Despite not being a poet, I attended a hybrid poetry workshop the other day. It was led by a local poet I admire and held at a wonderful Black-owned bookstore.
As the crowd of attendees swelled, folks packing onto velvet settees and chatting cheerfully, my anxiety increased.
Do I make excuses and flee? (the poet already saw me and said hi)
Take another CBD mint? (hemingway ftw, I can’t medicate and write)
Or tough it out? (I stayed)
*
My goal was to force my mind into other fresher lanes. I’ve been hauling ass down the freeways of short fiction and longer-form CNF for awhile now.
The poet shared some beautiful writing, including a piece by Roxane Gay. I began to understand, dimly, dumbly, how the structure made the piece more powerful.
Then we did writing exercises, and I stared at my computer and mostly failed. It felt stressful and panicky. I don’t know if going was a good idea, or a successful one but I also don’t think that matters.
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