Tuesday, August 7, 2007
No, I didn’t mis-name the title. It was intentional.
Actually, it wasn’t all bad. In fact, it was good, enjoyable…except for certain questionable parts. One or two in particular. But I shall get to those in due course.
It was supposed to be a writer’s conference. For those of you who are not writers, a writer’s conference is a big gathering of professional agents, publishers, and authors, usually over a weekend, to meet, greet, and schmooze. A gala of fellow artists and colleagues in the literary lumina, most of them not published, but desperately trying to be.
Writers, myself included, go to these things hoping that an agent or publisher will read a half paragraph of our work then take off running down the corridor jumping up and down, yelling and screaming about how they have finally found the new Stephen King or J.K. Rowling.
There are seminars and lectures, talks and takes on what works, what doesn’t, what’s to do, what’s to don’t, and a whole schedule of events and workshops over a two day program. And it’s usually a lot of fun.
But there are glitches, as his majesty, Mr. Asimov might say.
One such glitch occurred at a conference I attended in the Midwest one year. I won’t say which one it was because I don’t want to offend any potential publishers.
Yes, I’m a coward.
It was at a big hotel, as these things usually are, and it was very well done. The published writers that were there gave advice and helpful tips to the classroom size audiences. They were very good and I learned a lot from them. I always love talking shop with others in ‘the craft’ and even if it’s a writer that I have never read, I still find something to take away that helps me with my own work. It was very nice over all…except for some bad ‘parts’ as mentioned above.
I’ll tell you about just two.
The first one was a harrowing, and really, psychologically damaging, lack of coffee. (It’s pretty much a given that writers drink coffee–lots of it).
Those of the more bold and adventurous nature shoot up heroine. But I prefer coffee. It’s cheaper and it tastes better.
So I get there early in the morning of the first day, pick up my packet of complimentary writers magazines, gift certificates, and meeting schedules, and go looking for the java.
To my horror, it ain’t there.
Okay, so it’s not in the main room where you sign up for the weekend and get your plastic bag full of junk and a nametag that says, “Hello, my name is Kiss Ass.” Fine. I guess the coffee is in the hallways, or the lounge, or the waiting area, somewhere. I look in all those places.
Nope. Nowhere.
By now I’m sweating, frantically searching, coming close the edge of delirium tremens.
“Aha!” I say, licking my lips. “A restaurant.” I make a beeline for the double doors only to find a sign on the door that reads, ‘Open at 11:00.’
Moaning and blubbering, I scratch at the doors. I would call 911, but my phone is in my car, charging.
I’m thinking of going on the street for it. I figure I can go up to someone standing on the corner of fourth and Lexington and say, “Hey buddy…looking for some action, ya’ know? I got cash. I need the ‘J.’ Bad! Can you help me out?”
He gives me wary look, then says, “Fine ground or whole beans?”
“Fine ground. Come on, I’m hurtin,’ man.”
“Okay, okay, take it easy. Go see my boy Trevor across the street at Chip’s Mini-Mart. He just got a shipment of dark roast, he’ll set you up.”
“Thanks dude,” I say as I look around, then head for the seedy convenience store, too far gone to care about my own safety.
Portrait of a starving writer…sad, really.
Anyway, I wouldn’t have to do that if the damn conference would have had some damn coffee on the damn premises, dammit.
A two-day writer’s conference without coffee? Unheard of!
Someone complained, and the driector of the conference said, “We would have supplied coffee, but the hotel said it would cost three thousand dollars for the weekend.” Oh really? Fine, take back my copy of ‘Writer’s Retreat’ and the stack of advertisements, colored pencils, and coupons for ten percent off face cream to help pay for it.
The registration fee for this conference is around a hundred and fifty bucks. Now over a two-day period, I can probably drink, at most, no more than what adds up to a two-pound can of Folger’s Gourmet Supreme. At Wal-Mart, it’s under ten bills for the whole canister. Hell, I’ll even make the damn stuff, just give me a couple of Mr. Coffee machines, and a water supply.
But no. It costs too much. They’re lucky I didn’t have my gun with me.
The other thing that got me was the late night session in his hotel room. He told us that we would talk writing, until all were ready to stop, no matter how late.
Great.
My kind of group.
Sitting up until the wee hours deep into the night, discussing the finer aspects of the written word.
Heaven.
Now don’t get me wrong, I mean no disrespect for women, but when I showed up, other than our host, the director of the conference, I was the only guy there.
Okay, no problem. I can handle that. I even liked it. A whole room full of females. What could be better? And talented, writer females at that…sexy.
Uh…no.
The room was packed. Every area of space was occupied; the bed, the chairs, the desk, the floor, everywhere. So, I just stood. That was fine. I will stand all night if need be to glean certain golden moments of conversation delving into the higher points of the literary arts. I’m a big time macho man, I can take it.
I couldn’t believe my ears.
Most of the gems of artistic insight I was able to draw from the exchange was…let me see…oh yes, I remember now. Katy Couric was visibly affected by Matt Lauer’s new haircut. Oh, and Katy herself had changed her hair as well. It didn’t frame her face as efficiently as before, but the color was better. I’m not kidding! Then of course, they had to touch upon the relationship that Katy and Matt had with each other. It seems that there has developed some tension between them over the years.
Amazing.
I don’t really fault the women. If it was a group of guys, we’d probably be talking about guns, or who’s got the better team in the NFL this year. Or more likely, which one of the women writers is the best looking. But the director heading the conference was sitting right there. Why on Earth didn’t he facilitate a real discussion on, oh I don’t know, maybe…writing? I think he was trying to hit on this hot blonde because he was in the corner of the room, very engrossed in what apparently, her chest, was saying. I don’t blame him for that. She definitely had talent. But hell, take her to the bar. Or at least drag all of us to the lounge, get the discussion going, then take her back to your room. I guess he didn’t have the, ahem, gumption, shall we say, to tell everyone that The Today Show can wait, let’s get to the writing.
Oh well.
Those, and a couple of other things, will probably keep me from going back to that particular conference.
But there will be more, I’m sure. But if I go to another one, I will have to check to make sure they have coffee for me, testicles for the director, and duct tape for the women.
Unless that blonde is there. If she is, and I’m lucky, I can do without the coffee and the director, but I’ll need the duct tape.
Just kidding.
Keck
