An account of what actually happens at writer's conferences.

I have committed the act from which there is no going back. I attended my first writer’s conference and lived to tell the tale.
It began inauspiciously with a bureaucratic mixup on the part of the management, which resulted in a nearly three-hour wait in the registration line and many frazzled nerves, but once we got past that, things moved along nicely. Besides, I met some lovely new friends while standing in that line–shared pain has a way of bonding folks like no other experience–with some of whom I am still actually speaking, at least once a year when I send my holiday cards.
The general session on Friday night held an unexpected gem. John Musker, who had been with Disney 20 years, talked about his work on their last few animated hits (The Little Mermaid, Aladdin and Hercules were current at the time). His enthusiasm, humor and straightforward style were refreshing and entertaining.
The weather on Saturday was perfect—sunny and mild, but that made it hard to sit inside. The workshops I attended were: “The Art of the Memoir,” (of which I had to miss a lot because I had an appointment with a real live agent); “Slushpile Snorkeling,” (nothing new here); “Focus Your Fiction,” (fast-paced and meaty; and “Using Real People in Books and Plays;” (could have been stated in fifteen minutes rather than several hours); and “How to Make Yourself Irresistible to Any Agent or Publisher,” (I haven’t nailed that one yet).
Hearing Saturday night’s keynote address was another unexpected pleasure. Olivia Goldsmith (First Wives’ Club), was witty, well-informed and helpful.
After Olivia, the Redwood Writers in attendance were invited to our writer’s club branch founder’s room for a Champagne party. She was presented with the Jack London Service Award for outstanding service to the membership, and though I’d only seen her in action once (I was a brand new member at the time), I could tell that she deserved it. A woman who gets things done, she was part of the committee which advocated the passage of a bill designating the third week in October as Writers’ Week, and is now the State President of the California Writers Club.
Sunday, I attended the Editor/Publisher’s Panel (mildly helpful), and “Focus Your Nonfiction,” which was taught by the same teacher I had loved on Saturday in the fiction class. She gave us so much useful material it took me weeks to absorb it, and her lively presence made the whole weekend worthwhile for me.
The food was plentiful and mostly edible (you know how it is with institutional food), the company was great, the setting was perfect (Asilomar, California, close enough to Monterey, Carmel and Pacific Grove to be interesting), and I had a terrific roommate–terrific because she was absent except for those all-important girl-talks in the dark. It was almost like being back in college. I got what I needed from my first writer’s conference. Did I mention all the books I bought? My favorite was, The Portable Writers’ Conference, edited by Stephen Blake Mettee. I figured that in the long run it would help me save money, because if I had all that publishing wisdom “Learn from over 45 Editors, Agents and Authors!” I wouldn’t have to pay to attend any more writers’ conferences.
I also got to see up close what real live agents, editors and published writers look like, and you know what?
They look a lot like me.
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