What happens in a writing workshop

or instructions on living

The workshop begins before it begins.

It begins the moment when, for the first time in a long time, I don’t want to postpone living while surviving, and message R to register for it. Albeit not before having the words *text R* -in caps - stare at me for days from the to-do list pinned to my home screen.

There's little time to soak in the excitement. But the promise of a treat sprays hope onto days punctuated by exhaustion.

Then.

A new Zoom room, a few familiar faces that can be safely-surely called home. A handful of new ones I meet in words, know by voices. Tendrils of warmth curl around square boxes that separate our torsos.

We practice lying and truth-telling, in that order. We play. With words, with rhythm. Make music from speed-written stories.

We fill our silhouettes with flowers.

I want to befriend freedom, I say when asked to share a truth. Two hours, a nap, and 15 minutes of crying later, more words knock at me.

I want to befriend freedom; freedom to be not good.

Not a good daughter, good sister, good friend, good student, good that and this and anything. Not.

I am tired of being good, the performance, the emotional acrobatics. I am tired of being tired. I am. Of always finding the right words, worrying about perfecting the composition to make them sing, wanting it to say the right things the right way, burying layer over layer for anyone to mine. Tired,

This time, I choose play, I choose joy. Intentionally.

I sink into the chair, not settle, not strive for stillness. I move. Speak in emojis. Not perform decorum that is in no way expected, but which the body seems to have mastered. Instead, I look down at the notebook, listen. I do what lets me thoughtfully listen, what allows me to witness with all my heart without torturing myself to make eye contact.

I doodle.

I write. Experiment with freedom.

I don’t twist-bend-contort-strain myself to be good. As Mary instructed, I let the soft animal of (..) body love what it loves.

Here's something I wrote, slowly, in a 6-minute speed writing exercise in the workshop. One where fingers/words took the lead, and not the thinking-sprinting-exhausted parts of me. One that I want to share with you because one cannot practice freedom in isolation.

The prompt: Everything has changed.

The invitation: To write a story in three-word sentences.

my new friend!

she declares, beaming. fingers pointing nowhere.

who, i ask. where, i probe.

she's a ghost.

oh, that's new.

don't don't don't.

what, what don't?

i know you'll.

i will what?

ask her it.

ask her what?

about her death.

now i will.

no, do not.

im asking now.

okay, but, secret?

maybe, tell me.

prick your finger. give me blood. promise me now.

pricked, blood, promised.

she ate something.

what'd she eat?

she ate you.

she ate what?

don't you see? she's eaten you. don't you feel?

i feel what?

that everything's changed.

what is changed?

everything mumma, everything.

What happens in a writing workshop?

I don’t know, really. But it does feel like filling our silhouettes with flowers.

Thanks for being here, for reading.

To give yourself a chance to experience the magic of writing-being together, check out The Rhythm of Our Stories.