Father's Day

This is how we do

This Christmas was spent in a basement of crazy folk, sipping hot chocolate and peppermint Kahlua. I bought and watched Rudolph, and Frostie the Snowman (terrifying now that I'm 25). I was the only person who volunteered to work both Christmas Eve and Christmas day.

Moments before settling into spiked hot chocolate, I'd stopped over my Partner in Crime's to witness family life; his parents, girlfriend, and sister gathered around a beautiful tree exchanging gifts. I felt like an unwanted alien. Something to pick at and dissect. I didn't mean to intrude. I just wanted to drop off a present for him and a card for his parents.

An hour or so later, as I watched the animated cartoons, from time to time, I spurted a few tears, but after a long while, Baxter and I cuddled, said Merry Christmas, and went to sleep. It was over for another year.

Father's Day kind of feels like that.

At work, the cash register faces a pretty display of cards. Right now, the hot sellers are Father's Day cards. They're witty, and clever, and everything I'd want if I were buying a F-Day card. But I'd have no one to send it to.

At work today, a man came in who strikingly resembled my father. My hands started shaking as I imagined him grabbing the back of my head and bouncing it off the counter top, or worse, calling me by my first name. Or worse yet, rendering me unmovable, and telling me to go outside and being trapped, and kidnapped, and helpless...again.

I imagined him saying he missed me, or he loved me, or any of those things my father had repeatedly said before he'd hurt my sisters or me. Even after I realized the balding gentleman in front of me was not my father, I couldn't stop shaking.

Not all little girls grow up with Fathers. Not all little girls grow up with Mothers. But some of us grow up with Sisters, or kickass friends, or amazing teachers. Never underestimate who you're influencing when you interact with the youth. Many people kept me from becoming my parents. Many people kept me from throwing my life away, several times over.

Kind of like an empty dinner table...all the time

I'm not saying it's easy to not have family. It's not. Christmas is never fun. Thanksgiving is lonely. I don't get to imagine my wedding and my father (or anyone's father) giving me away. Growing up without parents isn't easy. But people can do it. And people can turn out okay.

So for those of you who having loving husbands, hug them. For those who've had loving fathers, love them, too. Celebrate the strong men in your life, let them know what they mean to you, because there are some people in the world cringing on this day, wishing for the chance to give a strong man a hug. Instead, settling for cuddling with a large dog.

Reality Check V: My Generation III

In case you've managed to live in a hole for all of your years of existence, you should know that people are killing us. Not by guns (though that happens, too), or bombs, but by our food.

My generation has sat idly by, "Waiting on the world to change," as John Mayer said. But the unrest has become tangible. We've started the Occupy movement. We've started fighting for women's rights. And finally, we're taking on Monsanto and saying no to GMOs.

In Portland, Maine, the street was LINED with protesters holding signs, chanting, singing. There were people giving out signs for those who didn't make one. Hundreds of people showed up for this event.

Some lined the roads, holding their signs so traffic could read them. We rejoiced when cars honked, and cheered, and high-fived us.

I arrived late and didn't have time to
make a sign. They gave me a bee :)

Months ago, I started to become disappointed with my generation, about how we don't do anything but sit there. Before we set off, speakers talked about the effects of Agent Orange on the Vietnam Soldiers. They told us about the effects of our food being poisoned, linking diabetes, cancers, infertility, and birth defects to the things put in our food and into our bodies.

During the police escorted, mile long March Against
Monsanto, I became proud of my generation. Voices echoed off the surrounding buildings. The line of marchers was so long I couldn't see the start or the end, I could just hear voices shouting, "No more GMOs!" and "Hey, Hey, Ho, Ho, Monsanto's Got To Go!"

People were stuck at stop lights because of our march. Bystanders took pictures and cheered us on. We disrupted daily life. We brought awareness. We're rallying for change.

It's time to stand up for ourselves.

It's time to stand up for our food, for our rights to know what we're eating. It's time to create change.

The next time you go to your grocery store, you may want to ask yourself, "Do I really know what's in this?" before buying it. If you're not sure, perhaps you should contact your government and support GMO labeling, or better yet, get Monsanto off our shelves!

