Workshopping

So, here I am in the hotel lobby, having a cup of coffee and writing a post before my class starts. The mountains sit blue in the distance, silent and patient, tolerating the foolishness of people scurrying around the plaza, trying to buy bits of the wonder of this place.

I feel blessed to be in the particular class I chose. The teacher is enthusiastic and has lots to give. The 11 other students include a professor of fiction from the University of Idaho, a writing professor from Colorado, a man who has completed three novels and is apparently a workshop junkie, another workshop junkie from Palm Springs, a lovely woman whose stories I can't wait to hear and who is looking for a writing community. One woman has not spoken yet beyond giving her name and home town. One older woman doesn't seem to understand the nature of time or that others might not be as fascinated with her opinion as she herself apparently is.

All in all, a fascinating group, one I'm anxious to learn more about and from.

At dinner the first night, each class group sat together. Our teacher introduced himself and handed out a piece for us to read. Later, he walked around with a cup filled with scraps of paper, each with a day of the week. We drew scraps for the order in which our stories would be considered. As I reached into the cup, my heart was pounding out a mantra--Not Monday, Not Monday, Not Monday.

Could I have drawn anything but Monday? Of course not. The Law of Attraction at work. It's probably a good thing, because going first allowed me the luxury of not going through the others, feeling worse by the moment. They're all MFA-type stories--obscure and meandering. So unlike my work. So unlike my background.

As it is, we considered my simple story first and I feel good about the suggestions people made and the feedback I got. Now I'm free to be a sponge in the midst of learned folk. It promises to be quite an experience.

And you can't beat the backdrop.