Juicy Byte
I love writing classes. I love Writer's Conferences. I always hear something I needed to hear.
The writing classes I have recently attended were given by best-selling author Diane Dunaway. She is also the founder of the San Diego State University Writer's Conference, 24 years strong. I could have listened to her speak for hours, even when she said things that took the wind out of my sails. If she hadn't , she wouldn't be giving me the real picture, and giving the real picture is what I asked her to do when I signed up to hear her speak.
She has a literary career that is what writers dream of - book deals, advances, become friends and made connections with good people, and teaching what she knows to people who, like me, sit in the front row with their hands folded around their faces and stars in their eyes, thinking our dreams aren't far out of reach, either. I hope I didn't annoy her.
She earned this literary career logically, step by intelligent step. I'm sure luck plays a factor in the career of every writer, but Diane Dunaway has worked hard and carries her accumulated knowledge with sincerity. "I'm here for the author," she made a point of telling us.
Thank goodness someone is in the caveat vendor industry.
So I asked her, hoping for a vicarious experience (despite what Bob Dylan said), "What was it like to sign your first contract, get your first book deal?"
"Like having the best orgasm ever, only it lasted longer," she said.
I hope I'm in the comforts of my own home with my husband if and when I get my first big advance and sign that lucrative contract with an agent.
It has got to be one of the most exploitive acts I can imagine - giving my brainchild, my life's work, my brilliant idea and lofty dream over to someone who may be cynical, resentful, jaded, or just pissed off at the world and needing to piss on something in 12 point font on white 8.5 x 11 paper.
Then again, maybe it won't be. If there is one universal literary truth, it is that truth is stranger than fiction. I write truth and fiction, but my story remains unfinished (I hope for a while). My novel in the works is intangible and dangling around in my future like the invisible mic always hanging right above the movie set, waiting for the right line delivered in the perfect way. Waiting for the right opportunity. I just can't give up, it doesn't feel right.
I'm holding out, with a capital "O".
That is how I get my kicks, for now.
