Just when I think things can’t get any better than previous James River Writer’s Conferences, they outdo themselves. It was phenomenal. I love being around my tribe. The combined creative energy at the conference is always palpable. As usual, having to choose between two or more courses you really, really, want to attend, but can only
have your body in one place at a time is always difficult. Each hour, four different sessions go on simultaneously all day. The two days are intense for me, and by the end of Saturday I am a good kind of wasted.
I’d been determined to get a good night sleep the Thursday night before the conference, but that’s sometimes easier said than done when you live in a hotel with thin walls. I did manage to get to sleep by 9:30 p.m., but was rudely awakened at 1 a.m. by someone singing in the loudspeaker room next to me. Apparently, the entire floor had erupted
in song during the night because at 7:15 the next morning I received a phone call from the front desk asking me if I was also hearing music. They’d been getting complaints from my floor all night. Thank God, I was beginning to worry I was channeling outer space. Sometimes I feel and hear vibrations in the middle of the night. I sleep alone. I know what you’re thinking. It’s not. Maybe I’m picking up tectonic plate shuffling in advance of the next earthquake.
Due to a last minute wardrobe change I was running five minutes behind schedule on Friday morning. I finally got downstairs and discovered my car wasn’t there. I thought Confidante was playing a joke. No joke, just a communication problem, but the fact remained I still had to find a ride to the Library of Virginia, and fast. I know enough about life that there are no coincidences, so when the night shift person was still there an hour after her shift, I knew it was Divine intervention. She drove me to the conference. I arrived on time, and after the adrenaline subsided I started to laugh at the drama. As is true for many libraries, homeless people like to hang out there, so the sight of me laughing to myself in the middle of the lobby seemed to fit right in, and no one came over to ask me to leave.
All morning I kept going over my pitch to the agent. For some reason, about an hour before my scheduled appointment with the agent, I decided to change my pitch. This is usually an act of creative suicide, likened only to changing your answers on the SAT. This time however, I was glad I did, because I improved it. And, I give credit for the inspiration to do so, to whoever has been serving as my muse all these years. The agent liked it too because she asked me to send her the first 30 pages of the manuscript; music to my
ears.
Our first day ended on a sour note as one of the guest agents gave a talk on the current sad state of affairs of the publishing industry. She inferred that getting published is almost impossible. Publishing houses don’t want to give advances, and what small amounts they do give gets divvied up into four or five payments over two years. After spending maybe years writing a book, an author may not break even in the end. Self publishing may get you published, but you have to pay for it. In either case, you’re responsible for your own marketing. If your sales are not there they burn your books. Blah, blah, blah. The average writer wonders what in the world they’re wasting their time on after hearing this. The huge advances are being given to the celebrities who aren’t
even writers, but have name recognition. No wonder the publishing houses are in trouble.
Well, pooh. I am of the belief that you persevere and write because you love it, and because you can’t see yourself doing anything else that could possibly give you as much pleasure. And, if you put in the time and effort to hone your craft, you can and eventually will see your work out there. This is why I write. I have to write. I’ve had several other careers and jobs, but writing is my oxygen. On the last day of the conference our Chairman reminded us that there are writers who make a very nice living at writing, and who once papered their walls with rejection letters. It’s part of the territory. There are much easier, more profitable ways to make a living, so if you don’t have thick skin and a
sense of perseverance you won’t make it. I plan on making it.
Thanks to all the agents, published writers and journalists who made the conference such a success. I’m wondering if one of those I met this weekend is reading this blog.
have your body in one place at a time is always difficult. Each hour, four different sessions go on simultaneously all day. The two days are intense for me, and by the end of Saturday I am a good kind of wasted.
I’d been determined to get a good night sleep the Thursday night before the conference, but that’s sometimes easier said than done when you live in a hotel with thin walls. I did manage to get to sleep by 9:30 p.m., but was rudely awakened at 1 a.m. by someone singing in the loudspeaker room next to me. Apparently, the entire floor had erupted
in song during the night because at 7:15 the next morning I received a phone call from the front desk asking me if I was also hearing music. They’d been getting complaints from my floor all night. Thank God, I was beginning to worry I was channeling outer space. Sometimes I feel and hear vibrations in the middle of the night. I sleep alone. I know what you’re thinking. It’s not. Maybe I’m picking up tectonic plate shuffling in advance of the next earthquake.
Due to a last minute wardrobe change I was running five minutes behind schedule on Friday morning. I finally got downstairs and discovered my car wasn’t there. I thought Confidante was playing a joke. No joke, just a communication problem, but the fact remained I still had to find a ride to the Library of Virginia, and fast. I know enough about life that there are no coincidences, so when the night shift person was still there an hour after her shift, I knew it was Divine intervention. She drove me to the conference. I arrived on time, and after the adrenaline subsided I started to laugh at the drama. As is true for many libraries, homeless people like to hang out there, so the sight of me laughing to myself in the middle of the lobby seemed to fit right in, and no one came over to ask me to leave.
All morning I kept going over my pitch to the agent. For some reason, about an hour before my scheduled appointment with the agent, I decided to change my pitch. This is usually an act of creative suicide, likened only to changing your answers on the SAT. This time however, I was glad I did, because I improved it. And, I give credit for the inspiration to do so, to whoever has been serving as my muse all these years. The agent liked it too because she asked me to send her the first 30 pages of the manuscript; music to my
ears.
Our first day ended on a sour note as one of the guest agents gave a talk on the current sad state of affairs of the publishing industry. She inferred that getting published is almost impossible. Publishing houses don’t want to give advances, and what small amounts they do give gets divvied up into four or five payments over two years. After spending maybe years writing a book, an author may not break even in the end. Self publishing may get you published, but you have to pay for it. In either case, you’re responsible for your own marketing. If your sales are not there they burn your books. Blah, blah, blah. The average writer wonders what in the world they’re wasting their time on after hearing this. The huge advances are being given to the celebrities who aren’t
even writers, but have name recognition. No wonder the publishing houses are in trouble.
Well, pooh. I am of the belief that you persevere and write because you love it, and because you can’t see yourself doing anything else that could possibly give you as much pleasure. And, if you put in the time and effort to hone your craft, you can and eventually will see your work out there. This is why I write. I have to write. I’ve had several other careers and jobs, but writing is my oxygen. On the last day of the conference our Chairman reminded us that there are writers who make a very nice living at writing, and who once papered their walls with rejection letters. It’s part of the territory. There are much easier, more profitable ways to make a living, so if you don’t have thick skin and a
sense of perseverance you won’t make it. I plan on making it.
Thanks to all the agents, published writers and journalists who made the conference such a success. I’m wondering if one of those I met this weekend is reading this blog.