduces a lot of overwhelm for the writer.
Today is the last workshop of my MA so this couldn’t come at a better time! I often reflect on the workshop experience as it will probably be the last time in my life that I will have the opportunity to throw my work to a group of such varied readers and be gifted close readings on it.
That’s the highlight, for me. I have 10 people in a room, many of whom wouldn’t even pick up my book if they saw it in a store. Everyone has different likes, different pet peeves and come from incredibly varied walks of life. What a gift!
It has been incredibly positive 99% of the time and the other 1% has mostly stemmed from not being understood but that has also forced me to think: ‘why wasn’t what I was trying to do understood?’
There are also personality clashes, near arguments, actual arguments, strange comments made, ignorant comments made, it’s all par for the course and it’s all kind of wonderful. Sitting in a room so full of passion for literature, so passionate to help other people form their ideas.
I’ve made incredible friendships, gotten the most insanely helpful feedback and also been able to see if opinions were a general consensus, as opposed to just one person’s thoughts. It’s also been helpful with working through the devastating waves of imposter syndrome and general self doubt, as all of us have them, all of us live in the dark for a moment and then swing back.
Plus- I got to read an extra 9 books this year, work I never would have picked up to read otherwise. YA, sci fi, personal essays, how wonderful!
I know I will be reminiscent for this time in my life.
The questioner asks this: “How can I be a more generous, helpful, honest, humble reader of other writers’ work-in-progress?” What a great question.
I am repeating myself from earlier posts on this same subject, but one tact I have taken is to tell the writer the things I’ve "noticed" in their piece. This removes the element of judgment. It's simply a recounting of what was noticed. This is similar to George’s color scheme, but I think it goes further than simply pointing out when the energy has gone south, or when I’ve been confused. A person can notice, for instance, that tension is building in the last third of a story, or that there seems to be no tension in the first third. A person can notice that the story seems to be about Jack and then seems to be about Jack’s wife. A person can notice that the ending came and it felt very sudden. A person can notice that they are reading breathlessly, because the plot is so compelling. Or that they lost track of things because their mind started to wander on page two. And on and on. In a workshop situation, if several people all “noticed” the same thing, that gives some very good feedback to the writer. If five out of eight people didn’t understand something, well, then, a writer would probably want to take a second look at that element.
Another strategy is to ask the writer specifically what it is they hope to know. Do they want you to tell them what you think the story is “about”? Do they want to know if the ending works? Do they want to know if or where you lost interest? Do they want to know if the voice is okay—or is it too charming or smarmy or whatever? Do they want a plot analysis? Responding specifically to what a writer wants takes off a lot of the pressure to respond ‘correctly.’ By following this tact, you can read a story you think is poorly written and not have to say, “this is poorly written.” You can just say, “you asked me if I got confused anywhere in the story, and no, I never did. Good job on that!”
In my files, I have these ideas written down for use when commenting on stories:
Say it's your opinion. Use: “I'm not sure but," "you might consider," "have you thought about," "another idea could be," "possibly," "maybe,"... "I felt ..." "It didn't work for me when ..." "I thought it would work better for me if..." "I'm not sure but ..." "Perhaps ..." "It strikes me that ..." "Maybe ..." "I didn't care for ..."
I recall a workshop from many years ago. Two students has been scheduled to present essays on the same day, months prior to their presentations. As it turned out, one student had written a personal essay about her grandparents, who had survived the Holocaust; the other student had written a personal essay about her grandfather, who had been in the SS. These two students--each struggling with inherited facts and truths--were able to speak openly to one another, through their work, and then in a deeper conversation, and to form a supportive relationship for the rest of the semester. The workshop became a unique bridge builder, a deeper way to connect where connection otherwise might not have occurred.
My best workshop experiences were with Buddy (Lewis) Nordan at the University of Pittsburgh--I believe because he always asked participants to begin their comments with the statement, "For me this is a story about ... because .../especially when ..." and possibly "For me, this story may also be about ... I sensed this especially when ...." Asking readers to ground their feedback in a reading of the story made all the difference and was remarkably difficult even though many of us came with plenty of training in talking this way in literature classes.
Is it me or do others working on novels (as opposed to short stories) find workshops sort of meh?
