Surrey International Writers' Conference

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.

 

I am still learning. —Michelangelo

Last week I stated that one of my goals this year was to learn...and learn more. Well, this week I am off to the 23rd annual Surrey International Writers' Conference. I'll tell you all about it when I get back. In the meantime, consider me:

My life is better with every year of living it. —Rachel Maddow

I turned another year wiser on Monday. Not a raucous momentous occasion, but a wonderful day nonetheless. As I get older, I cannot help but reflect upon what has come before and what lies ahead. Rather than ramble contemplatively ad nauseam, I thought I’d give it in a nutshell. Well, a bullet list—which is the written version of a nutshell.

 What I learned this year:

• Just when I thought I knew where I was going, I didn’t.
• It’s fun not to know where you’re going.
• A clean and tidy house isn’t really that important.
• People are kind and generous.
• Good friends are irreplaceable.
• New friends are a treasure found.
• I can write anywhere.
• I can dream anywhere.
• True joy lives in the simple moments.

What I hope I do in the year to come:

• Embrace new adventures.
• Live healthily—we now live in a climate where we have no excuse not to be active.
• Write…and then write some more.
• Read…and then read some more.
• Learn…and, you guessed it, learn some more.
• Find an agent.
• Slow down and enjoy every minute with DH and the fur babies.

 Does your birthday make you pause and ponder? If so, what do you hope for as your birthday rolls into sight?

 

 

Laughter is an instant vacation. —Milton Berle

Writing takes effort. It’s pleasurable but hard work.  No different than any other job I’ve ever undertaken, I need a consistent schedule. It is the only way I can get words on the page. I like to write when I feel fresh, when my mind is free from any weight the day might add. For that reason, mornings are sacred in our house. DH understands and leaves me alone, snugged in my corner of the couch. Even the girls accept it, routinely curling up beside me in quiet support.

Yes, it is protected time. Until it is not. I will allow one thing to disrupt it. Friends. I value our friends, appreciate the effort they make to come see us and truly enjoy their company. We have a flurry of visitors over the next week or so, beginning this afternoon and I can hardly wait. I fretted for a moment about interrupted writing routines, but moved past that quickly since I know that I will adjust and write late at night or in the wee hours of the morning. I don’t sleep many hours, so it’s an easy shift to make.

However, having said that, something’s gotta give. And, it will be this blog. So, dear readers, I will be turning over my blogging shingle to the closed side. Or perhaps it should say On Vacation. Laughter, food, wine and good friends. Yes, vacation. I’ll be back in a couple of weeks to tell you all about it. J

Listen with the intent to understand, not the intent to reply. —Stephen Covey

I was going to write about querying this week. I have merely dabbled in it and am now ready to go full tilt. But, as I diligently research agents, a voice whispers and demands to be heard. Her name is Lizzy. She is 16 years old and she is in pain.

Lizzy is a cutter. She does not want attention. She just wants to curl up under a sprawling tree and melt into the earth. She thinks, she worries, she feels—and, oh my, she hurts. Lizzy knows all of the things that cause her agony. She can list them as clearly and perfunctorily as her first grade spelling tests. But her thoughts are not as numbing as those lists. They’re painful. And, the only thing that eases them is a razor.

I will query Raven’s Path and Love Denied. I will also continue to write historicals. They are too much a part of me to set aside for any length of time. But, I feel that I must listen to Lizzy too. She is speaking to me in snippets and is anxious to share her story.

Jo dangled her new bracelet in front of Lizzy’s nose. Not that she’d know it was new if Jo hadn’t shoved every purchase of silver and cheap tawdry designer rip off in front of her nose since last semester. “Look, this is just like Angelina Jolie’s when she was with that ugly older guy. See the skeleton in the middle? She was so cool then.”

Lizzy gave her a quick applaud with an “Oh!” but really she was sick of it. She could clearly see the strips of purple, of yellow, of healed brown. Jo pretended she was hiding the cuts, but really she was dressing them up, wrapping them in glamour and yelling “Look at me!” She got pulled out regularly by school guidance for “the talk.” She’d return all coy and humble but she was preening at the attention. A peacock amongst swallows.

