This post originally appeared in the June 15, 2018 edition of the WriterHouse Newsletter.
While summer is fabulous for beach reading and destination vacations, it’s also a great time to attend writing conferences. Whether you’re interested in getting started with a regional option, or you want to apply for one of the more prestigious conferences, the preparation required is similar.
Plan Ahead: Some conferences, like VQR, The Writers Hotel, Bread Loaf, and Sewanee require applications. If you’re interested in the conferences listed above, 2019 applications will open in January; however, the Key West Literary Seminar is currently accepting applications. Even if you’re not interested in a conference that requires an application, planning ahead is important. Most conferences offer early-bird registration discounts and discounts on preferred hotels. And, if you ask around, you may find someone in the area looking for a roommate who can split hotel costs.
Pack Smart: Beyond business casual clothes and comfy travel shoes, you’ll want to pack business cards that include your name, email address, website, and social media handles so you can exchange them with your new conference BFFs. Days can be long and travel meals costly. Pack light snacks for your conference bag. Find out if any meals are included with your conference fee. If there’s a refrigerator or microwave in your room, consider bringing breakfast items like yogurt or oatmeal so you can save a few bucks. Also, be sure to download any conference apps and join the conference Facebook pages so you stay up-to-date on conference happenings.
Establish Networking Goals: One of the big payoffs for conference attendance is the ability to meet writers from other parts of the country who can share resources, serve as beta readers, and cheer you on. But let’s face it, many writers are introverts and networking can be exhausting. (Personally, my people shelf is narrow and quickly fills). Before you leave, set a conference goal to ensure you get the most out of this networking opportunity. At every conference, I try to exchange business cards with at least five attendees and talk to at least one presenter. If you have a book-length project, pitching to agents can be another great way to network. Find out if pitching is an option at any conferences you’re interested in attending and whether these opportunities require additional costs.
Pace Yourself: Attending a conference is like running a mini-marathon. Don’t be afraid to take breaks. If possible, stay in the conference hotel so you have easy access to your room between sessions. Study the conference schedule and decide what’s most important for this trip. For example, at one conference, it may be important to get a good night’s sleep so you can sharply answer early-morning agent questions. At another conference, stretching yourself by reading at the evening open mic may be the right option. Most conferences are annual, so you can always return if you feel like there’s something you missed.
Evaluate Your Experience: Your conference dollars are valuable. Be sure you’re getting the most out of the experience. One week after you return from the conference, fill out any evaluation forms provided by the organizers then ask yourself the following questions:
- Am I inspired?
- Do I feel connected?
- Did I learn something new?
If you can’t answer yes to all three questions, consider whether a genre-specific conference or a more challenging option is a better fit.
For a complete list of conferences, check out the AWP website.
On forty-fourth birthday, I hiked into a volcano. This happened during an early-April bucket list trip with my husband to the Big Island of Hawaii. A recovering adrenaline junkie with a deep love of adventures, I’d dreamed of standing next to a lava river or perhaps watching a lava fountain rise in the air for years (from a safe distance, of course). Since it was my birthday, I felt certain this would happen.The Hawaii Volcanoes National Park includes a series of craters–some erupted in the past while others, like the Halema‘uma‘u Crater, are still active. Our first stop was the Jaggers Museum observation deck. The lava lake in the Halema‘uma‘u Crater was high, and despite the miles between me and the crater, I could see faint lava bubbles pop in the air. Volcanic heat pressed against my skin. (Birthday luck, check one).
When we left the observation deck, we drove a few miles along Crater Rim Drive then hiked through a lush rainforest and into the Kīlauea Iki Crater lava lake. Cars lined the trailhead parking lot giving the air of calculated risk. We laughed at the signs warning of instability and steam vents.
Sign on the rainforest trail into Kīlauea Iki Crater
Inside the crater’s Martian landscape things got real. The largely barren, brownie-batter-like floor was surrounded by high cliff walls. Steam plumed from broken rocks resembling frozen waves. Signs warned us not to veer from the rock-pile-marked trail. Lava could bubble up, after all. If something happened, escape would be difficult.
A mile in, rain battered me. Instead of turning back, I knelt on the lava floor and felt the pulsing volcanic heat—another reminder that while the surface may hold me, a magma river flowed beneath my feet. I was in adventure heaven.
When we returned to the Halema‘uma‘u Crater at sunset to view the lava lake’s nightly show, the vibrant lava and ash against the twilight and the thrill of being so close to such a magnificent force made me forget my sore feet and soaked clothes. While my spurting lava wishes weren’t granted, the experience met all my birthday criteria. Thank you, Mt. Kilauea.
Inside Kīlauea Iki Crater Halema‘uma‘u at night
We left Hawaii on April 14, 2018. Over the next two weeks, Mt. Kilauea rumbled. Lava continued to rise. On May 3, 2018, the Pu’u O’o crater collapsed. Pressure built underneath the surface. Spontaneous eruptions broke apart subdivision roads, sending lava fountains hundreds of feet high. That spectacular show I’d witnessed only a few weeks earlier was not the gentle entertainment of a cat-napping giant. It was the precursor to a major eruption.
Like all things, this reminded me of the writing process. As writers, we come to the page ready to entertain and enlighten. But once there, we need to figure out how to approach our stories. Should we stand on the observation deck or hike into the crater?
