sometimes daily musings on writing..

First, I want to wish everyone a Happy, Happy Mother's Day. Happy Mother's Day to the Moms, the kids, and the Dads (because they have, or had, Moms, too). I have a great deal of admiration for those of you that have been brave and strong enough to bring children into this world and raise them. It's an awesome job, and somebody has to do it. Like driving a school bus, cutting hair, and flying planes, it is not the job for me, but for those of you that do, you are amazing to me.

Speaking of jobs for me, I must tell everyone what happened yesterday at the Atlanta Writer's Conference. I have to try and write down everything that transpired because I want to be able to go back to this post time and time again, at by the end of this entry, you'll see why.

The conference was held at the Highland Inn, which was originally known as the Wynne Hotel & Tea Room. It was built in 1927 by the same man responsible for the upscale King & Prince Hotel in St. Simon's, GA. It's a very cool building, not temperature wise, but history-wise, so you should cruise by if you're in the area and check it out. Anyway, after registration, we were seated in the ballroom to hear comments/suggestions from four different literary agents. I was so nervous, I thought, as I said yesterday, that I would vomit. Well, I didn't, but I probably should have. More on that later. Let's get back to the conference...

When I signed up for the conference back in March, I kept having thoughts like, "What in the hell are you doing? What is wrong with you, are you crazy? This is never going to work. They are going to laugh and point at you. What makes you think you even belong there?" Then, five minutes later, I'd think, "I can do this. I am a decent writer. I took David Fulmer's course, and HE said to ME, 'CREAM RISES', and he said, 'You have a gift.' He said that to me. That was his quote. I don't suck. I am passionate about this; probably more passionate about this than almost any other thing in my entire life. I am worthy..." blah, blah, blah, and this crap went on for two whole months, plaguing me every day, until yesterday.

In the ballroom, the agents talked about voice. They talked about platform. They talked about marketing your own book (because, evidently, the publishers no longer really try to sell your book; they don't have enough resources, sales force, or time...but you would THINK that they would try harder, because that's how they make money) and they talked about trends, voice, and more voice. What if I didn't have that voice? This all-important voice, how do you get it? Where can it be found? What can you do if you don't have it? Must you quit?

During the last few minutes, some AWC members posed a few great questions to the panel, and the zippy-fast hour was gone. It was a very valuable learning experience for me, and I'm glad that I took notes because I was way too nervous to remember all that they'd said.

I was scheduled to speak to Amy Hughes during the first part of the day, for crtitique of my work, then Nat Sobel during the second half for a pitch of my novel. Ms. Hughes sat at the table in the front of the room during the panel discussion, and the only "reading" I got from her demeanor was that she was serious. Very. Freaking. Serious. Well, this IS a serious business. There's a lot at stake for all parties involved. But this lady looked as if she was ALL business, she was as sharp as a Ginsu knife, she was there to kick ass and take NO names unless they were GOOD names. NO; GREAT names. She wasn't going to fart around with people that wrote crap, and she wasn't going to put up with time-wasters or hacks. She would simply let you know that you suck, you suck, you suck if you weren't stellar, amazing, fierce.

"You're NOT worthyyyyy!" came from the back of my quivering brain. It was pink, frothy, unset jello. It was about to commit mutiny.

I replayed a three word mantra in my head, over and over: "Shut. Up. Now."

My gibbering mind would NOT shut up the entire time I was trying to pay attention and write my three pages of notes from the discussion. It came up with crazy little one-liners like, "YOU are TOAST!" and "Awwww, man, you are going to get your ass HANDED to you!" and then whole strings of them, like, "Look at her! Are you looking at her? You should look at her, totally, because SHE is the lady that's going to laugh you RIGHT OUT of this building."

And I would say to the little bastard again, "SHUT UP. I am NOT listening to you." Then, "Oh, LORD, she IS going to hand me my ass, isn't she?"

