What to write?

I could easily write a gossip-filled analysis of the social goings-on at this year’s Pikes Peak Writers Conference–complete with names, dates, and mortal sins committed. After all, it was a weekend full of drinking, cussing, flirting, rumor-mongering, boundary-pushing, drinking, young-meat stalking, agent-and-editor-meat stalking, drinking, talk of gay porn, lesbianism, and open marriages, drinking, propositioning, ass-kissing, ass-grabbing, ass-smacking, slander, infamy and–did I mention?–drinking. And that was just Saturday night. In the lobby. Between 11:52 pm and 11:54 pm. Mostly involving Cicily Janus.

But it would be too easy to write a column about such sordid topics. Besides, I have a dim recollection that something else happened this weekend during the non-drinking time. Something involving…umm…oh yeah! I remember. There was cussing, flirting, rumor-mongering, boundary-pushing, talk of gay porn, lesbianism, and open marriage, drinking…and that was just Jene Jackson’s book pitch. Which brings me to my point: gratitude.

For the last few months I’ve often vented my frustrations about waiting to hear from publishers and getting the occasional rejection. And yet, I’m ahead of the curve. This conference included so much relaxing and ribaldry for me because, for the first time ever, I wasn’t desperately working on a pitch or scheming about how to get to the right table to say the right things to effectively make an impression on an agent who was surrounded by hundreds of fellow writers doing the exact same thing.

I was, instead, lucky enough to have my agent at the conference. Meeting her for the first time in the flesh was a great privilege and joy, reminding me how lucky I am to have her in my corner. In other words — Aaron — quit all your damn whining. And yet, I still feel wretched whenever I think of the struggles  ahead–not only to find a publisher, but also to make a book successful enough to give me a bonafide career–things which still feel as out of reach as sobriety and good judgment were on Saturday night.

Meanwhile, my still-to-be-agented-friends would doubtless lie, cheat, steal, sacrifice, kill, and give their third virginities to trade places with me. And that’s just Deb Courtney (who will no doubt be agented soon–so please, Deb, don’t kill me…as for the 3rd virginity…we’ll talk).

If I had more time, I would continue this entry with case studies of three writers at different points in their careers to illustrate how long and strange this journey is and how curiously different yet the same the perspective is from any given stage (unagented, agented, published). Since Thursday is almost over, though, I’ll just go ahead and put that off to next week.

In the meantime, did anyone see outgoing PPW prez Chris Mandeville with the Navy boys on Friday night?