I'm Ashamed Of My Job

Kind of makes me feel like this:
Sadface

It's true. I really am ashamed of the place I work. Today, I saw a boy who looked faintly familiar, and so I blurted out, "Hey, did you go to UNE?" and he said, "I thought you looked familiar, too."

From there, I cashed him out and we chatted superficially. He wore nice slacks, khaki colored, what appeared to be a tailored green shirt, and a tie. Meanwhile, I wore a dirty pair of khakis  I hadn't showered, and the same shirt I usually wear to work.

I discovered he's a middle school science teacher, and I'm well...I'm a retail associate, ahem, a shift supervisor/retail associate. Even still, the pay sucks, the hours are variable, and I feel like I'm going nowhere. My managers claim to be "joking" but most of the time, I just leave and feel angry and frustrated. I'm not happy there, and I'm really only doing it to make ends meet. Each day, I feel like my soul is dying a bit more.

This is so much of a better place to work...

I'm surprised to find that I'm more proud to be a snowboarding instructor, than to be a cashier. I liked the way people's eyes popped open last year when they said, "What are you up to now?" and I answered, "I'm a snowboarding instructor." It felt like an accomplishment. Like acing a test I'd been unaware of taking.

I think part of it has to do with talent and effort. ANYONE can do retail. But to be able to teach people about their boards, their bindings, how to go down mountains without breaking their necks, knees, or wrists. That takes time. That takes effort. That truly takes skill. Plus, it's fun. You can throw snowballs. You can make snow angels. You can go off jumps and rails.

The pay was substantially lower, but it didn't matter. I was happy being broke. I was happy being late on my rent payments, because if I didn't have work that day, I got to go out and play. And if there was work, well, I still got to play then, too.

In retail, you greet customers, answer the phones, get bitched at when your knee starts throbbing and you need to sit down for five minutes when everyone else gets cigarette breaks whenever they want.

I'm glad that the mountain is opening, and hopefully I'll be able to instruct again, even if it's only on a part time basis. The mountain keeps me centered and sane. Things can go wrong there, and I'm more able to deal with them. In my "full time" retail position, I'm less able, and more quick to anger.

Moral of this post, is if something is eating your soul, chances are that's not the path you're meant to take. If you have to do it to make ends meet, do it, but then pick up, move on. Find happiness again.

It's only a matter a time before I'm there again.

Speaking Languages

For week three of the Express Yourself Meme, they asked, "What language would you like to speak, and why?"

My answer to that is Polish. And here's why:

This is my Babcia (pronounced Bop-Cha, basically):
:

Isn't she adorable?

She is my grandmother on my mother's side of the family. As previously stated, I met her very late in life. By the time I was actually standing awkwardly in the same room with her, she'd had several strokes. She could walk, but it was incredibly slow, and her memory was being lost by the day.

Currently, she rocks out in a nursing home in Massachusetts. I haven't seen her in about two years (three, maybe?) The last time I saw her, she was in a wheelchair, withering down to skin and bones. She repeated questions like, "How is your mother?" "How is Jacci?" and she talked about her husband who's been dead longer than I've been alive. Now she is usually in a wheelchair, she can barely feed herself, and she watches reruns of I Love Lucy or whatever else is on the television.

Because her mind has regressed so substantially, I can say few words to her in her own tongue, How are you? and I love you. Her mind carries her native language, and I, as a product of the melting pot of America, have lost my cultural identity. My mother, formerly bi-lingual, also fails from time to time to remember a Polish word. She never taught her children how to speak another language (it's something I'm incredibly bitter with).

At some point in life, I would like to study Polish, to learn the language of my family. Sadly, I don't think I'll learn enough of the language fast enough to be able to have a coherent conversation with my babcia, but at least I'll know that that grain of culture resides in me, somewhere.

For now...It's English for me. (I'm so uncultured).

Be Realistic II

It looks like this week is Running Week for me. Sorry, sort of. The posts will stop soon. (Maybe :) ).