I conjured up this image of sitting down across from Ms. Hughes, her glaring at me across the table in total silence for a few seconds, then asking me, in a German accent, "Vat iz it you do for a living, hmm?" and me saying, "Umm, uh...I uh, I work for some Doctors? In, um, uh...an office?" and her smirking back, "Honey, don't quit your day job, ja?" She'd then slap my face. Hard. She would then turn to the timer person and screech, "BRING ZE NEXT LOSER!" just like Frau Farbissina shouts, "DROP THE GLOBE!" in the Austin Powers movie:



Nat Sobel was the agent I was to see in the afternoon. He's a short, pleasant-looking, white-haired guy. He was sitting there with a casual, laid-back posture, and he looked like someone you could talk to without feeling too much trepidation or worry that he was going to jab your eye out with a pen because you ended a sentence with a preposition once in a while. I figured he would be pretty cool and that he might give me some feedback about what I needed to do, as a first-time novelist, to get my work out there someday in the near future.

Ummmm...not so much.

I was called in 45 minutes early to see Ms. Hughes, and I had a fleeting thought along with an intense urge to GET OUT. "Get out while you can," my mind-bastard screamed, and I realized that even though the doorway out of the lobby area was narrow and there were LOTS of people milling about in the room, I could probably turn and run (haha, I mean, walk quickly...if I ran, I'd probably kill three people while doing so) out of the hotel basement, up and into the street, and get killed by a bread truck or even a Mazda Miata if I were lucky.

Instead, I followed Marty, the great guy who's President of the Atlanta Writer's Club, into the ROOM OF DOOM to face the agent and get my face slapped. I might as well get it over with, slog out of the room, and wait for the beam of light (during my afternoon appointment) that may possibly still give me hope. As I walked into the room, I told myself to just do it, just do it, don't get too depressed; it's going to be okay...

Amy was at a small table, BEAMING at me when I walked up to her. She smiled this huge, awesome, engaging Alanis Morissette smile that lit up the room like this:



My mind-bastard shut its mouth and didn't say another word. The silence inside my brain was deafening. Then a tiny thought whispered, "What? Where was the lady that looked so stern and teachery-like two hours before?" It sounded like a miniature, diseased hamster, or maybe just a geriatric crawldad, that had somehow lodged in my brain. I ignored the sick, old hamster-dad and sat down.

Ms. Hughes shook my hand and welcomed me, still smiling, and asked me where I was from. I told her. She asked me a couple of other questions, then laid both hands down flat on the printout of my first chapter. She looked at me right in the eyes and said that she loved my story. She loved the scenery, the characters, and she said that she loved my voice. She said that she loved the poignancy and the humor. She even loved the shitbirds. (I'll post an excerpt in a couple of days so you'll know what the heck I'm talking about.) She even remembered the little fictional town of Farmington, Alabama, that was in the chapter I'd sent. She wasn't flipping through the pages and reading; she remembered it. She said that twenty pages wasn't enough, and that she wanted to see the rest of my book. SHE. Wanted to see. The REST. Of MY book.

There was more, but it went by so quickly and then she gave me her email address and I thanked her and went out into the lobby in tears because somebody, somebody that doesn't know me and love me and doesn't want to hurt my feelings, somebody that works in the industry, somebody that gets paid to reject crap and recognize great writing, somebody that knows their business like the back of their hand, somebody like her told me, basically, that I AM worthy. Her response told me that I am going to possibly, (not concrete yet, but possibly) have a tiny, tiny chance to get my work published someday. My mind was careening along at breakneck speed. People might pick up my book from a store or a library and take it home. They might read it, loan it to treasured friends, give it as a gift to someone they love, talk about it over lunch, spend a fraction of their lives enjoying it. It might take them away on a trip to Filcher's Gulch (and Farmington) for a few hours and entertain them. It might make someone laugh. It might make a good doorstop or table leveler, but it may just get read.

It's because of great writers like David Fulmer, Joshilyn Jackson, Sue Monk Kidd, Laurie Notaro, Haven Kimmel, Hollis Gillespie, William Faulkner, Poe, Twain, Dickinson, and thousands of others that helped get me into this mess, and I hope to never get out of it. Thank you all for the inspiration, the motivation, the imagination, and the great stories that you've provided. I stand on the shoulders of giants, and I reach. I won't stop reaching.

It's funny how things can go EXACTLY the opposite of how you thought they'd go, and it's also quite strange for things to seem SO MONUMENTALLY FRIGHTENING, then turn out to be one of the most pleasant, fabulous experiences of your life.

The second part didn't go exactly like the first. Maybe he just doesn't like shitbirds. That's cool, though, 'cause other people love them.

I'll post an excerpt in the near future about the shitbirds so you'll know what I'm referring to in that last cryptic paragraph.