Many years ago, when I felt ready to share my fiction with other writers, I signed on for a workshop held by a writer in his Greenwich Village apartment. The romance of it appealed to me: I had visions of salons of old, with writers lounging about, wine flowing, the air clouded with the fumes of intellectual discourse.

This superstar writer wasn’t quite out of central casting, and the other writers, many of whom had been in the workshop for years, were not especially friendly, but I entered in with an open mind and willingness to listen and learn. As we gathered in the small living room to share work, the setting was comfortable and informal. The workshop was anything but. There was a high degree of tension and competitiveness, and I quickly saw that attention seemed directed more toward the workshop leader rather than toward the writer. Once the leader gave his opinion, others jumped in to parrot his views. His comments were also quite probing and personal, as if he thought himself a therapist. Tears were not infrequent. Over time, I began to catch on to what was referred to vaguely as “the method.” The leader believed that he had to crack into each writer’s vulnerability, as if only through confronting our fears and misperceptions about ourselves could we become better writers. Anyone who resisted the process was put down as not ready to do the hard work.

One writer would tell me, as we walked together to the subway after the sessions, how miserable she felt about herself and her writing; while she criticized the teacher’s methods, she kept coming back for more. This behavior felt analogous to an abusive relationship, and yet I understood. I, too, alternated between longing to win approval from the teacher and rebelling. I can still remember one comment he made to me, almost angrily. He said that I wasn’t the kind of writer I thought I was. When I asked him what he meant—What kind of writer did he think I thought I was?—he refused to say. I had no idea what he meant, and as he barely knew me, I had no reason to trust his assessment. Yet his words filled me with fear and haunted me for years. I had enough sense to quit the workshop after one season. I felt like a failure but I also understood that being in the workshop was making me freeze. I was second-guessing everything that came out on the page, and, most tellingly, I was writing less and less. The whole situation felt destructive. 

Over the years, while getting a master’s degree in creative writing and in later workshops, less of that “guru” aspect was evident, though the dynamic was similar. We would hang on to the teacher’s words, seeking validation and approval. The teachers often played favorites, albeit subtly, and I hated the uncomfortable sense of competition that fostered. I’d find myself too focused on trying to impress the teacher. And even when there was less competition and currying favor, and even though I take criticism well, I was often so anxious when my work was discussed that it was hard to take in what was said. I learned to jot down verbatim notes during my critique sessions so that later I could review and grasp the comments. I did learn and improve, but it came at the expense of feeling at least somewhat deflated and with a loss of confidence.

When I began the novel that would become The Stark Beauty of Last Things, I decided to work completely on my own, and this self-imposed isolation felt freeing. I lived in the world of the novel, filling notebooks with ideas on themes, characters, plot, etc. for several years. Even so, I struggled to find a compelling story arc. I tried many different approaches and eventually finished a draft, but when I read it over after setting it aside for a time, I knew it wasn’t quite right. So, I turned to new work and came back to Stark only after completing another novel. I had a new idea, and all went well until about 150 pages when I hit a wall. I had no idea where to take the story from that point forward, and so again, I put it aside to work on something else. Only after that second novel was published did I get the idea for a new framework, which finally allowed me to complete it. Yet despite all the angst and the feeling that I’d never find a way to write the novel I wanted to write, I didn’t look for any kind of support network.  I was too jaded from my previous experiences.

Then, we were plunged into the time of the pandemic. Holed up at home, at loose ends, a writer friend asked if I’d help facilitate a virtual peer writing group to foster a sense of community and connection. It was to be a casual rather than serious critique group, with no set guidelines and writers ranging from aspiring to lightly published. Right off the bat, everyone was full of praise for whatever was presented. Everyone seemed genuine in their enthusiasm, and I didn’t want to bring my critique-heavy skills to the group. I decided it was a difficult time, and we all just needed encouragement. So, when discussing others’ work, I found myself simply suggesting places where I might want to know more or praising what was strong and what impressed me. Others did likewise. We might mention where something was confusing, or where we wished a scene went on longer, but that was as far as “critique” went. I worried that by not being more critical, I was doing the writers a disservice. It seemed like a lazy or gutless way to discuss their writing—except that something odd began to happen. The writers would somehow get what didn’t work on their own. They would pick up on what wasn’t said. “I hear you saying my exposition is great, but I think my dialogue isn’t strong,” or, “From what you’re saying, maybe I should strengthen the description of my character.” Everyone would leave energized and then come back with a revision that was greatly improved. It was almost magical. This positive approach had results unlike I’d ever seen from any other kind of workshop. I began to suspect that somehow the praise emboldened the writer not only to implicitly sense where the writing could be improved but to go home excited to keep working. It seems that if you focus on the strengths, the rest will follow. I shared a few chapters of my novel as well, and though I discounted much of the group’s praise as overly generous, it did bolster my confidence to send the book out into the world.

