Class last night involved a workshop. Having taken part in discussions on Caitlin R. Kiernan's message board where it was widely agreed that workshops were almost useless to writers as they generally consisted of coddling sessions, I had decided that I would be absolutely honest. And I was. And I think I really hurt someone's feelings and . . . I'm glad. Sure, I felt a little bad. I thought about those times when people have said bad things about my work and I'd gone and driven around thinking, "Gosh, am I really cut out to be a writer?" I thought maybe this guy was having one of those nights. But I feel better when I think about how truly awful and dull and spiritless his little one-act play was. I feel good knowing that I either permanently discouraged him (in which case, he'd never be able to handle the stresses of trying to be a published writer) or encouraged him to do better. In any case, it's a step towards a world with slightly less crap in it.
Writers shouldn't need honey with their vinegar.
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