Day two of the conference, actually day one since the previous night was nothing more than a social event turned drunken orgy (drunken orgy in the children’s book business is when two hundred female authors huddle together squealing while a half dozen male authors stare at their feet) began at the crack of dawn and didn’t end until the evening of the following day, or something like that.
I arrived to find way too much happiness in the main meeting room. Apparently most authors practice their craft bright and early. I for one greet the morning like an astronaut encountering weightlessness, I do my best not to vomit. While most the attendees took up chatting where they left off the night before, I sat hunched in the corner pouring over the list of editors and agents I intended to meet so help me god. My experience the previous evening had taught me one thing: children’s publishing is not child’s play. Today I would be the predator and they my prey (at least that’s the sort of gibberish that was going through my head. Predator? Really? Please.).
The morning keynote speaker was Lani Taylor, author of DREAMDARK BLACKBRINGER and other works of beautiful literary magic. Her bright pink locks gleaming in the lights, she delivered a speech that built to a climax so satisfying I longed for a cigarette afterward.
Next, awards were announced for a juried art show of the most promising, upcoming illustrators in the area. This led to a ten minute break, just enough time for four hundred women to form a boa constrictor sized line leading into the ladies room while the half dozen men in the crowd formed more of an inch worm sized line of our own.
While waiting for a urinal I realized the tall, thin black man behind me had been awarded second for his artwork. Duly impressed I turned and told him nice job. In return I received an angry glare. Huh? I was about to remark there’s nothing wrong with second when I realized, to my horror, there were apparently two tall, thin black men at the conference, he being the other one.
Let me be clear. I can tell the difference between people of color. Most of the time. Any confusion I have stems from the simple fact I grew up in a small town as uniform as a shaker of salt. We were whiter than a Tide commercial. People of color existed only on TV, like muscular aliens brought to earth for the sole purpose of boxing, basketball and performing feats of strength. I still remember the first time I faced a black player on the basketball court. I knew he would crush me. And he did. It didn’t help he was Lenny Wilkens’ son. Anyway, I finished my business, zipped up and soldiered back to my table with only my hot, glowing ears to mark the event.
I spent the next four hours attending break out sessions with the agents and editors on my hit list, each tantalizingly close yet beyond reach. During the breaks I would approach the nearest one only to be thwarted by a throng of other would-be suitors blocking my path. The women in the room were tougher than I thought. And well versed in hip checking. By mid afternoon I was bruised, battered and getting nowhere.
The stress was taking a toll. I needed a break. I retreated to my car and promptly fell asleep. I awoke to eyes peering through the window and a security guard tapping on the glass. Apparently it’s a crime to fall asleep at a childrens author conference. Who knew?
I returned to the conference in time for my ten minute manuscript consultation with the Italian leather boot wearing New York literary agent. I sat across from her while the clock ticked. Minutes passed. I listened to a fly hiccup. Finally, the buzzer sounded. As I stood to go she handed me a folded piece of paper. I stumbled away, the sound of hiccupping still ringing in my ears.
I stepped outside and exhaled. $35 for ten minutes of silence. What the h*&%? Then I looked down at the paper in my hand and my consternation was complete. A neatly typed review of my work both eloquent and insightful greeted me. What? I replayed the last 24 hours in my mind. Perhaps she wasn’t snubbing me. Perhaps she was just shy and a bit overwhelmed by all the people clamoring for her attention. Hmm… this makes for poor Hollywood but a pretty good dose of reality. Maybe, just maybe, I had jumped to a wrong conclusion.
An hour before the conference ended I found myself at the snack counter along with another of the invited agents. I had heard him speak at a session earlier and he had seemed quite down to earth, sort of a gee whiz I grew up in Mayberry kind of guy. It was refreshing. I turned and introduced myself and we talked for a few minutes. He even laughed at something I said. I’m not sure it was all that funny but he was that sort of guy, looking to laugh first and ask questions later. I liked that. In my final hour I had a real goodness to gracious encounter with an agent, someone I could follow up with. Whoohoo.
Thus ended my first writing conference. I made a few friends, angered one of the only minorities in attendance, gave a security guard an opportunity to roll his eyes, had a realization that agents might be human, and maybe, just maybe, found one to take home to Mom. But that’s a topic for another post…
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