You get to revise your life again and again until you're living the life you set out to live. You get to examine yourself, and if you're not doing what you want to be doing, you get to start over. You create the world you want to live in, and you go there. No one else gets to write your story. Every day is an opening sentence, a new beginning. Every morning is a new youth, every afternoon an aging, every sleep a little death. And in every sleep, the dreams you have deferred will haunt you.
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Coming
in
2014! 
Creating Stories that Make a Difference:
Advice & Guidance for Interpretive Writing and Writers
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Behind the Scenes, part 1:
Creating a Writing Workshop
Welcome to part 1 of my 4-part (or maybe 5- or 6-part--I haven't finished writing it yet, so I'm not sure) series about creating a writing workshop, and about what happens in a good one.
Why am I beaming out a bunch of emails telling the story of how I create writing workshops? To teach you more about writing, to keep you entertained, and to call your attention to our new nature writing workshop, sponsored by the Anza Borrego Foundation in Borrego Springs, California later this month.
You can see all the details here:
http://theabf.org/event/lectures/nature_writing_workshop
I hope you'll join us in Borrego Springs! And now--on with the story.
Part 1: Where our plucky narrator discovers
safe passage in a postcard
It was an unremarkable postcard, bland no-color card stock, no photos or clever illustrations. The crack and peel label with my name and address tilted just off center, a red and slightly bleary nonprofit postage indicia the only color aside from black ink.
I no longer remember what drew my eye long enough for the card's message to register, but register it did: a 4-day writing workshop in Moab, Utah, with sections for poetry, fiction, and creative nonfiction.
I'd never been to Moab.
I had a first grader whose energy consistently outstripped my own.
I had a fledgling freelance business, tech writing and marketing communications mostly, with insane and unending deadlines.
It's only a day's drive to Moab, and I was more than overdue for a "mom vacation." I hadn't had a day--heck, I hadn't had an hour--to myself since November, 1984, when my son was born. (He quit taking naps at 3 weeks. The baby books advised, "Sleep when your baby sleeps," and I thought that meant when your baby was awake, you should be awake, too. I pretty much quit sleeping until he was five.) I didn't write poetry and I hadn't written fiction since high school--but creative nonfiction? I wrote ad copy--creative and nonfiction; surely that counted.
I checked the calendar, delegated the worst of the deadlines, notified the husband, reassured our son (Me: No, you will not starve. Son (wailing): But Dad burned water! Husband: Son, that's why God invented restaurants.), and sent in my registration.
My determined sense of adventure--okay, my bravado--got me as far as the cabin door on the first day of the workshop. I remember standing in the doorway, wondering what in blue blazes I was doing there. A dozen people were gathered on the mismatched assortment of chairs and sofas forming a rough circle that looped out from the fireplace. I recognized some of them from the night before, at the guest author reading. As I sidled into a spot near the corner, the woman nearest the fireplace asked me what it was like to stay in Edward Abbey's cabin. "Whose--what?" I couldn't remember who Edward Abbey was, let alone think about "his" cabin. It was his cabin?
(Later, the ranch owner confirmed that Edward Abbey had, indeed, lived in the cabin where I was billeted. Much to the disappointment of my workshop-mates, I did not see his ghost nor channel his writing.)
After introductions, Ken Brewer (our workshop leader and later, Utah's Poet Laureate), explained the review process we'd use--a process I still use, with minor variations, in my own workshops, with other writing groups, and, modified to work with email and other electronic wonders, with far-flung clients.
I didn't know it then, but Ken was doing something far more important than explaining how to efficiently critique our work. He was creating a safe place, a place where no matter how skilled or scared or new or accomplished you were, you could share what you'd written. You wouldn't be ridiculed or castigated or laughed out of the room. No one would roll their eyes and tell you to find something else to do with your hands. It was the first inkling I had that creativity is a sacred act, worthy of being cherished and nurtured.
By sacred, I don't mean everything we create is perfect or hits the mark we are aiming for or never needs editing. A well-done critique helps us identify how to improve what we've created, often pushing us to be even more creative. A poorly done critique shuts down our creativity, threatens to silence us, sends us scurrying for cover.
No one at that first workshop labelled themselves "nature writer." I don't remember anyone even mentioning genre beyond the broad (and somewhat hazy at times) distinctions between fiction, creative nonfiction, and poetry.
What I remember most is writing in a safe haven, where I discovered that writing itself can be a safe haven. I remember walking through the cabin door every morning for four days to sit by the fire with a dozen people who willingly risked sharing the words that appeared on their pages, who risked sharing their stories that showed us all that we are not alone, and that our stories are worth the risk of writing.
Key takeaways I build into my workshops
- There's joy in "letting loose"-writing freely for the fun of it, to discover what will show up on the page, and the delight of seeing what others create. "Letting loose" translates directly into better skill as a writer, regardless of the type of writing.
- When I returned home, I discovered that the things I'd learned in the workshop applied to every writing project I encountered, whether it was client work or a personal essay. Creativity and writing craftsmanship extend far beyond the official focus of a particular workshop.
- Creating a safe place in which to create, take risks, and share feedback is crucial.
NEXT:
Talking about safety has me thinking about the days when I felt anything but safe...stay tuned for Part 2: Terrorists, cancer, and writing for my life.
In the meantime, check out the Anza Borrego Foundation Nature Writing Workshop. We hope you'll join us.
(And "by join us," I mean register today!)
http://theabf.org/event/lectures/nature_writing_workshop
'Til next time--
Judy
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(with optional group gathering Friday morning,
Jan. 31, before check-out)
Palm Canyon Resort
Borrego Springs, CA
(about 2 hours east of San Diego)
Give your writing a boost in 2014!
Join the Anza Borrego Foundation (ABF) and Palm Canyon Resort for a 4-1/2 day writing workshop led by Judy Fort Brenneman. Over the course of the workshop, you'll go on 2 field trips, have daily workshop sessions with different topics of focus, an optional one-on-one session with Judy, and time to write, reflect, and explore.
Unlike conferences where you only talk about writing, at the ABF nature writing workshop,
you'll write.
- Whether you write poetry or prose, nonfiction or fiction--
- Whether you're sure you're a "nature writer" or not sure what "nature writing" really is--
- Whether you're a beginner or a long-time story-maker--
REGISTER HERE
STILL HAVE QUESTIONS?Email Judy or call 970/416-6353.  | |
Palm Canyon Resort, Borrego Springs, CA
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About the Instructor: Judy Fort Brenneman is an award-winning author, essayist, and playwright as well as a popular writing workshop leader and writing coach. Through her company, Greenfire Creative, LLC, she helps people, agencies, and organizations tell their stories. To learn more, visit our website or contact Judy
by email: judyb@greenfire-creative.comor by phone: 970/416-6353
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