Notes from the Third Row: Good Stuff from the Hippocamp Conference for Creative Nonfiction Writers, 2018

When this blog was an infant, I ran some posts summing up advice and insights I’d returned with after attending a writing conference, residency, or similar gathering. I thought I’d revive the tradition, because this past weekend, for the fourth year in a row, I was at Hippocamp: A Conference for Creative Nonfiction Writers, in Lancaster, PA.

Since its inception, I’ve been an enthusiastic supporter of Hippocamp, which is put on by Hippocampus Magazine, a rather nice and well-respected online literary journal. This smallish conference continues to be a particularly loved favorite of mine for so many reasons, checking the important boxes I tick off when deciding on attending a writers’ conference.

As usual, I tried to get to all the breakout sessions, panels, and special presentations that sounded of particular interest to me. And as usual, I failed, because with so many promising concurrent offerings, it’s just impossible. So, I’ll be watching, myself, as post-Hippocamp coverage begins to emerge, as it usually does on others attendees’ blogs and writerly websites. (Update: like this one I just found by Joanne Lozar Glenn, and this one from Kelly Kandra Hughes, and this from Anne Pinkerton.)

Meanwhile, here’s a peek into some of what made it into my notebook, though much more is rattling around my head, my heart.

I took a pre-conference workshop with writer and journalism professor Wendy Fontaine  on “Using Brain Science to Write Memoir.” I teach a memoir workshop on integrating memories into memoir, and how to transform elusive, uncooperative memories into nonfiction prose—but this was a terrific chance for me to learn how and why our brains actually handle memory. I know this will not only expand what I can share with students in the future, but that it also opened doors and windows to my own understanding of why humans do and don’t remember, and how that impacts writing.

A few tidbits:

. I already knew that smell is the strongest and most powerful memory trigger (yes, more than music), but now I know why. It’s because the olfactory center is located in close proximity to the hippocampus, the place in the brain that files, retrieves and makes connections between memories.

. Some things that occurred are never recorded in memory, so even if we know we were present when X happened, it’s possible our brain never encoded X. All the trying-to-remember gymnastics just won’t work. Some would-be memories really are “lost”.

. What my husband calls “revisionist” history is a thing. A thing called “memory source confusion” – when we substitute what makes sense for what we can’t recall.

The opening conference speaker, Beth Kephart (whose work I’ve admired since reading A Slant of Sun as a newish mother), delivered a beautiful talk on the job and art of the memoirist—and its limits—and I snatched these juicy morsels:

. The memoir writer’s job is to tell facts and to confess when we don’t.  “As memoirists, we are most trusted when we acknowledge what we don’t know.”

. When James Baldwin wrote, “I realized I didn’t know my father very well,” he then re-imagined him, but used language to cue the reader:  “…he was, I think…” “I gather this from…”

. On the art of knowing what to leave out, and how memoir thrives on what’s not there: “Truth is messy. Carve your truth from the mess, but leave most of it off the page.”

. Finally, this beauty: “Grace Paley once said, ‘If you find only yourself interesting, you’re boring.’ Write past yourself and you won’t be bored.”

From Elane Johnson’s session on “Dialogue that Doesn’t Suck,” –

. Dialogue must be true, meaning it must match the character, personality, education, of the person speaking.

. Remember to show how a (real) character may talk differently when in conversation with different people.

. Don’t try to score revenge by placing words in someone’s mouth they wouldn’t have said. “Even if Mom is dead and no one will protest, it makes her look bad and it will be WRONG for your story and that will show.”

Kelly Caldwell  presented a useful session on “The Art of the Catastrophe Narrative” (and the best ever, whopping 40-page handout packet!):

. Keep in mind, the (real life) protagonist(s) has a goal to reach both during and after the catastrophe.

. When writing, remember “Four phases of disaster recovery: Hero phases; Disillusionment phase; Honeymoon phase; Recovery phase.”

During a freelancing panel, Estelle Erasmus offered this deceptively simple checklist for a pitch: “Why this? Why now? Why me?” and added that the “Why now” should include some data, stats, trends or other information that’s brand new.

Steph Auteri, in a flash talk titled, “How to Pump out an Epic Number of Ideas in One Sitting,” offered writers looking to publish in mainstream media key article/essay idea prompts:

 

. What have I experienced that others might want to know about?

. What do I want to know about?

. What’s in the news that I can comment on?

. What national news/trend can I make local? (and vice versa)

. What new stats or studies can I say something about?

. What in popular culture—movies, TV, books, etc.—am I excited about and can comment on?

. What else are people talking about (what’s in the zeitgeist?)

