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Okay, question: is it possible to have post traumatic stress about a poetry workshop? Because man, the flashbacks are killing me... That poem that I posted a few weeks ago? I had to workshop it yesterday. And by "had to" I mean "had to." As in for a grade in a class crucial to my major.
What is the point of even writing if all they're going to do is tell you how much it sucks? I had two published poets telling me, in so many words, not to give up my day job. Even the slightly random eighth grade kid in our workshop jumped on my poem. Then a fellow student started in on me. Uh, hello-- they're not paying you to "critique" my work. After a long rehash of what The Published Poets had said ["It's too abstract! [this from a man whose poems sounded like a radio with bad reception or an lj random haiku generator] So are we in a room, or aren't we? Where are you going with this? Why should we care?" You think I'm joking or exaggerating this? I'd like to say I am. I'd love to say I am. I'm not.] this... person, this student also said, "Umm... it also.. seemed to me, that you might be speaking of... depression." Oh, horrors, no! Anything but that! She said it as if shocked and dismayed that anyone could EVER consider writing anything depressing. [Uh... hello? The Wastelands? The Hollow Men? The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock? And that's all one poet, genius.] They said it needed an anchor to tie it to reality. What if the point of my poem is that there is none? Who the hell are you guys to tell me all this? How is it helpful to me as a writer to have you tell me how YOU would have written it?
And after ripping both me and my poem a new one for thirty minutes of an hour long workshop with two other people, they moved on, leaving me a shallow wreck of the person I once was. You know, I have enough trouble showing ANYTHING I do to people. I'm sure this will bolster my confidence and turn me into that great writer I know is in here somewhere. Either that, or make me turn Emily Dickenson and become a white-wearing recluse who hides her poetry in trunks until after her death. Either one.
What is the point of even writing if all they're going to do is tell you how much it sucks? I had two published poets telling me, in so many words, not to give up my day job. Even the slightly random eighth grade kid in our workshop jumped on my poem. Then a fellow student started in on me. Uh, hello-- they're not paying you to "critique" my work. After a long rehash of what The Published Poets had said ["It's too abstract! [this from a man whose poems sounded like a radio with bad reception or an lj random haiku generator] So are we in a room, or aren't we? Where are you going with this? Why should we care?" You think I'm joking or exaggerating this? I'd like to say I am. I'd love to say I am. I'm not.] this... person, this student also said, "Umm... it also.. seemed to me, that you might be speaking of... depression." Oh, horrors, no! Anything but that! She said it as if shocked and dismayed that anyone could EVER consider writing anything depressing. [Uh... hello? The Wastelands? The Hollow Men? The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock? And that's all one poet, genius.] They said it needed an anchor to tie it to reality. What if the point of my poem is that there is none? Who the hell are you guys to tell me all this? How is it helpful to me as a writer to have you tell me how YOU would have written it?
And after ripping both me and my poem a new one for thirty minutes of an hour long workshop with two other people, they moved on, leaving me a shallow wreck of the person I once was. You know, I have enough trouble showing ANYTHING I do to people. I'm sure this will bolster my confidence and turn me into that great writer I know is in here somewhere. Either that, or make me turn Emily Dickenson and become a white-wearing recluse who hides her poetry in trunks until after her death. Either one.
