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It has been almost three weeks since I returned from the Wayward Wormhole novel writing workshop in New Mexico, and like many of my fellow storyteller attendees, it’s been a slow process to digest all that I’ve taken in from the experience.
I had mentioned before that it took years of persuasion from those in my last writing group to get me to finally start applying to these prestigious writing workshops. (They also talked me into finally participating in NANOWRIMO in 2018, resulting in my first finished manuscript, Dreamdiver.) The reasons I had resisted were: 1) I’ve been self-taught in everything I have done professionally–art, music, photography, directing, writing–and I believed I could achieve my goal of becoming a novelist much the same way with books on the craft and business, online forums, podcasts, YouTube channels dedicated to writing and storytelling, etc. 2) These workshops are expensive, ranging from one or two thousand dollars to three or four. 3) They’re usually short-term, lasting from a few days to a few weeks. 4) They require time off from work, and there’s no paid vacation for freelancing creatives like me. When I don’t work, I don’t get paid. 5) They rarely critique your entire novel and will only do a certain number of pages or chapters. (In the case of Wayward Wormhole, there’s critique for the entire manuscript by two instructors, and the first 50 pages by one instructor and the whole group.)
The counterargument from those who urged me to do it contained these points: 1) The friends you make and the network you build are some of the best things about these in-person writing workshops where the attendees live together in close proximity. 2) Critiquing and getting critiqued by other writers of a similar level as yourself is extremely helpful–more so than from those who are much less developed writers or much more experienced. (I’ll elaborate on both points later.) 3) There will be lively discussions instead of just you reading a craft book that doesn’t answer your questions, or having limited interaction in online formats.
What I discovered for myself from the experience, is that those are indeed true, but there’s an additional element, and that is the real-time interactivity generating conversations you otherwise wouldn’t have in less immediate interactions like online forums, real-time chat groups like Discord servers for writers, or even in Zoom meetings. There’s something about being face-to-face with someone that will prompt reactions and lines of thought that might not have happened in less immediate situations. This factor doesn’t just apply to the chats at the dinner table (or while stewing in the human soup known as the hot tub, which I did not partake in while there), but also to the classes taught by the instructors (in this case, Donald Maass, C.C. Finlay, and Cat Rambo). And this is an important point.
Books on the craft of writing are one-way streets; they do not answer questions you have. But sometimes the difference between a piece of writing advice that remains nebulous in your mind after being exposed to it, and one that hits you with the force of a thrown brick to the noggins, is the fact you got to ask, “But what if, in my situation, I have a slightly different issue the advice doesn’t quite address?” and then get an immediate answer from the instructor. In our case, we would dig up the exact spot in our manuscripts on the large screen TV and then analyze where the problem is with the entire class, and then have a tailor-made answer just for our unique situation. This happened over and over because the approach was designed as a part of the lessons being taught. Don would teach the subject of the day, and Charlie would interject with his input, and we would ask questions during the class. Then the second half would be dedicated to Charlie putting our manuscripts on the large screen and analyze problems related to the subject being taught that day, and we’d discuss and come up with solutions.
There’s no way reading books on craft, or listening to writing podcasts, or watching videos from writers on YouTube, real-time chatting in Discord servers, or Zoom meetings (which is prone to technical glitches and interruptions from family and pets) can rival that kind of immediacy, personalization, and sense of presence. Not even close.
And then there are the one-on-one sessions with each of the instructors. I mean, come on. What aspiring writer or those in their early writing career phase don’t crave the opportunity of being able to hog an award-winning, successful, and influential author, or editor, or agent, all to themselves for an allotted amount of time (thirty minutes to an hour, give or take) and then do a deep dive into their manuscript and writing career goals and get the instructor’s feedback, or just ask whatever questions we have about the writing life, the business side, or just shoot the shit? And this type interaction can also happen during unscheduled times when everyone’s just sitting around or having dinner.