I didn’t know the concept or theory of “positivity,” which was why I was intrigued when a friend told me about an incubator program run by the organization book inc, that applied these principles to drafting and writing novels. I was curious to see how their approach— “facilitating” leaders as opposed to hierarchical leaders and a focus on supportive reading response—would work in a more structured, year-long program than the group I’d been leading. The process they advocated was the opposite of the instinctual way I had always worked. My typical way would be to begin to write without much more than a vague sense of theme and setting and allow the writing to take me to the story. The book inc program started with “journaling” for the first few months to allow the writer to get to know the characters and the world of the story, then outlining and planning. The expectation was that writers would have full-length first drafts at the end of the year. Given how long my novels took me to complete, this would be a radical approach for me on every level. Still, I wanted to be writing and I was without even a shred of an idea. They asked me to come on as Peer Artist Leader, a group facilitator who participates in the program as an equal not a guru. I said yes.

As a responsible group leader, I felt I had to commit to hewing to the program 100%, even the parts that I didn’t—at least in the beginning—gravitate toward, which involved prompts, writing guides, and outlining. Although I chafed and resisted, over time, I found all these approaches useful. The particular prompts used were not the typical, very generic ones but were specific to the world of the story I was creating or delving deep into character. For instance I would write about the protagonist’s idea of a perfect day or about what her typical reaction was when frightened. 

While I wasn’t especially looking for a community after my previous mixed experiences, I found that the supportiveness and accountability of being in the program was not only keeping me writing daily but that I was also having fun. I enjoyed our group discussions every two weeks, hearing updates on how everyone was doing. The personal successes and challenges and the craft lessons that my co-leader and I put together were inspiring to me. I liked sharing our daily updates as we supported each other and grew invested in each other’s work. I appreciated that the absence of a teacher, much less any gurus, meant we were all worker bees striving together to create. We were all in this together, and the sense of comradery and connection was truly nourishing. By the time we were ready to start drafting our novels, I realized I was feeling great—energized, positive, and creative. When I read through my notebook, I was shocked at how much I’d written and was eager to dive into crafting the novel.

Even so, I sincerely doubted that I would end the year having achieved the goal of a full draft. Yet I did just that. I finished a 70,000+ draft in that first year, a very tangible proof of the validity of the approach. As important as the page count was the difference on an emotional level. When my work was discussed in the reading rounds that were part of the program, I felt surprisingly calm. I knew that the readers would focus on their responses to, and not a judgment on, my work. They would give their emotional reactions to what they read and say what they were curious or confused about. From the feedback, I was clear on what to work on, places where readers’ attention drifted, and where they wanted more and I should stretch a scene. The approach is reading as readers, not as critics, with sensitivity, support, and respect. The responses feel concrete and helpful, so different from typical workshop feedback like, “this doesn’t work for me,” which leaves the writer with no direction whatsoever.

As a convert to this positivity and peer approach, as opposed to the critique-heavy, leader-led style of workshopping that is most typical of MFA programs and others, I signed on to co-lead two subsequent manuscript revision programs. I have been revising my novel with the group and will be ready to send out the finished novel soon.

Going forward, I likely will toggle between times when I work alone and times when I can benefit from the support of a group. I think I have a better sense of when I need to be just in my own head and when I’ve done what I can and am ready for feedback. And I know that with my next book, I’ll spend time planning and outlining before jumping into Page One.

It’s been a long time since that Greenwich Village workshop, and I’m happy to say I’ve learned that gurus have no place in my writing life.