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Into the Belly of the Beast: Writing Workshop Dynamics
(Rant: September 2005) If you’ve
ever taken a writing workshop or been part of a writing group then you’ve
experienced the fear and loathing that comes with sharing your personal creativity
with a cast of relative strangers. Of course some of these folk will go on to
become invaluable lifelong connections, both in your personal life as well as
your writing career. But as humble, kind and constructive as we all may try
to be, not all writers are created equal. Some are more talented, some are
more committed and others are just plain inspired 24/7. Invariably, in any one of
these workshops (where you submit stories to your peers for review and
feedback and vice versa) where groupings are loosely based on skill level and
one’s desire to write, there’s always the one who thinks they’re
better than everyone else—including the instructor. They’re usually confident
and well spoken and always intimidating. They even appear well read and vastly
knowledgeable, but when their first manuscript hits the table, the universal
reality kicks in. You peruse the pages expecting a masterpiece. You keep
looking but you can’t find it and then it sinks in: they’re just a mediocre
writer who derives power and momentum from bulling and putting down. (In my
experience, the most talented writers, no matter where they are in their
careers, are generally the most gracious and constructive in the group). I’ve been in a number of
informal writing groups, attended the summer writing program at Harvard and
have taken several workshops at Boston’s nifty writers institute, Grub Street; and while one bad apple
doesn’t spoil the whole bunch, I went through workshop program this summer
where one student effectively bullied an entire class. They did it openly, in
classroom discourse, in written comments to fellow students, even their
contribution to email discussions carried the indelible overtone of
arrogance; and later, they publicly slandered the instructor—an instructor I
might add, whom many of us felt was one of the best we’d ever had. It was an
impressive feat (I’ve got a pretty thick skin), the likes of which I had
never seen before. The writer, who we’ll call Pithy Pam for the purpose of
this article, distanced herself from the rest of the class right from the
onset, waving her MFA from a little known program as if it had sprouted from
the cornrows of Iowa. The class make up was
diverse. Not outwardly in labels, but in backgrounds—the what we did, who we
did it with and how we did it (beliefs, values and interests). Our
differences became a point of interest, which helped cement the quickly
blossoming camaraderie. By the second meeting, class members were already
bringing in food to share, after class gatherings were in the planning and
group discussions via email had already sprung. Everyone jumped in except
Pithy Pam, who had little constructive to offer a fellow writer during the in
class workshops. Her comments generally hugged the side of negativity. And
while it’s beneficial to scoop up the all daggers and comb for any point of
merit that might improve your work, such nonproductive input could have
easily been brushed aside, but because Pithy Pam had that MFA and a job as an
editor, we took her criticisms to heart, perhaps too deeply. But none of us
knew this about the other. Individually we’d sulk home, comments in hand and
wondered if Pithy Pam might know something that we, or our instructor didn’t.
She lorded a wealth of credibility and we bought into it, questioning not
only our ability, but our passion. That was until she laid a
submission on the class that we didn’t know was autobiographical material she
was spinning into fiction. The yarn was basically about a woman blazing her
way into a man’s world back in the day when women weren’t allowed in a man’s
world. And respect that set up as most of us did, she undermined the whole
premise by wantonly describing the male characters as beefcakes and
portraying the female protagonist (her) as a woman more concerned about how
her ass looked in a pair of tight jeans than the challenges at hand. Not
exactly Norma Rae, and many of us were shocked because Pithy Pam seemed to
tow the feminist line, not to mention that she was a single mother, and proud
of it. We were honest, fair and direct but needless to say our criticisms
didn’t go over well. A fellow student later informed us that the story was
memoir and thus why Pithy Pam may have reacted with such vehemence and
visible disdain as she was held to silence (workshop rules) while we
discussed the piece. And when we finished (and she could then speak), she did
something a writer in a workshop should never do; she criticized the
criticism (unless you’re asking for clarity, to rebuke thoughtful criticism
is considered not only indignant, but ungrateful). In our roundtable
discussions members conducted themselves impeccably, always looking to bring
out the writer’s strengths and constructively focus on areas that might
improve the work. But on that day something in Pithy Pam turned. Then the
kicker came a week later. Via email, one class member circulated an angry
rant by an MFA drop out (posted on MobyLives.com)
about the uselessness of an MFA (Grub instructor, Steve Almond’s response to
such mung was priceless). A healthy conversation about the value of an MFA
ensued. Then Pithy Pam chimed in, and with a scant few words eviscerated the
entire writing community in Boston. In her email she said that she felt sorry
for us and proclaimed that Boston had a shoddy corps of writing instructors.
Whether she meant MFA instructors in the city, the institute that was
sponsoring our workshop, or both, became the issue of debate in subsequent
emails that had Pithy Pam’s name removed from the forum. Pithy Pam showed up to
two more classes after the beefcake/email friction and then, without notice,
just stopped coming (with two sessions left to go.) But during those two
classes she sharpened her attacks on fellow students. It was subtle
transformation, but she was now an all-out provocateur, a polemic looking for
flaws in stories that no one else saw. She had become the rogue
opinion that most writing instructors would tell you to toss out. In delivery
she was truculent and even more malicious in written comment. And each of us,
as we read the venom on the page at night, thought we were the only one. The workshop concluded on
a high note (the atmosphere was more relaxed those last two sessions) and we
arranged several post class gatherings to hoist a pint, close out the
workshop and share thoughts and writing. It was then that the revelations
fell from tree. In one class where I was being work shopped, I called Pithy
Pam on a vehement point she made about one of my stories, not because I was
indignant, but because no one else had raised such an off-the-wall and
ostensibly vindictive point (usually in such a situation a conscientious
writer would preface their commentary with: “Maybe it’s just me, but…”), and
those on the commentary lazy-Susan after Pam gave me the strength and
encouragement to rebuke by respectfully noting Pam’s comment and then
politely disagreeing. But there, as we sipped coffee at a Harvard Square
bakery, a classmate told me that they appreciated that moment, as they too
had felt unduly plundered by Pithy Pam. More such stories poured forth. Now I
know as writers we’re supposed to stand up and take criticism in order to get
better and improve, and we did that, but Pithy Pam was not contributing as a
team player or even an impassioned writer holding firm on a position, she
went for the jugular. The assaults were petty and personal. Even writers in
the class who I thought Pithy Pam held respect for, had similar stories. One
classmate surmised that Pithy Pam had sexual tension with another classmate;
another thought Pithy Pam believed she should be the one teaching the class.
What ensued was a laugh-filled therapy session that restored self-esteem and
confidence. Later, we found out that Pithy Pam had taken her nasty inner vile
and bled it into the ears of the institute head. In the end, her captious
words fell on deaf ears and Pithy Pam went onto become something of an
ongoing joke in circles more wide and vast that she could imagine. Would I ever take a class
again knowing that a Pithy Pam lurked in my immediate future? Absolutely. She
galvanized the class, challenged us and indirectly forged future
relationships that might not be without her hand. - TBM |
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