The three instructors had their own style of teaching and discussing our works with us, as they have different backgrounds and experiences, personalities, tastes, as well as different expertise in the publishing industry. Not every pairing of instructor to student might be ideal, as sensibilities can differ, and some students might favor one instructor’s sensibility and approach over another, but everyone got very helpful feedback from all three instructors they can apply to the next draft of their manuscripts and other past and future works. Also, in these in-person interactions, the instructors know to observe your reaction to their feedback and suggestions, and they have enough experience to know when to pivot and shift to cater to the sensibility and expectations of each student. Speaking for myself, I got extremely valuable feedback from all three instructors and I enjoyed their different approaches. Whether their approach was to offer wildly different ideas than what your story intended, or to focus on your authorial intent and help you strengthen it, or to offer sage advice born of experience, I soaked all of it up like a sponge.
Again, you don’t get that with typical online interactions (although there are exceptions like the online version of the Odyssey writing workshop, but it’s also an experience you have to pay for, and it’s still different from the in-person dynamic).
Just the classes and the one-on-one sessions were well-worth it, but the first two points about the friends you make and the network you build, and the group critique sessions of each other’s manuscripts, make the experience even more fulfilling.
Writing is a solitary endeavor, and writers are typically on the far end of the introvert scale. Some of us are probably more comfortable looking at the blinking cursor on the screen of our manuscript than looking into the eyes of a stranger sitting across from us. But when you put a group of sometimes socially awkward introverts together in close proximity, in a secluded place where we will not be judged by the normies of society, then you’ll witness us coming out of our shells, and frankly, get kinda rowdy. I have video proof of this that I won’t share, but let’s just say the decibel reading on a noise meter can easily rival any sports bar on a game night. Ten days of this, eating meals together, and sharing bathrooms. Yeah, you will get close with your fellow writers and bonding will happen whether you like it or not. Let me just say this: the first thing I probably said to my roomie, Eric, was that I apologize in advance for any bodily noises that might escape my body without my control during our sleeping hours, and the first thing he probably said to me was apologizing for the thunderous snoring I was about to experience for the next ten nights. You get the idea.
There’s something very comforting about being among kindred spirits. I probably have more experience in this than most people, as I have been part of the insulated social circle of artists, musicians, photographers, filmmakers, video game developers, animators, graphic novel creators, and writers. I think among them, writers are perhaps the most sensitive, because the act of putting ideas, emotions, and a piece of your soul on the page is a highly vulnerable act. Words have power, and that power is a double-edged sword that can cleave into the hearts and minds of those reading the words, or stab the writer of those words right in the heart and crush their soul, should the reception of the words become nightmarishly negative. Other creative endeavors provide a protective cushion for that vulnerability because the creator’s intent has to be translated into drawings and paintings, or musical sounds, or 3D graphics, or photos, or moving pictures, or with the affectations of a practiced performance. But with the protection often comes less potency, as the translated forms lack the immediacy and intimacy of someone speaking directly to you in their own words. (Maybe certain types of intimate storytelling in graphic novels, film, and songs might come close.) Basically, we get each other. We understand each other’s vulnerability and we protect, support, and cheer each other on.
That leads to the point about critiquing others of a similar level as yourself and receiving critiques from them. The fact we are in a similar place in our journey as writers means we can relate to each other in ways we can’t with those who are only at the beginning of their journeys, or those who are much further along in theirs. Although we might have different styles and focus and strengths and weaknesses as writers, we are close to being on a similar level, and this fosters a unique sense of camaraderie. I mentioned earlier that critiques with those close to your own level is more helpful than with those with less skill and experience, or those with far more, and it’s because the former lacks the knowledge and insights to be helpful on the craft side, and the latter don’t have similar problems in their writing that you do, and those problems are hard to spot in your own writing because of your own myopia when assessing your own work, but they become glaringly obvious in the works of others when you have the luxury of more objectivity. Likewise, seeing their strengths in areas you lack in helps motivate you to work on your own writing and catch up to them (although the strengths of some writers there were so singular that I could never do what they do, and I’m in awe of their unique abilities). In my group (we had two groups of seven for the group critique sessions, and I was in group A), I wanted us to benefit from that aspect as much as possible, which was why I suggested we do a group follow-up session after we all had gotten our critiques, so we can talk about the changes we’re making in our manuscripts and gauge the group’s reaction to those changes. This is an example of the kind impromptu interaction I think are only possible during in-person workshop settings. In online writing groups, planning such a thing would have been much more difficult because everyone’s got their own schedule, but in an in-person workshop where everyone had already set aside a block of many days dedicated to writing and nothing else, it was easy to just ask everyone and set a time to do it.
