WHEN I walked into the apartment I’d rented for my summer residency and found a pigeon flying around the room, I probably should have seen it as an omen. But I kept my chin up, determined to make the most of my first formal instruction after completing my MFA coursework: a month in Central Europe with writers from around the world taking part in multigenre workshops. I found a new Airbnb only to discover my second host was on the run from the police; a cop car was stationed under my bedroom window to catch him when he returned. I hunkered down and locked the door. Good material for writing, I thought. I felt safe enough on the third floor. I never expected the true danger to be in the workshop itself.
After six years of pursuing writing degrees, first as an undergraduate majoring in creative writing and then in my MFA program in poetry immediately after, I have grown familiar with the feedback dynamic of workshops. I bring a piece to workshop specifically because it needs help, so I am grateful when fellow students show me its flaws and give helpful critiques. Without the feedback from my peers and mentors, I never would have identified my missteps and developed my writing; just this past year I’ve published twelve pieces, each deconstructed and rebuilt through workshops. Whether in a formal university workshop, or during my time as poet laureate of the Meadows Museum in Dallas, or as part of my role as an associate editor of Poetry Northwest, the constructive, generative feedback I receive—and the opportunity to connect with a writing community—is incredibly important to me. In all my years as a writer, student, and editor, I had never experienced cruelty until last summer.
The program director recommended that any students not in his workshop visit his office hours to receive his feedback on our poems, essays, and short stories. I signed up for a slot and brought the nonfiction essay my workshop had just reviewed. Before our meeting he e-mailed me