From “The Art of Interviewing” session with Diane McCormick: Have a conversation, not an interrogation. Make a statement, putting yourself in your subject’s shoes, and see what they say in response: “If that had happened to me, I think I would have…”

From “The Long and Winding Road: Publishing an Essay Collection,” with Randon Billings Noble: Sometimes, you get the dream…and also lose it. I admired Randon’s candor in telling how she landed a hot New York agent (who wooed her over a pricy meal in a famous Manhattan restaurant), only to part ways when she wasn’t willing to mold her work to the agent’s vision. (I just pre-ordered her debut collection, Be With Me Always, from University of Nebraska Press. You might want to also!)

Keynoter Abigail Thomas shared many truth nuggets which I couldn’t record because I was either laughing or nodding furiously in agreement, and also I had committed to staying absorbed in the moment. She’s a literary hero of mine: when I want to try something on the page that’s a little off, I bolster myself with, “Well if Abigail Thomas could do X in (insert one of her books here), then I can…”

One thing that really stuck with me (and I’m paraphrasing her first sentence): We worry when writing memoir that others will say, who cares?

Thomas continues: “Who cares who cares? YOU care.”

That’s it in a nutshell, no?

[I was fortunate to be involved in Hippocamp 2018 as a reader and panelist (Debut Authors Night), and presented a breakout session, “Reconstruction: Transforming (Related) Essays into a Narrative Memoir.” More on the latter in a future post.]

Meanwhile, what have you been inspired by, intrigued by, captivated by recently at a writer gathering?

Conference Wrap-Up or, What I Learned and Did (and didn't do) at #AWP18

Everything I do lately seems to have multiple purposes. I read for pleasure, to observe what other authors do on the page, to learn, to find fine examples to share with my students. When I cruise social media, I'm cheering on other authors with books about to publish, looking for great short essays to read and share, keeping up to date about the writing world (and the world!), having a bit of social fun, working here and there on some presence for my upcoming book. And when I'm at a writers conference? The motherlode of multi-tasking! All of the above!

For the mammoth annual AWP Conference two weeks ago in Tampa, I headed down with at least four (not exactly competing) items on my to-accomplish list: Talk to folks about my forthcoming book, Starting with Goodbye, and hand out/sign advance reading copies. Meet in person the literary folks I only know online, but really like. Read from, and meet follow contributors to the anthology, Flash Nonfiction Funny. Attend break-out sessions and other formal activities that piqued my interest, to continue learning.

I did all that, and more. 

Having ARC's of Starting with Goodbye was thrilling. To be in the AWP bookfair with those in my hand...well, I can hardly describe the feeling as far-flung writing world friends stopped by to have a look, take a book, and sincerely wish me well. I wanted to hug them all. Come to think of it, I did hug them all!

AWP's bookfair is a sprawling, two-football-field sized maze and can often feel like a bit of a cold place, filled with pressure to accomplish something, to meet someone, to have the right conversations. Last year though I seemed to crack through my own personal shoulds, relax and look at it differently: as a place to find, meet, and talk with writer friends I interact with online, editors who have published my work, former students, and my own fellow MFA alums, and also a place to explore, meet new folks, and not worry one whit about what may come out of those interactions.

While I did attend a few stellar break-out sessions this year, I spent fewer hours than usual in those, opting instead to continue meaningful conversations rather than dashing off to make it to a chilly meeting room exactly on time. Those in-person meet-ups now feel like a more urgent part of any conference experience than before.

One session I especially found interesting was focused on creative nonfiction chapbooks, which I reported on here for Assay Journal; there you'll also find reports on many more AWP 2018 panels. I picked sessions to attend mostly based on what I'm curious about now, including: an excellent panel on narrative medicine (coinciding nicely with an upcoming community teaching gig I have to help those recovering from injuries to write their health stories); one on how authors can collectively help one another on myriad levels; another on effective online teaching methods; and one more on mastering digital book promotion.

Because I had family in the area to visit, and my knees can only take so many hours of hard floors, I missed what I'm told was a masterful keynote by George Saunders, and some other evening events. Time was, I would have been upset about that. Now, I'm taking the long view. There will be other big conferences (AWP in Portland, OR next year?), and other gatherings nearer and smaller.

At my first job, a mentor once advised that if you can leave any professional conference having made at least three satisfying new connections, learned a couple of key strategies you can put into practice, and not come home sick or injured, that will have been a successful outing.

AWP Writers Conference: All Aboard

In a couple of hours, my train pulls in to the station in Tampa, Florida for the annual AWP conference. Really, I made the trip from New Jersey on the rails! (Since I'm writing and scheduling this post four days in advance, I won't know if that idea was brilliant or demented, so check with me later..)

Meanwhile, onward...to the wonderfully ginormous, teeming, swirling controlled chaos that is AWP. What? You think 14,000 writers (and editors, publishers, writing teachers, etc.) descending on an enormous conference center and a slew of hotels is calm and orderly?  That 500+ breakout sessions, a few dozen of readings and gatherings, a dozen or so keynotes and special appearances and talks and on-stage interviews, are easy to navigate? Throw in a three-football-field sized bookfair, after-hours and off-site readings and parties (sorry, sponsored meet-ups), biz dinners and lunches and breakfasts, and you've got AWP.

