On Saturday I was fortunate to attend a two hour workshop at the GC Libraries Elanora branch with the amazing Edwina Shaw. I have been learning from Edwina from afar for years and was finally able to attend a workshop in person.
The workshop was called How to Write your Novel. Edwina admitted this was ambitious for a two hour workshop but boy did we cover some ground.
I learned so much from the session even though I have published two novels and written three others, completed the Fiona McIntosh Commercial Fiction Masterclass, and a full day plotting workshop with Natasha Lester.
There’s always more to learn about writing!
After an introduction, Edwina led us through a short visualisation firstly talking us through a relaxation process then guiding us to picture our inner critic. My inner critic has been very quiet for years and to be honest, I thought I’d slayed that particular demon.
Turns out the remaining sliver of my inner critic is a suit-wearing and bespectacled professor type who inhabits a serious looking office in a far corner of my psyche. The rest of the inside of my mind is like a vast, white tiled warehouse. Then there’s this little office that looks like a set from a movie. Think Good Will Hunting or Dead Poets Society.
It reminded me of my professors at university with their book-filled offices, the walls adorned with quirky mid-century art and posters from obscure European jazz festivals. The overwhelming colour is brown; they all smoked. The smell is cigarettes, Nescafé Blend 43 and regret.
None of this is surprising. I have always valued academics and to this day I am in awe of people who achieve advanced degrees. I’ve toyed with the idea myself from time to time.
It’s obviously this critic who sends out smoke signals every now and then while I’m working, especially on my non-fiction project. It doesn’t really give a hoot about my fiction work but it likes to remind me I have no Masters degree, no PhD. No qualifications unless you count my 30 year old undergrad degree and a few years of other study.
This professor sneers at me. Who are you to write about criticism? Who are you to advise people? Who are you to encourage others to quiet their own critical inner voices?
Who am I to do this?
As Linda Sivertson says if you have the ache, you have what it takes.
I ache to help people quiet their own thoughts long enough to create what’s on their hearts. I ache to encourage people to make their art.
I do this every day. I don’t need a doctorate to do that. (I remind myself daily.)
And I write on, because it’s the only way to get that voice to shut the hell up.
