As I write this, I’m seated in a University of Iowa classroom with 12 others, voluntarily attending something titled, Advanced Novel Workshop.

Our first real class session began roughly ten minutes ago. I am trying to look studious and hopefully, give the impression of writing copious notes about the Structure Of A Novel.

Several people in the room are very busy quoting famous literature to show that they’re well-read. “Have you read The Hours? You haven’t? Oh, you really, really must.” There is this puffiness about us fresh writers, a ‘LOOK AT ME! I READ BOOKS!’ quality that feels very eleven-years-old. I attribute this to Day 1 jitters; everyone wants to look literary.

It’s a competition as well.

Last night in our ‘intro’ session where we told our names and a brief synopses of what we brought to read, someone exclaimed over a particular writer, “I LOVE her! She’s brilliant! I’ve read everything she wrote!”

Someone else one-upped the speaker by saying, “You DO know about her new novel, right? Coming out next month.”

The original speaker did not.

Someone else one-upped the one-upper by saying, “A selection was in this month’s Harpers. Did you read it?”

The one-upper had not read it; this was the Ace of Diamonds trump card.

It gets a little competitive.

Ugh. Someone just said an approximation of this: “The genius of George Elliot…”

This is why I hate writing workshops.

On the chalkboard, our facilitator started creating a list of Highly Recommended Books: Mrs. Dalloway, Wolf Willow, Crossing To Safety, etc. The list depresses me a little bit, suggesting perhaps I have to read a lot more IMPORTANT BOOKS before considering becoming a Serious Writer. To be fair, I probably already knew that most of the stuff I read is not on that list of great literature. (I don’t think Joss Whedon’s run on the Astonishing X-men has been officially sanctioned by the literary canon. Not yet.)

Among the non-quoters, there are four people looking pensive, reflective even. It’s like those high school graduation photos where the senior gently rests their chin on knuckles looking towards the future. When I’m not typing faux-notes, I think I might be one of those.

Are they bored with the quoters like me? Or waiting for their moment to quote George Elliot? Hey, I read George Elliot’s Middlemarch while in college. I still remember one specific line I can quote easily, nestled comfortably around page 634: “He was a dried bladder for peas to rattle in, said Mrs. Cadwallader.” Seriously. It’s a line from Middlemarch. My friend Margy and I cracked ourselves up over that one. It’s just hard to know where I might use this little gem.

Time passes.

37 minutes into our first real class, someone brings up Virginia Woolf’s death, greedily describing how Mrs. Woolf weighted herself with rocks in her pockets before walking into the river. It’s like a creepy campfire story for writers. I’ve heard it at several writer workshops now. Everyone nods knowingly, as if to say, ‘That could happen to me if I don’t master my gifts.’

I can’t decide if I’m being uber-judgmental because I’m nervous about having my writing critiqued or because these quoting contests drives me crazy. It’s probably the critique. I do love some of the classics and honestly, I heard a beautiful quote from George Elliot at a lecture earlier today. So it’s probably nervousness.

It’s hard to be vulnerable with something important to me. If someone critiques my lawn-mowing, I’d shrug and say, “Yeah, good pointers. I should definitely turf in the Spring.”

But my writing.

Well.

I do want honest feedback, I really do. And despite the loving, careful feedback I’ve received, I still get leery. Mostly in writing workshops where just about everyone has an axe to grind. Perhaps this drives my feeling a little cantankerous about the tone of the class. I am probably too harsh. I’ll have to look at my shadow around insecurity.

It helps me to remember that there is something wonderful about 12 strangers gathering to humbly ask, “Please read this and give me your honest opinion. But keep in mind I might be a little fragile on this topic because it matters to me.”

It’s sweet.

Vulnerability can be tricky.

I’m probably also anxious because although I love reading, I don’t always come across as intelligent in book discussions.

During my junior year of college, I was enrolled in an Honors Program class devoted to about eight of Charles Dickens’ masterpieces. I was a first class, Dickens Geek having spent my lonely teenage years wandering around his Victorian England. This class thrilled me to the core. I reread all the books - just for fun. During class one day, I had tried to describe a beautiful scene from A Tale of Two Cities and ended up saying, “Really…it was a beautiful part of the movie…I mean…novel.”

Needless to say, the Dickens’ class screeched with schadenfreude delight. I earnestly tried to explain that I honestly had never seen the movie, but nobody could hear me through the noisy laughter.

They were laughing with delight because THEY hadn’t slipped and said it themselves.

Since everyone (except the 2-3 Dickens’ diehards) had grown weary of reading 800+ page Dickens novels, the video stores near NIU experienced an inexplicable demand for every available Dickens’ movie. Just a few days prior to my disastrous comment, Jeanie, a classroom friend had grumpily complained that the only version of A Tale of Two Cities available to rent was the cartoon version.

“But what are you gonna do, right?” She paused. “Actually, it wasn’t too bad.”

You’d think my Dickens’ humiliation from college would be enough for me to keep my mouth shut.

Apparently, it was not.

Roughly an hour ago we began discussing a colleague’s shared pages. His novel features a female anti-James Bond who drags her troglodyte boyfriend from bed (where it’s casually mentioned that he is an extremely muscular masonry worker) to go steal credit cards.

In the middle of a dialog about the nature of female action-hero relationships, I thought I might offer some insight from an unconventional source.

“In the movie Charlie’s Angels,” I began.

Everyone burst out laughing.

Our facilitator stopped chortling long enough to ask me, “Shall I add that to our list on the chalkboard under Mrs. Dalloway?”

Peals of laughter could be heard down the echoing, Iowan hallways.

Sigh.

I hate writing workshops.

This entry was posted on Monday, July 14th, 2008 at 7:50 pm and is filed under Warrior. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.