When I had registered for the conference, I was forced to choose two workshops. That meant that out of the seven speakers and eight presentations available, I had to narrow it down to just two. Two. Two is barely anything. It's almost nothing. How could they expect me to miss out on all of those other possibilities? Me, who can't sleep at night for fear of missing something, would have to be right next door to a classroom that very well could have changed my life? Me, who struggles to stay seated in the movie theater because I just might be watching the wrong movie, a movie that wasn't meant for me, while MY movie plays right next door?
I fingered the descriptions of each workshop, changed my mind a couple of times, then decided. Even as my decision was made, I wasn't settled. What if I were wrong?
The day of the conference, I drove to the college alone. I walked into the college alone. I found my way to the location of the continental breakfast alone. And I sat completely alone while all of the other writers milled around me, filling their plates with cold bagels and fresh fruit and their ears with what I could only imagine was writer-like chatter. I just watched.
Around my neck hung my nametag, like an albatross around my neck. On its front, in bold letters, was my name. Benign. But on its back was written the titles and room numbers for the two workshops I'd chosen. The letters weighed down my shoulders, caused my head to droop with the burden. I may have been wrong about the classes I elected to take, but it was too late now. They were written in black and white, right there on the back of my name. I had chosen.
Even my cold bagel was a reminder of my poor decision-making abilities. I had looked all of them over carefully and decided on what I thought was a white bagel flaked with chives or onions. Upon closer inspection, I realized that these little purple specks were blueberries and in no way resembled anything green, chives or otherwise. As I nibbled on my poor choice, I surveyed the nametages of those around me. Who did I choose? Who looked as if they were interesting, could impart unending wisdom to me, could share with me just the right inspiration that would plunge my soul into the refreshing river of revelation?
I saw right away that the writer who would be presenting my first class, Trish Berg, was friendly and outgoing. I also knew that she wrote material much like mine and that our backgrounds were also similar. I settled withing myself that this choice, the choice for Trish Berg's workshop, had been a good one.
But there was this niggling feeling that my second class, the one on finding the plot in a story, was not where I needed to be. I watched the presenter interact with the people around him, and I just didn't feel drawn to him. Maybe I'm too reliant on destiny, serendipity, whatever you want to call it, but the chemistry between this guy and me just wasn't there.
So, while I as I attempted to listen intently to Trish Berg's presentation on finding my niche in a saturated market, I was also plotting how I would ditch my second class. Where would I go instead? Who would be a better choice? Who would give me that coveted chemistry that I so desired?
Trish's voice startled me from my thoughts. "Has anyone ever written a query letter?" I had an idea, but I thought I'd let someone who had been paying closer attention go first.
But no one did.
Alright, I thought. I'll throw out the subject of my first and last query letter, the fleece I'd laid out years ago to determine if I could really be a "real" writer.
"Well, I once wanted to write an article on youth hostels in Ohio," I said. I could tell that Trish wasn't familiar with youth hostels, so I filled her in a bit and informed her that I had sent a query to Ohio Magazine but had received a rejection letter.
"You should talk to Linda Feagler! She's the senior editor for Ohio Magazine and she's here today."
Giving a presentation? The senior editor for Ohio Magazine? The one who most likely sent me a rejection letter in response to my query?
"You should definitely talk to her," Trish repeated.
That was all the prodding I needed.
So, when Trish's wonderful presentation was over, I slinked into Linda Feagler's classroom, surveyed the circle of chairs and boldly took a seat in the front.
I can barely remember what I said during the class. I know that I was impressed by Linda's encouragement, her humanness, her interaction with the people in the class. She took the time to ask each of us about ourselves, what we'd like to write, and discuss with us what it takes to query a magazine, particularly Ohio Magazine. I do remember that I had the courage to tell her about my idea for covering youth hostels and jokingly mention my prized rejection letter. She pretended to turn tail and run.
"It was years ago," I admitted. "I don't even know that you were there, then."