I feel that most drafts of novels need the most work on issues that aren't necessarily apparent from reading 2,500-5,000 words at a time or on a line-level, e.g., rising action/stakes across scenes as the story builds to the end of an act.
Also, oddly, although I read other people's work multiple times before providing feedback, I never do the same with a novel as a reader, so I'm often left feeling there's something artificial and, possibly, misguided in my comments.
For example, right now I'm reading Deacon King Kong by James McBride, and I'm basically along for the ride. If I sat down with any 10-20 page segment, read it multiple times, would I find dozens (and dozens) of lines to comment on? Of course. But I'm not certain any of those comments would improve the story or my enjoyment of it as a reader.
The best workshop experience I ever had was with a group who had always wanted to write but never dared. One was a security guard at a prison , one was a community nurse and one was a senior who told a riveting atory about being in an air raid shelter. The prompt I gave was the smell of oranges. They were all excellent storytellers. Did they become published best selling writers? No but one did air her piece on radio. . Creating space for stories to be heard ... I realize creating space as important as feedback. If that makes sense. The other participants' feedback seemed more useful than mine. As a student ... When I feel defensive I know they've zeroed in on the part I am struggling with so I try to lean in to that. But kindness matters. Best compliment as workshop teacher from a grade six "reluctant" writer was this : Miss, when was rightin in your clas I culd feel the jus in my mind. (: ah!!!!
I love this question! First I’d like to share a recent workshop experience I loved, then a question.
I recently attended a Work In Progress dance show with a feedback element which was handled so beautifully and left me inspired and curious to re-enact. Two artists showed half hour pieces followed by a half hour discussion led by the woman who put on the event. There was clear intention, vulnerability and honesty in the way the workshop was led and how we were meant to watch and respond to the works.
We were asked to feel in our bodies where the pieces impacted us and to hold back our critical brains bc the pieces were not at a space for that at this time. There were three elements to it (1) the facilitator shared her reaction and asked the artists questions (2) the audience or “responders” shared what they felt in their body, in what specific place at what specific moment in the show (3) the artists asked one question to the audience for us to answer critically and this was where we were allowed to share opinions. (This is me roughly remembering how it went)
This was the first time I’ve participated in such a thoughtful workshop/feedback experience and it felt exciting to here what the audience had to say and what I felt and wanted to say. I find live performance workshops to often be off putting or veer into pointlessness. This felt so open and freeing for the audience and artists. It expanded my mind on how to respond and how to watch the art as it happened. I found myself thinking about the dance pieces as I drove home and stayed up telling my partner about what I saw and felt and thought. This show I think will stay with me forever.
The feedback/artist/facilitator model was based on some style or approach popular in academia or those that study dance. Not sure the name of it.
I loved this method for live performance and am curious if there is a methodology like this that is the inspiration for the writing workshop? These specific railings for watching/responding made the feedback portion of the show just as enjoyable as watching the art itself.
Ok and lastly someone said a thing recently that resonated with me : that people wait too long to get feedback. Getting feedback is hard bc it’s inviting criticism or judgment and it’s scary! I’m curious how you all mitigate sharing something when it’s rough or when you know it’s early but outside eyes could help. How do you curate the feedback you need?
I found workshop to be so wildly energizing really--it was my favorite part of the program--because the combined collaboration of a group of writers and readers talking together and bringing their experiences--particularly when the mentorship/teacher is adept at drawing out and keeping people on specifics as you say--is so interesting, like cubism in action, examining different aspects and flipping them around as we all talk and think. And I really love that you point out that there are not "issues" to fix per se--and that often the things that feel like flaws can often become the strengths of a piece, and what makes the writer's voice distinct. There's a Jean Cocteau quote to that end that I always get wrong but that has stayed with me--that "What the public criticizes in you, cultivate. It is you." It's why, as you say, it is not so much about "issues" to correct, but to find the things that crack open on the page, and may not always work, but that's where the writer is often getting to something true.
Perhaps this is odd and can’t be generalized, but I’m in a workshop that reads half of one participant’s novel at once and then comments. In this way, a better overall view is possible and comments can be made about pacing--which is the problem I most often see. And the format leads to interesting, more personalized discussion. Recently we discussed whether one of my characters in a multiple POV novel deserved to have a POV. It was quite enlightening and is helping me with that character’s portrayal.
