Kimberlee K.

A few weeks ago, I attended a two-day writing workshop at UCLA.

It was 16 hours of intense work: writing to prompts, listening to lectures, and often reading our work aloud for responses from both the teacher and our classmates.

Typically, this is my nightmare. Who likes to read aloud? Especially when it’s your own work, detailing very personal and at times very difficult subjects, themes, and memories from your life.

But what I loved about this teacher is that she didn’t ask us to critique the work. She didn’t ask us to say what was good or bad, she didn’t go around the room requiring every single person to say something.

Before someone read their work, she asked us to listen for the questions we had.

That was our job.

It wasn’t to tell the other person what they could add in or take out, it wasn’t to highlight our favorite or least favorite parts, it wasn’t to tell the writer where to go next.

Listen for the questions you have.

After each person read their piece, there would be a few moments of silence, and then the questions would start. Where are you in this piece? What does it look like? Who is “Mary”? How did you meet her?

We were excavating the piece, showing the writer what wasn’t obvious to the reader, giving them something to consider as they continued writing/editing the piece.

In seeing this method put into practice and hearing the series of questions people had regarding the pieces I shared, I saw the benefit of it. I never felt threatened or intimidated by any of the questions. I felt like we were merely having a conversation.

And following that thought, I realized that when I’m having an actual conversation, I often get lost in what I’m going to say next. I don’t actively listen to what the person is saying because I’m too worried about what I’m going to say. I’m worried the conversation is going to end and it’s going to be my fault, or that it’s going to continue but become awkward and stiff and boring and…it’s going to be my fault.

I don’t often have the confidence to listen for the questions that I have. To search for parts of their story that I could ask for elaboration or clarification on, or to mine new avenues for our discussion based on what we’re already talking about.

I often count myself out of conversations long before they are over because I convince myself I’m not worth having the conversation with. I also spook at the sign of questions because I’m worried my answer won’t be good or interesting enough.

But perhaps not all questions are meant to sound like tests or critiques, maybe they are simply meant to learn more, to let me know that there is more to tell, and that the other person has more they’d like to know.

I want to start listening for the questions I have, and no longer fear the questions others have for me.  To realize how much more there is to learn, and to not be afraid to curious.