On Saturday

I went to a writing workshop this weekend, my first ever, at the central public library downtown. I had never actually been inside the library (I know, I'm slow. It took me three years of living here before I set foot inside Powell's) but man, it is one fantastic space. Exactly as a library should be, I think. Anyway, I found the workshop during a random google search for Tom Spanbauer, a writer and teacher beloved by many in Portland and elsewhere. The workshop was already full by the time I found it but I determinedly registered anyway, figuring someone or another would drop out. In the days before the workshop I debated with myself about not even going down to the library, because really who am I to walk into a public place and declare I want to learn how to write? I was nervous.

On the morning of the workshop I woke up early, planned out my route on the bus (which I hadn't ridden even once since I got my car...tsk), and did a bit of light dithering over whether I would go or not. Finally I decided I would hate myself too much for not taking advantage of the opportunity to meet and listen to Tom Freaking Spanbauer so I shoved my fear in a sack and dragged myself out the door.

When I got there, I joined the queue of nervously-waiting prospective writers outside the US Bank Room. There was a library employee at the door, granting access to the lucky registrants and shunning the poor bastards on the waiting list who had to sit outside and wait to be called in. After much hand-wringing about what to do about the waiting list, Tom himself came out to the lobby and just told them to add some more chairs, he would deal with the multitudes of us. We who were quietly freaking out about not being let in suddenly began freaking out about actually being let in and having to write something and potentially share with the class. We filed into the room and filled in the chairs. I noticed a chair at one of the tables that hadn't been claimed and sat myself in it, relieved to have something to hide at least partly behind.

Tom came around and introduced himself to each and every person in the room, though somehow I managed to just miss him when I ran to the back to get a notepad and pen. When he began to speak, though, it felt like he was talking just to me. He spoke for a while on writing and Dangerous Writing and building character by deconstructing sentences and some people asked questions and he answered them as graciously as possible and then...it was time for writing. Panic stabbed through my heart as he gave the writing prompt. What if I couldn't think of anything to write about? What if I wrote something but it was utter crap? What if I wrote something I thought was pretty good so I read it out loud and he said it was utter crap?

The prompt was "write about the moment that, after you were different". So yes, a life-changing moment. I could think of a few of those, but was I ready to write about them and/or read them out loud? I wasn't sure. Regardless, I put my pen to paper and started scratching out sentences. Once I got started the words just poured out of me without much actual thought, as if I had had this story tucked in my subconscious for exactly this type of occasion, just waiting for someone to ask for it.

Twenty minutes later, even though I had much much more to say, we had to stop writing. Tom asked if anyone wanted to read, several people read and got some good notes. I, meanwhile, found myself surreptitiously reading and editing my piece, willing it to be perfect. Remembering my earlier fear of thinking something was great and then reading it and having Tom and the room decide that it sucked, I struggled with myself to put down the pen and leave some errors in there to work with. Then began the inner conflict about whether I was going to read or not. See, I love praise and attention of all kinds, so part of me really longed to have everyone's eyes on me while I graced them with my brilliant prose. On the other hand, the part of myself acquainted with reality recognized that reading the piece out loud was a big risk, since I am just a beginning writer and the thing I wrote about was very personal, more than many of the others that had been read so far.

In the end it came down to an awkward silence. Everyone who wanted to read had read, and Tom was looking around the room and asking individual people if they wanted to read. My attention-loving side took over and volunteered, and in a voice that was only the tiniest bit shaky, I read my piece out loud to a room of strangers. It was exhilarating and terrifying, especially when he stopped me and started to critique.

Now some of you may not believe this, but I've never been one to take criticism well. My defensiveness has a hair trigger and if I had to name one thing I hate more than anything else in the world (except maybe Nazis), it would be the experience of being publicly wrong. With all that said, being critiqued by Tom Spanbauer was a genuine pleasure. Every note he had, every comment made so much sense and would so clearly improve the piece if I were to pursue it that I had nothing to offer at the end except a grin and a sincere "thank you".

Soon thereafter the class broke up and we all went our separate ways. As I walked to the bus stop I mulled over the workshop, relishing its significance, immersing myself in it just a few moments longer. Finally the bus came and it was back to the real world for me. As I rode home I realized that I would never really be the same after that experience, not as a writer or a person.

All because of a free writing workshop at the library. How divine....:)