Mainstream is Still Upstream from Me

Jane Lotter lives in the Seattle area and is in the process of writing a book called The Bette Davis Club. It’s “a contemporary mainstream comedy set against the background of the Hollywood film industry.”

That is all she will allow me to say, but she sent me the 25 pages she submitted to the PNWA contest and it is really good. Daring. Different. Delightful.

Laurel Krill also lives in the Seattle area and sent me her contest entry too. It raises goosebumps and sends shivers down your spine. I am so keeping my fingers crossed that she gets an agent soon. If the rest of the book is as good as the first 25 pages, we'll be seeing it on the shelves.

It is so fun to meet the people who write books. I've often wondered what Steven King is like in person, or Mary Higgins Clark. What goes through their minds when they hear a bump in the night in their own house?

PNWA Awards Banquet

"You have to go."

"No I don't. I can stay here and...wash out my stockings," I whined.

Cheryl's hands found their way to her hips and her eyes narrowed. "Oh, come on." She huffed out a bracing sigh.

"I could watch television." Suddenly interested in what the television had to offer, I glanced at it to see if there was some easy way to turn it on.

She grabbed my shoulders, turned me to the door and gave a not-too-gentle shove. I limped along the two and a half miles to the convention center and jabbed a finger at the elevator button. Nothing. I stabbed it again. Nothing.

Cheryl placed a dainty finger on the button and pushed. Nothing. We hauled in the sheets and changed course two points into the parking garage. We found the stairs and climbed to the second floor. An elevator hovered in the shaft with the doors open. We rode it up to the third floor and sauntered off, trying to look cool in the late afternoon heat. I fingered my finalist ribbon and contemplated ripping it off.

"Finalists enter first. Finalists, finalists, come through," members of the PNWA staff shouted from each doorway. Cheryl and I slithered through the crowd and tossed ourselves into the banquet hall. Up in the very front of the room, near a big projection screen, I found the table labeled "Mainstream". I strolled around the table to the place card with my name and sat down. An empty chair beside me indicated a relative did not show. On the other side of me, Barry Brennessel stared down at the table cloth, fingering his silverware. I had expected Barry to be larger than life--like a politician or a CEO of an American financial institution receiving federal bail-out money--because he had finaled in two categories; mainstream and mystery/thriller. I mean, you have to be great to final in two categories, right?

"How do you do?" I said.

He looked up and gave me a shy smile. "Hi, I'm Barry."

We spent the next half hour talking about our books and now I faced a dilemma. I wanted him to win. But I still wanted Jane, Steve and Ben to win. I began to chant in my head that Barry would win the mystery/thriller category. It isn't as if I didn't want Laurel Krill, George Jarecke, or David Huebner to win, it is just that I hadn't had a chance to talk with them and hear about their books.

I leaned over toward Barry. "When they make the announcements, which category do they start with?"

"Last year they started with Mainstream."

"Good. We can get this over with fast," I mumbled.

"Ladies and gentlemen," Sandy McCormack said from a raised podium, "Welcome to the fifty-fourth Pacific Northwest Writer's Association's Writer's Conference."

Sandy began announcing the categories and the third, second and first place winners. Mainstream ended up being last. By the time she announced it, I was slumped in my chair, trying to remember the signs of stroke and wondering when the last outbreak of Legionaire's Disease occurred. I felt fuzzy and my palms sweated.

"Third place is...Laurel Krill." Although I hadn't really talked much to Laurel I was happy for her because she had a nice smile and she had a twin sister named Melanie. I clapped and clapped as she sailed up to get her ribbon and certificate.

"Second place is...Melanie Sherman." Oh, dear Lord, I said aloud. To myself I continued the prayer...please don't let me trip and fall. Don't let me knock someones coffee down their shirt. Don't let me pass out. I picked my way up to the front and someone stuck a piece of paper in my hand. My heart slammed and my mouth dried and my knees wobbled. I had written these symptoms before, in my book. But they were always describing my protagonist, Jessie, when she faced a broadside from an pirate ship, or held a flintlock to an enemy's chin, or waited to hear if she would be flogged. It was never for something good.

"And first place goes to Jane Lotter."

Laurel's sister, Melanie, took pictures and they herded all the first, second and third place winners into the elevators and across the red hot parking lot, up to the third floor of the hotel and into an executive suite. A reception with agents and editors followed. Only they weren't there yet. I swallowed and mopped my forehead, terrified. I tried a glass of wine. I talked with Shelly Shellabarger, who won third place in screen writing. Last year she had won first place in the romance category. Security came and told us there'd been a complaint...from the first floor. Please keep down the noise. Sure, ask thirty-six (or so) winners of a literary contest to be quiet. Finally the agents and editors arrived and I thought it would be perfectly fine to hide behind the curtains. Darcy Carson, bless her heart, dragged me out and launched me at some poor, unsuspecting agents.

