MY PLEASURE TO INTRODUCE GUEST BLOGGER SHANNA MAHIN
When I was in the seventh grade, there was a guy who hung out in the school parking lot at lunch, a guy who’d graduated the previous June, but still came back on a regular basis to smoke cigarettes and gun the engine of his metallic brown Trans Am. You know the kind of Trans Am I’m talking about, right, with the big, golden eagle decal on the hood?
That first year, he was kind of a celebrity. But then he didn’t go away. And by the time I was in the 9th grade, even I, the most unpopular girl in school—with the possible exception of Cindy Evans, whose mother only let her wash her hair once a week—knew that Paul Hearst was a weirdo loser without a life, blasting Starland Vocal Band from his tinny car speakers and lying about all the pussy he was getting.
I’m sharing this story with you to create the following shorthand: I am the Paul Hearst of the PEN Emerging Voices program—a 2008 fellow, still hanging out in the parking lot, smoking cigarettes and lying about all the pussy I’m getting writing I’m doing. So, when PEN asked me to speak on a panel for potential Emerging Voices applicants, I said yes, of course, and immediately ran out to get my Trans Am detailed. Then I thought it all the way through and told them I couldn’t make it. Then I felt like an asshole for saying no, so I recanted (re-recanted?) and said yes again. I bet Paul was never that wishy-washy about how to spend his lunch hours.
Two days before the event, I spent more money than I could afford having Botox and Restylane injected into my face, in the vain hope that my preternaturally smooth skin would distract from the fact that my ass is 20 pounds larger than it was the last time I saw most of these people, and, more importantly, that my book is still unfinished and “my agent” hated the last two drafts of it. I’m putting “my agent” in quotes because I’m pretty sure that relationship has died from attrition. At least the Botox thing caused a huge (I mean seriously HUGE) fight with my husband, which was a welcome distraction from the fact that I am a fat, unpublished writer with a handful of early accolades under my belt and an inability to get out of the parking lot.
The day before the event, I woke up looking like the Plastic Surgeon General of Beverly Hills, which won’t mean anything to you if you don’t know who Snake Plissken is, but you can probably infer that it’s not good. I was ready to renege for the third time when Betsy asked me to write a guest post about the event. And I would never, ever, say no to a request from Betsy, so here it is:
I got there late, stood in the back, and drank two cups of vodka while a bunch of people said a bunch of stuff I couldn’t hear because I was too busy worrying about my ass and my lip. Then I had dinner with some of the other fellows from my year (Hey, congratulations on your Bread Loaf fellowship! Ditto on that book of short stories that just came out!), and then I went to the hotel I got on Priceline for 90 bucks and took a sleeping pill.
Don’t let any of this stop you from checking out the PEN Emerging Voices program, and applying if you fit the criteria. http://www.penusa.org/programs/emerging-voices
Trans Am and crippling lack of self-esteem totally optional.
Can anyone relate?
Filed under: Writers Conference | 27 Comments »
Tonight something remarkable happened. A rag tag group of writers with seemingly nothing in common came together and became greater than the sum of the parts. I’ve taught at a lot of conferences and I usually walk away quasi-suicidal. But tonight I felt wonderful. Tonight I saw each person transform in front of me, either in their ability to comment on another writer’s work or their ability to see their own. One woman seemed to have stepped out of a Roz Chast cartoon, had only written in her head thus far, but was adorable and no-nonsense in her feedback. One man, probably the smartest about writing in the group, was as shy as a blanket, but eventually made great observations. But the biggest surprise came from the woman who read her work last. We’d been listening to everyone’s work over the three hours. Now, we were tired and ready to get home (or in my case hoping to make a late movie). That’s when it happened. From her first sentence we were all transfixed. The quality and the power of the writing and story was undeniable. I welled up with tears. The room had shivers. And in her victory, we were all lifted up a little.
I’m going to love up some writers in Miami on Thursday and Friday. I’m giving a talk called “Why Your Book Isn’t Selling.” I’m getting a little nervous that it might be too negatively cast. Even worse, I got roped into reading pages and doing the fifteen minute consult. I stopped doing these years ago when a woman cornered me in the ladies room, deeply upset my response to her pages. She was crying and yelling, mascara streaking her face. I was done doing consults after that. But somehow the nice folks in Miami got me in a weak moment. I feel like these 15 minute consults are the drive-by shootings of the conference world. Of course, I’ll do my best to help the writers who dare seek the great and mighty Oz. I want to save everyone, that’s my problem. I’ll also want to race back to the hotel and get a solid hate on for myself while I watch as many episodes of Law and Order the universe will offer up.
On a scale of 1-10, how useful was this workshop? On a scale of 1-10, did the presenter drop names and allude to bestsellers she had nothing to do with? Did the presenter, on a scale of 1-10, sweat her balls off trying to make everyone feel good for being fool enough to be a writer in the first place? Yes, she did. And did she speak the truth? Ruth? And did she find a way to say that you may not be good enough yet, or ready, or know what you’re doing, but that it is your job to keep coming to conferences, and read and write, and find an ideal reader and never stop trying. Yes, she did. Because of all the people there, a few touched her so deeply she wanted to cry for their sweetness and name tags and sincerity and their stories. And did one guy follow her into the parking lot and whip out his manuscript. Yes, he did. That’s what mace is for.
