I went to a fiction-writing workshop this past week. I sometimes wonder why I go.
It’s not as though I think the workshop leader will say something profound, and I’ll leap out of my chair with my arms thrown over my head and shout, “Oh, if only I had known.”
But I like to go; like to sit in a room that is oozing with hope, with what ifs.
The thing about going to a workshop, or really any gathering of strangers, is I bring along with me all my eccentric-ness. I carefully pack all my oddities in with my pens and pencils and fresh paper.