The Surrey International Writers' Conference was a blast. An absolute blast. I ate great food, rubbed
shoulders with amazing people and, as hoped, learned a little somethin’
somethin’ about this business called writing. But, you know what bowled me
over, what left me breathless and giddy at times and downright teary-eyed at others?
The pervading spirit of generosity.
I should have known. The signs were there long before the
conference began. New to Vancouver Island, I was perplexed by the public
transportation system that would lead me to Surrey. Well, I optimistically hoped it might—after four or five transfers with suitcase and laptop in tow. My Twitter
friend, Jenny, offered a ride. She connected me with other writers who
might also be able to help out. Unfortunately, I was leaving a day earlier than
everyone because I was taking a master class (Thank you,
Laurie
McLean. It was outstanding!)
and I had to get there on my own steam, but it was not for lack of considerate
offers to get me to the other shore on the Thursday. This was followed up at the end of the
conference with a ride to the ferry by a writer I had previously “met” online.
If not for Kathleen’s thoughtfulness, I would not have made it back so directly
and quickly to DH, and for that I am grateful…because I sure missed DH.
The volunteers welcomed me when I signed in. They were
energetic and enthusiastic and I immediately caught the buzz. The organizers
checked in to see if all was well, if I knew where I was going, if I was happy
with the conference. This didn’t just occur on day one, but each of the four.
Kathy, in particular, was genuinely concerned that everyone felt comfortable and
that all concerns were addressed. Not that I had any concerns. Well, except for
the unventilated public washrooms, but that would be a Sheraton issue not a
conference issue. Seriously, Sheraton, get some air moving in there!
The conference exploded with munificence. From the
consideration of those giving up their seats in a crowded room to the presenters
who gave due diligence to delivering intelligent, informative and, often,
amusing workshops, to those attendees who were invitational in the elevator, in
the dining room and at the bar.
Jasper Fforde joined our table one evening. He was witty and entertaining—I have
ordered his books and can hardly wait for them to arrive. We talked about
pitching and he said, “Hit me!” He was offering me the opportunity to practice my
pitch. Not wanting to intrude upon his dinner, I refrained, but I did ask him
for his pitch so that I might learn. He gave it and that is why I will now own
Jasper Fforde books. J
I did do my pitch, nervous as a young girl at her first job
interview. Quite frankly, it stunk. I’ve never been good at auditions, although
I believe I have some talent to offer the stage. It is no different, apparently,
in a live pitch. Patricia Nelson of Marsal Lyon Literary Agency was exceptionally gracious. She
opened up the dialogue to explore my genre and confirmed what I have debated
all along. Raven’s Path is historical fiction…with a strong romantic theme. Her
explanation of marketing and how important it is to get this one right since I
have sequels to consider, left me stammering, stumbling, and eternally thankful.
Raven’s Path is historical fiction. I worked hard at my research to ensure that
it reflected the political and cultural truths of the time. Thank you,
Patricia, for naming it. I will now own it with pride.
The list of magnanimous moments is endless. Online writing
companions became flesh and blood friends. Thank you Theresa and Kathleen for
taking the reins and hosting an amazing Compuserve Forum party—and for stocking
champagne! This same group of writers encouraged me to attend in the first
place, celebrated the successes of one another (You go Ru, idol queen!), and are
now reflecting and sharing notes with those who were unable to attend. Then
there was Jack Whyte, who graciously
whispered the opening paragraph from Raven’s Path with scotch-infused breath,
giving life to the name Anabla Tarleton McGregor. Ah, the rumble of his burr
will forever remain with me.
Generous moments. Too many to list. It was a waterfall of beneficence.
But, within the splash and fall of such largesse, two moments stand out for me.
The first came at my blue pencil. This is an opportunity to put three pages of
your work in front of a published author for feedback. I was fortunate enough
to have Susanna Kearsley.
Now, I picked her because I love her novels and I thought, regardless of what
she said about my writing, I would get to chat with someone I admire. She was
so supportive and, truly, beyond
generous. I’m not sure my feet touched the ground after our session.
The other
poignant moment of thoughtfulness came with our final keynote speaker, Terry Fallis. It was a tough time slot and
he had to follow some exceptional keynote speakers. He was witty and charming and
caught my attention with his story of winning the Leacock Medal for Humour. I lived 30+ years near
Orillia, where Leacock is very much featured and honoured, and I recognized the value of such an award. Terry moved
beyond entertaining and touched the vulnerable hearts of all of us when he
talked about our name tags. He had noticed that all tags had names along with
the addition of agent, editor, publisher, volunteer and writer. But many just had the place
the person came from. He told us to take off our tags and put writer beneath
our names. Because that was what we were, published or not. My vision blurs and I sniffle at the memory.
Terry says I am a writer. Susanna concurs and says to keep
on writing. Their voices shout, echo and then quietly mingle to become the
chorus to my dreams. I am a writer. I will keep on writing. And, I consider
myself privileged to belong to such a generous group of people.
