Third and final musing on The Muse: Yes, at one point , I cried.

First writing conference, not even an overnighter away from home and I shed some tears.

I won't go into the details but something amazing happened that gave me an incredible burst of confidence in my ability to continue. Something with an authority of sorts who read and approved of something I wrote.

I'm not telling the full story, publicly anyway, because I made a promise to myself a while back that I would go forward at this point with no need for external validation. In the past I've been a bit of an attention getter. Recognition has been a large part of my motivation. So often, if I was not the best at something, I would not continue. And even if I was, but no one else would see it, forget it.

You see how this could pose a problem with the writing. So, I've been working on it.

I've told the story about my first college english essay where the instructor put my paper on the overhead as an example of how to write. I used to need things like that.

In one of my current workshops the instructor regularly attributes my insights to the other participants. It isn't intentional, but in the past, this would have made me crazy. I would have felt like I had to make sure he knew it was me, my idea. Because of all of this internal work, I can let go of that. It doesn't really matter how everyone else in the workshop sees me. Ultimately, I am really the only one who has to know.

So when this thing at the conference happened, I wasn't expecting it. I wasn't looking for it at all.

And yes, I cried.

Muse & the Martketplace Part 2: Hi, I love you

So I might have embarrassed myself a bit, once or twice, while meeting all the amazing writers at Muse & the Marketplace.

Years back Hubs and I took a trip to Florence Italy and visited the famous Uffizi museum. At one point I remember coming into a room where Bottecelli's The Birth of Venus hung on the far end of the wall. It was such a familiar image and there it was, stunning and iconic. But what really struck me was that if I had wanted to, I could have reached up and touched it. Don't get me wrong, I would never ever touch it. But I could have.

That's how the writers and instructors were at M & M. I could have touched any of them without sounding some alarm. Of course I didn't touch them. But on a few occasions, I did introduce myself. "Um, hi. Suchafanofyourwork and thatthingyousaidattheplotsession."

And not just the national writers, the local gods and goddesses too. Like Jane Roper, who is a mother of young twins and has a book out this month. Steve Almond, who I only made eye contact with, but it was significant eye contact nonetheless. Grub instructors James Scott and Cam Terwilliger who got stuck eating with us two days in a row. And the almost famous, like my friend Robert, who seems to be getting some well deserved traction, and Cathy with that flash fiction piece I keep thinking about.

Though I worked with an amazing memoir group in Phoenix, I've been writing fiction almost entirely alone for a few years now. When I joined Grubstreet in Boston last summer, I did it because I wanted to be part of a fiction writing community. It took some time, but I have met some amazing writers in these classes. So I got my inner circle, but I was completely surprised to find that I also have my outer circle. And I have to say, these people, the ones I admire and aspire to be, are my people.

Even if some of them don't know it yet.

Insights from Muse & the Marketplace: Part 1 of 9

Ha! Had you going there.

No, this isn't the first installment in a nine part series on my escapades at the writing conference, though lord knows it could be (and I might at least get to Part 2 where I stalk a few local writers). However, I will give you this little nibble from the keynote on Sunday.

The speaker was Ron Carlson. He has been writing and teaching for ages and stated fairly early in the address that he feels entitled to be a bit cranky about it. To his new students he says (while knocking his hand on a whiteboard) "Put something in your stories." He went on a ten minute riff about all the things he begged his student not to write about, including death. "The body count is high," he said. "And unnecessary."

He was funny. Really funny.

The best part, though, was that I understood what he was getting to. What joy to figure out that I've been writing enough to see what the novice pitfalls are, when drama and tension become confused with explosions and suicides. Not saying I can write past those black holes yet, but I see as soon as they pop up in my writing and certainly in the works of others during my classes.

In other words, knowing when you start to suck is really big progress. Huge.

Most of the conference felt that way, like I was really ready to take in the wisdom that the instructor-writers were doling out. And here's the other thing. I felt proud of myself for working so hard to get there, and "getting there" was only about being practiced enough to learn. Getting there is getting nowhere at this point, and still, I felt damn proud.

Pop

This weekend I attended a two-day writing conference hosted by my beloved Grubstreet and now, even at day two, I am still coming down from it.

In my writing group a few months back, a friend brought in this beautiful bit about a girl trying to step onto a subway car with a bouquet of balloons. She struggles to pull all of the balloons in as the doors are closing and one balloon becomes stranded outside the train.

I've been feeling like that girl. I am holding something bright and precious, but I can't quite subdue it enough to take it along with me.