Loglines, Lentils, and Lukewarm Tea: Tales from a Workshop That Didn’t Workshop

I arrived early because I am that kind of person. The kind who still believes that 10 minutes early means something. I had even detoured via a supermarket to buy white chocolate to mark the end of Dry January, which felt like a small, ceremonial act of faith. February, I decided, would begin with sugar and art. Possibly in that order.

I walked into the venue caffeinated, hopeful, and carrying a screenplay. Eight of us sat around the table. Three more joined on Zoom. English speakers, all of us, which in Tel Aviv already feels like discovering a hidden room in your own apartment. Writers. Real ones. Serious ones. A few beautifully balmy ones with ideas that sounded like Netflix would either greenlight them instantly or block their emails forever.

The group itself was a glorious mess. Not in a bad way. In a “someone here is definitely pitching a trilogy about time-travelling falafel” way. There were slick commercial ideas, high-concept fever dreams, quiet prestige dramas, and at least one cinematic universe being invented in real time. Some people had scripts. Some had manifestos. Everyone had opinions. It was the kind of creative soup that makes you think: this could become something brilliant, or it could become a WhatsApp group that never stops pinging.

The group was wildly diverse. Not just in background, but in temperament and imagination. Everyone felt like their own genre of human being. A thriller in one chair. A romantic comedy in another. Someone quietly constructing an epic in the corner. Somehow, improbably, it all worked. Everyone slotted into this humming, odd little ecosystem. Everyone, it seemed, except me.

At the head of the table sat our lecturer, a famous, award-winning Israeli-American screenwriter. She was warm and chatty before we began. I sat to her left so I could hear her better, which I do when I am trying to be a good student and not just someone who enjoys sitting near authority.

That would be the end of our satisfactory interaction.

We began with loglines. What they are. Why they matter. The elevator pitch of your soul. Protagonist. Stakes. Urgency. All the correct words, arranged correctly. We nodded like people who already know this but are still hoping for a miracle.

Then we were given time to write.

The room fell into that very specific writerly silence where everyone is trying to distil their entire identity into one sentence and not panic. Pens scratched. Laptops glowed. People stared at walls as though inspiration might be hiding behind the paint.

Then we started reading.

One by one, people shared their loglines. They got feedback. Real feedback. Notes. Questions. Engagement. Ideas were nudged into better shapes. Writers did that tiny nodding thing they do when they feel seen.

Then it was my turn.

I got halfway through my logline when the lecturer stopped me.

“We’ll circle back to Talyah.”

Anyone who has ever existed in a creative space knows that phrase. It sounds comforting. It means nothing.

We did not circle back.

We went to soup.

Big paper cups of lentil soup, each filled halfway, appeared, along with banana bread. We stayed at the table, sipping our hot legumes while everyone else casually discussed the feedback they had just received. Their ideas expanded. Their scripts evolved. Their futures became incrementally more real.

My own logline sat there, crossed out, unheard, theoretically brilliant.  Or, not…

At some point, the lecturer cheerfully explained that she hadn’t expected everyone to want to read their work and that this had taken longer than planned, so some sections would have to be skipped.

This was an extraordinary admission. A writing workshop, it turned out, had not budgeted for writers.

There was talk of a follow-up workshop. But if this is the system, what exactly would we be following up on? More loglines. More soup. Another polite promise to circle back that dissolves somewhere between the agenda and the ladle.

And here is the thing.

I want value for money. I do not buy half a bagel and call it lunch. I do not pay nearly 500 shekels for ambience and legumes.

A workshop workshops. It does not lecture. It does not vibe. It lets everyone put their work on the table.

I left having had lentil soup, tea, and a comprehensive tour of everyone else’s creative process.

My own script remains theoretical.

A workshop without participation is just a lecture with soup.

And nobody paid nearly 500 shekels for lentils and a front-row seat to other people’s careers.