Which I must say, actually is remarkably organized and orderly for all its girth. And also, unruly.

But hey, Florida instead of NJ in March? I'm there. Or here, by now. 

Like last year, I'm here to learn, to listen, to meet up with my far-flung but fiercely valued writer friends I only see once a year (or every few years). To absorb it all, make new writer-world friends, take it all in. To ogle and soak up the wisdom of writer idols (and not be shocked  when they get drunk at the after party, no not me), to dream and plan and set some new goals.

While I've marked up the program in a nifty app so I won't miss my must-see sessions, I'm also reserving--as I also did probably for the first time last year--my personal right to follow my nose and not fulfill an agenda. That worked out remarkably well in 2017, so hey, why not!

Officially, I do have a few places to be, things to do at AWP this year: 

Three literary journals, which have published my work (Sweet and Under the Gum Tree in the past; Tiferet in a forthcoming issue), are hosting me to sign and give away ARC's (advance reading copies) of Starting with Goodbye: A Daughter's Memoir of Love after Loss (coming May 1 from University of Nevada Press). Even if the books run out, I'd still love to chat with any interested folks who stop by (and there may be some book swag on hand too). 

You can find me here, in the sprawling bookfair: 

Sweet Literary Journal (Thursday, 3/8, 3:00 - 4:00, Table 1109)

Under the Gum Tree (Friday, 3/9, 3:30 - 5:00, Table T1732)

Tiferet Journal (Saturday, 3/10, 11:00 am - noon, Table T1939)

(Here's a floor map of the bookfair layout, in case you like looking at things that make you dizzy.)

And, for something completely different, I'll be reading with contributors to the forthcoming anthology, Flash Nonfiction Funny: 71 Very Humorous, Very True, Very Short Stories, at the Tampa Marriott Waterside (host hotel), Meeting Room 13, 6:30 - 8:00 pm.on Thurs, 3/8. I don't often get funny on the page, and this short piece might surprise (shock?) some folks. And that's all I'm going to say about that.

Perhaps we'll run into one another. I love whenever I can connect with blog readers; though given the size and scope of AWP, I may just have to wave from here. 

Which reminds me, I'll be back here next week (or soon, anyway), sharing some of what I learned and observed. And if I know myself, while there I'll be offering this space to other authors with just-published books, writers with something compelling to say, who I think you may like to hear from in future guest posts or Q/A's. Stay tuned.

Friday Fridge Clean-Out: Links for Writers -- September 22, 2017 Edition

> It's book award season, and over at the PBS NewsHour site, we can watch and listen in as "National Book Award Nominees Share their Advice on Books, Fear, and Love."

> Meant to post this a few weeks back: one of my favorite authors, Roger Rosenblatt, with an insightful essay in the New York Times on "The Invisible Forces that Make Writing Work." 

> Speaking of favorite writers, here are two more of my crushes -- Elizabeth Alexander and Atul Gawande in conversation on the New York Public Library podcast (#182).

> Carolyn Howard-Johnson has advice on "Making the Most of Writers' Conferences" at the BookBaby Blog.

> Who knew there is a Book Signing and Event Directory, to track book tours of authors you want to see? I haven't had a chance to explore the site yet, but just the idea is intriguing.

> Finally, what's not to like about reading a book or two while at sea? How about thousands of books on the world's largest floating bookstore? (h/t @KateWhouley)

Have a great weekend!

Image: Flickr/CreativeCommons-JDHancock

Home from Hippocamp with a Bunch of Thoughts about Writers Conferences

I’ve begun, and put aside, several drafts of a wrap-up post about my time at Hippocamp: A Conference for Creative Nonfiction Writers, in Lancaster, Pennsylvania, this past weekend. (I was both a speaker and attendee.)

Partly I hesitated because it’s getting more difficult to distill every good thing I want to say about my personal experience and history with this conference (which, since it began in 2015, has come to feel like a kind of home base). But also because I wanted my post-conference report to be something useful to any writer who happens upon it, regardless of genre, location, finances, or personal conference experiences, etc. 

During several periods in my writing life I attended no conferences, and other times I could get to just a few, dictated by a confluence of budget, geography, logistics, day-job demands, family logistics. When I could attend, I had to be picky. 

I came to understand that a conference will not make me a better writer or a more published writer by itself. But the right conference can helping make one into a writer who better knows how to identify, create, pursue, participate in, and evaluate the writing life, career, projects, and submission/publication plan that will work best for me, and make me happy.

So, I thought I’d offer this list, and hope it has some value for others. All these things line up for me with the Hippocamp conference, and by extension might help you pick conferences.