Jo cut for show. She cut for attention. Maybe she felt some pain. Who knew? But, she screamed for someone to feel sorry for her. Well, Lizzy knew cutting and she didn’t feel anything for the scars on Jo’s arms. She didn’t feel anything for Jo. As a matter of fact she didn’t give a shit about World History either.

She pushed from the desk and stood, gathering her papers and shoving them into her bag. Mr. Hobard stopped talking and stared at her, the hand that had been swirling through the air frozen, the whiteboard marker clenched between fingers suspended midair. His eyes bulged like that guy in that stupid movie her mom watched over and over, alone, laughing too loud and too much. They popped right out of his head.

“Lizzy, what’s up? You’re giving Hobard a heart attack.”

Lizzy could care less if Hobard keeled over in front of the whole class. She needed to get out. Needed to grab some air. Needed to leave the fake pain and go prick her own.

 

A garden requires patient labor and attention. Plants do not grow merely to satisfy ambitions or to fulfill good intentions. They thrive because someone expended effort on them. --Liberty Hyde Bailey

I am back in the groove. Once again, I am consistently putting aside a few hours each morning for writing, or something related to writing. I have pulled out different pieces and reread them, pondering their strengths and needs and what I should do next. I have two complete novels and three novellas, as well as a sequel, a young adult and a woman’s fiction in the works. These last two are the pieces I play with to hone my craft. It feels good to revisit all of these and ponder revision and creation.

Today we ventured into our backyard. It very much resembles a rich forest in the middle of a dust bowl. We have not touched it despite its neglected state. British Columbia has been in drought conditions for months and we did not want to traumatize the vegetation with our amateurish strokes. The rain fell freely this past week and the leaves perked up. We felt confident that it was a fine time to connect directly to this new land of ours.

We started hesitantly. Some plants looked quite nice and merely needed a clip or two. Some looked a little on the dry side and need more time to absorb the water before we decide how best to come at them. But, there were a few that were clearly out of control. They were difficult to prune as their branches were entwined intricately and to cut one did not necessarily release it. You had to trace back through the weave and snip multiple places before it was truly clear cut.

I could not help but think about how much an arborist’s task is like that of an author. I have pored through my writing this week. I did a quick edit on Raven’s Path and Love Denied and am pleased that there was little trimming to be done.  The sequel to Raven’s Path is suffering fatigue and needs to sit awhile and gather strength until I decide how best to approach it. The novellas need a good pruning, they are interlaced and must be approached with an eye to maintaining the integrity of all three—a terrific task for a rainy day.

I imagine the arborist who faces an empty lot is excited to be able to envision, design and create. That is how I feel as I look at my YA and WF. Their seeds have germinated and it is time to decide where they go. I am optimistic that the landscape of my life will be richer for their creation. Regardless of whether they become breath-taking arboretums, or rugged reminders of hard work, I know I will enjoy them. The words will be the soil that sifts through my fingers, their story the fruit of love’s labour.

 

Let the wine of friendship never run dry —Les Miserables

I have talked about the bounty of the land. These past few weeks I have also been privy to a different kind of boon: the joy of people, of friendship offered and gladly accepted.

Neighbours have introduced themselves, welcomed us to the community, shared the spoils of their gardens and invited us to their homes. I had great fun meeting one of my online writing peeps for the first time. She dropped by and I now have a face to go with a name, and am thrilled to discover that we have an affinity beyond the Internet environment.

New faces, new stories and people who have never heard our tales...terrific! Yet, there is nothing like a good friend, someone you have known through the years, someone who knows you—the good, the bad and the ugly. We are fortunate that we have several of those on the island. In fact, I believe, we followed their crumb trail here.

This weekend the house resounded with shared stories and inside jokes, and it shook with raucous laughter. We sat quietly and talked about our lives, we baked together, broke bread while growing louder as the night grew dark and we truly laughed until we cried.

The comfortable familiarity, and the depth of understanding we find with one another, makes me realize how true the adage is: It takes a long time to grow an old friend. Maybe some day these new folks will fit the bill too. In the meantime, we are so lucky to have such dear friends close and to have their visits to treasure.