The Publisher Part V: Conference

Everything was ready by dinner time on Friday.

I had prepared everything from my painted nails to my business cards. I even curled my hair before bed and pinned it up so when 3:45AM rolled around, I could be off like a shot. Everything was ready, which gave me time to think about what could possibly go wrong.

"Am I prepared if the car breaks down? Yes, I have cellphone, money, credit card, food."
"Do I have a map of the conference? Sample chapters? A book summary? Packed."
"Do I know how to get there? The GPS is next to my purse."
"I'm ready. I've prepared for the worst."

When the phone rang, I barely noticed, but I heard my mom's voice grow tight. "Yes, she's right here. One moment please."
I'm the only other "she" in the house, and no one ever calls me at home. Mom handed the phone to me, and gave me an anxious look. "Unicorn Writer's Conference." she shrugged.

Oh boy. This was not a surprise. Thursday night, Connecticut had been hit with a heavy snowstorm, and it had crossed my mind more than once that the conference might be cancelled. I spoke a greeting into the receiver, and a woman's voice reached my ear.

"Samantha, this is ____, I am the editor who is meeting with you tomorrow to discuss the manuscript you sent me."
"Yes, how are you?" I asked.
"Doing fine, but there's a problem with your manuscript. Only the first couple chapters are complete; the rest are fragmented, and its too consistent to be human error. I think you had a technical glitch."

My eyes squeezed shut like I'd been smacked across the face, and I sunk onto my bed. I was wrong. I wasn't prepared for the worst. The editor was holding a chopped-up manuscript. There was something wrong with my work, my baby, and I had thirteen hours before the conference began.

Saturday, March 9th, 2013
Maybe it started when I was working at the bakery last winter, and staying in bed until 6AM was considered sleeping-in. Maybe its the promise of coffee and watching the sun come up that makes me roll out of bed before dawn every day, but I can say without reservation that I love mornings.

3:45 AM is not morning. Don't be deceived by the AM suffix. It's nighttime, and I don't want to see it.

I was out the door by 4:15. Walking blindly into the dark driveway, I thanked God that I don't watch horror movies, and tried not to listen to the eerie cracking of the ice across the street. Hotspur (yes, I've named my car) started up with a growl, the GPS sang its electronic pinging song, and we were off.

As I do when I'm driving, I started to talk to God. I thanked Him for this opportunity, and asked for a good day and safe tra--

I jumped when the GPS fell from its perch with a crash. Crud. I was speeding down the thruway, and pulling over seemed like overkill, so with a free hand I pushed the suction cup back into the windshield. That should hold it.

Now, God, where was I. It was 4:30 now, so please be with me as I travel and allow me to--

Another crash. As I tried to readjust the monitor on the window, my clumsy fingers hit the touchscreen. With all that beeping, I had probably just set myself up for a nice drive to Houston. Gosh, I hate technology. The GPS fell a grand total of five times before I finally surrendered and put it in my lap. That was right about the time I reached a dark stretch of thruway where the DOT had decided it was time to blast threw fifty feet of granite next to the road. What girl doesn't like explosives on an unfamiliar road at five in the morning? If I haven't mentioned it before, I hate to drive. No, I HATE to drive, but I also hate giving up and living scared.

By a miracle of God, I made it to the castle alive. St. Clement's Castle is a Tudor-style estate house built on a river, and it features stables, a grand ballroom, several dining rooms, a library, and a courtyard. It's flawless. As I emerged from my car, a man passing by looked at my license plate and laughed.

"New York? Well, that's quite a drive!"
"Yes sir," I replied. "I started driving at four this morning."
"Four? Wow. That shows some want-to."

Want-to? At this point, it was need-to. I needed to be there; I needed feedback, criticism, connections, some gosh-darn direction for this foggy, isolating art that somehow decided it would be predominate in my free time. The people at the reception desk handed me my name tag, and we went in to mingle and have breakfast in the ballroom. Whoever thought a room full of artistic introverts should meet together to chat was placing quite a bet. We were all shy, as most writers are, but once we started talking about our work we opened up. Business cards were exchanged throughout the day, and I can say truthfully I met some incredible people and writers.

I attended five workshops. My favorite was led by the woman who edited my book; the second favorite was by a business woman with a gorgeous Irish accent and smacking wit. Some workshops were facilitated by glamorous agents from New York with round glasses, angled bobs, and brightly colored pashminas. They shared brilliant stories of successes (and failures), knowing that every member of their audience would only be one or the other. I started to feel panicky. My one-to-one conference was with an editor who had a mangled manuscript. Everyone else was meeting with an agent they could potentially sell their work to. Periodically, a writer would stand up and speak about how they sold their work at this conference last year, and were now signing a $10,000 book deal. This rollercoaster of despair and brutal optimism was starting to wear on me, and I felt more inadequate by the second.

When I finally met with the editor, the first question out of her mouth was: Do you want to be a writer? Do you want this to be your life?"
"Yes, I do." There. Writing and I were now married for life.
"Then let's get started," she said.

In truth, the fact that the manuscript was botched up didn't affect our talk. She was encouraging, but challenged me to do better. I needed to do better.
"Yes, Tom Clancy cheats," she said. "Yes, J.K. Rowling and Dan Brown cheat these rules, but they can. They've sold millions of books. You can't cheat, and why would you even if you could? Why do that to your readers? It is your responsibility to carry us through the story and make us feel everything. If you don't do that, and we have to do everything ourselves, then shame on you. You realize you have to rewrite this novel?"
I nodded.
"And you're ok with that?" she asked. 
"I am. I'm relieved actually. I knew it wasn't ready, but I didn't know how to fix it."
"Well, keep going," she said. "You've got a spark that most of us didn't have at your age."

I left that meeting and felt my stress dissipate. For months I'd known that the book wasn't ready to sell. Like a mom who takes her coughing child to the doctor, I had a sick baby and no idea what was wrong. Criticism and critique had given me some hope. It's not ready yet, but it may be someday.

I left the castle at 7pm, and started the long trek home. No crashing GPS or explosives this time, but Massachusetts you need to do something about your Swiss cheese roads. I think I left Hotspur's undercarriage in Lee. It was a long day, a fruitful day, and I came away with the following understandings:

1. If I want this to be my life, it needs to be a second job. I need to be writing every chance I get, honing the craft, and learning everything I can. Producing second-rate literature is never acceptable even if you are on the NYTimes Bestseller List.

2. This is achievable. I am very young, and I have a lot to learn, but this can be my life if I'm willing to work my butt off.

3. Show your readers a story, don't tell them one. It's my job to carry someone through the story, not give them a map and tell them to have fun.

Thank you Jesus for an amazing day, to the fantastic editor for calling me out, and to the brilliant writers I was able to share time, stories, hopes, and business cards with. What a happy bunch of introverts we are.

LOVE