This prompted Linda to start her presentation on the history of Ohio Magazine, which, indeed, had undergone major changes since I sent my query. This emboldened me to mention a couple of the other ideas I'd had for the magazine. She encouraged me to get in touch, to submit my ideas. I assured her that I would.
I made my way to the lunchroom with a copy of Ohio Magazine in my hand and a lot of ideas rattling around in my head. Picking up my boxed lunch in the college cafeteria, I evaluated my seating choices. In the cafeteria alone, in the common area alone or on the patio alone. I was just deciding that on the patio alone looked a little too crowded and a little too windy when I heard a voice behind me call, "Do you mind if I join you?" When I turned to see if I was the target of the question, I saw that the voice had come from Ohio Magazine's senior editor, Linda Feagler.
But here's the funny thing. Instead of getting worried, tongue-tied or overly nervous, instead of hoping to wow her with my writing prowess, I was simply relieved. I didn't have to eat lunch alone, and I just might make a new friend.
And I was right.
Linda and I got so carried away in our conversation about the love of writing, about our interests, our backgrounds, and one common area, the unexpected deaths of our mothers, that we were both surprised to discover that cafeteria was completely empty. The next event had begun fifteen minutes prior and we were still finishing our meals as well as our conversations. I had soaked up Linda's encouragement, she had poured out her compassion over my discovery of my estranged mother's death, and we had both shared how such major life events found their way directly out of our heads and onto the page. I could relate to her grief over the loss of her mom and she could relate to my need to write about mine. I felt like I was among my own.
We didn't get much of a chance to say goodbye as we hurried off to the auditorium for the keynote speaker and closing events, so I fired off an e-mail to Linda on Monday morning.
Dear Linda,
I wanted to drop you a line to say thank you for taking the time to have lunch with me at the writers' conference on Saturday. Much of what you said is echoing in my head, motivating me to pursue my writing more seriously after many years of "writing in the closet" and reluctantly shoving my written word to the back burner. I think it's highly serendipitous that I walked into your workshop. I have to admit that I skipped out on my scheduled workshop to attend yours (she confessed sheepishly). It just felt like the right thing to do at the time, and I'm glad that I did. The fact that you joined me for lunch was a pleasant surprise. While I attended the conference hoping for inspiration, I didn't expect to get the bulk of it during lunch break! I gained more from our conversation than I did from the rest of the events of the day. Funny how that can happen.
In part because of your compassionate ear and encouraging words, I've made a commitment to "be a writer." I'm not quite sure yet what that means, because I've always written and I'm sure I always will, but I've never felt that I could justify labeling myself as a writer. I felt like I was lying or cheating somehow. "I like to write, but I'm really a mother," or "I'm a homeschooling mom, but I like to write, too." I suppose over this weekend, I simply realized that I need only to give myself permission to accept that label for it to apply.
So I have a plan. My plan is to work on my essay about the death of my mother and begin submitting it to the publications you suggested. Then I'll sit back and watch while the rejection letters flood in. ;-) I also plan to submit a query letter to Ohio Magazine in reference to the ideas I discussed with you. I'm excited about the opportunity to explore these possibilities further. I'm excited about my plan.
So I thank you, Linda, for your time and openness. You're a great
facilitator, and I'm glad you decided to present a workshop this past
weekend. But--yes, I'll admit my selfishness--I'm even more glad that you chose to have lunch with me.
Please keep in touch.
Quite sincerely,
The Writer
Charm, Ohio
So, for those of you who have been following my ongoing self-questioning about becoming a writer, I have found my answer to those niggling questions. I am giving myself permission, and I will be pursuing writing as an actual career, an occupation, a lifestyle.
I, who can never easily choose what to have for lunch, who spends much too long in the ice cream aisle and who was very glad to have had nine months to choose each of my childrens names, have decided. Yes. I have decided to embrace the title, "Writer."