Bit late to this conversation but, as a 2nd year MA student, I've spent a lot of time wondering about the workshop process. Firstly, it's super useful and I have been lucky enough to work with a supportive and sensitive bunch of students who have helped me develop my work and even told me what it's about - and I mean that. Hidden themes are picked up that I hadn't even known I was themeing! My main point would be to keep your faith. It is too easy to believe that your work isn't good enough or clever enough or literary enough, especially when being critiqued by so many. I've found the trick is to thank everyone for their time, to really listen and to be honest with yourself. Without fail, every workshop, comments are made on the bits that I just knew weren't landing but thought I could get away with. Workshops are a great tool, a great way of learning about writing through the work of others, a fantastic way to understand your own work better. But they are just a part of the creative process. Be strong, take away what is useful to you and what will make your voice sing louder. And don't compare your work to the others - no, no, no. Never do that.
My first writing workshop was also my best experience with the form. I studied literature in college and decided I wanted to try writing fiction and poetry in my last semester of undergrad. Most of my required classes were finished, so my course load was a literature capstone, an ice skating class, and a writing workshop. (Typing that brought on a rush of newfound appreciation for that time in my life.) The teacher for the course was a poet, somewhat well-known, with a few books and some poems published in the New Yorker. On the first day, he encouraged us to call him Coach, and went on to explain that his approach to these workshops was to encourage all of us to write in our own way and that reading and practices (walking in the woods, being attentive to our senses) would support our development as writers. I don't know if this approach would work for every teacher, but it felt like an authentic expression of his being. He was warm and gregarious and the class felt like a place where our writing and our ideas about writing were accepted and treated with care. What I loved most about that workshop was the loving assertiveness of Coach R. He let us go on some tangents but let us know how to come back to the story or poem that would be of benefit to the writer. There's some vague recollections of this done with loving humor. I've gone back and read what I wrote for that class. I cringe at the earnestness of that new writer but also see in the writing a risk-taking (it doesn't seem like it at the time) that comes from a beginner's efforts, and I feel especially grateful that I sat in classroom with a teacher (coach) who oriented us to what was best and unique in our work and encouraged us to continue our efforts.
First of all, I’d like to say I wish I’d workshopped with Mr. Saunders. But unfortunately, the workshops I attended never guided the students, but ended up being a free-for-all for criticism. When I first began to write I took extension classes at the U of Minnesota and the Loft in Minneapolis. At least a couple of those classes were taught by published authors and structured on the traditional workshop model. I also was a member of a few informal writing groups and we also critiqued using that model. The workshop model encouraged the participants to find flaws, and since most of us were beginners, I began to question the value of theirs and my critiques. I came away from the workshopping with some good lessons learned and many faulty ideas about writing it’s taken me years to get rid of.
When I first began writing my very long novel (which has become meta-fictional) I was introduced, by a common friend, to a man who was also writing a novel. She thought we might like to meet and discuss our writing and we agreed. We met monthly for over two years, taking turns discussing a chapter of each of our works. The meetings with my writing buddy mostly taught me to trust my own intuition. I’d often get ideas for the scenes I was writing and then, because I thought it wasn’t the right way to write it, I’d leave it out. In other words, I was inhibited and feared doing something wrong. But when I met with my writing buddy, he’d often tell me I could have done more with the scene. I’d tell him the ideas I’d thought weren’t good enough and he’d say that was what was needed. Over time, I realized my intuitive imagination, or what Mr. Saunders calls the subconscious needs to guide my writing, and now I follow its leads. So, that was the most important lesson I ever learned. When I moved to Colorado, my writing buddy and I talked by the phone a few times, but he stepped away from writing, and at that point, I no longer wanted to share my writing with anyone. I knew I had to find my own way, as weird as it may be.
Now, when friends ask me to read and critique something they’ve written, if I feel something isn’t being said, I ask what they want to say in this scene, and often I tell them, ‘Yes, that’s what you need to write. Now write down everything you just told me and incorporate your passion for it in the story.’
I really appreciate the details in your suggestions as to how to best help the writer understand where their voice is clear and engaging, and where it wanes for you, in a much more diplomatic way.
In one of my workshops, I discovered that for me, it was important for me to try and follow the story that I felt was there. I thought the story was often getting lost by distractions which were clearly meaningful for the writer personally, but not meaningful for the story. At that time, I decided I should act more as an advocate for the story, rather than for the writer, when the two were no longer in congruence. But the trick was how to do that without being too heavy handed. I didn't have a good grasp on how to put the story first without alienating the writer. I like your suggestions. Are they shareable?