In April I blogged about someone telling me to "Be realistic" about getting published. I was angry, (irate actually) but I tucked it away, choked on a smile, and continued along like they hadn't just stabbed me in my special places (you know, the heart).

As I said on Monday, I'm training for a 5K road race, and honestly, I'm scared shitless. I haven't seriously run since college, and even then it wasn't as fast or as intense as I should have done it because I'd had knee surgery as I used that like a crutch, allowing myself to slow down rather than push myself.

Well now I'm another surgery in, even more scared and apprehensive, and trying to beat my Iron-Man like sister's time (or at least landing somewhere in the 19 minutes).

Notice she's in running gear?
She's hardcore.

So I'm here to say that some goals...aren't realistic. Deep down, we know these things. Maybe for me that goal would be realistic if I stopped telling myself it's okay to slow down, but I'm sure you're aware, I like to nap. Slowing down is kind of like taking a nap while running.

But just because your goals may not be realistic does NOT mean that you shouldn't set unrealistic goals. I believe it was PitBull who said it best, "How you gonna tell me the sky's the limit, when there's f*&kers on the moon?" 

It's fun to shoot high. Owl City also tells me, "Reality is a lovely place, but I wouldn't want to live there."

So my SUPER UNREALISTIC GOAL for the road race less than a month away: Finish a 5K somewhere in the 19 minute range. (It can be as fast as 19:00 or as slow as 19:59, and I'd pee my pants with happiness.)

But just so I don't get crushed, my REALISTIC GOAL for the 5K is 21-23 minutes.

I think people should always have two goals. The one that says there are f@#kers on the moon, and why not keep aiming higher? And the one that keeps your feet on planet earth, and planet This is probably seriously what I'm capable of. 

So, what are your goals?

The Kindness of Strangers

It's almost 10pm, and after a long day at work I'm finally driving home. It's pitch black outside, with the exception of my headlights cutting through the darkness. My gas light turned on about ten miles ago, and I have another ten to go til I reach the gas station. (And another 15 after that to get home.) I'm holding my breath, and sucking in my stomach in the hopes I can make my car forget its 120 pound passenger and will make it to refuel okay.

Well, we do.

I'm tired as I work unscrewing the gas cap, eyes shutting against the sudden burst of lights above me. All I want to do, is get home to my dog who's been home alone for 10 hours now. I want to curl up in a ball and sleep. I do the math in my head, and figure I should have about $10 left on my credit card (because I have $0 left in my bank account). I watch the numbers zoom by, and release the handle. $9.93, sufficient to get home and maybe to work tomorrow. From there, I don't know what I'll do, but I'll breathe for tonight.

I cap the can, dig my wallet out of my car, and enter the gas station to pay. When I had the cashier my card, he looks at me robotically and says, "Declined."

I stand there, heart sinking through the floor, breathing coming in quick gasps. Can they siphon out the gas if I can't pay for it? I shake my head. "Try running it again."

My sensor didn't look anything
like this, sadly :(

He does, same response. Now I can't breathe. The toll of work, the long drive, the lack of money hits me. What am I going to do? What am I going to do? I have to get home tonight, I have to get to work tomorrow. (Insert f-bombs now.)

"I don't know what you want me to do," I say, ice chunks breaking off inside me as I swallow the tears. There are about four people in line behind me, and I can't look at any of them. "I can leave you all of my contact information, I just checked my bank account today, it said I should have money. Literally, I drive by here every day on my drive to work, it's not like you won't see me again. I don't know what you want me to do." (Pretty sure I am shouting this.)

"You can leave something here, but if you're not back by the morning to pay, we'll call the cops," he says simply.

I go through the list of things in my car; my ID (nope, I get pulled over too much for that), my credit card (not sure they'll accept that as clearly there is no money, so technically, right now, it has no worth)...I have nothing. For a moment, I consider giving him my shoe, but it's my work shoe, and I need that, too.

