This newsletter is different than my usual content but I'm feeling stuck and trying to move through it. So this is what you get.

Writing workshops are a huge part of the writing process for many writers. If you take any writing class or attend any MFA program, you're going to be workshopped. For as many positive experiences as writers often have in workshop, there are likely five times as many negative ones. From classmates who are racist or sexist or homophobic in their feedback to those who are just plain unhelpful—whether it's because they don't really get the work or because they can't see beyond their own vision for what the writing should be—my own experiences of workshop have been decided mixed but leaning towards unhelpful. Too many cooks, usually.

Despite this, I take a lot of writing classes and I often belong to a writing group. I find that, because of my ADHD, the kind of structure and accountability provided by classes are good for me. It's also a good way to form writing community, as being a writer can be a lonely and isolating experience. However, I took a class last year that has left such a bad taste in my mouth that I haven't been able to write since, and I'm not quite sure how to shake it so I'm writing about it here in the hopes that getting it out will help.

It should be said that I do not have thin skin when it comes to feedback on my writing. I welcome it and, because I am so self-critical, I tend to take critique better than I do compliments. I often think that whatever I'm working on is terrible and needs a lot of work so I'm almost hungry to hear ideas for how I can improve my craft. I have a lot of insecurity and imposter syndrome about the fact that I am self-taught and not formally trained when it comes to writing and am sometimes too quick to defer to people who I assume know more than I do.

Since Hail Mary published In 2021, I've been on the lookout for my next book project. And despite feeling like I should have a dedicated "beat," work that is related and that I am known for, it became clear that the book that wanted to come out of me was a personal essay collection. So I decided to follow the creative spark and just write it. I signed up for a class with a teacher I admire and a bunch of queer and trans writers. I was incredibly excited.

The material I was workshopping is some of the most vulnerable I've ever written, about, quite frankly, the worst things that have ever happened to me. Even still, I was incredibly energized by the project. The words were flying out of me, the themes and image system for the collection were mapped out, and I had a clear vision of where the work was going. I thought that at least one of the essays I had written was perhaps some of my best work ever.

Then I had my workshop.

It absolutely flattened me. I don't really know how to describe the impact of a group of people reading an essay about the abuse you have suffered—and continue to suffer—at the hands of someone you once loved, and having them come away and say, essentially, that maybe your abuser had some good points. There were constructive ways to give the feedback about the piece that they were trying to provide, but the way it was presented was incredibly personal and damaging.

It felt like I crashed into a wall going 100 mph. I couldn't look at the material, the vision for the book completely crumbled, and I couldn't remember why I wanted to write this book in the first place. I didn't get out of bed for nearly a week.

That's where it's sat for the last year or so. I keep trying to work on it again but I feel like there's no point. Maybe I shouldn't write the book after all. Maybe I have nothing to say. Maybe I'll never have anything to say ever again. I don't really know and I don't know that I have a solution. Maybe I'll keep trying to write through it, even though it feels impossible.

Have you ever been in a similar situation? How did you move through that and start to find inspiration again?