Of Our Lives
"Vulnerability is not winning or losing; it's having the courage to show up and be seen when we have no control over the outcome. Vulnerability is not weakness; it's our greatest measure of courage." Brené Brown
The alarm goes off at exactly 6:30 am. Mercy me. It takes a minute to figure out where I am and how the hell to turn off that appalling noise.
After pushing every square inch of my phone with my index finger, I'm plunged into blissful silence and blindly search the nightstand for my glasses.
Then I let the soft pillows encapsulate me and relish the fact I have 45 minutes to enjoy a cup of coffee before showering and preparing for the conference.
I'll admit to sending up a little prayer that I don't run into the popular science lady as I scan the conference schedule, which is as complicated as the San Francisco Airport at Christmas, and try to map out my day.
I have the brochure identifying all the participants before me, which I am memorizing so I don't recreate the same snafu and unwittingly try and mingle with the royalty. I slip a few copies of Grow Damn It into a protective plastic bag (you never know) and organize my briefcase with paper, pens, business cards, and my computer. I also tuck the book I'm currently reading in the side panel in case I run into a Patchett radical who refuses to entertain me.
Opening the blackout drapes, I admire the gorgeous view of the San Francisco Bay as the rising sun infuses the scattered clouds into a montage of brilliant colors. It's spectacular.
I pinch myself because I can't believe I'm at a Writer's Conference, and for a minute, I allow some unlikely possibilities to waft through my mind.
I'm hopeful and excited, or maybe the coffee is finally kicking in.
Breakfast is provided this morning, and after slipping into a sporty outfit, I make my way to the banquet room.
Okay, I'll only admit this to you because it's odd. After racing to the elevator hub, all the small hairs on the back of my arms rise simultaneously, and I sense a presence behind me. I'm not kidding. I spin around to confront what I think should be a human, but it's not. It's a gorgeous purple orchid potted in a large white container.
This makes me laugh, and after making sure no one is watching (I have no idea why I'm telling you this), I walk over and touch her soft petals. Sort of like shaking someone's hand or petting a dog because I feel the need to acknowledge her presence, which I sense she appreciates.
Who says I couldn't be a popular science writer?
Anyhoo…I enter the main ballroom, it's packed with mostly middle-aged females. Almost everyone has a briefcase, most are wearing glasses, and all are carrying coffee or tea.
It's Interesting that fifty percent of the writers worldwide are men, but only about a sixth of the participants are male. Why is that? Maybe this conference isn't organized in a way that appeals to men? Hum? That might be for another blog.
After making a plate, I joined a table near the podium, knowing the best students always sit in the front of the class. It's a lively group. Our icebreaker this morning was a trivial pursuit game, which we almost won because someone at our table knew who played the Chiefs in the Super Bowl last year.
It was the Eagles, if you must know, I don't want you all stopping to google it.
After the welcome breakfast, it's a full day of workshops. I stay in the Non-Fiction track, learning how to write a proposal and package my imagined content for the market. Then, there is an interesting talk on why I am the only person who can write my own story.
Obviously!
I slip in an eight-minute session with Andy Ross on what a pitch is all about. I'm still confused, but I now know he's not interested in a book about cycling in tandem around the world to escape our own neurosis or how to manage the woes of retirement.
He'll kick himself later.
For lunch, I grab a chicken wrap and eat it in my room after kicking off my shoes and leaning into the quiet. I appreciate every second of all this abject silence. It's total bliss with a twist because I have to leave it to appreciate it.
Too much coffee?
After lunch, there's another round of workshops on writing resources, publicity, and screenwriting. I met several agents, editors, publishers, and the like, but it's all sort of a blur.
Keep reading, I'm getting to the good stuff.
What I noticed was the unusual dynamic between the writers and the presenters, those sharing their time, knowledge, and expertise to give us a fighting chance to reach a wider audience. I felt as if I was at their mercy, beholden to their credentials, expertise, and reputation because they could reject my work on the spot or in general. But trust me, without authors, this is no industry. Understanding the symbiotic relationship between the writers and these gatekeepers is not what you think, it's our unique content, the stuff only we can write. That is our commonality. And that might put us in a vulnerable position but never forget, you might be the next pickleball novel (lingo in the writing world for unexpected best sellers).
Granted, a few agents thought highly of themselves, and in the name of "honesty," they let us know very few authors make it in this industry. That's a troubling message, and I bought it hook, line, and sinker until I really listened to the publishers, editors, and marketing specialists in my genre, and their message was louder and clearer: NEVER GIVE UP, DON'T GET DISTRACTED, OR DISCOURAGED, JUST KEEP WRITING!
So pull out those old manuscripts you have stuffed in a drawer and work on them. Change one sentence at a time, make it your own, channel your unique voice, and bring those stories only you can tell to life.
We are all looking for this because, as Dr. Albert Schweitzer has said so perfectly, "At that point in life where your talent meets the needs of the world, that's where God wants you to be." Replace the word God with the universe, life force, or all that is Good and Holy if that makes more sense. It doesn't matter.
It's about changing the world one story at a time with that seed of hope hidden in you from birth and just waiting to bloom.
Keep writing, keep sending your work out into the world. It matters!
I was exhausted after the last workshop and looked forward to putting my feet up and enjoying a cup of coffee. I'll admit, I sat there for a long time debating with myself as to whether or not I wanted to go down to the bar and risk courting humiliation and outright rejection ~ again.
Guess who won?
The optimist in me who refuses to give up on humanity. After tidying up and applying liberal amounts of lipstick and deodorant, I slip on my shoes and head to the lobby bar. I spot a luna wolf and tentatively ask if the seat next to her is taken.
"No, sit down, welcome."
Her smile is luminous, so I extend my hand and say, "Hi, I'm Cheryl. How's the conference going for you?"
She says, "I'm Sara. The conference is going well. It's so nice to meet you."
And with that, we ordered some wine and got down to the business of getting to know each other.
Halfway through our first glass of wine, Sara says, "I'd like to buy a copy of your book."
Shocked, I say, "Really?" No wonder I sell so many books. Right?
She laughs, and says, "Yes, I'd love to read your book."
I was deeply humbled by her generosity, kindness, and support.
It was as if no time had passed, and suddenly, it was time to attend a talk by the keynote speaker, Alka Joshi, who wrote The Henna Artist. Her talk was about how her overnight success took ten years. Then Netflix picked up her book and turned it into a series.
I know, what the hell?
Sara, my new best friend, and I spent the rest of our time at the conference, not necessarily together, but certainly connected. We had someone to sit with at meals, bounce ideas around, and champion each other when we were about to give a pitch. It's truly amazing how one person can completely change the experience for the better just by her unmerited presence.
What a dynamo. She was the best part of the conference by far, but I took away a lot more. A sense of hope and a powerful affirmation that I can do this. There is much more to write, publish, and share with those who are still willing to read my work. I gave a copy of my book to a brilliant publisher who ate breakfast with us one morning. I connected with an interesting publicist, a zany producer, and an editor who knew how to cut through the crap.
I felt seen, heard, and, most importantly, validated as a writer. Isn't that what we all want? I realize I've chosen a difficult craft that requires intense honesty and copious amounts of time. Our narrative has to be a discerning, divergent, dogmatic page-turner because we are the authors of our lives.
I nailed my elevator pitch, by the way, which included words like deep thinking, moral imagination, and raw honesty. Yes, it sounds like a salad, but when dressed in humor, it makes it all the more spicy and delicious. Oh, and obviously, we must be hungry for it!
I'm Living in the Gap, the embers are still smoldering, and I'm dying to hear your conference stories.
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