In terms of best workshop experiences, it’s hard to beat the heady high of my first MFA workshop. I think a lot of my workshop experiences before that tended toward general praise and less rigor in terms of constructive feedback (just my experience, there are MANY great workshops not attached to the MFA model).
The worst was a workshop that operated under the “gag rule” where the writer is not allowed to speak. My workshop was discussing a story where I had made an error in writing what day of the week something had happened and it devolved into a lengthy discussion about the chronology of events that lasted for what felt like hours. In hindsight, it was very generous of them to make such an effort to wrestle with all the different things I could have meant, but it was deeply unpleasant to have all that discussion happen only for me to say “that was a typo.”
It did teach me two things: sometimes when we are trying to push a story toward achieving its highest self, we can lose sight of crucial, foundational details. Also, read your story out loud to yourself before you submit it for workshop.
I workshopped the same first two chapters of a novel-in-progress at a writer's conference with two different instructors in subsequent years. The first instructor loved my work, said it was "terrific"; other participants also liked my work (they brought me cupcakes for my birthday). The following year, a different instructor hated my work (same two novel chapters, mind you). Her criticism was blistering; she said it was not a book she would ever buy. Of course, she later admitted, when we bumped into each other in the restroom, that she'd mixed my piece up with another participant's story that opened with a long, graphic rape scene straight out of a Dirty Harry movie. I was too embarrassed to go back to workshop and hid in my hotel room for the duration of the conference. Thing is, neither workshop led to me finishing my novel (I still have hope). Some years later, those same two chapters (I need some new material) got me into the Sewanee conference, so they couldn't be all bad.
I always tell my students that in the goal of the workshop is not to fix the story, but to help bring the writer closet to their intentions.... even if the writer hasn't quite figured out what their intentions are, the clues are in story. I usually try to start by having everyone say what they think the story is about. And also, I tell them that in a successful workshop, the writer should walk away feeling excited to work on their story, and should have a pretty good idea of what they need to do next.
One thing that has been helpful is to ask people to limit their criticisms/suggestions to one thing.... although positive feedback can be limitless. (I wouldn't count small line-edit type feedback if it's the stuff that can be easily fixed, e.g. repetition, clarifying details, etc.) But basically, focusing on one issue seems to help students really think about the major thing the writer needs to look at next, and why that thing, and reduces a lot of overwhelm for the writer.
Today is the last workshop of my MA so this couldn’t come at a better time! I often reflect on the workshop experience as it will probably be the last time in my life that I will have the opportunity to throw my work to a group of such varied readers and be gifted close readings on it.
That’s the highlight, for me. I have 10 people in a room, many of whom wouldn’t even pick up my book if they saw it in a store. Everyone has different likes, different pet peeves and come from incredibly varied walks of life. What a gift!
It has been incredibly positive 99% of the time and the other 1% has mostly stemmed from not being understood but that has also forced me to think: ‘why wasn’t what I was trying to do understood?’
There are also personality clashes, near arguments, actual arguments, strange comments made, ignorant comments made, it’s all par for the course and it’s all kind of wonderful. Sitting in a room so full of passion for literature, so passionate to help other people form their ideas.
I’ve made incredible friendships, gotten the most insanely helpful feedback and also been able to see if opinions were a general consensus, as opposed to just one person’s thoughts. It’s also been helpful with working through the devastating waves of imposter syndrome and general self doubt, as all of us have them, all of us live in the dark for a moment and then swing back.
Plus- I got to read an extra 9 books this year, work I never would have picked up to read otherwise. YA, sci fi, personal essays, how wonderful!
I know I will be reminiscent for this time in my life.
The questioner asks this: “How can I be a more generous, helpful, honest, humble reader of other writers’ work-in-progress?” What a great question.
