Workshop

Workshop

He brought the new story to the workshop, which was filled with other published writers huddled around a long and narrow table that held the dark smell of hardwood and polish, and the writers praised his writing while the man sitting next to him clapped his back with a meaty palm and a woman sitting quietly down the table said, “it’s the best thing I’ve read by you yet,” and when he got a chance to speak he told them that the New Yorker had promised $10,000 dollars if he cut the final line, which some skinny-nosed editor had written to him about, explaining that it was too much like a certain pop song (“you know the one,” the letter threatened), and this got everyone in an uproar until the table could barely keep the writers from each other’s throats, arguing about artistic integrity and whether or not the money was worth it, but no one was able to reach a compromise and all that the author could think about was much he would prefer to be home with his daughter, and the workshop leader stood up and tugged at his beard as a woman opened the window to let in some coolness with the winter air, and the leader told them, “if you start changing your writing for other people, then you never begin to write for yourself,” while another writer who had the clout of a recent bestseller and the smell of cigarettes on his pea coat suggested that a worthy story was independent of such minor details, and still another writer promised that no one would remember the song after two hundred years and that such a meaningful story would remain true art long after that, and all present seemed to agree, so the leader stood up again and implored him to keep the original ending and the author smiled and thanked them for their input as he shook their hands but after he left the workshop he cut the offending line from his story and it was published.

December 16, 2013