Security came again...twice. On the third visit, they 86'd us. A day in infamy. My first experience with being escorted by several security guards out of a hotel room and down the stairs (they didn't trust us to use the elevator?). They led us to a small banquet room in the hotel and stood guard over it so we could not escape.

When I was finished blubbering to all the agents (which went about as well as the one the day before) I skulked up to the door and pointed down the hall. The guard turned to look and I scooted behind him and ran the three miles to my room, panting and spreading a palm over my heart.

I have to change my name so when I send in my submission to the agents, they will not recognize it.

Saturday at PNWA

I awoke and slit one eye open. My roommate, Cheryl, was already up and humming. I read my latest pitch to her. She smiled benevolently. Dear Lord.

Rewrite.

We scuttled the mile and a half to the convention center. During that time I decided Steve Jaquith, Jane Lotter and Ben Barrett should win first, second and third (in no particular order) Maybe that shows a certain amount of prejudice, but I liked them all so much and their book ideas that I wanted them to win.

To tell the truth, I never even wanted to be a finalist. I'm a writer, for crying out loud. It is a solitary pursuit. I'm not used to dealing with real people. I'm used to dealing with fake people in a pretend environment, in a totally different time zone--namely 1805. If one of my characters annoys me, I kill them off. The thought of having to interact with actual, live humans in real time, in an actual location terrified me. What if I forgot they were real and fired a cannon at them? What if I pointed my flintlock with one hand and sent my cutlass flying with the other?

Now I must admit that once I got to the conference, kicking and screaming, walking around with the black "finalist" ribbon waving under the name badge carried a certain thrill. It was...well, it seemed so unreal it compared favorably with my own beloved fictional people (the ones I haven't sent to Davy Jones). Total strangers approached and offered congratulations at the accomplishment. My face burns red as I write this, but...I liked it.

But first, second or third would require one-on-one interaction with agents and editors. That is carrying fun just a little too far.

More classes, more rewrites, more reading the pitch to more writers, more blank looks, more rewrites. It finally came time for my ten minutes with the agent. Walking down that long, empty hall, hearing my heels click on the uneven wooden floor and the echo of my heartbeats, clutching seventy-three yellow, damp versions of my pitch in sweaty palms, I faltered as I rounded the corner. A man in a black, hooded robe approached me, his sickle balanced on his shoulder. An unearthly, deep voice asked, "Are you here to for your last ten minutes?" I glanced at his face, hidden by the folds of the hood, and nodded. He stuck out a gnarled, skeletal hand and crooked his finger. I shuffled behind him into a dark room lit by hundreds of candles. The sulfuric odor of fire and brimstone overpowered the smell of death. I slouched into an empty chair and faced the flaming head of the agent. She bellowed out, "Why are you here?"

"I just want to go home," I squeaked out. Beside me, ten feet away, a dark curtain fluttered.

"Pay no attention to that curtain," the flaming face roared. "Tell me about your book!"

"It is about...um..." I glanced at my notes but couldn't find the latest version. "It is about a young woman who accidentally gets pressed into the Royal Navy in 1805."

"And?" reverberated into the chamber.

"And...ah...what she goes through."

Lord have mercy.

"And why are you bothering me with this," the head sizzled in the dark. I glanced under the curtain and saw a pair of expensive leather high heels. "Pay no attention to the woman behind the curtain!" the head exploded.

"Oh, sorry."

Oh, wait. Come to think of it the agent was very nice and patient. She did suggest I should rewrite the adventure story into a regency romance, but she was kind and professional with what could only be described as a cowardly lion presentation. "I do believe, I do believe, I do, I do, I do believe." When I exited, I'm positive it was in exactly the same manner the lion used after his first visit with the great and powerful OZ. I loped the two miles back to my room and hid behind the easy chair.

The awards banquet, only an hour away, had my breath spurting out in short gasps and little beads of sweat popped out on my upper lip.

PNWA Day two

I wrote a "pitch" I thought was very good. I found my new friend and peer, Ben and gave it to him. He grimaced.

I rewrote it. I went to the "Agents Dos and Don'ts" seminar. I rewrote it again. Lori Tinkey, another first-timer at the conference told me about her book and I asked if I could read my pitch to her.

"Sure," she gave me a wide, gracious smile, "go ahead."

After I read it, her smile dissolved into a blank look, before she got it under control and the smile reappeared. This time it looked a little strained.

I rewrote it. I went to the "Agents Forum". I rewrote it. Some poor unsuspecting writer sat at a table in the Writer's Cafe and I read it to her. Her eyes became glassy and she gulped in a breath. Her smile looked more like gritted teeth to me.

I rewrote it. I went to the "Editors Forum". I rewrote it. Two struggling writers sat on a bench. With my little yellow pad in hand, I plunked myself down and forced them to listen. One of them raised an eyebrow and mentioned she had an agent's appointment, leaping up and dashing down the corridor. The other stared vacantly at a nail hole.