Many writers start their drafts on the observation deck—viewing the story from afar. They tell what happened. I went on an exciting trip to Hawaii. We hiked in into a crater then viewed the lava lake at night. It was awesome. There’s nothing wrong with starting here if that motivates you to write, but the excitement happens while you stand inside the volcano, not while you’re looking at one. Readers want to feel your fear, anger, and excitement. They want to smell the steam and feel the rock. To do this, your work must come alive. In writing, the walk into the crater is often called writing in scene. Richard Roorbach, author of Writing Life Stories defines scenes as “events that take place in a specific time and place. Scenes record events, actions, talk, stuff happening.” It’s the cinematic version of the lived experience. Or, to put it simply, it’s showing rather than telling.
Whether you’re writing a memoir or a short story, showing is essential. But how do you know if you’re doing this? Set a timer for twenty minutes, write without stopping, and see what happens. After you’re done, ask whether the work reads like you’re reliving the experience or like you’re telling it from your armchair. If you’re reliving events, you’re hiking the crater. Keep this up.
If the work feels observational, see if you can choose a specific memory to fully render. Fill it with sights, smells, and sounds. Add some dialogue. If this feels like a challenge, get curious about why you’re standing on the observation deck. Are you having trouble remembering exactly what happened? Is the topic so emotionally charged it feels painful? Are you unsure where to begin?
If memory is the problem, look through a photo album and find a picture that evokes strong feelings (for fiction choose a magazine photo). Show what happened directly before the photo was snapped. Where are the characters? Who is there? Why are they taking this picture? Repeat this exercise until you get a sense of who your narrator is and what she’s after. Once you’ve exhausted your pictures, create a physical map of your story’s setting, as Richard Roorbach suggests in his book. You can also listen to music from the era you’re writing about to evoke new memories, but don’t forget the power of smell and taste. Follow Marcel Proust’s lead and eat something from the period you want to capture. As you taste that familiar dish, recreate the scene where you ate it. Who was there? What was going on? How did it feel in your mouth? The more you write, the more you’ll remember.
If, as you’re writing, the work brings up painful feelings or the events you want to write about include trauma, break the experience into smaller parts. Be sure to list the pleasant scenes as well as the dark ones. Include dark humor and events where the narrator received help from others. Choose the least painful scene as your starting point. Write for twenty minutes and see how you feel. In a couple of days, repeat the exercise. If it’s still difficult, write from the observation deck until you develop comfort with the subject. If that doesn’t work, write about something else.
If you’re not sure where to start, follow Kurt Vonnegut’s advice and make your character thirsty. Let his first search be for a glass of water.
In an interview for Writing Hard Stories by Melanie Brooks (a must-read for any memoirist), Andrew Dubus says, “just because we know what happened doesn’t mean we know what the hell happened.” I would argue that until we create vivid scenes for our stories, what happened isn’t even clear. That’s why hiking the crater is so important.
Mastering the scene in your early drafts will illuminate what happened. Along the way, you’ll begin to realize what the hell happened. Sprinkle it in, but remain open to new interpretations. More insightful reflections may arise as you read your complete draft or learn more about the situation. You never know. Life may happen, just as it did at the Hawaii Volcano National Park, giving you a new perspective. Your trips into the crater may begin as a spectacular birthday adventure only to turn into a cautionary tale on luck.
A version of this post was published in the January 5th edition of the WriterHouse newsletter.
On New Year’s Day, 1985, I wrote down a list of goals for the new year and promised to do this until the year I die. Thirty-two years have passed. Every year, I faithfully sit on my bed and read past resolutions before creating new ones. I keep them in a pink fiberboard jewelry box my great-grandmother gave me. The earliest resolutions were oragamied into squares teens of a certain decade will recognize.
Over the years, resolutions have included travel plans, getting a boyfriend, skydiving from 10,000 feet, and being kinder to others. Some were completely unrealistic, like be 100% happy all the time, while others were easily achieved. Goals I met received stars or checks. Unmet goals were left for another year. From an early age, being a published writer made the list. For a very long time, it remained unchecked.
As I completed this year’s ritual, I realized many of my early goals were beyond my control (like the whole boyfriend thing). Much of our writing lives—like whether our submissions are read, accepted, or liked—are also out of our control. In many ways, writing down published writer was like getting a boyfriend. I could write it down, but I couldn’t make it happen.
So, what is in my control?
The work and only the work.
I can commit to writing or revising a certain number of pages, learning new skills, or making a certain number of submissions. I can register for classes and conferences and make new writing friends. Some people I know are also making rejection goals, which we all know is much easier than publication ones. (By the way, mine is 29.)
But more important than setting goals is creating a plan for accomplishing them. Over the years, I’ve discovered my plans always include the following elements:
- A breakdown of mini-tasks required to meet my big goal
- A schedule for completing these tasks
- A support team who will help me stay accountable. Often this includes classmates and members of writing groups.
- One big reward and a series of small ones to celebrate the milestones along the way
- A self-care plan
- A letter of intention that addresses how I want to feel, think, or believe once I’ve completed this goal. I write this in the present tense as if the goal has already been achieved.
- A mantra, or positive phrase I can say to myself when things get tough
- A list of encouraging phrases and quotes from authors I can use as inspiration
- A gratitude jar for all the gifts along the way.
At the end of my yearly ritual, I create my plan and carefully refold the yellowing pages written decades ago. Then I say thank you for all of them, even the ones I never accomplished.
What goals have you set for yourself?
What do you need to make them a reality?
How can I help?