The Jackson Hole Writers Conference Experience

June 28-30, 2012

There are a lot of reasons a person might choose one writing conference over another. Let me tell you, location really is everything. Jackson, Wyoming is an ideal place for a writing con. With breathtaking views and intimate access to faculty -- I couldn't have asked for more from my only planned conference this year.

Arriving in Jackson Hole

I'm a week out from my return and I must say it was much more than I could have hoped for. It was a little costly due to the travel expenses, but quite satisfying in the end. There were a lot of reasons for my decision to fly cross-country to a relatively (but not really) small writing conference where I knew no one and had no connections. And that ended up being the best reason for doing it. Other reasons included: the chance to tag on a Grand Teton/Yellowstone family vacation, the teen writer program (my thirteen-year-old niece was able to join me), the affordable critique program (with top agents, writers, and editors), the fantastic "beer tent" student readings, and intimate access to authors like Anita Diamant, Brandon Mull, Kyle Mills, and so many others.

I met a lot of wonderful people, got some great feedback, and I learned a lot that I actually didn't already know. That's the issue with doing an annual conference circuit, right? You start to hear the same things over and over. I was pleasantly surprised by my experience in Wyoming and learned and heard candid thoughts and opinions that were actually new to me after several summers of conference hopping. It was a good mix of all kinds of writers: poetry, Literary, commercial, screen, nonfiction, and YA. I even chatted with a southern writer who lives not too far from me. It ended up being a terrific hub of inspiring and supportive people. 

The panels and workshops touched on business and craft, and allowed a good bit of social time to make new connections and rekindle old ones. And the Arts Center where the conference was held was just a few blocks from anything one might want or need while away from home. With a cocktail party, wine and cheese nature walk, and a buffet dinner -- there was plenty to keep busy each evening when venturing out at night alone wasn't preferable.

Banner over the main congregation area at the Art Center

The keynotes and panels were what one would expect but seemed to sparkle a little more than previous experiences at similar sized conferences. Maybe I was looking to be inspired, but I think after JHWC's twenty years of experience --  organizers just do a great job of selecting dynamic speakers. Every writer should hear Dennis Pulumbo's Cosmic Rules of Writing. You'll be hard pressed to find a better more relatable writer, speaker or person than Michael Perry. Anita Diamant and Brandon Mull are gems of down to earth humans that are so generous with their time it seems incongruent that they are such rockstars in the industry. Naomi Shiyab Nye had my geologist husband on the edge of his chair with excitement about poetry, art, and life and Margaret Coel's knowledge as a writer with a fascinating lifelong career seems an endless well. I feel so lucky to have chosen this year and this faculty as my first JHWC experience. It'll stick with me for many years to come. Writers as a rule are pretty awesome -- but the collection in Wyoming this late June was impressive.

My specific critique experience put me in contact with invaluable feedback from writers Catherine McKenzie and Lise McClendon and agent Robert Guinsler. To boot, I had an extended critique I'll never forget over lunch with bestselling thriller writer Kyle Mills -- whose advice and honesty impacted me greatly. If that's not enough, Tim Sandlin might be the most generous and accessible conference organizer I've encountered to date. My experiences with getting my critiques lined up, getting my niece settled and comfortable, and all communications orienting me with what to expect were easy and friendly.

The Alpine House - our home away

All in all, I couldn't have asked for more from my one chosen writing conference experience this summer. I had told myself after the last few years of pounding the pavement from conference to conference that I'd take a break this summer and chose only one. I had a big year last year and needed a less overwhelming networking and travel schedule. What a conference to chose! It filled the space of a whole summer and has given me more to ponder and reflect on than I could have ever hoped for. There were so many high points and valuable connections and experiences made -- this little blog update doesn't touch them all. Clearly, I'd highly recommend the JHWC.

Daddy's Girl Weekend 2012

That's right! This past weekend was the Carolyn Haines Annual Daddy's Girls' Weekend Writer and Reader Party...er...I mean...Conference. This year the gathering was at the Malaga Inn in historic Mobile, AL. A beautiful venue shared with a lot of wonderful people. And the Peas were in attendance.

On the roster was, of course, our own Carolyn and the wonderful Sarah Bewley--cohorts in crime. In addition, Urban Fantasy Author Anton Strout, Penguin Group Editor Michelle Vega, Agent Marian Young, Tyrus Editor and Publisher Ben Leroy, and authors T.R. Pearson, Dean James, Will Irby, as well as, some other Urban Fantasy author named Jeannie Holmes (wink) and many, many others.

