T.O. writing workshop whips my creativity into shape

By Jacqueline Delange

Being a creative writer takes work -- just ask David Bester, facilitator of Toronto's Start Writing program, and, well me.

I've been getting a feel for the workshop as research for my upcoming 'creative boot camp' article. The article will discuss how creative workshops empower writers and get them out of their ruts so that they can grow as artists and individuals. 
 
This evening I sat in on one of the Start Writing workshops and learned a thing or two -- primarily that writers are made, not born (contrary to popular belief).



If you're picturing the classic solitary writer hunched over a desk, writing furiously, you'd have it all wrong. Today's workshop featured four individuals -- each with a unique vision to share.

Here's how it works.

1. The facilitator gives you a prompt, an object or idea to begin your writing.
2. Everyone in the group gets about 20 minutes to write. So what if your story doesn't rival Hemingway? Nobody's perfect.
3. You read your story aloud to the group.
4. Each person in the group tells you what they liked about your story. If you're looking for criticism, you'll have to ask for it. 

In one of my attempts, each writer picked a Chinese fortune stick, and the fortune was their prompt.

Mine was, 'You will find something of value you had lost.' Or something like that.

Here goes:

"Oh, the things I've heard. not that you would know it to look at me. Tucked away inside a box with a lock in a drawer by the floor -- there I sat. Waiting. For ages. 

My turntable spins listlessly and I drop my needle on an imaginary record, longing to become useful again.

'No one wants you anymore,' shouts the tape deck. 'You've been replaced!'

But I know better. Like a crock of gold buried beneath the sand, I hope someone will return for me.

Not my owner -- he's long gone. But oh the times we had! He would flip the switch and I'd whir and crackle. He'd lay flat on his back, eyes closed, headphones on, and bask in the sun that poured in through the window.

Until one day he packed me up to make space for a newer model. An electronic that doesn't crackle. A shiny, sleek number. Not like me. 

Nothing as useless as me can ever be truly beautiful. 

But then one day, my prayers were answered. A youthful pair of arms hoisted me up out of the box with the lock and the drawer by the floor and into the world! The sun enveloped me like a warm bath. 

'So long, tape deck! I told you this day would come!' I yelled.


And I was dropped by the curb with the rest of the trash."

It may not be perfect, or even good, but it's better than nothing at all!

Stay tuned for my upcoming article!