I was at a writing workshop at Blackbird on a Monday night where beer was supposed to flow with the exchange of written word

when the other writers showed there was nothing to share. Nothing new. So, I sat and chased shots of malcontent with a bottle of Poland Spring water. Articles and stories had to be written back at my apartment and the longer I remained at this bar the more I would be tempted to chug a procrastination-laced beer. I gulped another shot of water.

Meanwhile, a story was developing in the dark bar that is Blackbird. Another writer, younger than I, told me of a song he was writing. He reached for an unused notebook and recorded a few lines into it, humming an unfamiliar tune while the pen between his fingers scribbled into a small notebook.

“I don’t know where to go with this!” he said.

I read the lyrics. A story like mine, something I might have written in my early 20s while trying to understand my place in the world.

“It’s a declaration,” I suggested. “You’re declaring your independence from society.”

“I think I’m trying to declare this to myself.”

I nodded, understanding what he meant. I became a little sad because I know something he does not yet know of his song. He’ll never stop trying declaring himself but at least I know a silent friend in him.

The workshop lead into a musical showcase. These musicians played their guts out and I found myself lost in their words. The strum of their guitars lulled me into a senseless calm, launching some recognition of a world that is all right just the way it is. There ain’t no end in the illuminated splendor of the soul or in the crushing might of armies exhausting their strength on the weak or helpless. The last breath of every incident comes out in a song. The unwritten words of a cold pale hand wrung out by a poet’s mark onto the pages he finds the space to write in. When the history of the world finishes its last chapter, a writer will be there to close the book.

In a bar, far from danger, in a room full of people, a basin of creative power gathered, covering us like a blanket quilted with the experience of individuals; vanquishing their troubles with song and beer.

This declaration of self is forever the burden of being on the outside of the world that reflects the image of itself like a divine finger tracing the picture of humanity in the sand. Not bad for a Monday night. Sometimes a writing workshop isn’t just about writing but about the need to find others like ourselves.