Writer's Conference

Yesterday, I attended a writer's conference here in town. The conference aimed to create a community of writers. From what I could tell, they managed to create a community of people who are trying desparately to avoid, or get out of, a "real job."

While waiting in line to register, I was privvy to several conversations. It's my favorite time to eavesdrop because you can't not hear the people around you when you're in line. The man in front of me was telling the woman in front of me all about the many writers conferences he'd been to. He'd been to one in Myrtle Beach. He'd been to one in Jacksonville. I thought, "When do you ever find time to write?" About then, the woman got a phone call so I couldn't learn more about all the fascinating conferences this fellow had attended.

As I waited, I turned my attention to the people behind me. I'm not sure how their conversation started, but I joined in at, "I went to college in western Massachusetts." I turned and asked, "Where?" She named the "other women's college" and I divulged that I had attended "the women's college." We graduated the same year, and she made a comment about living in a small world. (Side note: For the rest of the day, I had "It's a small world, after all" going through my head, thanks to my new friend.)

After the first speaker, my "sister" and I struck up a conversation. As I recanted the abridged version of "my life to date," I mentioned that I had escaped from a northeastern post-industrial wasteland. She stopped me to ask where. When I told her, she replied, "That's where my family is from. We make a pilgrimage there as often as we can." As Mickey Mouse's voice blared "It's a small, small world" in my ears, I said, "Well, that's ironic, because I just made an exodus from there," thus allowing Bob Marley to momentarily drown out Mickey Mouse.

We made our way to the first of four workshop sessions. Each round, I could choose from eight workshops. The organizers decided to make the selection process more challenging by providing only the session titles. Most were self-explanatory. For example, "Working with Agents" and "What an Editor Wants" were pretty obvious. Others were more challenging. For example, "The Ghost that Got Into My House" and "SLAM!" left me perplexed. I decided to forgo "Villanous Smells" all together.

At the end of the day, we all gathered for the last speaker. He's a fellow who writes cookbooks with vignettes about his experiences. He started his talk by describing his first books about bread. It was late in the afternoon and I thought, "Mmm, bread." I tuned back in as he said something about bread being a metaphor for life, but he'd lost me at "bread." In what was supposed to be an inspirational send-off, he told of his travels to find the perfect pizza. I thought, "Mmmm, pizza." Then, he transitioned from pizza to cheese steak. As he described watching this guy make the perfect cheese steak in Philadelphia, I almost cried, "Stop it! You're killing me over here!" Meanwhile, my new friend somehow got past the food references to grasp his broader message about mission.

If only he'd talked about anything but cheese steak and pizza, then I too could have found inspiration. As it was, I was inspired to order pizza for dinner, which I'm guessing was not his main point.