So I drag my ass and a friend to a writing workshop. We bike for almost a half-hour through the blustery rain and cold of Brooklyn. This is my first time attending a workshop since living in San Francisco.
We walk in the building, up the elevator, into the hall, over the river and through the woods. I instantly feel sorry for him—my friend. We finally walk into the room and it’s only the two of us and the instructor. She’s mousy, with a twang in her voice that’s not southern, but more of a contrived New York accent. Something maybe she’s developed over the years of always having a cold and going to Pratt Institute. She’s dressed in tights, a crew-neck, and a shirt underneath that appears to be a dress, but it barely covers her women parts. It’s as if she considers tights real pants. Something that even I, in the 30 degree weather, wouldn’t do.
Other people begin to trickle in but each one of them are female and a woman of color. Poor thing. I look at my friend and try to make a gesture of remorse without having the others notice my glance.
It turns out that the workshop is merely for free writing. No previous written work is allowed to be read aloud. I took an hour out of my crazy day to bring along some crap I’d written and printed from an old Microsoft Word document. My friend and I both put our “previous written” work away and open our wide ruled notebook. I begin to write my first assignment, an autobiography. We are given five minutes to work.
I lie in my autobiography and write that my father died in 1987.