Start Where You Are
I’d been writing for years before I was willing to call myself a writer. I wish I hadn’t waited so long.
One fall day a few years ago, I sat in a stuffy conference room at the Marconi Conference Center, where the Writing By Writers Workshop in Tomales Bay, California, was being held.
Twelve of us were crammed around a table, and the estimable Dorothy Allison presided at its head. For the past three days, she’d been offering a kind of scathing encouragement that was just perfect for me. Urging me, for example, not to let my story of a troubled family read like “a goddamn after school special.” (Sugar-coated cheerleading has never been helpful for me.)
The night before, Allison had given us homework assignment—to write a sex scene—and now we were reading our work. When it was my turn, I opened my mouth and couldn’t breath as my parasympathetic nervous system went into full revolt.
A case of nerves, you might think. However, I’ve performed in choirs and small musical ensembles often over the years. I don’t have stage fright, and, although I’m an introvert, I’m not a shy person. The thing is, this was the first time in my life that I was being asked to read my writing aloud among a group of writers.
Here’s why this is weird.
By the time I was sitting in that hot conference room, I’d published a memoir and given dozens of readings. I’d worked as a professional writer for more than a decade and led editorial meetings. I’d taught composition classes while getting my Master’s in English. I’d been at this for years, and yet I sat there, a mouth full of sawdust, at the prospect of reading my single page aloud.
Dorothy didn’t let me or anyone off the hook. I got through my draft, which was pretty bad, and so did everyone else. Over the course of the weekend, she continued to verbally cuff us along, like a mama grizzly, sprinkling f-bombs and endearments on us, “baby writers” all as she called us. It was a wonderful time.
Here’s why I like to remember that weekend.
At the time, I was looking around the conference table and thinking I didn’t belong. I didn’t have an MFA or a writers’ group. Allison’s class was my first experience in a workshop setting. I felt like everyone else had a vocabulary for talking about writing that I didn’t.
But what I learned that weekend—aside from the fact that I’ll never make it as a writer of erotica—is that writing exists outside all the noise. What I loved then and still love now is the simple daily practice: jotting down notes, running starts, blind alleys, watching an idea take shape, and yes, sometimes even sharing my work with other writers—the whole grand mess.
If I could it all over again, I’d have claimed this space sooner.
It’s what I encourage anyone who wants to write to do. You don’t need a time machine to go back and choose a different path. You don’t need a degree, a sabbatical, a fancy desk, or even a writers’ group. You just need a little voice in your head urging you on. You just need paper, pen, and a little peace and quiet.
And it can change your life.
Just start where you are.