I stand there shaking my head, struggling to breathe through the wisps of air I'm getting. My heart is a drum beat in my ear, louder than the stereo in my car. I storm out to my driver's seat, combating the tears that just want to burst out of my eyes, and pull out my phone. I call my credit card, and they tell me I have close to $15 pending, and an available balance of $3. It's better than nothing. I start digging through the bomb explosion of my car to find more change, because maybe, just maybe, I can find enough money (not likely).

There's a knock on my partially opened window. I look up, eyes red and swollen from the tears still trying to come out. There is a man (with glasses) I believe. Because I have automatic windows, I can't open the window any farther.

"I'm sorry it's mostly in change, but here is $10," he offers.

And a damn erupts inside me. Tears fall freely from my eyes. "I am so sorry," I say sobbing. "I thought I had more money than this, and I just...." I can't talk, the liquid strangles my words as the kind stranger puts his hands through the small crack and hands me gas money.

"Just get home safe, okay?"

I cry more before regaining composure and the ability to drive home.

This isn't the first time something like this has happened. There was another night a kind stranger put $5 in my tank. Two days ago, another stranger gave me $1 so I could buy the 3 liter of water (because I felt like I was dying). One of the women I follow on twitter has offered to send me money via pay pal because she knows I'm broke. I've never met her, but her kindness amazed me. There are a lot of horrible things going on in the world, but people like this give me hope. I can't wait until I have enough money to be the kind stranger to give handouts, but for right now, I'm the one with tear stains accepting them.

To those of you who are the kind strangers from time to time; thank you. With every bit of my being. (Baxter thanks you, too.)

Reality Check IV: My Generation II

**This is not a writerly blog. The winners to the One Stressful Sentence Contest will be announced Friday**

In December 2011 I blogged about reality. How I live in the Occupy Wall Street generation, and how we don't know how to make change, but there are some of us who try, anyway.

Recently, I'm sure you've heard of the shooting in Colorado. If you've followed my blog for awhile, you'll also know I become obsessed with shootings and tragedy. This one is affecting me in a different way than the others though, and I'm trying to figure out why.

It's hard to think that the world
can be so beautiful, and yet so
heart breaking

Maybe it's because James Holmes is 24, the same age as me. Maybe it's because usually these tragedies come from people who are older than me. But I think it's something with the age. The newspapers call him a man, like he's an adult. Most say, "A man entered a movie theater...." But to me, he's not. He's the same age as me. Most days I consider myself a kid, still. I'm not grown up. I suck at managing my finances. I'm not responsible enough to have kids. I'm a kid, a child. I learn new things every single day. High school still feels like it was yesterday.

It's taken me a couple of days to write this blog because I'm in such shock because of what has happened. I've seen stories in the echoes of the aftermath. There were brave "men" (also very young) who saved their girlfriends and lost their lives in the process. There were people celebrating their birthdays. There was a six year old girl.

And then there was this one person who lost his mind and killed all of them. I can't even get a handle on the tragedy.

I want to know why. I want to know what went wrong that this person would walk in and start shooting. I want to know what went through his mind (the newspapers tell me that he'd planned this for MONTHS. Months! I can't even plan today let alone tomorrow!) I've taken enough psychology courses in college to know that this isn't right. That something went wrong.

People aren't born thinking, "I'm going to bring a gun and kill as many people as I can." People break. Kids of all ages break. People like me break and try to kill themselves. So, what happened to break James Holmes, or Timothy McVeigh, or Dylan Klebold and Eric Harris, and cause them to kill others?

I (try to) appreciate life in all forms

I'm not going to rally and say that Holmes should die, because while I do support the pro-choice movement, I don't like death.

I don't even like eating carrots because I killed the plant it came from to live. If I eat a lobster (I mean, come on, I'm in Maine, and they're super yummy) I say a quiet prayer of thanks that I get to eat the yummy-ness, and apologize to the creature I devour...dripping in butter.

I'm not going to say Holmes should be tortured, and hurt, and shot, and scared, because I don't like being shot at, hurt, tortured, or scared. When Klebold and Harris killed themselves, I was sad. When McVeigh was killed, I cried and prayed. I don't hate any of these people because I don't know them. I am incredibly saddened by the choices they've made, but I do not hate them. (Though, I do hate the driver who killed my best friend in high school, so if you hate these people, I understand.)