As usual, it was great fun and Big Daddy was in the house. Dean James graciously passed the baton to John Hafner as this year's Big Daddy and I'm quite sure Anton Strout was scandalized by a lap-dancing belly dancer. There are no rules of engagement when it comes to Big Daddy or winning prizes from them for the outrageous Jitty costumes people wore. Yep... that's how Carolyn rolls. Aren't you upset you missed it? I'm so glad I didn't!

The laughs and stories were many. For accounts and photographic proof of all the shenanigans check out the D. g. Weekend Facebook Page and Katie Wood Ruffin's Blog post. And I'm sure You Tube videos will surface whether people want them to or not.

In short, there were some great workshops and panels on process, screenwriting, and the industry. What's more--there were even better conversations to be had in the courtyard as we caught up with old friends and made new connections. Until next year! We can't wait.

Peas Out.

YA Day

SM Anthony, me, and Katie

I'm a little behind the eight ball. It's been a few of weekends since the Biloxi, MS Books-A-Million YA Day I participated in with Katie Wood Ruffin. But I wanted to share a brief update of the event with you. I guess, in a way, it was my first public appearance.

The event was a fabulous experience and a fair success. Katie and I hung out in the bookstore from noon until four in the afternoon  handing out goodie bags with bookmarks, candy, and suggested reading lists drafted by each of us. We met some wonderful and excited readers and had a great time talking about our favorite books to anyone who would listen. The staff was amazing and lots of fun. I like to think I made some new friends in them as well as learned some tips to overcome my shyness.

We had awesome swag from the likes of Brodi Ashton, Kami Garcia, Jeri Smith-Ready, Sophie Littlefield, and Bekka Black (and a few more I'm sure I'm forgetting--but Katie can set me straight if I've missed anyone). Sophie and Bekka were gracious enough to send along signed copies of their books, making the door prizes that much more awesome, desirable, and exciting. We had some grateful and enthused young winners. I even included some Ninja Pea bookmarks into the swag bags which got a lot of oohs and ahhs. In all, we made contact and handed out one-hundred bags. (One-hundred readers and families that now know who our favorite authors and books are--a wondrous thing). We talked to so many preteens and teens who were readers. It's hard to believe statistics that claim young people don't read when you chat with so many who do. 

The best part was talking with so many young at heart readers like myself. Moms, college students, teachers, and even a thirty-something man and his wife who were huge Cassandra Clare fans. It's fantastic to know that YA books touch and are loved by so many others in the same way that they inform and engage me. It goes to show that it is a market that resonants with many -- one I love to write, read, and discuss.

And, of course, both of my peas dropped by the support me (and the bookstore) which I'm so grateful for. It was terrific fun and I enjoyed the experience. Many thanks to Katie for inviting me to join her in our YA Day adventure. And  a special shout out to the staff at the Biloxi Books-A-Million...you guys were awesome!

Peas Out.

One Pea Short of a Pod: Part One

A Weekend at Oak Alley Plantation with J & M

Jan. 29th, 2012 -- 9pm

The trees did not disappoint.

This isn’t the first pseudo writing and inspirational retreat the Ninja Peas have undertaken. It is, however, the first one with central heating and wifi. Last year, I had the hair-brained idea to gather the Peas for a night in an Escatawpa River fishing cabin on what might’ve been the coldest February night in South Mississippi. We managed to keep warm by the fire, played word games, plotted, schemed, and laughed until we cried. But the best bit? We truly reinforced our friendship through a shared passion of writing (and a heartfelt desire to survive the night as armies of woodland mice took up arms against us). It was an unforgettable thirty-six hours and we vowed to do it again.

A bug's eye view of the mansion.

Sadly, this particular weekend at Oak Alley, we are one pea short of a pod. This Pea-treat was truly meant as a retreat. Both J and I were desperate to reclaim our mojo after a hectic holiday season and some productivity stumbling blocks. Plus, with one husband home sick and another just home all the time, it was time to remember why we’d taken our marriage vows many years ago. Absence does indeed make the heart grow fonder -- and a Pea-treat is the first defense against too much “quality time” with one’s significant other. So, J and I planned a spontaneous (in the span of four text messages) trip to reclaim our sanity. We were booked and ready to go to the haunted plantation of our dreams before either of us thought twice about whether it was actually a good idea (or really cleared it with our husbands…oops). Thus was the origination of a Pea-treat at Oak Alley.

Since our third pea is not so flexible with impulse trips, she will be missed and will be here with us in spirit. But worry not! We have a three-pea adventure brewing for the spring (and we promise to share the madness with you).


