After a near four years as a creative writing major at two different southern liberal arts colleges, I’ve seen my fair share of workshop classes. These have ranged from an all-genre encompassing intro class, to more ideally focused courses in poetry and creative non-fiction. I even dipped my toes in the daunting waters of a fiction-writing seminar at the school I shortly attended during my junior year, the resulting stories of which I honestly consider unmitigated creative disasters. Genre aside, each of these academic adventures have been building momentum to the baffling statement of finality that is a creative writing senior seminar and a last semester of writing workshops, unless my post-graduation plans change—which is more than possible. Either way, I am terrified of the thought of an ending.

There’s something quite panic-inducing about the nature of workshop classes in general, and that’s because the work created to present in these classes is often times quite personal. One might think the pieces don’t have to be personal because you know you’re working for a particular audience whom you’re very aware you’ll have to face directly, but this worst person to disappoint in these types of venues is yourself. As a writer, it’s challenging to feel pride in something that doesn’t carry a bit of oneself between the lines. It’s nerve-wracking to present anything, but even more so to present a blasé piece you can’t even see the value in yourself. So the game becomes personal quickly, and you’ll inevitably hold on to every word said, for better or for worse.

But not only are your own personal thoughts being presented to the table, you are also subjected to the innerworkings of the peers seated around you at the table. Which, don’t get me wrong, is absolutely enlightening and even more fascinating. But at the same time, it gives one a guilty feeling of being some kind of an emotional voyeur. And that kind of guilt is hard to shake, making potentially intellectual or valuable comments stay inside. In certain situations almost everyone experiences this, and it makes the art of critique almost as much of a creatively pursued endeavor as the writing itself. A workshop class creates an environment where trust in oneself and one’s peers is integral.

If I’ve learned one thing in reflection, it’s this personally revealing element of the workshop that teaches the most. The most worthwhile takeaways from a workshop may have nothing to do with accepting or giving critique at all, but rather discovering a million other ways to stay personal. I had a professor who always used to—and I’m sure still does—urge his students to only accept the suggestions they felt had value to them in a personal sense for any particular piece. That piece of advice has called out more resonantly in my mind over the years than any even particularly voracious piece of criticism or flattering compliment. In no way did he encourage to disregard sound advice from peers or professors, but rather to allow yourself to prioritize and move forward. And I always find myself repeating that idea; no creative progress was ever made by dwelling.