Death isn't the answer. More violence isn't the answer.

The answers come from understanding how something like this could happen and preventing it in the future. It's not more strict gun laws (though maybe people should have to take a psychiatric test before obtaining guns?). The answer comes from studying, from research on psychology, from not damaging our children, our friends more.

Okay. That is all.

Being An Adult

Every time I finish a check book, my heart sinks slightly. The one I'm currently closing spans from June 2010 to June 2012. When I die, if someone finds all of the carbon stubs, what will they see about the years I spent pretending I was an adult?

Well, they'll see in 2010 I had a lot of money. I mean a lot of money. My first two rent checks were $1,650 and $900. This, I can conclude was the last bit of money remaining from student loans. Those two checks were written to Stan White Realty, which was the summer we lived in Manteo. I went to California, the house I shared with three other people (one was my sister) had a second floor deck that allowed you to climb the roof. We drank, we went to Single's Nights, we had dance parties, we made incredible friends. It was one of the greatest summers to date.

The next few rent checks are to the alcoholic roommate when my sister and I (a year later) survived the hell that is bedbugs. There is a check where I paid a $10 shipping fee so James Frey could sign my copy of My Friend Leonard. Then, September 2011, the checks were written, the beginning of the end in North Carolina.

Saying goodbye to my check book. Yes, those are comics underneath  :)

Then the checks pick up to the craphole in Maine, where you can clearly see I was struggling financially. $114 here, $185 there. Rent was supposed to be paid on the.first, $400. Most checks are dated 2/23, 3/28, etc.

There are checks made out to writing competitions, to friends who shipped materials out when I had no printer, and collections agencies from my knee surgery in November.

The very last check in the book was written to my current landlord. It is a place of safety (currently), my very first apartment without roommates, with my dog. It's labeled as July Rent.

My check books, like all novel books, tell a story. To me, I read memories from happy times, bitter times, and better times. As long as the checks keep being written there is hope, and these carbon copies I'll keep to remind me what and where I came from.

I'd Rather Write A Query Than...

I moved recently. I managed to go two months without having to pay rent, and yet I'm still broke. It doesn't help that I keep avoiding hospital bills until they take me to collections agencies, so then I HAVE to pay them. Oops. (Turns out, knee surgery in November was a poor life decision.)

This means that I'm trying to pick up another job so that I won't have days off. (Time is money, honey) Baxter will be cranky, but he needs to see the Vet, and eat food, too.

With that said, I've been spending a lot of time filling out job applications. It turns out I hate them. It also turns out that while I thought I loathed query letters, I prefer them to job aps. Here's a list of reasons why query letters are better than the run of the mill fill in the blank job applications:

Supposed to symbolize writing vs real job stuff

*Job applications have you fill out basic information: name, soc number, birth date, high school, college, special skills. Query letters only ask what is important; contact info, this is my novel, this is my publishing background. Boom. Done.

*Job applications require references, phone numbers that are years old, old manager's names. Some even require previous living locations. Yea..I barely remember what I had for breakfast, you expect me to remember six months ago? Pass. Query letters involve character names. Maybe a conference name or two if applicable.

*Job applications are PAGES long. Query letter is a PAGE long.

*Job applications force you to BS your way though it, "I'm a people person! I love this, and this, and I think I'd be awesome at this job!" Query letters don't care. "My name is Lynne. I've been published in, and I've attended these conferences." I've heard of people getting agents without having anything published before. We're judged solely on our ability to convey emotion, verses our ability to convince managers that we're awesome.

*"Have you ever been fired from a job before?" Umm....no? *Darts eyes back and forth* "Why?" Umm.....shit. In a query letter, you don't mention how many times you've been rejected. Awesome.

*You can use the f-word in a query letter and still get a request. (I know this, because I've done this). You can't do that with a job application.

*If things go well, that query letter will get you more money than this minimum wage job will.

