The Righting Life By Laura J. Oliver

Confession time. As a creative writing instructor, I’m super selective about the examples I use to demonstrate craft. If I’m going to share an excerpt from another writer’s work, it can’t just be technically correct; it must make the group laugh out loud, or choke up, or sit in stunned silence while they regain their composure because the resonant ending has left them unable to speak. 

Okay, I’m describing me, but I hope I’m eliciting a similar reaction in my students. 

Which is why I was surprised a couple of weeks ago when, at the end of a story numerous workshops have found moving, one participant raised his hand and said, “I hate this story. It’s overwritten, ridiculous, and manipulative. I don’t know if this writer is a beginner or what, but it shows.”

Everyone else suddenly looked expressionless, like 30 small businesses had just closed. 

I have learned that in any group, there is likely to be a contrarian. Someone who begs to differ, who needs to disagree, just to disagree. It’s human nature. 

And I’m smiling at the one of you muttering, “No, it’s not.”

But I thought I would sound defensive if I mentioned that the writer of the sample piece had published 19 novels, 150 short stories, a multitude of them in The New Yorker, and had also won the Pen Faulkner award for Excellence in Literature. 

Twice. 

So, I asked more about the objector’s objections, and I could agree to a point. I’ve never read anything I wouldn’t have edited a little differently and said so, respectfully acquiescing to some of his criticisms. But the guy wouldn’t let it go, and I started to think, Okaaay, you are becoming a little hard to love, mister. Still, I wanted to listen more than to explain, and I recognize that “Because I said so” is an immature response in any context. 

But is it? 

I’m sharing this because everything I have learned about writing is true of life. 

Take vulnerability. In most workshops, you give everyone a copy of the story you have birthed with great effort, then listen in enforced silence as the group discusses it. The theory is you need to really absorb the criticism—not be distracted by defending the work.

It’s super fun, like being gagged and tied up while strangers abscond with your baby. 

But in a good workshop, your baby is nurtured by intelligent people who recognize her charms and offer insightful suggestions that improve her chances of survival. The instructor protects you from well-meaning participants who tend to point at you while they speak. In a great workshop, you learn that you can cut the whole first page and enter the story on fire. This kind of feedback makes you grateful you live in a democracy—groups are smart. 

But groups, like life, can also be full of overworked, tired people and one or two cranks, and the instructor may not keep people from addressing you directly, people to whom, by the rules of engagement, you are not allowed to respond. 

And in truly bad workshops, no one bothers to point out what is working in your story because they assume you already know all the good stuff, so they just get right down to pointing out all the places your story fails, like this is a moral obligation.  

Some of us have friends like this. Some of us may be friends like this. Writing and life. I keep telling you. Same-same. 

I have not tried this, but I have a theory: if you did nothing but read a story and praise what works, the writer would gradually improve through praise alone. And your kids might, and your spouse might—might get braver, take more chances, and, in feeling safe, be funnier, more insightful, and inspired. Impulsively hug you tight. Spontaneously reach for your hand in a parking lot.

My friend Margaret attended a writing retreat like this. The teacher’s instructions were simple: “Each day we’ll write stories from the heart, read them aloud, and tell each other what we love about them. No criticism and no suggestions allowed.” Margaret was a bit disappointed. With those limitations, she figured she’d just paid for a week’s change of scene, but that her writing would not improve. 

But she said later, “I was wrong about that. I learned I can write from the heart, hear good things about that effort, and be forever changed.” By nothing more than the reinforcement of the good! “I began to find my voice,” she continued. “They called me ‘a weaver,’ and they called me that again and again.” 

For some reason, I was deeply moved by this. Something about the word “weaver,” I think. About being seen over and over, which implies being witnessed by someone who stayed. 

I once had a dream in which I inexplicably and repeatedly heard the word “Rabbi”. I’m not Jewish, but I’ve learned to embrace what seems to come from nowhere. So, I explored the meaning, which in Hebrew is “teacher.” And I felt called somehow. Loved somehow. And moved by this as well. 

Years later, someone called me a healer, and it had the same effect. A stunned, “Really?” Followed by a sense of having been called by name.

Read me your story and I will tell you everything I love about it. Will you be changed?

My guess is yes. 

Writing and life. Same/same.