There were other examples of these jazz improvisation types of interactions. The film festival night put together by a couple of writers from group B was not something I ever could have predicted, and it was so much fun. Basically, anyone could submit short-form videos they think the group would find entertaining and the curated playlist would be played on the designated night. We all gathered around in the large living room and watched these videos on the large screen. Some were hilarious, some charming, and some thought-provoking. Another example was when we discovered one of us had written a Choice of Game book (T-Rex Time Machine). (The author, Rosie, was not happy about the dash in the title.) We read it out loud and played the game, making choices that were guaranteed to get us kicked out of the graduate school where the main character studied physics, and would inevitably end up traveling in the time machine to meet the eponymous dinosaur. There was also the nighttime search for scorpions with UV flashlights, star gazing, word games at the dinner table, and the various discussions about politics, the writing life, the publishing business, and whatever other topics that organically came up.
I contributed another improvisation to the experience that everyone appreciated. One night, while in bed trying to fall asleep, I asked myself how I could contribute to everyone’s experience at the workshop, and I decided to offer free portrait photo sessions (that could be used for everyone’s author’s profile pages and for publications) and portrait drawing and paintings. Everyone jumped at the chance (except for one person, who, unfortunately, did not have his beard grooming products with him). Over the next few days, I shot about fifteen portrait sessions, some outdoors during the daytime, some indoors at night. I was supposed to do a life portrait painting session of Cat, but she was tired and opted to have her photo taken so I could use it as reference to draw her portrait later. Some of them have already started using the photos for their author’s profile pages or sharing in their social media. Here are a few you can check out:
Neglected to include said shot
— Maressa Voss (@maressakate.bsky.social) November 27, 2024 at 4:05 PM
I can’t talk about the workshop experience without mentioning the firelight readings outside in the courtyard one night, when Cat, Don, and Charlie each read a short story or an excerpt from a novel of theirs as we listened in spellbound silence in front of the flickering orange flame of the firepit. At first, it was quite windy and uncomfortably cold, but the universe listened along with us and the wind soon died down until the night became perfectly still. The only sounds were the clear voices of the storytellers and the crackling of the fire. Some of us took photos and videos as proof that the magical moment indeed happened and wasn’t just our collective hallucination, but they don’t do the moment justice. You really had to be there.
One bummer was I caught a cold about halfway through the workshop, and ended up having to stay apart from the others as much as I could so they don’t catch my bug or have to listen to me coughing behind my mask in close proximity. Other than the daily classes, group critique sessions, one-on-one sessions, getting food from the kitchen, and the portrait photo sessions, I stayed in my room (and poor Eric eventually had to sleep in the living room because of my cold, but fortunately he said the sofa was surprisingly comfortable). What’s ironic is that I’m a bit of a germaphobe who sanitizes my hands obsessively and brought not one, but two bottles of disinfectant sprays with me to the workshop (one is rubbing alcohol, and the other hypochlorous acid, which is safe on the skin and on food). They even added a large bottle of hand sanitizer to their shopping list at my request (that was before I realized I could carry large amounts of liquid in my check-in luggage). But I came down with a cold anyway. I know you might say my overprotective habits led to a weaker immune system, but I could also say I probably prevented many infections and disease transmissions over the years by being cautious. Ultimately, the joke was on me since I was the only one who got as sick as I did. I didn’t even go into the nearby towns on the day they designated for the group trip, because I knew I’d just be coughing in the back of the car the whole way there and back (though there were three of us who stayed behind, and coincidentally, all dudes).
