“I have this whole book in my head.” Beth (Beth’s fake name) leaned closer to make herself heard over an animated crowd in the hotel bar. “It’s like a movie I can see, all the way down to characters, plot, and even conversations.”
Authors tend to gather at the bar like wildebeests to a watering hole in the Serengeti to discuss writing and the literary world. Folks who spend months alone with their imaginary friends are always looking for conversation.
My new acquaintance at the writers conference drew a long, deep breath to maintain her hold on her our exchange. “There’s this one scene when my main character gives the story an entirely different twist, and that’s where the music in my head starts playing.”
As an author, I’d heard this one before, years ago, from myself. “Have you finished it?”
She rolled her eyes. “I haven’t started yet. That’s why I’m at this conference, to get an agent or someone interested in it.”
“They’ll be more interested in the actual book itself.”
“My husband thinks I’m crazy, especially after I told him about the character who–––.” She looked over her shoulder. “–––is really Merlin.”
“Are you looking for someone?”
“I don’t want anyone to overhear. They might steal my idea.”
“You can’t hear a chainsaw in this crowd. Don’t worry about that.”
“You won’t write this, will you?”
“I want you to do it.” I held up my little finger. “Pinky swear.”
Surprising me, she hooked her pinky with mine. “I just need time to get started.”
“You have this whole conference. Lock yourself in your room and pound out twenty or thirty pages. Go do it now while I get another drink. Talking about it won’t get the book done.”
“I don’t know where to start.”
“At the most compelling scene.”
“That’s when my characters meet on dark night in a hotel lobby while it’s raining. That’s the setup and introduces all the characters at one time.”
“I’d start somewhere else, with some kind of action. What’s your genre?”
“I don’t know. I’m not much of a reader. I prefer movies.”
Before I could respond, she waved. “Oh, look. There’s my new friend. Bill, come over here. This is Reavis. Tell him about your book.”
I caught the bartender’s eye and held up my empty glass. The nice man brought me a double.
Stepping up close, Bill crossed his arms. “Well, I haven’t started it yet, but it’ll be a memoir.”
He looked to be about twenty-two years old. Personally, I figured he needed more life experiences, and a reason for writing memoirs.
“You must have a great story to tell.” I’d hoped to hear he’d been in special forces, the entertainment industry, or law enforcement, or maybe someone who’d grown up under witness protection. You know, not a boring an entertaining story.
“It starts with my uncle. He’s a great character and his stories will become mine.”
He and I had different ideas of memoirs. I hoped his uncle was famous, maybe a singer. “Have I ever heard of him?”
“I doubt anyone has ever heard of Uncle Albert.”
“Then, I’m confused.”
“I’ll use his stories, he’s really funny, and hang some of my own experiences on them.”
“What’s your background?” Still hopeful.
“Well, I grew up with some interesting people in Crouchhop Arkansas, and graduated high school four years ago and worked for Dad roofing houses, then I left to see the country.”
“Oh.” My interest piqued. “Did you hike, or hitch?”
“No, I used Dad’s clunker Mercedes and drove to California. I’m thinking of all the coffee shops and people I met on the way.”
Returning my attention to the Beth, I gave her a grin. “I’d suggest you start writing tonight. Consider it a job and put your rear in the seat every day for a year, for at least half an hour each time, or long enough write a page per day. And Bill, good luck with your memoir. I hope you can find an agent to represent whatever it is when you’re finished, but both of you remember, these have to be killer books. A year ago, I read that around three hundred thousand books are released each month in this country.
“If you figure thousands of books hit the market each day, you’ll have to work hard to get noticed. Find your writing voice, and a subject or genre you want to shoot for, then start building your brand. Do you guys have any knowledge of social media, or a presence with followers?”
Beth nodded. “I have a Facebook account with a hundred friends.”
“Work harder. Establish a brand specifically for your and your books. Find a hook to get people interested.”
“Won’t my agent do all that for me?”
“Agents represent authors when they’re accepted, and they help with editing your manuscripts, to a point.” I could have sworn I heard someone fire up a chainsaw, probably to clear away from a similar conversation. “Their job is to connect authors with publishers. They negotiate contracts and other legal issues. They’re a buffer between authors and publishers. They aren’t PR folks, unless it comes to promoting you with interested publishers.”
Bill raised a finger to get my attention. “That’s why I’m going to self-publish.”
“Then you’ll do all that yourself…after you finish your manuscript. There are a few other steps that follow, too.”
“Can you help us, then?”
“Sure. Go write your book in your own voice, keep at it until you finish and don’t use television as a research source, and then come see me here next year.”
Faithful readers, I’m sure you’ve all found yourselves in similar situations, do you have variations on these conversations?
