The glass elevator lofts me above the cavernous Atrium to the top floor. The giant fountain dominating the lobby shrinks into knick-knack proportions beneath my flight. The elevator dings and announces, “Seventeenth floor.” So what, the Hyatt Regency is not a skyscraper and their top floor is only the 17th. I’m feeling so good, that a low prime number for the top floor tickles me pink.
In my room, I cast open the balcony doors and look out on my beloved San Francisco. The Embarcadero Center is to my left, with its tasteful height and slender windows. To my right shimmers the San Francisco Bay, Pier One, the Ferry Building, and, in the brick-laid foreground like a Sienese piazza, Justin Herman Plaza.
I didn’t even have to pay to get in. I’m attending this brilliant writer’s conference courtesy of my gracious and supportive employer, a school where I teach English, a school that recruited me to teach based on my publishing history. Another success attributable to my love affair with English.
The conference was replete with inspiring experiences. There were copious offerings in terms of workshops, courses, and panels covering everything a writer might need to know about improving or publishing their work. I even took a screenwriting class. I was basically in meetings all day for 4 days. It was a very gratifying draw on my attention span, but demanding. It was very helpful to have a room in the hotel, so I could pop up to the room for a cup of tea and a stare out the window for an hour while attempting to process the day’s deluge of information and inspiration.
I had the opportunity, for the second time ever, to speak with Jacob Weisman, the founder of Tachyon Publications. And he remembered me! Well, he mostly remembered my friend David Gill (“The Philip K. Dick Guy”). The first time I met Mr. Weisman was at an SF in SF event, when the featured guest was Robert Silverberg. At the conference, we stood by the bookstore table and spoke of everything from sci-fi novellas to the next SF in SF event at the Bookbinder’s Museum. I love a friendly chat among nerds.
Another very valuable feature of the conference was the ability to book short one-on-one sessions with acquiring agents and editors. This is a gorgeous opportunity for a writer to get some invaluable feedback from a seasoned publishing professional. The trouble is, you only get 8 minutes, so you have to speak to the point, practice your pitch. I booked three sessions with agents because I recently drafted a new project and was curious to hear from some experts about it.
I managed to package my pitch concisely enough that it left ample time for the agents to ask me questions and give me advice. One agent even offered suggestions, and a couple of significant insights into the project (a memoir) that totally reshaped the parameters. I totally had the biggest crush on this agent; her turns of phrases, an air of elegance, a hint of whimsy. She flew in from Manhattan for the conference, dressed in black. When I saw her at a panel about narrative non-fiction, I knew I should speak with her. I was not disappointed. She saw right into the heart of the project and I couldn’t scribble down what she was saying fast enough, or surpress my delight. We had (for me) a downright stimulating chat about the work.
I’m at a promontory in my life right now, must be, and gratitude is issuing from me like geyser steam. There was a splendid moment, when the agent I was speaking with placed her hand on a tiny whiteboard, about the size of an index card, discreetly placed on the table before her. It had a cover on rings, like a tiny binder, so its contents could remain hidden. She flipped the cover back, turned the small whiteboard around so the writing on it was right-side-up to me.
It was her personal email address.
“Send me the first 10 pages,” she said.
Oh. Mah. Gawd. I felt a rush of inspiration, and blood pounding in my temples. I couldn’t wait to find a spot to sit and write.
What else but a promontory can one call it when an agent from a prestigious New York literary agency (on the Upper West Side, no less) has just asked for a partial?
What do I do? Float; let it wash over me. Then I get to work.
I rewrote and sent off the first 10 pages of the manuscript based on my inspiration and her suggestions. No matter what becomes of this opportunity, I already measure it a success. Sure, I’ll go a little query-loopy for the next few weeks, as any writer ought, yearning for word about the project. But a wonderful thing has happened already. Someone saw what I was trying to communicate and helped me draw it out. Many humble thanks for that, you know who you are!
Thank you for reading. Reading Rules!
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