Excerpt
Immersion
"We have to continually be jumping off cliffs and developing our wings on the way down."
— Kurt Vonnegut Jr.
2008 gave me a spanking.
I was in my second career—from restoring collectibles, comics, and books to real estate agent, go figure—and the housing market had just imploded spectacularly. Doing three times the work for half the pay was playing "Ouch, My Balls!" with my will to live, and I was looking for a change. I'm nothing if not practical, so after months of consideration I decided to pursue a childhood dream and become a writer. You know . . . for the stability. And the income.
I wrote close to every single day in 2009 and was reading a ton. In 2010 Brandon Sanderson had finished Tower of Midnight, the second-to-last book in Robert Jordan's The Wheel of Time series. Fresh off reading Mistborn, one of my most favoritest books, I had a stellar man-crush on him. The dude could write. He was writing stuff I loved, and the kind of stuff I wanted to write too. The kind of stuff I'd been working on for the last year.
It was from his website that I learned he'd be teaching at a new writing conference called The Superstars of Writing Seminar with Kevin J. Anderson, Rebbeca Moesta, Eric Flint, and David Farland (with special guest star, Mignon Fogarty, aka Grammar Girl).
C'mon. I had to go to that.
On the night before the three-day extravaganza began, I found my way over to the event hotel and kind of fell into the milling group of writers roaming around the lobby. What do you say to a whole bunch of people you don't know? I trailed on the outskirts of the pack as they headed out for dinner.
Thinking back on that evening, there really were not that many people, maybe a dozen, maybe a few more than that, but it sure did feel like a lot at the time. Far too many. So when I passed a small sitting area with a couch, a table, and a couple of chairs and just three people sitting there, I joined them instead.
Turned out I had just found a fascinating conversation about publishing in the 1632 universe. I had stumbled upon Eric Flint and Kevin and Karen Evans. To this day I'm not sure why they simply nodded to me and smiled and continued the conversation as if I belonged there. Eric and I actually ended up together quite a few times. He even drove me to the VIP dinner on the second night. Such sweet, fond memories.
That special dinner was an add-on to the conference at a fancy-schmancy Italian place where I had been able to nab Brandon Sanderson as my host. Because of course I did. That man-crush was not going to satisfy itself. And I had oh, so many questions. Not least among them was whether he'd be willing to give me feedback on the story I was working on at the time. It was a contemporary zombie love story called "Finding Superman," for which Brandon was a perfect reader, because Elantris.
There were only five or six other students at the table that night. I was really wary of monopolizing the conversation with my Notepad of Questions and Pen of Scribbling—because I absolutely would have done that if I wasn't careful. But after I had given everyone else a chance to speak, and literally nobody said more than a "nice to meet you" and gave some nervous smiles . . . well, they basically asked me to jump in.
I don't remember much about the actual dinner beyond the food being yummy. I have no memory of eating it. I was too busy looking into Brandon's eyes . . . I mean, participating in an invigorating discussion about writing and publishing. Brandon gave us incredible information about the big publishing houses of the time, and the noteworthy smaller presses. I joked and asked questions and tried to involve my seatmates—still terrified of being that guy. Nobody likes that guy. That guy sucks.
Slowly everyone broke out of their shells. It was an amazing evening. We were the last table to be kicked out, and every one of us (including a handful of collaborators from other tables) was more than happy to continue the conversation as we walked back to the hotel instead of getting cabs. I walked next to Brandon. Tee-hee.
Back at the hotel—a hotel I wasn't even staying at—Brandon and I were the only ones left in the elevator, heading toward his floor. I'm reminded of that scene from Fight Club where Jack has spent the whole evening with Tyler and they're outside the bar at the end of the night and he still hasn't gotten to the point.