I was fortunate today to attend an inspiring writer’s workshop with a pretty welcoming and inclusive crowd; my first such experience, however, was not quite so affirming.  Here’s a brash little tale about a critic from my rather distant past.

She trundles into class on the first day and everyone acknowledges her with an affectionate respect. I wonder why.

The first thing is her posture. It plots with her rather unremarkable clothing to create a bag lady effect. I feel sorry for her. How brave of her to come.

The next thing is her voice. It is undeveloped, so that the words come out reluctantly, despite her eager tongue. Her voice has a sticky feel, with lips that don’t quite work. This is my biggest problem – the slow, incessant voice.

Then there are the glasses. They are huge, like anchors on her face. They are, in fact, monstrous. Sometimes she takes them off. Then she is almost pretty. Almost.

Her hair, a noncommittal white/grey/blond, is clipped off to the side. It looks soft and cared-for, like a cat’s tail. If it weren’t for the clip, it would be her best feature.

The first thing she says, is, “I don’t have your stories. I don’t have e-mail.”

“Bag lady,” I think.

“I’ve done just fine without it all this time.”

“No you haven’t,” I think. “You’re supposed to have our stories.”

The instructor has to make copies of everyone’s stories, just for her. He cuts them off at 5 000 words to save paper.

There she sits, with her reams of paper and her affectionate respect. I don’t get it. I suppose we respect everyone here.

The class begins. We learn she is a high school English teacher. I try to imagine her having anything meaningful to say to the MSN generation. I try to imagine skinny-jeaned kids accepting her advice. “There must be something more,” I think.

She gives us each a copy of her story (because she does not have e-mail). I wonder how she typed it out. I read a bit. It is okay. It meanders without much energy, but there are some colourful spots. I comment on these and hand it back. The teacher thinks it’s great.

“Hmm,” I think. “You remind me of the characters in your story that you detest.” I wonder if she knows. “Hmm.”

The next day we read someone else’s work. It, too, meanders aimlessly through details I find wearisome.

“I wanted more detail,” she says. “I wondered what else you saw.”

She compares it to critically acclaimed best sellers that I have never heard of. She is a walking essay.

I listen quietly, gestating my opinion. Searching for the colourful spots. Framing my ideas positively and professionally. Ah! Here is an opening. I form the words – but no. Fran is speaking.

When she finishes, the discussion has turned to other things. I let it go.

Oh! Here’s another thought – this is quite insightful. I lean forward and wait for an opening, like a timid driver in the city.

Now? No. . . Now? I try to catch the teacher’s eye. She wants to hear my thoughts. But she is turned to face Fran, across the room from me.

“I must jump in,” I think, muscles tense and wry. Here – but no, Fran’s gluey voice is comparing and contrasting again: “It reminds me of. . .” More books I do not know.

Today it is my turn. My teacher loves my work. She really can’t think of anything that would improve it. She told me so yesterday. She wants me in her masterclass. She wants to read my poems. “You are a writer already,” she said.

The talk begins.

“Genius.”

“Guiding light.”

“Openness to awareness.”

“Interior landscape.”

“Postmodern.”

Fran is very quiet. I don’t notice. I am writing furiously, ecstatically, neutrally.

“Strength of the human spirit.”

“Spiritual journey.”

“The Lie is the only reality.”

“Transformation.”

“I’m haunted by your Lie.”

My writer’s heart is smiling gleefully. They get it – this piece I was so loathe to share, so naked now before them.

“Fran, do you have any thoughts?”

“I wanted more of an anchor with the known world.”

“I had to work too hard to understand this.”

“I got impatient that it went on so long.”

“I’m not a Tolkien fan.”

“There were gaps.”

“It has potential as a study of depression.”

“The Maker was ambiguous.”

Everyone agrees.

I listen stupidly. My writer’s heart is balking. Bleeding. My inner sense is tripping, falling, crying.

Now this I must make sense of. Why should everyone walk out of here today feeling fantastic, except for me, when I am on a level clearly quite beyond them all?

I must be humble – learn from criticism. Grow. Rework. Improve. I must be open to the giftedness of those I don’t understand.

I must be strong. Confident. Unthwarted by the ignorance of others. I must persist, believing in my gifts.

On the way out she tells me to read “I Never Promised You a Rose Garden.” She says it would be “a strong example” for me. I say “thank-you,” and think that I would be a strong example for her.

Then I go to the park and write a rather cruel reflection. I give her all the “detail” that she so “wanted to see.” I show her, with stony metaphor, exactly how I feel. I write until my pen runs dry, and then take out my pencil. It is an essay on rejection, and the battle of the will.

She goes home and reads something that’s critically acclaimed.