I am repeating myself from earlier posts on this same subject, but one tact I have taken is to tell the writer the things I’ve "noticed" in their piece. This removes the element of judgment. It's simply a recounting of what was noticed. This is similar to George’s color scheme, but I think it goes further than simply pointing out when the energy has gone south, or when I’ve been confused. A person can notice, for instance, that tension is building in the last third of a story, or that there seems to be no tension in the first third. A person can notice that the story seems to be about Jack and then seems to be about Jack’s wife. A person can notice that the ending came and it felt very sudden. A person can notice that they are reading breathlessly, because the plot is so compelling. Or that they lost track of things because their mind started to wander on page two. And on and on. In a workshop situation, if several people all “noticed” the same thing, that gives some very good feedback to the writer. If five out of eight people didn’t understand something, well, then, a writer would probably want to take a second look at that element.
Another strategy is to ask the writer specifically what it is they hope to know. Do they want you to tell them what you think the story is “about”? Do they want to know if the ending works? Do they want to know if or where you lost interest? Do they want to know if the voice is okay—or is it too charming or smarmy or whatever? Do they want a plot analysis? Responding specifically to what a writer wants takes off a lot of the pressure to respond ‘correctly.’ By following this tact, you can read a story you think is poorly written and not have to say, “this is poorly written.” You can just say, “you asked me if I got confused anywhere in the story, and no, I never did. Good job on that!”
In my files, I have these ideas written down for use when commenting on stories:
Say it's your opinion. Use: “I'm not sure but," "you might consider," "have you thought about," "another idea could be," "possibly," "maybe,"... "I felt ..." "It didn't work for me when ..." "I thought it would work better for me if..." "I'm not sure but ..." "Perhaps ..." "It strikes me that ..." "Maybe ..." "I didn't care for ..."
I recall a workshop from many years ago. Two students has been scheduled to present essays on the same day, months prior to their presentations. As it turned out, one student had written a personal essay about her grandparents, who had survived the Holocaust; the other student had written a personal essay about her grandfather, who had been in the SS. These two students--each struggling with inherited facts and truths--were able to speak openly to one another, through their work, and then in a deeper conversation, and to form a supportive relationship for the rest of the semester. The workshop became a unique bridge builder, a deeper way to connect where connection otherwise might not have occurred.
My best workshop experiences were with Buddy (Lewis) Nordan at the University of Pittsburgh--I believe because he always asked participants to begin their comments with the statement, "For me this is a story about ... because .../especially when ..." and possibly "For me, this story may also be about ... I sensed this especially when ...." Asking readers to ground their feedback in a reading of the story made all the difference and was remarkably difficult even though many of us came with plenty of training in talking this way in literature classes.
Is it me or do others working on novels (as opposed to short stories) find workshops sort of meh?
I feel that most drafts of novels need the most work on issues that aren't necessarily apparent from reading 2,500-5,000 words at a time or on a line-level, e.g., rising action/stakes across scenes as the story builds to the end of an act.
Also, oddly, although I read other people's work multiple times before providing feedback, I never do the same with a novel as a reader, so I'm often left feeling there's something artificial and, possibly, misguided in my comments.
For example, right now I'm reading Deacon King Kong by James McBride, and I'm basically along for the ride. If I sat down with any 10-20 page segment, read it multiple times, would I find dozens (and dozens) of lines to comment on? Of course. But I'm not certain any of those comments would improve the story or my enjoyment of it as a reader.
The best workshop experience I ever had was with a group who had always wanted to write but never dared. One was a security guard at a prison , one was a community nurse and one was a senior who told a riveting atory about being in an air raid shelter. The prompt I gave was the smell of oranges. They were all excellent storytellers. Did they become published best selling writers? No but one did air her piece on radio. . Creating space for stories to be heard ... I realize creating space as important as feedback. If that makes sense. The other participants' feedback seemed more useful than mine. As a student ... When I feel defensive I know they've zeroed in on the part I am struggling with so I try to lean in to that. But kindness matters. Best compliment as workshop teacher from a grade six "reluctant" writer was this : Miss, when was rightin in your clas I culd feel the jus in my mind. (: ah!!!!
I love this question! First I’d like to share a recent workshop experience I loved, then a question.
I recently attended a Work In Progress dance show with a feedback element which was handled so beautifully and left me inspired and curious to re-enact. Two artists showed half hour pieces followed by a half hour discussion led by the woman who put on the event. There was clear intention, vulnerability and honesty in the way the workshop was led and how we were meant to watch and respond to the works.
