A writer’s conference can be intimidating and exhilarating at the same time. My first was in San Francisco and, boy, was I green. I registered and booked a hotel room. I was quite proud of my savvy savings (a hefty car payment) booking a room a mere two blocks from the conference hotel–little did I know it was two blocks straight uphill and if you’ve ever walked the streets of San Francisco you know what I mean by uphill. My first day, I had to stop three times to catch my breath.
Walking into the meet and greet with three hundred other writers was amazing. These were my people. We had something extraordinary in common. We were all assembled at this time and place in the hopes of achieving a dream. Most of us were first-timers, most of us were scared and most of us had major hopes of becoming published authors after a short three days of instruction.
As an introvert and it was very hard for me to say that initial hello, but it got easier. Every day I pulled myself from that cozy comfort zone and met new people. I made sure to question each person I sat next to. “What do you write?” and “Is this your first conference?” always got a conversation started.
In the workshops I took meticulous notes and sat in awe of the writers who were leading discussions.
I signed up for as many extras as possible. One was a two-page critique by editors. The first editor loved my setting and hated my hero. The second pretty much hated the whole two pages. It was a little disheartening, but what did they know? Right? They’d only read two pages. “There is no hook,” one said. Hook? What did that even mean? First lesson learned by this greenhorn.
For me the whole conference came down to the pitching session. We fiction writers were divided into three groups and put into a room with literary agents circling the circumference. We got in the line of the agent we were interested in pitching and waited our turn. We had three minutes to hook an agent. I was a nervous wreck, but I’d done my homework and had a list from one to ten. I didn’t stand in line for number one or two, but moved on to number three because there was only one person ahead of me. When I sat down, she looked me in the eye for approximately thirty seconds before scanning the room as if looking for someone more interesting. I decided that was her way of weeding us out and it worked. I considered myself weeded. I moved on to agent number two (still not my first choice) who told me I didn’t know my own book well enough, the third said, “Your book has been done a thousand times. Try something new.” The fourth agent was actually interested and so was the fifth–both asked for partials. Finally feeling a little confidence return, I sat in front of my number one choice. I opened my mouth, ready to fill her in on the baby I’d nurtured for two years, but she quickly interrupted. “Tell me about yourself.” What? I have three minutes to pitch and she wants me to talk about myself?
I came away from that speed pitching session with extremely mixed feelings, but the conference in general was an eye-opening experience.
In July I’m going to San Antonio for my fourth writer’s conference. My first night there I’m meeting fourteen writers for dinner and can’t wait to make new friends. I will pitch my new manuscript. I will attend as many workshops as possible. I will be open minded and take meticulous notes. I will meet new people and I will, again, be in awe of the authors present, especially the ones I love to read.