I’ve always been attracted to writers. Whenever I am in a new place, the first place I want to go is to a book store or a library. All those words, all those stories, written by those amazing people who do the difficult work of creating something new out of words on a page: writers.
Recently, I enrolled in a workshop for women writers. It’s the first writing workshop I have ever attended; my writing before had always been private, for my entertainment and enlightenment only. I wasn’t planning to come out of the workshop with anything publishable. In fact, I didn’t really know why I was going to the workshop at all, because I had just discovered (by using my own coaching techniques) that I am not cut out to write fiction and that my beloved Grandma’s assumption that one day I would write the great American novel was probably just pure folly. I am attracted to poetry, memoir, and creative non-fiction, despite my not having felt compelled to dedicate much time to those modes of creative writing.
I wondered, then: Why was I so keen on attending this workshop despite my ambivalence about writing?
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