Our own Poetry Editor shares her thoughts on a local writing workshop she attended, and delves into her own solution for writer’s block.
The Value of Writing Workshops
KERRY SCOTT
As a writer, it was perhaps inevitable that I would one day hit that familiar obstacle encountered by wordsmiths since the beginning of time – writer’s block. We’ve all faced the fear of the white page (or screen), but for me it was getting to the stage I was putting off even opening my notebook in the first place.
Sure, life gets busy and other commitments can get in the way of finding the time to write – work, the daily grind of the long commute, juggling family life and relationships – but there reaches a point when I believe you must either dedicate regular time to honing your craft, or abandon the pursuit altogether. Personally, I’m determined to achieve the former, although I’m still in the process of figuring out the logistics. And something that really helped me to get back on track recently was signing up to a writing workshop.
Now I understand that writing workshops aren’t for everyone. There are plenty of writers out there who prefer their own company and solitude while they write, who can concentrate better that way perhaps. Equally, there are plenty of cynics who regard writing workshops variously as elitist, a commercial gimmick, or even an exercise in time-wasting. And then there are those who believe a writer should quite simply get stuck in and get started. The author Ruth Rendell rather humorously once said: “I get a lot of letters from people. They say, ‘I want to be a writer. What should I do?' I tell them to stop writing to me and get on with it’. Pulitzer Prize winner Barbara Kingsolver offers the following advice to aspiring writers: ‘Close the door. Write with no one looking over your shoulder. Don’t try to figure out what other people want to hear from you; figure out what you have to say. It’s the one and only thing you have to offer.’ While I appreciate their sentiments, I’ll admit that – for me, at least – getting the time, motivation and confidence to write independently has just not been feasible lately.
I may have been a little sceptical when I first turned up to The Arts Resource Centre on Donegall Street on a bitterly cold February afternoon, having signed up on a whim to what promised to be a ‘Masterclass in Poetry’ with poet Linda McKenna. The workshops were specifically designed to help participants develop, write, and submit a poem on the theme of ‘Measure’ for consideration in the Seamus Heaney Award for New Writing, as well as inclusion in the accompanying community anthology. While the workshop was a generous three hours long (including a tea break), I did wonder how much could possibly be achieved in just one afternoon. But I gave myself a little mental shake and told myself to go in with an open mind. After all, with my empty notebook in front of me, what did I have to lose? It was less than two weeks until the competition deadline and I was still entirely stumped for ideas, lacking even the motivation to put pen to paper.
Linda started the workshop off by introducing herself and her work, then she invited each of us to do the same. As a small group of six, this didn’t feel at all intimidating, and it was reassuring to hear from others who shared some of the same worries and concerns as myself. Then Linda read a selection of poems based on the theme to inspire us. There’s something rather lovely – and comforting – about having someone read out loud to you, even as an adult. Finally, Linda set us a number of short, specific writing exercises to complete during the workshop with just ten minutes assigned to each task. This tight timeframe meant that there wasn’t time to fret about my usual self-defeating worries: how to start it off, if this adjective or that verb was the most effective choice, whether every line I wrote was an overused cliché or lacking in substance. With only ten minutes to complete the task at hand, I had no choice but to do as Rendell advised and get on with it.
When the assigned writing slot was up, it was time for the bit I dreaded – sharing my work with the group and receiving feedback on my writing. It’s incredible how nerve-wrecking the experience can feel, even though I knew to expect it. I can empathise a lot more now with my students (I’m a secondary school English teacher) when they shyly hide behind their hair and avoid eye contact whenever I ask for a volunteer to share their written work with the class. Reading your creative writing aloud requires you to become vulnerable before a group of strangers in a way that nothing else can. It’s a feeling that is simultaneously terrifying and exhilarating. I wasn’t the first to volunteer, and I respected the lady beside me who did. What I noticed from listening to other participants share their work was that each of us had interpreted the assigned writing task (write about a time you were physically measured for something) entirely differently. Each of us had produced a piece of writing that (having been written in just ten minutes) was of course far from perfect, but everyone had created something that had nuggets of potential glimmering away beneath the surface. There were unique turns of phrase, colloquial expressions and striking metaphors that only a unique individual could have come up with. And I just found that fascinating.
Then it was my turn. I hoped my voice didn’t tremble as I clutched my notebook and read out my little piece, feeling like a nervous schoolgirl once again instead of an adult woman well-practised in public speaking in my day-to-day job. The feedback I received from the group was thoughtful, considerate and most importantly – practical and constructive. Linda zoned in on individual words and phrases of mine that didn’t quite sit right, offering alternative options, and she suggested reordering my sequence of stanzas. Before I knew it, I had written a page of points for improvement as well as producing three half-shaped poems in my notebook, the same notebook that had lain empty in a drawer at home for months before. The sense of achievement was remarkable.
All too soon, it was five thirty and time for the writing workshop to come to an end – even though we were all still scrawling away in our notebooks, completely in the writing zone. I said goodbye to my fellow writers, and we dispersed into the streets of Belfast to go our separate ways, probably never to see each other again. But it didn’t matter. We’d shared something of ourselves with each other that afternoon through our writing, we’d lifted each other up through our feedback, we’d given each other a little glimmer of encouragement that yes, we really were writers and not just amateurs pretending. We each had something worthwhile to say about the world that was worth sharing. And herein, for me, lies the value of a writing workshop.
AUTHOR BIO
Kerry Scott lives in Belfast and teaches English in Armagh. Previously she has been published by Sonder Magazine, The Blue Nib, The Honest Ulsterman, The Irish Independent and The Waxed Lemon. She is also a Poetry Editor for The Belfast Review.
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