Sixteen! I've been to whole AGMs with less participants. I think it went well. Several people mentioned afterward that they'd love for me to come back again and do another one.
First thing, little warm-up exercise to get the blood flowing to their brains, buddy in the back tosses a fit -- "this isn't what I signed up for! I write true stuff now, I want to write creatively!" Shit. How did I know there would be one of these guys? Deep breath, big smile, best voice, and into the truth about fiction -- you never have to make anything up, be observant. Even sci-fi worlds originate from an author's truth. Heads nodding, he's writing stuff down, and I'm deciding the rest of what I've got planned is not going to fly with this man . . . so I change gears, go another way . . . and now, we're winging it. Nobody wants to read what they've written. We're getting through things way too quickly. I'm not going to be able to fill two hours . . . making things up on the fly . . . pulling little writing exercises out of my headachy (previously wine-stoned) brain. This is nuts. Twenty minutes left and I tell them we're done writing, talk about writing groups, open the floor to questions (they have lots!) and somehow make it through and end right on time.
Then people are coming up to me, thanking me, asking me to come back, saying how well I handled buddy off the top . . . and then I even get paid, like a "real" workshop . . . and home to drink the rest of the wine and unwind, process the evening. How crazy was that?! I can't believe I got away with it.
Mood: ready to hit the liquor store
Drinking: nuttin'
Listening To: a wally-gator rant
Hair: flippy ends
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