Douglas E. Roberts

Before becoming a lawyer, I earned a graduate degree from a fiction writing workshop. I say “earned” not because I emerged with a novel, or even a great story, but because the program was difficult—far more challenging, at least form a psychological standpoint, than law school was.

During your week to be workshopped (or wood-shedded, as we sometimes said), you would sit silently while your classmates spent the better part of an hour taking whacks at your latest piece. The story meandered from one contrived interaction to another before stopping, rather than ending, and the characters, hastily drawn stereotypes, never resolved their conflicts, which weren't interesting to begin with. And boy was the writing bad. Sometime around the 50-minute mark, the accomplished novelist leading the workshop would hijack the discussion to serve what we came to call the shit sandwich—a heap of criticism served between two thin, often perfunctory complements.

After my first workshop, it was days before I could turn back to my mangled story and begin to apply the criticism I had received. It took weeks for me to write anything new. But more beatings thickened my skin, and eventually, I began to seek out my harshest, most incisive critics for additional advice. Once I put my ego aside, I realized that their critiques made me a better writer. Not good enough; I high-tailed it for law school. But better.