the workshop

how fast
it goes. was it twenty
years
or more
when we sat in a circle
with our sweating
hands
and manuscripts
nervously awaiting
a thumbs up
or down by anyone.
because everyone mattered.
each voice
was heard
and listened to.
the praise was fine, but
the criticism
stuck to your bones,
it was carried to your
bed before sleep that night.
a large
class of writers. some
good, some bad, many struggling
to find a voice
of their own.
and the maestro of it all,
full of himself.
a published
author of some renown
kept it going.
sometimes it was more about him
than us.
but you didn't mind.
in time it was time
for your piece to be read.
perhaps to shine,
or die painfully, but
for the most part, kindly
on the vine.