Musings
an Online Journal of Sorts

By Alyce Wilson

The weekend immediately after we returned from our honeymoon, I participated in a literary conference held by Philadelphia Stories called Push to Publish, which focused on "strategies and techniques to get your work in print and online."

It was a day-long event for writers, where they could participate in panels and workshops designed to improve their chances of getting published.

I'd agreed to participate in a session called "Speed Date with the Editors", where writers could pay a small fee and then meet with editors of local literary magazines,who would provide feedback on samples of their work.

The speed dating session wasn't until the 11 a.m. hour, but I'd been instructed to arrive by 9 a.m. to register. So it was a really early morning for me, considering that I still wasn't caught up on sleep from the honeymoon. I'd also been under the weather all week, due to fighting off some sort of mysterious allergic reaction, which produced hives on my arms and a sense of fatigue. I was just beginning to recover.

The morning got off to a bad start, because I was trying to follow the instructions to park in the proper parking lot, for which the International House validates parking. However, I'd been given the incorrect street address, and that particular address appeared to be under construction. So while the parking garage was literally just across the street, I circled by it three times before giving up and parking in a University of Pennsylvania parking garage.

To make matters worse, I'd been counting on buying coffee at the little snack stand in the first floor of the International House; however, it wasn't yet open. I did learn, though, after I'd registered, that the conference organizers were providing free coffee and pastries.

When I got upstairs, there was some confusion over how I was to register, and I was sent down to the end of the hall to "set up my table". I didn't expect to be given an entire display table, so I was ill-prepared for this. My idea of "speed dating" was that we would each be seated at small tables, and the writers would shift between us at a given signal. Turns out we were given half of a display table. I put out a mailing list and some Wild Violet post cards, along with the sign that said "Wild Violet", provided by the conference organizers. Pretty paltry, but what could I do?

The editor next to me had the same problem. He'd only brought a stack of flyers for a fundraiser. I gave him a sheet of paper so he could do a mailing list sign-up, too.

Eventually, the event coordinator arrived, and she gave us name tags, a packet of information and a bag of goodies: namely, an issue of Philadelphia Stories, a tote bag and a mug. She told us we were free to do whatever we wanted until our session.

I recognized a number of the editors from having seen them at other Philadelphia area events within the past year, and we chatted breezily until the keynote speaker was set to begin. It was standing room only by the time we arrived, but we brought in some chairs and sat in the back.

The speaker was Karen L. Quinones Miller, a Philadelphia author who began her writing career by self-publishing so aggressively that she created a bidding war among some major publishers. By the time she'd written this book, she'd gone through a lot in her life, and yet, she managed to forge an impressive career.

So I suppose if I put some effort into it, I'd do the same. I've really got to get my act together! It's amazing how off-course I got just due to planning our wedding. I hope to throw that same energy, over this next year, into accomplishing some of my career goals.

Then it was time for the speed dating session. I spoke to six writers, giving them constructive feedback for their work. There was a little confusion, though. For the first session, they actually called time at the end of 10 minutes. After that, they expected us to time it ourselves, which was really distracting. When you only have 10 minutes to spend with an author, it's sort of rude to be constantly looking at your clock. None of the writers seemed to mind, though.

I had misunderstood that we were supposed to collect the tickets the writers had purchased, in order to participate. Instead of collecting them, I was signing the backs and returning them to the writers, instructions which I remembered from an earlier e-mail (there was nothing stated specifically to me on the day of the event).

Philadelphia Stories was giving the participating editors a small fee based on the number of writers we'd spoken to. Since I didn't have the tickets, she was happy to take me at my word. I offered to provide her, though, with a copy of my mailing list, which each of the writers had signed, but she said it wasn't necessary.

I spoke to two children's book authors, since I was the only editor who agreed to look at children's writing. While I have no specific expertise in it, I figured I'd critique it like any piece of writing: look at the piece in terms of how well it appeals to its audience and achieves its goals. I found that when I looked at the pieces in those terms, I had a number of constructive comments to make.

I also spoke to a few poets and a creative nonfiction writer. Overall, it was a very interesting experience for me, and I believe they all got something out of it.

After our session had concluded, we editors got ourselves the lunches we'd been provided. I couldn't remember whether I'd requested a turkey or a vegetarian sandwich, so I grabbed a vegetarian lunch, since there were more of those. As it was, a number of the lunches went unclaimed. I don't know if they had some no-shows or if some of the people had opted to get lunches elsewhere on their own.

The lunch was tasty, and as I ate I hung around with some of the editors, sharing notes about interesting submission stories and other related issues. I had a good time talking to the father of the event organizer, who is both a psychologist and a writer. He has a very dry wit, and he listens carefully to people, which I suppose shouldn't be surprising, given his profession. He'd remember things that people said about themselves and bring it up in conversation later.

I stuck around for one more panel, which was about what makes a good poem. One of the panelists was playing devil's advocate, arguing that a good poem means different things to different people and that you couldn't arbitrarily call anything good. I was surprised to hear him say this, because he was a writing instructor, and I doubt that he signs off on all his students' writing by saying, "As long as you think it's good, I guess it is."

The other panelists argued there were items you could identify, but the writing professor dominated the conversation, pushing it away from the concrete into a sort of philosophical discussion of subjective interpretation.

The moderator, who happened to be the event organizer's father, tried to steer the conversation towards more specifics, with little success. Eventually, the audience members began to raise their hands and make their own arguments for why you could, indeed, call some poems better than others.

I found myself thinking that, if I'd been a paying member, I would have been highly disappointed. After all, the conference was supposed to help writers to get their work published, and I think the panel should have provided much more concrete guidance. Then again, I wasn't on the panel, so aside from posing a question or two from the audience, I kept my mouth shut.

By then, it was getting fairly late, so I tracked down the event coordinator and thanked her for inviting me. Hopefully, she'll invite me to another event like this in the future. Making connections can always lead to good things, and I believe I really helped some writers.

Copyright 2006 by Alyce Wilson

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