Day One:

We left Saturday morning with excitement roiling through our veins. Nothing could stop us! J and I had always dreamed of visiting Oak Alley (rumored to be haunted and film home of Louis from Interview with a Vampire). J was thrilled by the promise of a plantation estate filled with southern gothic flare and dark storytelling inspiration. Me? It was big, big trees and a chance to walk on the same ground as Brad Pitt’s stunt horse. Of course I was excited! Alas, this feverish anticipation was quickly subdued when we’d driven all of four minutes and I said, “Sh*t! I forgot my camera.”

Around we turned then tried again.

I'm so glad we didn't leave my camera behind.

Finally on our way, we rolled west on Interstate 10 toward the Mississippi River. It quickly became clear that the GPS my husband insisted we take (note: I just wanted to bring a map) was confused and bewildered by our decision to retrieve the camera. As I drove eighty miles an hour down the interstate, screaming at the tiny box suction-cupped to my windshield, I tried to reprogram the (cocky) taunting box. Meanwhile, J sat in the passenger seat, giggling, because my interaction with the box went a little something like this: “Yes! That destination. No, wait, that’s wrong. Yes! No. Yes? No! Wait... Yes! No. Yes!” and so on. What I learned from this experience? GPS… no. Map… yes.

After the argument with the tiny (cocky) box was settled, we had a relatively uneventful two and a half hour morning drive with great weather and light traffic. We had plenty of time to chat about what we both needed to accomplish on our pending projects, our hopes for new projects, and how we intended to divvy our time between work and play until our Tuesday morning departure. Ten miles from our exit traffic came to a standstill (as is typical of any drive on a several-mile long bridge over Louisiana swampland). After imagining and talking through several really, really horrible scenarios, we determined vampire alligators would be too sleepy this time of year to scale the bridge. So we were safe… for now. We did learn (if you can call wild speculation “learning”) our near one-hour delay was merely a little old lady and her purse puppy peeing on the side of the road (we can’t be sure who was doing the peeing).

Bridge over the mighty Mississippi.

Finally, we exited and headed toward our destination. We squeed with more excitement than any mere mortal should experience. So much so, I maniacally squeed and snapped photos whilst driving over the Mississippi River Bridge. J took a moment to cover her eyes and pray -- the river’s awesomeness just too much to bear. In retrospect, J’s reaction probably had more to do with my hands not being on the steering wheel and her water phobia than the greatness of the Mighty Mississippi. But, either way, it was pretty awesome.

We drove for the longest seven miles EVER… then we squeed! Again.

Our first impression of the plantation was one of elation (and copious amounts of squeeing). We jumped out of the car at the bottom of the levee and stood, gazing down the alley of oaks from the roadside. Mouths gaping, we stood in the middle of the road, tour buses driving around us, and J said to me, “Oh, yeah. We are so coming back here with Alexis next year.”

I agreed, diving out of the way of a fast-moving vehicle and into the gravel.

Cottage 6 was perfect.

We had lunch at the plantation’s restaurant then moved into our cottage -- but not before J did what she touted was the first and most important thing of the trip. She bought a small collection of voodoo dolls from the gift shop. (Should I be frightened?) After entering the cottage with the B&B attendant (as a murder of crows crept up from the sugar cane fields and flanked the cottage… seriously…) we were each handed a flashlight and told, quite seriously, “You must have these with you if you walk the grounds after dark.”

J’s response: (maniacal laugh) “S-weet!”

M’s response: (eyes J suspiciously, eyes voodoo dolls, eyes flashlight helplessly, and scans room for anything that could be used as a wooden stake)

Perusing the cottage, we found creepy dolls and an even creepier old portrait. But, all in all, the space was wonderful and had plenty of outlets. As J said to me after dinner (stroking the heads of her voodoo dolls and shuffling to her bedroom), “This is gonna be perfect!”

Sunset over the road our first night.

Our first night at Oak Alley ended with a sunset walk around the grounds, a quiet dinner in our lovely cottage, and inspiration teeming all around us. Mojo? I think we’ve stirred it with a single mouse dropping found in the back of the cabinet by the saucepan. It wouldn’t be a Pea-treat without at least one. After all, we’re staying in an old quarter house in the middle of a sugar cane field.

Next time? The conclusion to One Pea Short of A Pod: Weekend in Oak Alley with J and M. I know, I know. The anticipation might just be too much.

Game Pod: Creation - Photo Flash Fiction

This week we have a writing game. From the photo below {thanks to the super-talented & gracious Marcus, aka @architectm on Instagram, for letting us borrow!} each Pea will write a 300 word story. 
{300, M. 300. Actually, for you: 250. That should keep you at 325}. **

    Darby stepped onto the brick road, taking one final look back. The stables beyond the fence were as she’d left them. The scent of horses, hay, and his cologne clung to her flannel shirt, both comforting and torturing. She quelled her tears. He didn’t deserve them. Nor would he care if she shed any.