So, while I need a new job, I'd rather be spending time here, on my computer, working on query letters and submissions. Just sayin'

Lessons from Living Alone

Packed the car super tight.

As of May 21, 2012, I am the proud renter of my very first apartment! It's a two floor, one bedroom place of amazing. It has a washer AND drier, and a dish washer. And the best part?

NO (CRAZY) ROOMMATES!!!!!!!!!!!! Except Baxter, of course. 

(And the drier is a huge perk. I've been without one since late November.)

So on this adventure, I've started learning some life lessons already. I'm here to impart some wisdom upon all of my lovely followers:

Considering I have nowhere else to put my clothes...
This isn't so bad

Life Lesson #1-Put everything that you can away the moment you move in, maybe even as you bring boxes in. The longer the mess stays...the longer the mess wants to stay.

Life Lesson #2-Wash your dishes before you move. I am currently rocking a sink full of dirtiness, and well, like Life Lesson 1...it's probably going to stay there for awhile. Even though I have a dishwasher, because I don't have money for the fancy liquid.

Life Lesson #3-Make a list of things you need. Prior to this, I've lived by myself for spurts, but usually the place had been fully furnished, or at least had most typical things. Usually the times I'd lived alone, I'd also lived with someone so I received left over toilet paper, dish soap, aluminum foil, etc as they moved out. Here, there is no microwave, no strainer for wet dishes, no light in the bedroom, no dressers. Also, no pizza pans...which out of everything may be the most problematic.

You can't even tell it's inflateable!

Life Lesson #4-Two fully inflated air-mattresses stacked on top of each other is a dream come true. I would have slept really well last night, but  didn't close the bedroom window, and it turns out the train goes by at midnight, and semi-trucks pass all night. Tonight, I'll be closing my window.

Life Lesson #5-With the two-fully inflated air-mattresses, make sure you have blankets that fit the bed. (Mine are currently in storage. Oops)

Life Lesson #6-If you spit on the floor, you're going to have to be the one to clean it (I learned this one today)

Life Lesson #7-It can get lonely, so make sure you have things to do. Coloring books, blogs, novels to edit, books to read, people to text and harass at all hours of the night, running shoes, a dog to play with when you're bored. Oh, and twitter. Need the twitter, always. Also, if you don't own a TV (yea, that's right, I'm old school) an iPod helps cure the quiet.

Life Lesson #8-If Wifi is not included, try to pirate it from your neighbors :)

Life Lesson #9-You can do anything now; walk around naked, towel walk, sleep naked, make stupid faces, have dance parties. There is no one to impress, no one to tell you to put clothes back on. It's rather liberating. (Don't worry guys, naked-ness freaks me out. Clothes stay on, though I am prone to wearing a sports bra for a shirt. Here, my sister won't yell at me :) )

Life Lesson #10-Make it yours. Does my bedroom really need a punching bag stand in it? Probably not, but is it there? You betcha. If you look in the second picture I posted, you can see my Board of Inspiration hanging up already. I also have a closet that's full of CDs. Another closet that's full of shoes--left side is active shoes (skate shoes, running shoes, Vibrams, etc), right side is dress shoes (including the hooker boots).

Overall, I'm stoked about this arrangement. I have to drive close to an hour every day to work, but for $400/month, I'm pretty excited.

Reality Check III: My Generation

Note: Today is not a writerly blog. It's a personal "Here is what I think" blog. Read at your own risk.


I live in the Occupy Wallstreet generation. 


Today's world is terrifying; there is war, rape, murder, muggings, vandalism. The horrifying list just goes on. People blame my generation, all the time. They look at all of us like we're criminals already. They look at people like me, people with lip and eyebrow rings like we're filthy. (Okay, sometimes I forget to shower or don't want to...but for the most part, I'm pretty clean.) 

But really this is the type of person I am;

I hold the door for people. 

I tell people to have a good day.

I may forget to say please but I always try to say thank you.

I go up to strange dogs and pet them because they're cute. 

I put myself through college and obtained a degree in Medical Biology, even when everyone told me to quit because "You're not good at it".