I met Jane Lotter, another finalist in the Mainstream category. When she talked about her book, she could barely contain her mirth. It made me want to read it. When I talked about mine to her, I stammered and lost my train of thought.

More rewrite.

A tall man, not quite on the verge of dropping into middle age yet, gave me a slow smile and held out his hand. His short dark hair nearly matched the "finalist" ribbon. My hand slid into his and in a satiny smooth voice, he gave his name, Steve Jaquith, a peer in the mainstream category. We talked and his easy charm and sense of humor made me fall madly in like with him. Aaarr, matey, I'm having to love a shipmate with a pirate flag on his business card. His book sounded delightful and I will be the first in line to have my copy of his book signed when it is published.

His smile didn't falter when I gave him my pitch. But a cloud crossed those gorgeous eyes.

I rewrote it and attended more classes. During the breaks I'd pitch it to others. They'd stare and finally say, "Humm."

Rewrite.

The dinner on Friday night was so fun, and so interesting. Sandy McCormack told my about the historical fiction she is writing that sounds so fabulous I nearly drooled. I got her email address so I could ask her to let me know the minute she gets an offer on it.

Joseph Finder, the author of Red Carpet; the Connection between the Kremlin and America's Most Powerful Businessmen, exposing the connection between Armand Hammer, the CEO of Occidental Petroleum and the KGB, gave a great talk. Mr. Finder went on to write many thriller novels, some of which he has sold movie rights. While he gave his talk, I secretly outlined seven other versions of my pitch.

I tacked the mile to my room that night and boarded my bed with gusto.

PNWA Fifty-Fourth Writer's Conference

I attended my first PNWA Writer's Conference at the Seattle Airport Hilton on July 30, 2009. My friend, Cheryl Sears, and I both submitted entries to the Literary Contest; she in Adult Short Topic (Article/Essay/Short Memoir) and I entered the Mainstream Category. We both were finalists.

We got to the hotel and checked in and were thrilled we got a room with two beds. What we didn't know is that our room rested over a quarter mile from the convention center. In fact, it is probably closer to a half mile. Luckily, Lilith Saintcrow warned me to wear walking shoes so I left my strappy little rhinestone sandals with the four inch heels at home and wore my black, lace-up, old-lady shoes instead.

Cheryl and I set sail across the parking lot in the 108 degree heat into the convention center and received our registration information in a lime-green shoulder bag. Surprisingly, they even included a nice, fat pen and a pad of yellow paper. We spent fifteen minutes trying to figure out how to tie the little lanyards onto our name badges and affixed the black "finalist" ribbons.

I hove to in the “How to Choose the Sessions That Are Right for You” class. Although all the speakers were excellent, Royce Buckingham had me completely enthralled. After thirteen years of rejections, he has now sold a book and the screenplay of the book.

Next came the “How to Pitch to Agents and Editors Without Being Pushy”. This whole concept of pitching to an agent or editor was so new to me that my sails started flapping in “information overload” within ten minutes. I think I’ll need one-on-one remedial tutoring on this subject.

In the “Writer’s Café” they had tables set up where you could chat with other writers. I met Ben Barrett, also a finalist in the mainstream category. His book sounded so interesting I felt a fair wind blowing with excitement. I’m keeping my fingers crossed that an agent will shake out the sails and run with it.

At the dessert reception that night we heard Terry Brooks, who has over twenty New York Times bestselling novels. I could barely claw my way across the harbor the three-quarters of a mile back to my room that night, and slithered into bunk, asleep before the leather of my shoes had a chance to cool.

Sunday at the Ballpark

We are lucky to have a triple A baseball team in Portland. It is easy to get to PGE Park, the tickets don't require hocking your car and signing over your firstborn and there is usually a little breathing room around you. Normally the baseball is very good too. Today it was just a little too good. It was almost a shut out...on both sides.

My parents are settling in to the Northwest and decided a baseball game was in order. I met Nina and Laurent and my parents at the game. My daughter, Kelly, also met us there. We scooched into our seats with the required hot dogs, colas, popcorn and pretzels and the game began.

About the seventh inning, Nina and I quit routing for just the Beavers. We began routing for the Royals too. In fact, we began to plan that the next scoreless half of an inning, one player would have to leave and a random draw of the audience would have to go in to replace the player. We didn't want to be there for seventeen scoreless innings. I mean, when there are scores mounting on both sides--or even hits--it is fun to watch, but the most exciting event in the game (up until the only run) was when one of the teams walked two in a row. Finally the Royals got a run and the Beavers made some great plays and the game ended in only the nine innings. Whew.

Settling Down

My sister, Nina, has assured all the relatives that the parents are over the worst hump and are settling into the Northwest. Things aren't as bad as people have led them to believe. It doesn't rain every day here. We have lovely summers, just like in other states. Last year our summer was on a Wednesday.

Seriously, the mosquitoes in Massachusetts were hearty creatures, capable of carrying small children off into the woods. Here, one may find a sun break and laze about without fear of bites...from mosquitoes, at least.