We were asked to feel in our bodies where the pieces impacted us and to hold back our critical brains bc the pieces were not at a space for that at this time. There were three elements to it (1) the facilitator shared her reaction and asked the artists questions (2) the audience or “responders” shared what they felt in their body, in what specific place at what specific moment in the show (3) the artists asked one question to the audience for us to answer critically and this was where we were allowed to share opinions. (This is me roughly remembering how it went)
This was the first time I’ve participated in such a thoughtful workshop/feedback experience and it felt exciting to here what the audience had to say and what I felt and wanted to say. I find live performance workshops to often be off putting or veer into pointlessness. This felt so open and freeing for the audience and artists. It expanded my mind on how to respond and how to watch the art as it happened. I found myself thinking about the dance pieces as I drove home and stayed up telling my partner about what I saw and felt and thought. This show I think will stay with me forever.
The feedback/artist/facilitator model was based on some style or approach popular in academia or those that study dance. Not sure the name of it.
I loved this method for live performance and am curious if there is a methodology like this that is the inspiration for the writing workshop? These specific railings for watching/responding made the feedback portion of the show just as enjoyable as watching the art itself.
Ok and lastly someone said a thing recently that resonated with me : that people wait too long to get feedback. Getting feedback is hard bc it’s inviting criticism or judgment and it’s scary! I’m curious how you all mitigate sharing something when it’s rough or when you know it’s early but outside eyes could help. How do you curate the feedback you need?
I found workshop to be so wildly energizing really--it was my favorite part of the program--because the combined collaboration of a group of writers and readers talking together and bringing their experiences--particularly when the mentorship/teacher is adept at drawing out and keeping people on specifics as you say--is so interesting, like cubism in action, examining different aspects and flipping them around as we all talk and think. And I really love that you point out that there are not "issues" to fix per se--and that often the things that feel like flaws can often become the strengths of a piece, and what makes the writer's voice distinct. There's a Jean Cocteau quote to that end that I always get wrong but that has stayed with me--that "What the public criticizes in you, cultivate. It is you." It's why, as you say, it is not so much about "issues" to correct, but to find the things that crack open on the page, and may not always work, but that's where the writer is often getting to something true.
Perhaps this is odd and can’t be generalized, but I’m in a workshop that reads half of one participant’s novel at once and then comments. In this way, a better overall view is possible and comments can be made about pacing--which is the problem I most often see. And the format leads to interesting, more personalized discussion. Recently we discussed whether one of my characters in a multiple POV novel deserved to have a POV. It was quite enlightening and is helping me with that character’s portrayal.
Bit late to this conversation but, as a 2nd year MA student, I've spent a lot of time wondering about the workshop process. Firstly, it's super useful and I have been lucky enough to work with a supportive and sensitive bunch of students who have helped me develop my work and even told me what it's about - and I mean that. Hidden themes are picked up that I hadn't even known I was themeing! My main point would be to keep your faith. It is too easy to believe that your work isn't good enough or clever enough or literary enough, especially when being critiqued by so many. I've found the trick is to thank everyone for their time, to really listen and to be honest with yourself. Without fail, every workshop, comments are made on the bits that I just knew weren't landing but thought I could get away with. Workshops are a great tool, a great way of learning about writing through the work of others, a fantastic way to understand your own work better. But they are just a part of the creative process. Be strong, take away what is useful to you and what will make your voice sing louder. And don't compare your work to the others - no, no, no. Never do that.
My first writing workshop was also my best experience with the form. I studied literature in college and decided I wanted to try writing fiction and poetry in my last semester of undergrad. Most of my required classes were finished, so my course load was a literature capstone, an ice skating class, and a writing workshop. (Typing that brought on a rush of newfound appreciation for that time in my life.) The teacher for the course was a poet, somewhat well-known, with a few books and some poems published in the New Yorker. On the first day, he encouraged us to call him Coach, and went on to explain that his approach to these workshops was to encourage all of us to write in our own way and that reading and practices (walking in the woods, being attentive to our senses) would support our development as writers. I don't know if this approach would work for every teacher, but it felt like an authentic expression of his being. He was warm and gregarious and the class felt like a place where our writing and our ideas about writing were accepted and treated with care. What I loved most about that workshop was the loving assertiveness of Coach R. He let us go on some tangents but let us know how to come back to the story or poem that would be of benefit to the writer. There's some vague recollections of this done with loving humor. I've gone back and read what I wrote for that class. I cringe at the earnestness of that new writer but also see in the writing a risk-taking (it doesn't seem like it at the time) that comes from a beginner's efforts, and I feel especially grateful that I sat in classroom with a teacher (coach) who oriented us to what was best and unique in our work and encouraged us to continue our efforts.