Oh yeah, there were only three male writers who made it into the 2024 class, and overall the novel writing group skewed older, with only one person in their 20s while the rest were at least in their 30s and many were middle-aged or older. I think part of the reason might be because the older writers had more time to develop their craft and thus more likely to have their submissions accepted, and they also had more years to establish financial stability to afford such a thing.
So, that was a rundown of the educational and social experience of the workshop.
“But Rob, what about the feedback on your manuscript? How did that go?”
Well, I’m glad you asked, because it went about as amazing as I could have hoped–in fact, better.
I went to New Mexico, fearful that I would be overwhelmed with brutal critiques that made it obvious I had a book unfit for publishing because it simply had very little commercial appeal, and the obvious lack in my skill and my questionable sensibility meant it was unsalvageable. What I got instead was almost the complete opposite. Don, the one person whose feedback I was most worried about (because he’s one of the biggest literary agents in the world and whose books on the craft of writing are on my bookshelf), gave me perhaps the most glowing praise. He said he loved the story, that it was highly unique as there was nothing else like it in his email inbox full of countless submissions from writers around the world, and it was something he could easily sell to publishers. I was in shock, and I think perhaps my groupmates were too. Some even thought he was going to sign me right there on the spot, and I probably would have died of a heart attack if that actually happened, and you’d be reading my obituary right now instead of a blog post. His extremely positive feedback put to rest all the fears I had about the manuscript, but I had to double-check to make sure he wasn’t just pulling punches to spare me the devastation and embarrassment in front of the fellow writers in my group.
(The following is me paraphrasing some of the conversation during my critique session.)
“Are you sure it’s not too dark and depressing, with all the scenes of autobiographical domestic violence I endured in my childhood?”
“Nope. It only makes us empathize with the characters more.”
“But what if people think it’s too maudlin and sappy?”
“No way. It tugs on the heartstrings and the heartbreak only deepens the emotional resonance.”
“Does the fantasy element feel superfluous and should I just make it a straightforward fiction story without fantastical elements?”
“Absolutely not. The choices the characters make that are only possible with the fantastical premise is crucial to the story and especially the ending.”
“But isn’t my prose too verbose sometimes and trying too hard to be literary?”
“Well, yes, you do write too much sometimes, but that can easily be fixed. And it’ll be published as upmarket.”
Yeah. I know. It felt surreal as it was happening.
Among the group, the feedback was a bit more varied, as a smaller minority had a hard time with the very dark scenes of violence and abuse, and it weighed so heavily on them that the lingering effect cast a long shadow over the beauty of the rest of it. Across the board they felt the characters were sometimes too mature for their age, and yes, my prose got a bit carried away sometimes, as did the hobby horse scenes of me writing about subjects I’m passionate about through the character as a surrogate. The male lead could also do more concrete things in the story. But overall, they all felt it was an emotionally powerful story and everything I had intended was felt and understood.
And then there was the unexpected development one night that led to me needing to write the next draft of two manuscripts by request. I won’t go into details, but I will say that afterwards, as I walked under the expansive night sky congested with more stars than I had ever seen (thanks to the remote location in the middle of the desert without air and light pollution), I was in a daze and wondered if it had really just happened.
Talk about feeling both exhilarated and burdened by the immense pressure of not wanting to let the person down. But as pointed out by fellow writers I shared the news with, if the person who requested the manuscripts liked my work, then they would only like the next draft even more, because it’ll contain all the improvements I made using everything I had learned during the workshop.
I’m going to be very busy in the coming year, with two manuscripts I have to write the next draft for. Daunting for sure, but also, this is progress. I’m now one more step closer to my goals, and a bit further along in my journey as a writer.
All that’s left is to do the work.
One word at a time.
