When Workshop Goes Beyond Writing

A queer perspective on cishet writing workshops

Liberty University, 2012. I walked through the snaked hallways of the new third floor of the main academic building. The sequencing of room numbers made little sense. I often got lost when I had to come to this floor, even to a classroom I’d previously been to, but something in my gut told me I was heading in the right direction.

I entered a room with a long table of my peers headed by the two creative writing professors. The autumn darkness had already descended. I caught myself superimposed on the floor-to-ceiling windows that in the daylight provided a view of campus and the Blue Ridge Mountains whose colorful peaks and ridges faded to gray into the distance.

All of us together barely filled half the seats at the table. The professors had approached or emailed the few of us about starting a writing workshop where we could write about what we wanted without the fear of administrative backlash or reporting from more conservative students. Real writing happened with honesty, and only a certain honesty was respected at Liberty where most aspects of daily life were considered taboo.

Both of the professors knew I was gay. Neither preached at me. My junior year, one of them asked for my favorite book––he wanted to read it. I gave him The Perks of Being a Wallflower. When the movie came out, he called me over winter break and asked to see it at the dollar theater across from campus before class started. The other professor and I got drinks and talked for four hours where he wanted to hear more about what I wanted for my life and where I was going next.

In these workshops, I wrote essays that––years later––would go on to be published in literary journals. I explored my relationship with my mother who struggled with alcoholism and drug addiction. I wrote about moments and friendships in which I should’ve known I was gay but biblically blocked that option from my mind. I felt seen among these friends and in their comments on my work. We were bright-light plants opening our leaves toward what fed us when everything felt so dark. These professors (straight men) and my fellow writers kept me afloat, probably even alive. They were the halo in my eyes in the darkness. Their words and time and belief in me buoyed me in Liberty’s stormy waters.

At the encouragement of these professors, I applied for MFA programs and was accepted to Vermont College of Fine Arts, now a part of CalArts. Each residency I read upwards of 300 pages of essay drafts and bought colorful pens to mark them up.

I zoned out during these workshops. These writers wrote similar versions of the same essay and were in vastly different phases of life than me. They didn’t seem to understand me at all no matter how plainly I spelled it out in my essays. I once shared an essay about visiting Rhode Island with a friend for my birthday. We were trying to leave Lynchburg and looking for places that called to us. We wanted an escape and fresh start from the evangelical culture that surrounded us: at work, at restaurants, in bookstores, at cafes, everywhere. In workshop, all anyone (cis straight women) cared about was whether or not my friend was gay, and they couldn’t speak to the themes until that question was answered.

I kept writing and settled into my lane. Years and years later after being in what felt like a creative desert, I joined another workshop, not because I wanted feedback—I couldn’t have cared less about anyone’s thoughts on my work—but because I wanted accountability and community, regardless of who it was.

I quickly found myself in a similar situation as in workshops from grad school. I was a queer person in a workshop of straight people (mostly women). They questioned my characters’ wants and relationships from a place of confusion and at times, disgust. I encountered ignorance (at no fault of their own), experienced projection, and had been made to feel like my work didn’t make sense.

In the novel I was working on, the main character (30) sits at his grandfather’s bedside as he dies young from dementia. His mother keeps busy in the kitchen chopping vegetables and had berated him for checking his phone waiting for a message from his partner who’s in Paris as a featured cellist. The main character gets a call from his friend and former lover (42) who calls to ask how things are going. He offers to bring dinner tomorrow. Half the participants in workshops said the interaction was predatory and creepy, then started sharing their personal experiences of abuse to validate their critiques. How could I write or explain queer relationships in this workshop without them feeling triggered? How could I then demonstrate that we sometimes use sex as currency? I couldn’t make them believe it. I couldn’t change the twisted looks on their faces or silence their dissenting comments.

It made me realize: Straight people are not my audience. They are not many of our audiences. But we are taught that we have to write for them if we want to be successful by industry standards.

In an effort to get a pulse on the broader experiences of queer writers in writing workshops, I ran a survey of 25 queers writers to gather their thoughts and experiences with workshops. Below are most of the questions with the results, which are intended to be food for thought and not indicative of any official study. The questions were asked on a sliding scale, with 1 being “absolutely not” and 5 being “yes, totally.”

What I found was overall that 52% said they generally found writing workshops beneficial, but 56.5% said they would not pay to participate in a long-term writing workshop. It’s worth noting the same number of people said they would absolutely not pay for a long-term writing workshop as would absolutely pay for one.

More interestingly perhaps, while it was split down the middle on whether or not participants have experienced homophobia or transphobia in a writing workshop, 70% said a straight person has reacted negatively to queer content in their work whether through ignorance or homo/transphobia. In addition, 75% shared that they have had to explain queer culture to a straight person in order for their work to be understood and adequately critiqued.

I suppose because of the aforementioned data, 78% said if a workshop were only queer people, they would be more interested in joining.

Workshops, overall, are a committed place for us to dig deeper into shared work, but in order to do that, it’s helpful, even necessary, if everyone understands the nuances of the culture under discussion. I’m sure other marginalized communities feel similarly, where they feel like their time is not used as well as others’ because of the barriers, however small they seem, and even the smallest barriers can seem like pole vaulting.

It’s unfortunately not surprising that a majority of the survey participants said a straight person reacted negatively toward the queer content in their work. Here is my most grating frustration: For workshops to work, we have to come to the writing with an open mind and look at what the work is doing, not what we think the work should be doing. There’s a silent understanding in the industry in which the vast majority of writing is for a straight audience. It’s not their fault. We live in a cishet world. But it’s the mindset that pervades workshops, the space that helps us grow as writers and facilitates friendship, that’s meant to encourage our own path in our craft. It can be a lot of emotional work for a queer person to discern someone’s intention, regardless if the delivery of their critique is kind.

I love being in community with other writers, regardless of their walks of life. The writing community is full of the most fascinating people with a story to tell or a poem breathing in their soul. Thankfully queer writing workshops are a Google search away! In my survey, 65% said they made a good friend from joining a workshop. In grad school, I made an incredible friend who I talk with every day, who sends me voice notes while I’m working (a necessary break), whose very presence keeps me locked in and loving the process of creating. We’re both doing very different things, but I don’t have to explain myself. I can write the most insane story, and she’ll say, “Actually, go further,” and I’ll give it my best shot. I had to learn to seek out what I wanted for me and my work, even if it doesn’t look like what 90% of fellow writers are telling me to do. I’m not here to share advice, but rather to share experiences and hear from others. But if I did have advice, even if it’s for myself, it’s

find your lane, and drive.