What makes a writing conference right:

. It directly, seriously, fully, and openly addresses, embraces, and celebrates the genre or category of writing most important to you. If you can find it, specialization rocks! One big reason I love Hippocamp is that it’s focused on CNF writing. Yes, I learn a lot at conferences that aren’t so specialized, but a hyper-focused event means you are with your tribe. Everything that happens, each break-out session, panel, reading, or other element is for folks who write what you write.

. Enough of what’s on offer is for writers at your skill and/or experience level. Yes, it’s good when some sessions push you to extend your reach; that’s good for learning what to aspire to. But do you want to spend all day, or most of many days, feeling either completely overwhelmed because you have no idea what the speakers are talking about, or bored and antsy because you already know and have mastered what’s being covered.

. The mix, intent, and focus of material jives with what you want and need now. Only craft-related sessions? Hands-on (“generative”) sessions? Lecture style only? Workshops (with feedback)? Presentations with opportunities for Q-and-A? Marketing/submission/querying skills?

. The size fits. I love a mid-sized conference best so I can make personal connections. Small to mid-sized events usually also foster casual, follow-up interactions with speakers and presenters at meals, breaks, and just wandering about the venue—another thing I like. (I do occasionally like a huge conference, but for very different reasons.)

. The conference organizers respect every attendee, and don’t play favorites. This is one of those intangibles that, for me, can make or break a conference experience. At Hippocamp for example, I’ve heard attendees describe the organizers in ways you might reserve for your favorite teacher, coach, or BFF: they listen, help, and care. Every person on the grounds is IN THE CLUB. (I’ve attended way too many conferences where some writers are made to feel inadequate and lesser-than because they don’t “have a book,” are not sufficiently well-connected, and find themselves feeling left out in an us-and-them kind of way.) At Hippocamp, the club is everyone in the room. Look for that.

. The fees make sense. Who wants to be someplace where you feel the conference is mostly interested in your wallet? I happen to like conference fees that also include meals, coffee, snacks and parking; offer hotel room discounts; and small goodies that make me feel welcome. If I can get that, and it also lines up with reasonable travel costs, I’m in. (Don’t go broke attending conferences.)

. Everything’s included, but there’s also an a-la-carte add-on menu. One year at Hippocamp, I paid for agent pitch sessions, other years not. Twice I took a pre-conference workshop. Choices like that can add value to your time away from home, and (for someone like me who likes to cram every hour with something useful), make the conference a more robust writerly experience.

. There’s a little bit of fun built right in. Door prizes? A casual open mic? Fun snacks? Optional, casual meal meet-ups for when it seems everyone else has made dining plans? We’re writers, not robots, and only some find it easy to organize themselves socially.

My door prize from Hippocamp!

. The conference encourages, and facilitates, continued learning beyond the time limit of each program element. I like to leave a session with something that I’ll consult later (besides my own notes) -- handouts, recommended links, the speaker’s email address or resource website, maybe something I’ve been urged to generate during the session. Even better if (as is the case with Hippocamp), I can find some speakers’ entire slide presentations on the conference website later. 

. There's a balance between too much and just enough. One day? Four days? Five break-out sessions running concurrently? Or 25 to choose from simultaneously? A crammed daily schedule or one with breaks and free (writing?) time built in? Each is likable for different reasons, by different writers. What do you like at a conference?

. The organizers want your feedback. Whether it’s a matter of listening sincerely to an in-person complaint or suggestion during the conference, or providing and urging attendees to fill out post-event surveys, I like it when speaking up about what didn’t go quite right, what was stellar, and what might be a good future addition (or deletion), feels welcomed.

I’m sure I’ve left something out. What do you love about, and look for in the conferences you attend? 


Images: Crowd illustration - Flickr/Creative Commons-openDemocracy; others, mine.

Memoir Book Report – Part III: The Pitch Session that Changed Everything (even though it was "unsuccessful")

Third in a series following my memoir as it moves from manuscript to published book (May 2018). You can find the first two installments here.

I mentioned in the last post that I'd drop back now and then to glimpse what transpired before I knew my book had found its home. A lot happened before—some of it perhaps helpful to those currently seeking a publisher for a memoir (or any book, for that matter).

Dropping back to spring of 2016, one year exactly before I signed with University of Nevada Press, I began to query small traditional publishers who accept un-agented work—boutique literary publishers, some university presses; and I entered a few book manuscript contests.

Except for the contests, this meant I needed a compelling query/cover letter. That's where my background in public relations, and experience getting assignments for freelance articles helped—and also hindered me. It's one thing to be proficient at tooting the horn of a client, as PR pros do, and landing article assignments about topics that I'm interested in but that aren't as passionately close to my heart, as my memoir. It's quite another to evaluate, position, and pitch your own work—and harder still to separate one's writing self from one's memoir manuscript.

