Atlanta Writer's Conference

I spent about 14 hours at the Atlanta Writers Conference over the past two days. In that time I received plenty of advice, helpful and otherwise, from agents and published authors. I also watched a line of writers waiting like a college football player trying out for the NFL.

I don't often feel like I fit in. I lack what some would call a community. This weekend I felt that I fit in. I sat last night with a man of my age trying for the second year in a row to sell his book about two friends and a kidney donation. Today I had lunch with two older writers working on a nonfiction book about parenting. They weren't married but looked a lot like my aunt and uncle who live in Las Vegas. I met a woman on the waiting list to pitch who got to pitch and looked dazed after the experience. I met a Vietnam Veteran, also a published author, who told me what a Marine is all about when I asked.

It was too late for me to sign up for a slot to pitch. In a pitch session you meet an agent or an editor and have ten minutes to sell your story. During my hour-long drive I went over my pitch as many times as I could. Even though I was 20th in the waiting list I stood around all day in the hopes that a slot would open up. One of my friends from an online critique group had volunteered to time the sessions and got an opportunity to pitch. I sat and thought maybe I could slide in after him. Another prospective writer, looking for an agent for his science fiction premise, tried to engage an agent on the way down the escalator. That was it. After hearing of successful pitches on an elevator or in line for the bathroom, every moment was an opportunity.

I witnessed something rare this weekend. I got to see dreams openly expressed. Just about everyone in attendance was looking for a publication deal, or had self-published in hopes of making it to the bit time with validation from an agent. The best they could expect was an invitation to send more pages and the hope for a formal relationship and eventual publication.

It was like a job interview, but it was more than that. Most jobs are not dreams. This was a dream, that in some cases has been decades in the making. It's my dream too. It wasn't my day. Being aware of the possibility might render me unable to sleep until I achieve it. Yeah, I better drink a little wine tonight to help the process.