Writing conferences demystified, part 1
My first experience at a writing conference.
It’s taken me a long time to see myself as a “real” writer. Part of this process was undoing a lot of damage from my college writer’s workshop, where on the first day our prize-winning instructor told a classfull of aspiring writers that not everyone was cut out to be a writer. Combine that with disheartening feedback on my work, I resolved that I wasn’t one of those people “meant” for writing.
Fast forward five years, when I felt an inextricable call back to writing and invested in writing practice and education. Part of my education has come from writing conferences. I’ve been fortunate to attend two: One Story Writers Conference 2022 (virtual) where I studied under Maaza Mengiste & Sirenland Writers Conference 2023 in Positano, Italy where I studied under Susan Choi. I’ve loved what I’ve gotten out of these conferences, which is why I’m attending two more in June (including one targeted at writers of color).
Folks who aren’t familiar with the literary world (aka 85% of the people in my life) have no idea what these conferences look like, why people attend them, and what the value looks like (since they are quite $$$). I wrote this post to demystify these questions, and offer my journey for other creative writers considering a similar investment.
How did I end up at a writing conference?
My journey into writing conferences, like everything else with my writing, has been extremely haphazard. I first found out about the One Story Writers conference on Submittable, which is a platform used by literary magazines and conferences to track submissions. I was on the subway, browsing the platform for potential magazines to submit my latest short story, after having received 50+ rejections. The conference caught my eye given the interesting content and instructor caliber. I was worried that it would be super selective, and my writing resume was nonexistent except for one random publication. But it didn’t hurt to try. Plus, I liked the idea of spending a whole week learning about writing and connecting with other writers. I pulled into a coffee shop, opened my laptop, and put together my application packet in two hours.
Lo and behold, three weeks later, I got a waitlist notice, which turned into an official acceptance two weeks later. This was the first validation I had received since I decided to become a “serious” writer. For a moment, I believed that I could achieve my writing dreams, which is the most powerful form of validation that I could have received at the time.
What were my biggest takeaways from the conference?
Writing is so lonely and connecting with other writers helps a TON. Shared commiseration, advice exchange, connection to opportunities, learning from their experience, opening your mind to new possibilities… these are just a (few) of the many benefits. It’s also a great way to feel some momentum in a world riddled with rejection.
As you grow as a writer, you don’t get rejected less, you just get better at dealing with the rejection.
Not all feedback is equal. Who is giving you the feedback matters as much as the feedback itself. This matters both with the feedback you receive and give.
Thinking about writing is just as important as the writing itself. After One Story, I spent more time planning my stories and doing writing exercises to get into the heads of my character. This process tweak paid dividends, especially in revision.
The creative life is all about time. Unlike tech, things move at a different pace and there’s no singular “path” to making it. In fact, writing itself is a non-linear process, often requiring multiple drafts until the story “clicks.” This is quite different from my experience in tech where building/shipping/networking happened at a much faster pace. I’m still getting used to this and checking myself whenever I start to feel “behind” in my writing career.
What did I do at the conference?
The conference was a writer’s dream: daily craft lectures on beginnings, point of view, “set pieces,” time, sociological storytelling, and setting. There were also talks with editors, agents, and successful authors, who shared their own personal and harrowing rejection stories (some of these are absolutely savage). Even though there was a part of me that felt it’s easy to share rejection stories when you’ve had some success, it also reinforced to me that rejection is an inherent part of the writer's life, and that publishing is a difficult business.
The meat of the conference was the workshop. A workshop is basically a group of writers that gather together to share work and give each other feedback, usually led by an instructor. My workshop was special because Maaza, my instructor, gave us a lot of generative exercises that helped us gain insight into our work. For example, she walked us through exercises to help us get to the root of our characters faster, by examining what wounds they’re carrying within them and how those wounds might show up on their body. She also shared her own writing journey going from consulting -> Hollywood -> MFA -> writer, and the personal roadblocks she had to overcome along the way. It really resonated with my journey and gave me hope for my future.
Additionally, there are conference-sponsored and privately-organized social events to get to know other conference attendees, which is a great way of building relationships with other writers. I’m still in touch with several folks I met during One Story, either for sharing updates in my writing life or receiving advice whenever I’m at a crossroads.
Callout: imposter syndrome at writing conferences.
Workshop is an intense and vulnerable place. Not only do you have to closely read everyone else’s work and have solid feedback prepared for the conversation, you’re also throwing your work out there and bracing for the feedback. Workshop pushed a lot of my insecurities to overdrive. My classmate’s work was excellent, and I constantly questioned if my work would measure up to theirs. I also worried if the feedback would be so harsh that it would make me quit writing again. I worried if my feedback would be “good” enough, which I was measuring by the number of head nods when I spoke or the number of people that referenced my feedback.
I remember after the first day of the workshop, my head felt cluttered. I had felt anxious the entire workshop because I didn’t know if I was contributing enough. I told myself that as long as my feedback was constructive and I genuinely thought it would help the writer produce better work, my feedback was valid. I needed to stop caring if XYZ person thought it made me sound smart, or if other people in my workshop agreed with me. The next day, my anxiety melted away. I spoke up more and cared less, which had the unexpected side effect of others validating my feedback. This is not to say the self-doubt doesn’t creep up now and then, but the reframe helps.
Next time, I’ll share more about my experience at Sirenland, and why I recommend going to multiple conferences.
Thing of Note
Recap: This section is my way of bringing attention to a thing, person, or idea that’s meaningful/related to the mission of this newsletter. This week, I want to highlight Andy John’s blog post on creating a business vs art.
Why? With my creative projects, I’ve always felt this inherent tension between doing things for external validation/”success” vs my own creative, curious desire. I’m still struggling with this tension (I see myself somewhere in the middle) but Andy’s framework on the spectrum of business vs art was super helpful in contextualizing this tension to work through it.
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