My first query/cover letter was good, but not great; a bit too workmanlike and overly focused on literary craft. I was, perhaps, trying to follow too much differing advice: mirror the voice of the book – give the full narrative scope as you would a novel – highlight the published excerpts – focus on author background and publishing history – sell the takeaway – emphasize the emotional arc. In the first six months, I got a handful of requests for opening chapters, and was long-listed for one contest. But no requests for the full manuscript.

I had an inkling I wasn't being my own best advocate. I was too close to the work and could not really see what to do differently. Mind you, I routinely help revise and edit others' query letters and synopses (many of which have led to publishing deals), but you know what they say about doctors who treat themselves (they have a fool for a patient!).

We all have blind spots, and it would turn out mine were labeled: (1) Thinking too small. (2) Thinking too much like a writer.

I attended a writers conference in fall of 2016 and—reluctantly but thinking why not—signed up for three slots in the agent pitch sessions. Faced with a strict five minutes to interest them in my manuscript and answer their questions--across a tiny round table, with 20 other tiny round table pitching conversations happening in the room--I had to frame my story in a compelling way that cut through the noise and what I can only imagine is the mental exhaustion agents experience in such a setting.

Did I mention that I love talking to new people, listening, and learning from them?

The first two were polite and seemingly enthusiastic, asking me to send them chapters. Just as important, I was able to see—on their faces, in their body language, the way they moved their gaze from me to my pages—and to hear—in their tone of voice, pauses, inflection—which of my words, descriptions, phrasing, and focal points were resonating. And which were falling flat.

But the third agent delivered the true value of those 15 minutes. He prompted me to re-evaluate how I was thinking about my book and how I'd been positioning it when querying. He listened to my initial 45-second spiel, asked a question or two, skimmed the first few pages (we'd been instructed to bring along).

Then he said something like this: Let's assume it's a given that your work is beautifully written, well structured, highly polished. I’m not your MFA mentor; you don't have to convince me you're a good writer. I want you to tell me who your ideal reader is and why they will want to read this instead of a bunch of other books. Tell me why your book would interest someone who is not in the literary world. What might this memoir mean to someone you don't know? What's the message? Think big.

Wouldn’t most writers have wanted an hour to draft, revise, and rewrite something in response to that? But he was waiting for me to reply, then and there, across that tiny table, in that buzzing room. For maybe the first time, I allowed myself to imagine my manuscript as a finished book, one that deserved space on a bookstore shelf, a book that went way beyond little old me telling my story. A book with bigger sweep. With something to say to strangers, something of value.

After I finished talking for a minute or so (rambling, more like), he smiled and said, That's more like it. Now I'm interested.

This two-minute exchange changed everything.

It shifted my thinking back to my early PR days. Now I was the client with a product to publicize. What makes this client's product (book) not only great, but preferable to others? What—in sales terms—is the (book's) Unique Selling Proposition? Why this product (book) and not another one?

I had been thinking of, and perhaps positioning the manuscript as a creative project, entirely me-driven—which is how one must think of a manuscript while writing it—instead of a book, one of many competing for attention of readers. It now had to stand out as something completely separate from me, separate from my writing brain, my personal life, even from my reasons for writing it.

When I left the pitch session, I found a quiet spot in the hotel lobby, pulled out my computer and wrote an entirely new query letter. There would be six more months of querying, but those were dotted frequently with requests for chapters, and, in the end, five requests for the full manuscript.

Although it was an in-person unplanned meeting—during which I talked about my book—with the director of my future publisher (and not my revised query letter) that led to the offer I'd accept (I eventually had two offers), I credit that agent I met in a nerve-wracking pitch session six months before, for setting me in motion on a new track. His challenge that day changed the way I thought about, and talked about, my book. And that changed everything.

Other posts in the series – Part I (Contract signing, waiting period; working with a university press); Part II (Final manuscript revisions). 

You can find tips on preparing for pitch sessions at this post from Susan Breen. 

Images: Flickr/CreativeCommons -- Heart-shaped book pages (TimGeers); Conversation silhouette (TerenceChang/Peautlen); 

What I Heard and Learned at the AWP Writers Conference

Last weekend, I spent a day and a half at the AWP conference, and because I hadn't planned things out in advance, I missed a lot I'm sure that, had I spent more time studying the program, would have been useful. I went with my gut, with my knee's pain level, and my energy and willingness to scout out a tucked away presentation room three-quarters of a mile of connecting walkways and escalators away.

As many conference attendees do, I sometimes caught the first half of a panel presentation, then ducked out to listen to the second half of another. It may be that someone, in one of the sessions I mention below, said something extraordinarily exciting and I missed it. Nevertheless, here's a potpourri of the takeaways I either jotted into my notebook, or that made their way into my brain. 

