There are two types of would-be authors: Those who decide to go to writing programs, and those who do not.  This is about those who do not.

The role of writing programs in modern American culture is the subject of much controversy these days. People argue over their purpose and utility, over whether they are actually dragging down the level of writing in general by giving false encouragement to mediocre talents, or whether they are nothing more than Ponzi schemes, designed to turn out MFAs who are qualified to do nothing more than teach creative writing classes to other masses of undergrads, who in turn become creative writing teachers, ad infinitum. But as I say, this post isn't about that.

This is about another institution in American literary culture: the writers conference.

At some point in your writing life — usually when you've managed to finish a dozen or two short stories and are wondering how to get something published — you hear about writers conferences. These shindigs bring together a few famous writers, several more less-known but successful ones, and a mass of people like yourself: would-be authors. They offer, in a single week, something of the experience of going to a creative writing MFA program. You bring a short story and get it critiqued, and you critique others' stories. The famous (or not so famous) writer in charge of your group says a few words about it too, and makes some marks on it, and smiles at you. In the afternoons there are panels, and in the evenings there are parties and readings. 

But none of that is really why would-be authors go to writers conferences. You don't go to hear your story critiqued, or to listen to a panel on publishing, or to listen to famous writers declaim their work. You go so that one of the famous writers will look at your work and say, "My God! Where have you been?! Why haven't you been published yet? I want you to meet my agent."

You know, I'm sure that does happen. It probably happens to one person per conference per year. They say Amy Tan was discovered at the Squaw Valley Writers Conference.  In fact, it's why agents and publishers and lit mag editors go to writers conferences. They want that experience too, on the other end. You want to be the next big thing; they want to discover the next big thing. 

But the chances are slim. Maybe there are a hundred writers conferences every year, maybe there are five hundred, I don't know. Multiply that by 100-300 would-be authors who pay money to attend (though some people with time and money to spare attend more than one). That's a lot of would-be authors. Only one or two of them truly are the next big thing. Nevertheless, the conferences continue, because of that little thing called hope. Or whatever other word you want to use for it. 

As for the successful authors who lead the groups, they come for one main reason: it's good money. And also they probably want to "give back," to support people who are not that different from them. And finally, it gives them a chance to see colleagues on their own level. Lynn Freed gets to chat with Michael Cunningham and Luis Urrea.

I've been to two fairly well-regarded writers conferences.  Neither one was a great experience. At one I pissed off my whole group by being too critical. At the other, I got so caught up in interpersonal dynamics with the other writers that it was sort of like being in high school again — unfortunately, I was 42 years old at the time. 

Something hilarious, and excruciatingly embarrassing, happened at the Napa Valley conference, which I attended in 1998. One of the best-known staff was Mary Gaitskill, who was and is known for her edgy, often sexually-charged work. On the last day of the conference, the last hour, Gaitskill and others appeared on a panel, at the end of which there was a Q and A. We were reaching the end of the last hour of the conference and the moderator said, "Okay, last question," and pointed to a woman in the audience. 

The woman stood up and began a long, rambling question with a false premise: that Gaitskill had written the edgy, sexually charged memoir The Kiss. While the woman's mistaken notion that Gaitskill was the book's author was almost immediately apparent to the audience, the questioner was on a roll and didn't let anyone get a word in edgewise, until finally, after more than a minute -- though it seemed, like many moments of anxious embarrassment, to last forever -- her question reached its end. 

There was a short, uncomfortable silence. Then Gaitskill said the only thing she could say: "I didn't write The Kiss."

Another short, uncomfortable pause, after which the moderator said, "Well. That's the end of our conference. Thank you all for being on our panel today..." and began the conference's closing comments.

I didn't know the woman who asked the mistaken question.  I don't know how she faced the humiliation of that moment. But I think the incident highlights the experience of the writers conference for both would-be authors and the successful authors. After a week of (generally) false hopes and weak encouragement, an amateur thought she could address a professional, and the result was a train wreck. At that moment, both of them were probably regretting they had ever come to the Napa Valley. 

Seven years later I went to another conference (lots of people go to one or two every single year, but I wasn't sure it was right for me, an assessment that turned out to be correct). Squaw Valley is huge; there are over 125 fiction writers, almost a hundred would-be screenwriters, and a few dozen poets.

One evening I was having drinks with a few other attendees. I was the youngest in the small group at 49; the others were about 60. I had just gotten a literary agent for the novel I had completed earlier that year, and I had high hopes. The others were, in my secret estimation, kidding themselves. One of them was a man who was about 65. He told me that for every story idea he wrote both a novel and screenplay. Sometimes he would write the novel and then turn it into a screenplay, sometimes vice versa. He had a system, he said. And this made it twice as likely that he would be a success.

It seemed to me that this couldn't possibly work. He was looking at novels and screenplays as products; one equalled another. Another attendee who was just kidding himself. I, on the other hand, was not just kidding myself. I had had two books of short stories published; I had a literary agent for my novel, an agent who was going to start sending the novel to publishers right after Labor Day. I wanted to be a literary author, and here I was talking to a guy who treated stories like canned goods. 

This would be the time to offer an ironic twist, where that guy became a successful screenwriter while my novel went nowhere. But while it's true that my novel went nowhere (except self-publishing), I don't know what happened to that guy. Either he died, or he's probably still turning his ideas into cultural dog food. And maybe he still has hope.

Today, as every year since I attended, I got another invite from the Squaw Valley conference. This year, as ditto, I will ignore it. Because I don't think there's anything a conference can do for me. I might embarrass myself in front of a famous author; I might once again alienate everyone in my group; but what definitely won't happen is that someone will discover I'm the next big thing. 

But I am still writing the novel I've been working on for a couple of years. I just want to finish my book and have it be as good as I can make it. Then we'll see. 
 

Previously: 
Live the life of a  writer! 
Biting through