Fellow BIPOC writers: if you find yourself in a writing workshop, congratulations! The acceptance rates rival the ABV percentage for nonalcoholic beer. Like universities, these workshops are mostly, if not all, white.
If you must be in the company of white people writers, especially ones who want to write from diverse POVs like Jennifer Egan, take a deep breath. And hold it. You may exhale when the workshop ends. Until then, here are some tips:
If on Zoom, turn off your camera every fifteenminutes to scream. Muting the mic is optional.
If in person, wear a crisply steamed blazer to fade into the background. Add blush and a smokey eye and whatever contour is—anything to help you feel more uncomfortable and also invisible. Everyone white will show up in pajamas, bedsheets, or a T-shirt with a punny statement. Do not be the unwashed T-shirt person.
In Zoom and in person, keep your expressions neutral yet inviting. Nod every ninety seconds. Throw in a gasp here and there. Or a little clap when you see them laughing to themselves over a lazy quip. White people like to feel validated.
Volunteer to have your writing critiqued first before you hear all the gap-year travel stories.
When reading aloud your work, enunciate so everyone can hear your speaker’s distinct voice and the correct pronunciations of your characters’ names. Ignore the emphasis the instructor adds to the last syllable. If “Ruhi” becomes “Roo-hi” with an extra flair, it is a sign of . . . effort. It is inevitable that inventively wrong pronunciations will be flung around carelessly until everyone but you settles on saying “the protagonist” or “her” or “the aunty.”
Creative white people love to talk, even the introverted ones. Almost everyone will agree that you “built a rich and wondrous world” that none of them “knew about,” and for that, they are “grateful to have read your piece.” They will then, as a group, wonder, out loud, whether the piece can be “more accessible” because “aren’t we all storytellers who just want to learn?”
When someone tells you to provide more context and define “cultural” words, scream the letter O as though “that’s transcendent advice, wow.”
When a white male writer remarks that your female characters are “too aggressive” and “not feminine,” and “you didn’t even tell us what they look like so I don’t know how to read them,” look at his receding hairline and dissociate.
When a white writer in a beanie and oversized glasses asks you to think about who your audience really is, doodle furiously to make it look like you’re really thinking about it.
Your white peers want workshop to feel like a safe space where they can critique you, and anything but appreciation will seem threatening. Throw a thumbs up for every fifth suggestion. They need it. This may, however, have the unfortunate effect of encouraging their criticism in the future. Consider carefully whether this calculation is worth it in the short term.
If anyone from workshop tries to commiserate with you during the break, run. Just run away.
When it’s time for you to give feedback to the white writers, use words and phrases like “really engaging” and “insightful” and “revolutionary.” “Genius” is a big one; white writers especially love this one and will use it frequently with each other.
But, before you speak, wait for a lull since white people cannot handle silence. Say “Um” because your white peers know that “um” or “uh” is the best and only way to enter the conversation.
If/when you feel the impulse to apologize for talking too much, do so. White creatives like saying “Omg, don’t say sorry!” as if their generosity were as limitless as their need for you to like them.
If you and a white peer speak at the same time, do the you-go-no-you-go hand-motion dance. Lose on purpose. It’s just not worth it. At some point, before the end of workshop, the instructor may remember that you had wanted to say something and may call on you if you pray hard enough.
A few things will happen at the end of the workshop:
For the group photo (there will be a group photo), you will either be placed in the middle or on the outskirts of the group. The awkward photo will be all over the website. This is your legacy.
You will be asked to write a testimonial. Use it to negotiate a scholarship for the next workshop and an on-site therapist.
Your white peers will hug you and say, “I can not wait to read your book!” (they can), and you’re expected to reply “OMG I can’t wait to read your book!” (you absolutely can) that will end up as required reading somewhere.
There will be LinkedIn, Instagram, and Goodreads follow requests, and if you’re unlucky, an email thread about organizing a writing group. Create fake social media accounts and a fake email address before applying to future workshops.
***
Rumpus original art by Natalie Peeples
***
Submit your own funny writing to our Rumpus submission manager powered by Submittable. See first our Funny Women Submission Guidelines.
To read other Funny Women pieces and interviews, see the archives.