At a panel playfully called, "Nope, That Still Ain't a Story: Developmental Editing in Creative Nonfiction," two authors and their editor discussed their joint experiences. Bill Patrick, of Hudson Whitman Excelsior College Press, explained that while Amy Ryan "didn’t have a book" when she brought him her manuscript of living with diabetes, writer Anthony D'Aries "had four books" lurking in his manuscript about learning to understand his father. Ryan talked about getting instructions from Patrick about chapters she needed to write, often more personal and revealing than she'd planned; D'Aries discussed the process of locating the essence of his story, and paring away. 

Patrick also mentioned the value of "bridge chapters". These explore the less personal aspects of the main memoir topic/story, but are related and connected to the larger picture. They give the reader a bit of a break from heavy unfolding narrative, and act as a way of moving the camera from close-up to a wider angle; they can also provide context of how the narrator's story fits into the broader world.

> If you're thinking of running a one- or multi-day workshop, retreat, mini-conference, there was the panel, "Starting Small: Grassroots Workshops and Conferences". Dave Housley from Barrelhouse suggested finding a like-minded organization to partner with—like a college, arts center, etc.—that can provide free or low-cost space. Tyler McMahon, who runs the Ko`oalu Writers Workshop  in Hawaii, warned, "Don't run at a deficit; you want to break even or make money from the start." Another good tip: serve a free lunch at a session for which you want a large audience! For those seeking gigs as presenters or workshop leaders at small conferences, panelists advised developing a unique program that other writers can't offer, and/or something you've developed specifically for their audience.

> At "Opening the Doors to Discovery: The Generative Writing Workshop," panelists offered interesting ways to utilize prompts, writing exercises, and reading for inspiration when conducting one-time workshops with time for writers to produce new material. Baron Wormser (one of my MFA workshop leaders a decade ago), said he thinks of a prompt as "a quick way into the unconscious, to get at the unknown, the unbidden." It forces a writer to access some new area of thought because something must be produced in the time allotted. Another panelist advised that at one-time gatherings (as opposed to on-going workshop series), reading and sharing be met only with positive responses, absent critical feedback. Kim Dana Kupperman recommended locating prompts within a piece of published work the group reads together.

> "Essaying the Edge: Teaching Alternative Forms of Nonfiction," focused on the so-called hermit crab essay, hybrids, collage, and other experimental nonfiction. Panelists talked of sneaking in these forms without at first identifying them, so that students might simply read and like them, and decide on their own what to call them.

> At the panel, "Just Don't Read the Comments: On the Joys and Risks of Publishing Personal Essays Online," I heard just the last ten minutes, including advice from Laura Bogart to ask for headline approval and hashtag/tagging approval, pre-publication. Her awareness of this was spurred by an incident when one of her essays was headlined and tagged in a way that included Trump's four-word slogan; she asked that it be changed, and the editor/venue complied, but not before it had resulted in unpleasant emails and online thrashing.

> At an abundantly informative panel, "Beyond the Classroom: Teaching Outside Academia," I was scribbling so fast, and all four panelists were making so many useful suggestions every minute, I didn't record who said what. The following bits of advice came from Stuart Horwitz, Julie Duffy, Jane Friedman, Andi Cumbo-Floyd, and Gabriella Pereira.

Know what you WANT to teach (not just what you've been teaching all along). You'll earn more by teaching/leading an add-on workshop at a conference than if you are one of the general presenters. Develop packages and products to offer repeat clients/students. Offer a free something to attract mailing list sign-ups. Hand out (or offer to email) something useful following an in-person teaching event. Pitch your online or in-person class with a very specific outcome highlighted ("After four weeks, you'll have two essays ready to submit.."). Students and coaching clients want to be held accountable, so build in a deadline/reporting/accountability component. Offer tiered pricing if possible [$X for the full feedback option; $(X-Y) for a scaled down version.] Include student/client accomplishments in your promotional materials. 

I just saw today that Jane Friedman has a new blog post up outlining much of what she talked about at the conference, plus more.

> Finally, it seemed fitting that, in Washington, D.C., during the final session of the final day, I ended by listening to one particular panelist whose sincere, practical and pragmatic, encouraging talk on "How to Publish Your Book Without an Agent," made me want to stand up and shout, Nevertheless, She Persisted! That panelist was Janice Eidus, someone I recognized from Facebook and from her essays, but had never met. But by happy coincidence I'd share dinner with her later that evening (via invitation of a mutual writing friend). Eidus and her fellow panelists' stories of perseverance and eventual publication—and the sprawling Book Fair where I found at least a dozen independent traditional publishers of literary works that I was not previously aware of (and trust me, I'd already compiled a long list!)—capped off my personal AWP experience on a hopeful note.