    The world before her today held too much beauty. It wasn’t fair.

    She’d loved the idea of it--the world he’d built them. Now, with him gone, there was nothing left for her. He’d told her they’d grow old together--raise a family. Instead, he left her with his dream. When he walked away, she found she didn’t want any of it.

    Darby blinked him away in one angry flash. Yet something inside her searched for a reason to stay. It wouldn’t last. Nothing lasted.

    Looking down the hill from where she’d come, she found the view too idyllic. The verdant pasture held too much promise. Rusting gold, the trees were dressed in a beauty that was meant to fade. The scent of decay lingered and would only thicken in the crisp autumn air.

    Illusion stood outside the stable yard nipping at the tall grass--oblivious to all that had changed. For a brief moment Darby felt a pang of guilt. But she’d left everything in order. Illusion would learn to live without her.

    She thought about how she’d caught them. The smudge of lipstick on his collar; the smell of perfume she'd left in their bed. The lies. Darby had been blind. Finding her husband’s and sister’s intertwined naked bodies behind hay bales was simply too cliché.

    She turned, facing the road. No tears--not for them.

    Darby placed the gun barrel to her head and pulled the trigger a third time.

    {294 words, thank you very much!}

The Wall

    All he saw was gray.

    He strode along the path to the field and wondered what it must be like to live in a world of color. Would the sourness of the breeze blowing past the barn instead smell sweet? Would the grass yield to his step instead of crunch beneath his boots? Would the faint sunlight poking through the iron-like clouds burn?

    A lone horse stared at him with dull eyes. He climbed the fence surrounding the field. The clouds shifted and a tree’s shadow darkened his vision, making him shiver. He reached the Wall.

    Rough bricks scraped his fingers and palms as he climbed. His boots slipped and his knees shrieked their bloody misery. He pulled himself over the edge and dropped to the ground.

    Grass soundlessly fell beneath his step. Sweetness drifted on the wind. Sunshine burned his cheeks. He looked to the sky.

    All he saw was gray.

Leap of Faith

     I stare, transfixed by the vivid countryside. Every detail, palpable. The one place They haven't found -- haven't ruined. My escape.

     Ramshackle barns -- benign, welcoming -- peek over trees in autumn bloom. The scent of damp wood. The chill of the wind a promise of winter approaching. Yet the lush, vibrant grass somehow retains summer's warmth. It calls to me.

     I steady my feet on the worn brick ledge, ready to thrust myself into freedom.

     "Come," it whispers. "Sink your feet into my blades."

     I rock backward, my heart in  my throat, as the countryside jerks, sputters. The landscape tears away, revealing a world leached of softness and color, consumed by sticky warmth.

     The sky goes black. Gleaming metal replaces foliage. Soft edges sharpen, razor thin. Hard edges hum, lethal, electrified. The tang of metal, sweat, blood saturates the still, heavy air. If I step off now I'll meet with the bite of the blades -- skin giving way, warm blood gushing, tissue parting, bones splitting...

     I scream.

     The sound morphs into the twitter of a bird, fleeing the fields that are suddenly back in front of me. Everything is once again soft, bright...

     But not safe.

     They found a way in. My mind is Theirs now.

     I slump. How foolish I was to believe -- to hope of escaping the pain. It is a part of me. They made sure of that.

     They're good, letting me get this far, leaving me to teeter on the precipice while They dig ever further -- twisting memories, dredging pain, associating experiences, feelings, memory with something malignant. I'm weak. Malleable. Under Their control...

     Unless I jump.

     I won't survive. Wherever I am, it isn't here, inches from freedom. I see what They let me see. This ledge... it's no gentle drop. I'll freefall. Plunge to my death...

     But it would be freedom, even if painful in the end. The fall would be something, at least.

     With a grating scream of metal the world shifts again -- hot, sharp, dangerous.

     I push off.

     The air flexes. Time drags. I close my eyes and breathe in a life free of pain. Free of Them.

     I hit ground.

     I stumble, but land -- on my feet -- in a virescent field. The pain lingers, faintly. I drop to my knees and look to the peaceful sky, watching the storm clouds recede.
    

**{This is where I stick my foot in my mouth. Because I'm the only one who went over the allotted word count. 396. Luckily, we stayed under the group total, so thanks for picking up my slack, J & M!}

Having flashed readers with our fiction, one might then ask, what could possibly be in store for readers next week? Guest Pod with honorary pea Gary Walker! It has been assured that he will make words. Those words will undoubtedly be glorious. Until then. Peas out.