Out of my Comfort Zone

So.  The writing workshop begins and I'm standing in the doorway, gazing through at the assortment of strangers gathered around the bar.  My usual strategy when entering a collective of unknown people is to sidle in and position myself close to a group deep in conversation, avoiding eye contact with anyone, hoping to look as though I belong.  

Stepping into a room filled with bodies and the buzz of conversation is challenging.  I feel completely exposed, as though hundreds of eyes rip off my protective shell, revealing the tangled knot of insecurities and fears concealed beneath my chunky frame.

And this time is tougher than usual.  These people are writers.  They've written and published books.  I'm a latecomer, a fraud who somehow inveigled her way into the Royal box.  My sole experience of creative writing was humbling, a magazine short story competition which I entered only because of the prize - a writing course - which I really wanted to attend. 

Note the irony of having to be an accomplished writer to earn that prize.  Surely first and tenth prizes should have been reversed, and the winner receive the coffee mug?  Sam and I chortled heartily when I read the prize list aloud - a R10 000 writing course whittled down to a thermal coffee mug, via some really lovely pens and espresso machines.  But my attempt was so dismal, I didn't even earn a coffee mug.  Now I'm spending the weekend with experienced writers, completing exercises and reading my efforts aloud to the group.

I live and relive that experience, tossing and turning for most of the night before the workshop began.  Taking pity on my turmoil, the angels sent a Facebook message early the following morning (I have social media savvy angels) - a familiar face from my dorp (Afrikaans for small town) was also attending.  Relief stroked the butterflies and gently settled them, knowing that someone would be there to hold my hand.  

Still, it was awkward, tentatively stepping into the lounge, wondering which, if any, of the three people comfortably chatting around the blazing fire was my roomie.  Night one, share a room with a complete stranger.  Hope she doesn’t snore.  Or talk incessantly.

“Room 4?” I asked, dangling the heavy keychain.  The young blonde looked up “that’s me” she smiled.  After that, it was plain sailing as we introduced ourselves and got stuck into mining nuggets of information from each other.

Hours, many bottles of red wine and a four-course dinner later, 15 people heaved themselves out of their chairs and began moving off.  Tomorrow is day one and no one really knows what to expect.

Whatever skills we take away from the Keys to Creative Writing course, abstemiousness isn’t one of them.  Good heavens, Marion and Paul know how to feed their guests.  The food kept rolling in, course after course, meal after meal.  And when, groaning after a long day of talking, writing and eating, we declared enough was enough, Paul simply smiled and offered dessert wine.

Creative writing is a novel experience for me, and the published writers quickly displayed their skill, turning out lengthy, descriptive and inventive assignments rapidly.  Fifteen people turned in fifteen absolutely different angles to the same brief and the range and breadth of the imaginations was eye opening.

Being OCD and a natural Brigadier, I stomped in crisply, delivering exactly to brief, but showing none of the other’s creative flair.  And when my scenario exercise baffled the course leaders, leaving them grasping for words to comment on what I turned in, Commander Brooks read their brief back and challenged them to find fault.

Back home and gathering my thoughts about the weekend, it's clear that with Jo-Anne Richards and Richard Beynon's gentle crits and suggestions, the exercises have pulled some creative writing out of me.  There is no danger that Hilary Mantel or Jodi Picoult are about to face some new competition from Africa, but perhaps, a very faint perhaps, there's a chance a novelette or novella will emerge from this computer one fine day.  (And thanks to Angela Meadon for introducing me to those fine forms of story writing.)

Dedicated to LKB, who made this possible.  Her gentle and insistent hand on the small of my back, constantly pushing me to keep writing, is treasured more than she realises.