Want more post-AWP coverage? I'll have a bunch of links to others' blog posts in the Friday link round up later this week. 

Writer Fights AWP Siren. AWP Wins. Notes on a Last Minute Writers Conference Trip.

I fought AWP and AWP won. (AWP being the ginormous annual conference of the Association of Writers and Writing Programs.)

I wasn't planning on it. However, early in the evening last Thursday, as snow pelted New Jersey and much of the Northeast and Mid-Atlantic coast, unraveling on Facebook were posts by writers from all over whose cancelled flights and delayed trains made me wonder: might the headquarters hotel attached to the Washington, D.C. Convention Center—the only place I would consider staying (bad knee issues), the place that has been sold out for six months—have cancelled rooms available?

It did. And with a hotel rewards membership, and my AAA card, for a price below the AWP group rate.

I didn't have any Friday deadlines, didn't need to teach again in person until Monday, couldn't think of any more excuses. Besides, sometimes a writer woman (who works mainly alone at home) just needs to get the hell out of Dodge and see a few other writers—or maybe 12,000 of them—in person.

Which explains why, less than 12 hours later, I was in my car at 5:00 a.m. on a frigid Friday morning, bound for D.C., a four hour drive. Lucky me, I like to drive, love a road trip, and had a book and the Hamilton CDs already loaded. As I cranked the heat in the car, sipped hot tea my husband had handed me after walking me across our icy driveway, I had a lightness that never normally accompanies me when venturing to a writers conference: a feeling of possibility and adventure borne I guess from something I don’t get enough of: serendipity and spontaneity.

I'm a planner. An advance planner, someone who likes being organized, knows what's coming up on my schedule. But more to the point, when I head to a conference, I am typically armed with a carefully thought-out mental and physical list of tasks I have self-assigned. Tasks I tell myself I must do, so that I'll feel the expense, time, and opportunity pays off: connections I should make, people I should talk to, panels I should attend, secrets I should, once and for all, uncover and finally understand about this writing life.

Notice all the shoulds?

Which may help explain why for months, maybe a year, I had been resigned to not attending the behemoth AWP Conference last week, for all the usual (cover) reasons—budgets, time, my lousy knee. The conference is too big, too tiring, too much to handle -- all those far-more-accomplished-than-me writers all in one place being too much of a reminder of all I think I SHOULD have done in my writing career by now, and haven't.

Driving through the lightening darkness last Friday morning, however, without my usual "should" agenda, having not even skimmed the conference schedule, something shifted. I felt released from my usual mode of attack. What if, I asked myself, I had no plan? No list of things I should accomplish, people I must find? What if, instead of arriving burdened with lists of items to tick off, I simply tried to enjoy the conference? Enjoy others? Enjoy myself?

What if, when I arrived, I did just what seemed appealing? Went to panels that sounded interesting, or where colleagues were appearing, just because? What if I got to hug online friends I'd been wanting to meet in person, but if not, not? What if I wandered the daunting book fair—where the tables of publishers, journals, MFA programs, and vendors stretched across a double-football-field-sized space—with an open mind, and not a tightly clutched list?

Reader, that's precisely what I did.

I arrived in D.C. mid-morning on Friday and from then until the crazy, zany, octopus-like conference wrapped up on Saturday night, I did not do one thing that, had I meticulously planned my trip in advance, I worried I should do. 

I simply drifted to what called to me, listening to my gut. Yes, I saw writing friends and colleagues, made new connections, met a few folks I've long wanted to meet. But without agenda, sans lists and shoulds. I approached the book fair as if it were an amusement park (or new shoe store!), listening to my feet and gut, picking up random new information as if I'd accidentally struck gold (and of course, gathering swag - see pic above!) 

Over the two days, I maintained a newfound sense of, whatever happened, happened. And I had perhaps the best conference experience of my life.

I'll be back later this week with some of my favorite take-aways and tidbits. That I am planning on!

Guest Blogger Susan Breen on Prepping for a Pitch Conference

Perhaps this is true for every writer active online: there are some authors who you warm to and enjoy interacting with immediately—and believe you would get along with in real life, if your paths were to cross. That's how it was with Susan Breen when I discovered her online, about seven or so years ago. I'm delighted she's on the blog today.

Susan’s new mystery, Maggie Dove, was published by Random House’s digital Alibi imprint in June, and the next in the series, Maggie Dove’s Detective Agency, will be out in November. Breen teaches for Gotham Writers Workshops and is on the staff of the New York Writers Workshop. She sold her first novel, The Fiction Class, at a pitch conference.

Please welcome Susan Breen

            For nine years, I’ve been a workshop leader at the New York Pitch Conference in Manhattan, where I help participants write pitches for their novels and memoirs. Then I sit with them as they recite those pitches to editors from the big New York publishing houses. Figuring 18 people to a group, meeting four editors each session, four times a year—that means I’ve heard a lot of pitches.

