An RWA Workshop with Donald Maass by Eliza March

Ten Minutes Before the Turning Point

Today is Saturday, May 8^th.  I’m writing this blog ahead of time, because it’s the kind of person I am. I hate being late. I was raised in the military. Does that explain a lot?  I also hate breaking rules. Let me correct that. I hate getting caught.

Anyway, two hundred and eighty-one days ago at 2:58 PM I sat in a packed classroom in Orlando, yawned, and slumped in my chair. A few moments later, the woman sitting next to me drifted off and began to snore while I fought the afternoon blahs.

Slightly annoyed, because I was close enough to the front of the room to be concerned that the speaker might think we were together, I thought about poking her. I chastised myself for being ridiculous. So what? What did it matter what the speaker thought? (Well, being a speaker myself for so many years, I felt sorry for him. The after lunch crowd is a tough audience.)

Apparently everyone was expecting something from this workshop since there were people standing and sitting in the aisles. (Too bad the speaker had to deal with the after lunch crowd in a jam packed room, with stagnant air, and no breathing space. He must be good.)

Before the introductions were completed I was thinking of joining my slumbering friend in her mid afternoon nap. Then the speaker took the stand, the crowd applauded, and I shifted awake.

Nothing roused my snoring neighbor.

Hmm, the speaker wasn’t what I expected. (Although, honestly, I have no idea what I did expect.) I analyzed his appearance: neat, slight, mildly attractive. His voice, his intonations, his accent: he was from New York. Having been born in the heart of Manhattan as generations before me had, it’s hard to deny my roots. I traveled away, always returning, never settling, eventually planting those roots elsewhere.

But here was a New York agent, someone with power in his world, someone who enjoyed the sounds and smells and helter-skelter lifestyle I hated.

A little political satire. Excellent.

His words were full of humor. Understandable. I believe it takes a good sense of humor to be a New Yorker.

The Turning Point

After a few chuckles, I stopped analyzing the man and started listening to what he was saying.

Yes, yes, I liked what he was saying.

I needed a pencil. Where the hell was my notepad?

Thank goodness there was a notepad on my iPhone.

What? What was that pearl of wisdom?

Oh, damn! Why did the keypad have to be so tiny? And why the heck hadn’t I learned how to type when it was an option so many years ago?

I wanted to record his every word. Then I relaxed. The class was being recorded and I settled down, making notes casually on my phone. I’d buy this workshop.

At one point, the snoring next to me drew the speaker’s attention in my direction. I shrugged when we made eye contact, diffidently making notes so he knew I, at least, appreciated his efforts.

(By the way, I also hate sitting up front at plays where the actors can see me because I have this driving need to look entertained. My hands usually hurt by the end of the performance from overcompensating--clapping too loud--and my face hurts from smiling big enough to be seen in the darkened theater. I sit in the back of the church too.)

Once again, not wanting to disappoint, I lifted my phone so he could see I valued every golden word he uttered. He nodded, seeming satisfied that one person in our row was enthralled with his presentation. I smiled a broad grin, and angled myself so I could hear over the snoring.

I typed furiously. So much to apply. I almost shook the woman beside me awake. (But you know me by now—I didn’t.) I wondered how she could sleep through such an informative experience. Too bad. I sat back smugly and thought, “Her loss.”

The information had me riveted in my seat. It was exactly what I needed to polish my book, to give the fire to my fiction. The man had me drooling to get back to writing. Every single suggestion was a gem I could treasure and use to improve my writing skills.

Suddenly, I began to think I was falling in love. The man looked taller than I first imagined, not so ordinary looking, after all. His neatness looked more rugged. Were his shoulders broader? Maybe not, but he was damned brilliant. The fact that he was rescuing my beloved writing from mediocrity made him my hero.

I dread the thought of the final applause, the finality. I needed to hear his voice speaking words that made sense, giving me examples, advice I could use. I needed his knowledge. The time ticked away more quickly, and the workshop drew to a close.

Ten Minutes After the Turning Point

When I returned home, I discovered he’d done part one of this class the previous year. I was ecstatic. There was more. So I ordered the lectures and listened to my mentor, over and over again as I toiled through my manuscript. When that wasn’t enough, I bought his electronic book, and read his brilliant words at every opportunity. When I wanted to hold the information in my hands, to flip back and forth through tagged pages, I bought the paperback book, too.

But it all paid off because “The Moon, The Madness, and The Magic,” the manuscript I was polishing at that time, is a finalist for the prestigious Golden Quill Award. Thank you very much Donald Maass, for your brilliance, for you humor, and for your book, “The Fire in Fiction”

Oh, and also for helping me put it in mine.

As you may all imagine, I highly recommend it to all writers.  

~~~ Eliza March