Apparently, Anyone Can Run a Writing Workshop

I have said it a hundred times: I will never, ever, ever go to another writer’s group in this city. Why, oh why, oh lord why don’t I listen to myself? I’m pretty smart; I don’t know why I’m so dumb. 

“For our first exercise, we’re going to pretend we’re kitchen implements. Pick an implement to be, and then write for ten minutes about being that implement. Then we’ll share.”

“Here’s an idea, you freak. You be a fuh-arking kitchen implement.”  (She must have read my mind. And she couldn’t wait to share her work with us (if you’ve ever been to a writer’s group, these are ALWAYS the writers to avoid). She was a tea bag and went on for at least a page about feeling like an unproductive ginger chai coconut blend until she was dipped in hot water.)

Anyway, this is as far as I got: “I’m an itchy ice pick.” 

I didn’t share.

I grabbed my coat and purse and left at the most polite moment I could find - when she got up to play a CD. Apparently, the next exercise after the kitchen stories was going to involve closing our eyes and listening to Indian music until something popped in our heads that we wanted to write about. 

I’m now a disappointed ice pick. But I’m one that writes, and I deserve better than listening to a ginger chai coconut tea bag.