From my unique perch, I’ve witnessed what goes on when an editor listens to a writer’s pitch. I’ve seen their doodles. (Always a bad sign when they begin crossing off your name.) I’ve seen writers sabotage themselves (begging and crying, for example). I’ve also seen editors light up when they hear something that excites them. (At the last conference an editor looked at me and said, “I want this book now!)

So, what can you do to improve your chances at a pitch conference?

1.      Make them want to read your book. This seems obvious, yet often writers get swept up in the rules of pitch writing, or worrying that they accurately convey all the information about the book, that their pitches become brittle. Yes, follow the rules. The pitch shouldn’t be too long. End with a cliff hanger. But the most important thing? Be interesting. It may matter for the plot that the main character gets her teeth cleaned in chapter 3, but does the editor have to know that right now?

2.      Remember, editors judge a book by its pitch. If the pitch rambles, the book probably rambles. If the pitch is unfocused, the book probably is. If the pitch is funny, if the pitch is boring, if the pitch makes no sense… My boss at the pitch conference, Michael Neff, says a pitch is a diagnostic tool, and I agree. When I’m working on one of my own novels, I always write a pitch halfway through. If I have trouble writing the pitch, it usually means there’s trouble in the book.

3.      Setting is an important part of a good pitch. Editors like to know if the book takes place in Paris or Long Island or wherever. Sometimes writers insist that the story can take place anywhere, but that’s not actually a selling point. You want your book to be set somewhere specific, which does not mean it has to be glamorous. Yes, it’s fun to read about Paris, but Long Island can also be intriguing.

4.      Establish an interesting and active protagonist. This is frustrating to a lot of writers, who can cite many classic novels that do not have active protagonists. This is undoubtedly true, and if Proust shows up at one of my conferences, we can debate the point. But I don’t think Proust was going for the commercial market. If your character’s not active, make sure he’s funny or in a lot of trouble.

5.      Credentials help. I’ve had people who’ve won Emmy awards. That helps a lot. But I’ve also had people with stories published in magazines with a circulation of 500. That helps too. It shows the editor that you’re a part of the literary world. You’re serious. Try to build up credentials before the pitch conference. See if you can spin off a chapter as a story. Take a writing class. Join a writers’ organization. Everything helps.

6.      When you are talking to an older editor, do not refer to your work set in the 1960s as “historical fiction.”

7.      Even the best pitches are not successful with every editor. Over the course of the pitch conference, a participant meets with four or five editors. Sometimes every editor will request a manuscript. Other times only one editor will request it. Sometimes that pitch will be a little odd. Or the writer will be odd. And yet, that one editor really connects with it. It’s like falling in love. You don’t need everyone in the world to fall in love with you. You just need one person.

8.      Word count matters. Most editors want books between 65,000 to 100,000 words. If the concept is strong enough, they may ask to see something with a longer word count, but it definitely creates an obstacle.  Publishing is hard enough without adding obstacles. I also work as an editor and I can assure you that I’ve never read a novel that couldn’t be shortened.

9.      Know the comparable titles in your genre and category ("comps"). My agent pitched my new mystery as "Agatha Christie meets Anne Tyler". That gives an immediate sense of the tone. When a writer has no idea of what’s comparable to her book, I feel alarmed, because that makes me think she hasn’t read anything. Sometimes people will say, “I’m writing a romance because I want to sell it, but I don’t actually read this junk.” That’s not an inducement. If you publish a romance, you’ll be meeting a lot of romance writers who will not be happy to discover you think they are idiots. Write the book you want to write, and read other books like it.

10.  Don't argue with an editor. If the editor hears your pitch and says, this would be better if the protagonist were a woman, or this sounds like a YA novel, just say thank you. They might be right or they might be wrong. No one is going to force you to change your book, but it’s worth absorbing the input and thinking about it afterwards. Keep in mind that part of what they’re trying to do is figure out if you’re someone they want to work with. So if you immediately resist or argue back about every suggestion, that’s not a good sign.

11.  If no one at a pitch conference warms to your book, it doesn’t mean you’re a bad writer, a bad person, or a failure. It just means that the handful of editors you met with, didn’t want your book. There are many other editors. There are many other books to write. My first two books didn’t sell. My third did. My fourth one didn’t. My fifth did. Hopefully, I’ve figured it all out now, but if I had quit after one, I’d be nowhere.

12.  Finally, try and enjoy the pitch conference. Yes, it’s stressful, but you are getting the chance to meet face to face with the people who run this crazy business we’re in. That’s exciting.

Learn more about Susan at her website, or by connecting on Facebook or Twitter.  

Images: Stack of Journals, Jon Betts and Talk Bubbles, Raiznext, both FlickerCreativeCommons. Others, courtesy Susan Breen.