Nebraska Notes - Preparation

This week I'm preparing for my first writer's conference: The Nebraska Summer Writer's Conference. It starts with two days of panels and lectures on the publishing business and then morphs into five days of the writing workshop "Dostoevsky It Ain't". Sometime during the week I also get an agent consultation on my book.

I've got home work to finish before I fly out Friday. The agent consultation required me to send the first five pages and a two page synopsis. Being a person of many words, I used 10 point type and narrow margins, but I got it done and sent it off several weeks ago. For the writing workshop, I was told to select a favorite book from my "genre", reread it and write a chapter by chapter summary. I have no idea what my genre is yet, except to say I like writing about women, relationships and their associated adventures. (A murder writer I'm not--at least not yet). I chose The Hours by Michael Cunningham. The stories of three women from three eras (1920's, 1950's, and 1990's) are interwoven through books and relationships using language that leaves me breathless every time I read this short book. I could never bring myself to watch the film as it would be impossible to capture the warp of his words. The workshop instructor also wants me to bring five pages of "something" I'm working on (copies for everyone in the class as well). I was going to bring something from my new effort, but may fall back on On the Hook. Can't decide.

I'm intimidated that other writers will critique my work next week. Never in my life have I dealt well with negative evaluations as I always wanted to please the authorities and be perfect (remnants from a controlling father just don't let go easily). Luckily, the class will have only five or six other students. These peers will be younger than my daughter, no doubt--everyone seems to be younger now days (sigh). But age doesn't stop feelings of incompetency and pure fright from living in my brain. If I didn't know better, I think I'm that gangly seven-year-old kid from Alabama about to start first grade up north in 1953. I'm all dressed up in my new school togs, but ready to throw-up if anybody laughs at me because I talk funny. My worst fear is that these writers and would be writers dismiss my work as the drivel of a wrinkling retired business careerist who, in their opinion, should leave writing to young, brilliant English majors. Holly Myers saved me in first grade when she took my hand during a tough game of "Hill Dill". Who will save me next week?

I remain hopeful that I will survive this seven day reality show. Feedback on On the Hook from my second round readers has been positive, so maybe there is a writing future for me.