My First Writer’s Conference Experience

So right after I finished my first book, Shiva’s Eye, I found out that a writers conference was coming to a city very near me. I was high on life. A novel was in the can. I had several ideas for sequels and even more ideas for unrelated books. I was a writer, dammit! I had no idea what I should do next. Hadn’t planned past the actual write a book thing so I started researching the process. Everything I read said that I needed an agent. I wanted to hold my book in my hands. Call me old school but anybody can and does self publish. I have a kindle app and very rarely use the thing. I do, however, have about a thousand actual paper and ink books, and I read from them almost every day.

So the dye was cast. I was going to pay the couple of hundred dollars and attend this writers conference. There was also an option, for another fee, of course, to have the opportunity to present your book to an actual agent. A real life person that would tell me if my stuff was worth the effort or a total load of shit. I gave up the extra cash to have ten whole minutes with said agent. I was so excited. I was on my way to the top. Move over Gaiman. Get out of my way Baldacci.

Then the shoe dropped. The agent that I had picked out to pitch my book (for an extra fee), unfortunately, couldn’t attend. I had picked this particular agent because she was specifically looking for the type of book I had written. The email stated that she would be sending her assistant instead and everything would proceed as scheduled. I was disappointed but talked myself off the ledge. Maybe this was a standard practice. Charge someone for a thing and then substitute a lesser thing at the last minute, but whatever. This assistant worked directly for the actual agent and surely this person knew what her boss was looking for. It would be fine. Right?

The week leading up to the big event was excruciatingly long. Had time ever moved at a slower pace. I think not. People would ask, “What are you getting into this weekend?” I would puff my chest out and reply, “Why I’m attending a writer’s conference.” Proud as a peacock.

The night before the big event I went through two ink cartridges printing off my four hundred page beast. Another huge expense seeing as how printer ink is worth more than freakin’ gold. I didn’t sleep much that night, my brain was in overdrive. I got up super early. Didn’t want to be late. It was an hour and a half drive but in my typical fashion I left an hour and a half earlier than that. A cup of coffee, fast food biscuit and metal music blaring through the speakers. It was going to be a good day.

I arrived an hour early and sat in the parking lot of the hotel where the conference would be held. As the time grew nigh, I assessed each and every person who parked and went inside. They looked normal enough. Most carrying a notebook or bag of some kind. I had brought my laptop, a note pad and a hard copy of Shiva’s Eye. I finally decided it was time. I was nervous but I try to live with the philosophy that you should enter every room as if you had just kicked the door in. I owned this. The world was about to be exposed to my genius. Get the fuck out of my way.

The conference was enjoyable with several topics discussed by various speakers from the writing and publishing industry. I was particularly anxious for the segment where the esteemed panel would critique the first page for our books. We turned these in at the registration table that morning. I was, however, disappointed to learn that they would be drawing these at random and only a few would be assessed. After each brutal shredding of the drawn pages, I just knew mine would be next but alas it was not to be. I really wanted them to draw mine. At this point in the writing journey I was desperate for someone, anyone, to give me feedback.

The panels went on and on. Each drawing a bullseye on some aspect of writing or publishing. I took notes. I was a sponge, but I was just counting the minutes till my appointment with the agent’s lackey. I entertained myself by making fun of the overdressed dude that would stand and have a know-it-all question every time the panel opened the floor. Don’t be that guy. Just sayin’.

Finally my time came and I exited the main hall. I entered the room where the scrutinizing would take place. There were several tables dispersed throughout the room. An agent on one side, the wanna be writer on the other. I had envisioned a completely private meeting. What if the writing nerd at the next table heard my pitch and stole my idea? This was my first time, so I let it slide. Maybe this was the norm at these events. I moved on to the table were my non-agent was waiting. She looked as if she might be a year out of college, maybe. I knew that I had little time to get my pitch in and let loose with an enthusiastic and eloquent description of my project. Her response was that of unbridled excitement for my book. Oh joy! I was in. I went on to tell of the subsequent books in the series I was working on as well as the other projects unrelated to the book I pitched. The young lady seemed over the moon exited about my submission. She handed me a card and asked if I could send her the first fifty pages of Shiva. I reached into my bag and dropped the entire thing on the table with a profound thud. She seemed impressed as I pealed off the first fifty and handed them over. She handed me her card and said that they would be in touch. I floated out of the room. I had hit a home run.

The conference ended and I returned home where my wife asked, “How did it go"?” I said, “It couldn’t have gone any better.” I told her the whole story sure that it was just a matter of time before the phone would ring and an offer would be made.

One month went by, then another. No word from the agent or her minion. Patience is a virtue, right? I gave it another month before I finally emailed the nice young lady who had given me her card. I gently reminded her that we had met at said conference and that she was in love with my book. I was anxiously awaiting her reply. I could send her the whole book if she needed. Nothing. No response what so ever. I gave it another month and sent another email… same result.

I was crushed. How could someone be so over the top enthusiastic about my books and not even respond? Did she even pass it on to her boss as she had promised? Probably not but who knows. I now am imagining her playing that role for everyone who pitched their books to her that day. Then I imagine her throwing my first fifty in the trash along with anything she had collected from other authors. I felt like I had been had. A rookie writer getting fleeced because I knew no better. I have a small glimmer of hope that that is not the way it actually happened but I still hold a little bitterness over the whole experience.

I am not saying that I will never attend another writer’s conference but you can bet your sweet ass that I will have a whole new perspective on the way it works. There were hundreds of people at this thing. Someone made a crap ton of money and it wasn’t me.