Skip to main content

Writer's Conference

So I'm at my very first Writer's Conference. Think of it as the only time when you can get a bunch of introverts together to fumble through the process of social interaction. All in order to get their work out into the world. It's a harrowing creation.

It's kind of like writing your novel all over again. In writing a novel, when you look at your peers, everyone is struggling, fighting their own personal demons, trying to get words to paper. You're in it for the long haul, it's daily battles to win the war. Everyone has a book idea to get on paper, that's the norm. At a conference, everyone has a novel written, that's the norm, and everyone is trying to get anyone to care.

At a Writer's Conference, everyone is particularly interested in telling everyone else about what they are doing. It's not any different from real life, in that respect, at least among strangers: everyone waiting for the other person to stop talking so they can talk about themselves. Not that there is anything wrong with it. But at the Writer's Conference, there is a particular desperation to it. Here are folks, who are in many respects just like you, bringing their babies (their novels, memoirs, book of small Tibetan Progressive Throat Poetry) to the butcher, more or less. Everyone is walking around literaly shimmering with the nervous energy that I imagine a first time nudist might have when joining a Colony. Terribly insecure, unsure, and waiting for the Hammer of Judgement to fall.

On the agent/editor side, you are wading through the miles and miles of dreck to get to anything you want to publish. To make things a bit worse, even if you do find something you like,you won't necessarily be able to publish it (your lineup for that sort of writing is full, your house doesn't want to do another book like that as they lost kajillions on the last one they gambled on).

And then there is the pitch, a witty spiel in which you try and sell an agent or an editor on your piece. It's somewhat absurd, as chances are, you are not going to be reading the book live to your readers. One of the editors here even said he's not fond of pitches. This makes sense. A reader doesn't read the pitch, they read the book. My personal opinion is that it's an extrovert's revenge upon the introverts. I would imagine agents (not so much editors) are extroverted people; that is, they are energized when they speak with people. Naturally, a verbal spiel with the whole song and dance is the most logical thing in the world for them. For writers, it's a mini dante's hell (I'm only vaguely aware of what dante's hell might be, but it looks clever, doesn't it?)

It's such a labrynth of unknown pitfals and alleys here at the conference. Sure there are seminars and what not, but one is never quite sure what one is supposed to get out of it. Particularly because many rules in writing are broken again and again. And then there are the millions of things one shouldn't do. Such as, don't show anyone your work. Or don't ask if you can show anyone your work, which seems like the first thing one would want to do when confronted by an armyof editors and agents.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Insults From A Senile Victorian Gentleman

You SIR, have the hygeine of an overly ripe avocado and the speaking habits of a vaguely deranged chess set. I find your manner to be unctuous and possibly libelous, and whatever standard you set for orthodontal care, it's not one I care for. Your choice in news programs is semi-literate at best and I do believe your favourite news anchor writes erotic literature for university mascots. While I'm not one to point out so obvious a failing, there has been rumour that the brunches you host every other Sunday are made with too much lard and cilantro. If you get my meaning. There is something to be said about your choice of motor-car fuel, but it is not urbane and if I were to repeat it, mothers would cover their children's ears and perhaps not a few longshoremen within earshot would blush. How you maintain that rather obscene crease in your trousers and your socks is beyond me, perhaps its also during this time that you cultivate a skin regime that I'm sure requires the dea

Learn A New Thing...

Man, you really do learn a new thing everyday. There have been a few shocking realizations I've had over the past month or so: -bizaare is spelled bizarre (how bizaare) -scythe is pronounced "sithe", not the phonetic way. Which is the way I've been pronouncing it in my head for my whole life. My entire youth spent reading Advanced Thresher Sci-Fi and Buckwheat Fantasy novels, for naught! -George Eliot was a woman, real name Mary Ann Evans. -Terry Gilliam is American. -Robocop is a Criterion Film. I shit you not . -Uhm, oh damn, just after I post this, I find that, this movie is a Criterion film as well . Maybe I don't know what being a Criterion film really entails.. Alright all (three) readers of my blog, post and lemme know some earth shattering facts you've learned recently.

Europe : London Maritime Museum - March 15th

I've never, well I suppose most people don't either, thought of myself as a flat. Despite the fact I rarely go anywhere. Despite the fact that, given my shut in lifestyle I have about as much street smarts as, well, a middle aged programmer who rarely goes out.  But I am a flat, entirely. First step is admitting I have a problem.  On our way to the bus station, and at NO time did I sense any of this, or even have a sense of anyone being very close to me, both the zippers in my bag were opened, and my rather nice down jacket was nicked. Shameful, I know. But, I suppose, bravo on the thiefs, I didn't feel a thing. And well, I suppose we are going to Italy, so, less to pack? It was a certain jet of anger, I suppose, and befuddlement. But I also was so very thankful I had not lost my wallet and/or phone, both which would require hours and hours of hassle and phone calls to set me to rights.  It might be my stoic optimism is a source of my lack of street smarts. But I'm also