winter 2009-10
page  18

Memoiwriters' conferencer:
by
Betty Jane Weigand

 

Two hundred writers showed up for the Southern California Writer’s Conference, in San Diego, each with one unifying hope—that his or her book would be a best seller.

The hopefuls came in all shapes and sizes, old, young, tall, short, male, female, and from all parts of the country. Out of this hodgepodge of writers, six arrived from a Palm Springs writing group: Fred, Dodie, BJ, Marci, Jack and Phil. All weekend this gang of six clumped together like warm coats in a closet waiting for winter.

            Fred was the first of the group to receive applause while reading one of his pieces in a read-and-critique workshop. Extrovert Dodie not only received applause but went on to win the Southern California Writer’s Conference award for Best Non-Fiction.

Like others in her group, BJ had sent off two chapters of her manuscript and a check for fifty dollars to a well-published writer/author for a critique. No sooner had she pinned on her nametag than she felt a tap on her shoulder. “BJ?”

She turned to see a short, middle-aged man. He needed a shave and carried a worn briefcase and a belt-tugging pouch.

“I’m your well-published writer/author. Let’s get this critique over with.” He led her to a small, secluded table in the bar. “Have a seat,” he said, removing her manuscript from the briefcase.

“First,” he said coolly, “you misspelled my name in your query letter.”

BJ imagined her check and manuscript hitting the far wall and landing with a thump in the garbage can. She apologized, explaining about problems with words, how she transposes letters, and on and on until he interrupted. “Let’s begin,” he said, unsmiling. “Your piece is too brief considering your targeted age group. Your chapter endings don’t end in the right spot. I have problems with your use of the present tense. I don’t like your slang; it’s overdone, as is Denny’s height problem. And this, too,” he pointed to a place in the manuscript. “Denny is supposed to be fourteen, am I right?”

She nodded.

“Well, to me, he sounds like ten.” The well-published author/writer wiped his palms together like they were dirty, stood, and dismissed her.

“Thank you so much,” she said, her face red and stinging from all the slapping words.

She headed for her room and went to bed. BJ, the wanna-be writer had struck out and hit bottom, and all in the first hour of arrival. The rest of the weekend lay before her.

 



With the well-published author/writer’s stinging words going round and round in her head, she decided she’d throw out her computer and take up bowling.

At dinner that night, her supportive Gang of Six fearing the worst — WOMAN KILLS SELF AT WRITER’S CONFERENCE — stuck to her like gum the whole weekend.

On Sunday, the last day of the conference, the six attended another read-and-critique workshop. Dodie read a funny piece about bladder surgery in Thailand. Laughter! Applause! Jack read about a carp swimming around in his bathtub. More laughter and applause! He even sold a book—a cash deal!

Marci read a stunning piece of work that left everyone silent before applauding with gusto.

“Critiques anyone?” the workshop leader asked.

A lady in a red dress raised her hand. She stood and looked over her glasses at Marci. “You know,” she sniffed, “you misused the word ‘incredible.’” As she continued her critique, her ego rose like a giant helium balloon high in the air, so heavy it threatened to pop and spread ego effluvia all over everyone. When she finished, Marci accepted the criticism with a thank you.

Ms. Red Dress then read pages from her book with the gusto reserved for fans of War and Peace. All listened with polite boredom. When finished she received an Ebert and Roper-style two thumbs down from the group.

Eyeing Ms. Red Dress, BJ warily took out her work.

“Hold it one minute,” said the leader, “I have to go to the men’s room.” Thus began a general exodus to the restrooms, leaving BJ mute and stranded, and wondering what size bowling shoes she’d need.

When the group returned, Ms. Red Dress’ chair was empty. Maybe she’d gotten stuck in a bathroom stall, her inflated ego so huge that an emergency crew, armed with blowtorch and the Jaws of Life, were right then laboring to extract her from her potty prison.

With this pleasant thought, BJ began to read. In the silence of the room she heard a titter, then a chuckle, and finally an out-and-out laugh. As she finished, it happened — the sound she’d yearned for the whole weekend — applause.

As the conference ended, BJ ran into the well-published author/writer who’d dismissed her manuscript. He shook his head. “If I don’t see another hopeful writer until next year, it will be too soon.”

                           END

 


Betty Jane Weigand has worked as a feature writer for a newspaper in New York, published poetry in The Long Pond Review, and short stories in As I see it--Expressions and Impressions by Coachella Valley Writers and also Laughing Matters. She has won prizes for her work in various publications. Her poetry has previously appeared in Straitjackets Magazine.

 
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