Writers file into the non-genre-specific chapel. On the wall are the workshop commandments:
Do not take thy writing in vain (only individual pieces).
Remember the workshop day and do not be tardy or absent.
Honor thy influences.
Thou shalt not make characters kill or commit adultery without motivation or consequence.
Thou shalt not plagiarize.
Thou shalt not bear false criticism against thy workshop neighbor.
Thou shalt not covet thy workshop neighbor’s oeuvre, although five-star online reviews are fine.
When the room is full, they sit down at Paris café tables, open their manuscript books, and simultaneously bellow an excerpt from a work-in-progress; a joyful noise fills the room.
They turn to the Book of Common Prose and read:
Oh muses forgive us for we know not what we write. We have only working drafts to show for our trials. We have sinned in our procrastination, laziness, imprecision of language, failure of courage and imagination, and overall lack of will. Please grant us the language to make bad experiences into good stories. Bless us with images, the stubbornness to carry on, the fortitude to forego unjust criticism, and the generosity of spirit to praise the work of others.
They take communion of a sip of espresso and a symbolic drag on an unlit cigarette. On their way out, some stop by the Confessional Poem booth, where they recite a self-indulgent, autobiographical screed without fear of derision.
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