First of all, I’d like to say I wish I’d workshopped with Mr. Saunders. But unfortunately, the workshops I attended never guided the students, but ended up being a free-for-all for criticism. When I first began to write I took extension classes at the U of Minnesota and the Loft in Minneapolis. At least a couple of those classes were taught by published authors and structured on the traditional workshop model. I also was a member of a few informal writing groups and we also critiqued using that model. The workshop model encouraged the participants to find flaws, and since most of us were beginners, I began to question the value of theirs and my critiques. I came away from the workshopping with some good lessons learned and many faulty ideas about writing it’s taken me years to get rid of.
When I first began writing my very long novel (which has become meta-fictional) I was introduced, by a common friend, to a man who was also writing a novel. She thought we might like to meet and discuss our writing and we agreed. We met monthly for over two years, taking turns discussing a chapter of each of our works. The meetings with my writing buddy mostly taught me to trust my own intuition. I’d often get ideas for the scenes I was writing and then, because I thought it wasn’t the right way to write it, I’d leave it out. In other words, I was inhibited and feared doing something wrong. But when I met with my writing buddy, he’d often tell me I could have done more with the scene. I’d tell him the ideas I’d thought weren’t good enough and he’d say that was what was needed. Over time, I realized my intuitive imagination, or what Mr. Saunders calls the subconscious needs to guide my writing, and now I follow its leads. So, that was the most important lesson I ever learned. When I moved to Colorado, my writing buddy and I talked by the phone a few times, but he stepped away from writing, and at that point, I no longer wanted to share my writing with anyone. I knew I had to find my own way, as weird as it may be.
Now, when friends ask me to read and critique something they’ve written, if I feel something isn’t being said, I ask what they want to say in this scene, and often I tell them, ‘Yes, that’s what you need to write. Now write down everything you just told me and incorporate your passion for it in the story.’
I really appreciate the details in your suggestions as to how to best help the writer understand where their voice is clear and engaging, and where it wanes for you, in a much more diplomatic way.
In one of my workshops, I discovered that for me, it was important for me to try and follow the story that I felt was there. I thought the story was often getting lost by distractions which were clearly meaningful for the writer personally, but not meaningful for the story. At that time, I decided I should act more as an advocate for the story, rather than for the writer, when the two were no longer in congruence. But the trick was how to do that without being too heavy handed. I didn't have a good grasp on how to put the story first without alienating the writer. I like your suggestions. Are they shareable?
In terms of best workshop experiences, it’s hard to beat the heady high of my first MFA workshop. I think a lot of my workshop experiences before that tended toward general praise and less rigor in terms of constructive feedback (just my experience, there are MANY great workshops not attached to the MFA model).
The worst was a workshop that operated under the “gag rule” where the writer is not allowed to speak. My workshop was discussing a story where I had made an error in writing what day of the week something had happened and it devolved into a lengthy discussion about the chronology of events that lasted for what felt like hours. In hindsight, it was very generous of them to make such an effort to wrestle with all the different things I could have meant, but it was deeply unpleasant to have all that discussion happen only for me to say “that was a typo.”
It did teach me two things: sometimes when we are trying to push a story toward achieving its highest self, we can lose sight of crucial, foundational details. Also, read your story out loud to yourself before you submit it for workshop.
I workshopped the same first two chapters of a novel-in-progress at a writer's conference with two different instructors in subsequent years. The first instructor loved my work, said it was "terrific"; other participants also liked my work (they brought me cupcakes for my birthday). The following year, a different instructor hated my work (same two novel chapters, mind you). Her criticism was blistering; she said it was not a book she would ever buy. Of course, she later admitted, when we bumped into each other in the restroom, that she'd mixed my piece up with another participant's story that opened with a long, graphic rape scene straight out of a Dirty Harry movie. I was too embarrassed to go back to workshop and hid in my hotel room for the duration of the conference. Thing is, neither workshop led to me finishing my novel (I still have hope). Some years later, those same two chapters (I need some new material) got me into the Sewanee conference, so they couldn't be all bad.