My First Writing Conference
In the midst of my “Edge of Glory 1” edits, I am surrounded by my binder, three notebooks, three pages (and adding more) of edit notes, and a beloved cat named Karma who loves perching on one of my notebooks right beside my laptop. It’s been overwhelming to figure out a process to it; pouring over blogs, Pinterest posts and what other authors and editors have to say. Touching up character profiles, adjusting, and trying to make this the best book it can be.
To say I have truly felt the isolation of writing lately is an understatement. I get home from work at around 11 at night and spend a few hours working on the book, be it edits on Book One or continuing work on Book Two. I don’t know many writers offline in my locality. And let’s be real: as writers, we fully expect friends and family to adore, or at least pretend to adore, our writing. It can be a directionless endeavour sometimes, to keep trudging through the chapters of our novels without really knowing if it’s worth it or not.
I took a break this past weekend to attend my first writing conference; also the first one ever held in my city. While I wasn’t sure what to expect, I was ecstatic. While drinking coffee after coffee, I sat through panels that discussed self-publishing, editing and writer resources. The highlight, however, was a panel called the “Live Action Slush.” Authors were encouraged to submit the first page of their manuscript anonymously for the panel of editors to read out loud and judge, raising their hands at the point where they would stop reading. I sent mine in with apprehension. While they ran out of time for the last bit of the pile, which included mine, it was still highly informative. I came away with about two pages of notes.
Later that evening, at the “Snack and Chat”, another one of the authors/editors from that panel gave a speech about building writing communities. She was particularly inspiring with her story about a woman who used to go to annual Writer’s Guild meetings, who wore the same suit consecutively until losing her husband. Then she showed up one year in a flowery dress. A different woman than she’d been before.
Damn, could I ever relate. I felt the mundaneness of that same suit in the years I was married. I felt the quiet demeanour of a woman who didn’t know who she was and didn’t know how to speak up at such events; who didn’t even feel a part of a community she’d always been a part of without knowing. More importantly, I felt the bittersweet liberation in that floral dress, ironically something that’s become my favourite thing to wear since leaving my own marriage almost two years ago.
The speech brought me to tears upon realizing that I do belong somewhere. After all this time of the desolation and isolation of never feeling good enough, of constantly feeling alone in crowds, there was this place and time where I was right where I was supposed to be. I didn’t have to prove anything. I didn’t have to be someone I wasn’t, like what I’d done in past relationships. I simply existed with writers like me, these other brilliant creative minds. We all had so much in common without needing to state it. For once, I wasn’t the young woman with the tragic past, depression, and PTSD. I was sitting in a room of people who didn’t know any of that about me and I was…normal, for once in my life. For once, I was just another face in the crowd, in exactly the crowd I’ve always wanted to belong to. I left the conference feeling enlightened, empowered and part of something bigger than myself and the little world I’ve been isolating myself in.
With such inspiration, I rewrote the first page of “Edge of Glory 1.” I fussed and fretted over it while my sister, who came with me to the conference, discussed it with me. Finally, I revisited some older drafts and read through some of those opening lines. I found one I really liked and worked with it, rewriting it into a new opening scene. The fire is back. I’ve returned to my book with renewed determination.
Earlier today, I scrolled upon a Facebook post calling out to the authors who didn’t get their first page read, to email it in and one of the editors would look it over for free edit to the page. So, I did a thing. I sent in the opening scene of “Edge of Glory” I’d just rewritten. Then it was a waiting game as I had weekly Sunday dinner with my mother.
It felt like waiting on a moment of truth. Like this would truly determine whether this project has been worth it despite the times I’ve felt like giving up. Despite everything I’ve been through to keep writing. My childhood, the housefire, the divorce, remaining resilient throughout adversity. All because I want to be a writer and I want to get to that place where I can be a full-time author.
The email came back tonight, much quicker than I thought it would, and I was astounded. Back at the conference, this same editor had said that when an editor sends back a piece full of marks and comments, it means they believe you have potential. He repeated this in the email. That if I could fix the mistakes he outlined, then I could catapult myself to the next level; possibly even a couple levels up.
“If you can turn 180 degrees, you’ll be facing the right direction and unstoppable.”
Even before opening the page to look at the edits, I nearly cried, taking in a relieved and happy breath. It was with great excitement that I opened my first page. Sure enough, it was full of marks and comments about what I needed to fix and how to make it better. Brilliant advice. Call me insane, and maybe I’m out of my mind, but the track comments in Word along the side margin of my first page was such an inspiring sight. This editor went through a lot of effort and time to go through my page, noting that my new opening line was unexpected and interesting.
It’s been a long time since I’ve felt hopeful instead of frustrated; moving forward instead of stuck in one place. As though I’ve put a piece into the void of my spirit that was lost years ago. It’s only one piece, but it’s the start of something new. Of the better person and writer that I can be.
Now all I want to do…is write. “Onward and upward”, as the editor closed his email to me after I replied to thank him for his time and immense help.
Onward and upward. Forward and never going back again. I’ve been saying that 2019 is going to be my comeback writing year. And here it is.
My beloved Miss Karma, on my notebook, her favourite perch.