I bought my own car, my first car, without a co-signer at the age of 22, because I left my mom's house when I was 16.

I am the type of person who doesn't usually lock their doors.

I will pick up hitchhikers if it's cold.

I have tattoos, and I have piercings.

I hate hate words, gay bashing, and judging people for what they cannot control.

I WILL defend the underdog (and have almost gotten my ass kicked for it). 

Yesterday while working at the mountain a guest got on my case about picking up hitchhikers because I'm a girl, and in today's society it's not safe. 


It's not safe because we make it not safe. Things happen to people; cars break down, people have to get from point A to point B. I pick up hitchhikers because I believe in the whole "Be the change you wish to see in the world" (~Gandhi). If I were to need to hitchhike, I'd like to think that people like me will be willing to pick me up. When I leave my car unlocked, I try not to panic, because I'd like to think that there are people like me who just walk from their car, into the store, without wanting to break in and steal a GPS. 


My generation is full of unrest. 
We're sick of people stomping on our dreams. We're sick of people telling us to live in reality because we aren't thinking straight. We're sick of hearing about child abusers in the churches and in the schools. We're sick of domestic abuse that goes unreported, because we grew up in those households; I grew up in that household. We're sick of hearing about rape, and murder. We're sick of being the victims of rape and abuse. We're sick of having to lock our doors. We're sick of being afraid to walk the streets at night.


But we don't know how to make this stop, how to make this change. So we camp out, and we protest because we don't know what to do anymore. 


We are the revolution. 
Get ready. Things will change. 


If you don't believe me here are some songs:
City High~City High Anthem
John Mayor~Waiting
Noah Gunersen-Jesus, Jesus
(I had more, but I can't seem to find them....either way, you get the idea)


"Reality's a lovely place, but I wouldn't want to live there" ~Owl City

Reality Check II: Do Your Research

In my last blog, I talked about the financial costs of conferences, which may lead to a follow up question: 

How the heck do we find conferences in the first place??

First, you need to figure out what you're looking for out of conferences.
*Agents?
*Editors?
*Feedback?
*Networking?
*Finding new places to submit to?
etc

I've found that there are conferences that are specific to what genre you're writing in, so that's kind of a jumping point. My sister is the one who got me into AWP. Before that, I didn't even know about writing conferences.

Some conferences actually give you time slots to meet with agents. This one was PNWA.

~I found out about PNWA through Vickie Motter's blog. For those of you not familiar with her, she's an agent who is on twitter and keeps an advice/review blog. On her blog, she posts the conferences she'll be attending which is helpful to writers like me who hope to meet her, and pitch to her.

~I found out about LeakyCon's Lit Day from Jennifer Laughran's blog.

Moral of the story is: find the agents you're interested in. Follow them; their blogs, their twitter accounts. They will usually say something about upcoming conferences, or some, like Ms. Motter, will have where she'll be for the next year. It's an easy way to find out about conferences you wouldn't have otherwise known about. (From there you can decide which ones are feasible, and which ones are out of the question.)


The coolest thing about conferences is that writing is infectious. Literally, I'll be sitting in a panel and have a million new thoughts to write about. The backs of my notebooks are FILLED with random stuff to start; poems, stories, ways to edit existing stuff. And then when there's a break, hit the bookshop to find other authors and literary magazines. It's a great place to talk to editors, authors, etc.

Kinda blurry, sorry. This is Kerry Cohen speaking. She's amazing.

Beyond that, TALK TO EVERYONE. Literally, every chance you get, introduce yourself. Sit next to people. Become the social butterfly you've always wanted to be. You don't know who you'll bump into. Seriously, from one of my conferences, I met a woman who offered to house me for a night because I'd been driving an hour each morning to the conference, and an hour each evening. She and I will be roommates at this year's AWP. At the same conference, I also met another person who housed me in Florida during Lit Day.

So, make a good impression and if you're serious about the game:

HAVE YOUR PITCH READY.
Everyone will ask, "What's your novel about."
Make sure you have an answer.