The Silken Tent (This is "JournalCon -- Being There," Part 3 of my JournalCon saga. If for some reason this is the first page of The Silken Tent you've ever seen, you might want to start with JournalCon--Anticipation.)
My Letter to the World
October 2000
October 8, 2000
Sunday
Over the last ten years or so I've attended dozens of conferences, workshops, and conventions, with groups as large as 500 and as small as half a dozen. Some were interactive, where I brought manuscripts for critique and revision. Some were the academic type, where I sat in an audience and listened to the speakers read their research papers. And some were devotional retreats where I met with a director who offered suggestions for my spiritual development.
What they all had in common was that I was essentially a student seeking learning from a master. I almost never knew any of the participants or the staff beforehand and rarely saw or communicated with any of them again. This is not to say that I didn't have fun and meet wonderful people. It just indicates my position in the hierarchy.
JournalCon was different. There is no official organization behind the event, such as the Emily Dickinson International Society or the Association of Personal Historians. We're just people who have come to know each other at least a little from one of several e-mail discussion lists. This is a step beyond knowing about someone, like Anna Quindlen or Annie Dillard, because you read their personal essays.
The only thing we have in common is that we all have some kind of on-line presence. This was the first time that more than a dozen or so had attempted to come together. And where those events tended to be extremely informal -- a few people from the same city reading in a public cafe, maybe pizza and beer all around -- this event was to be different. There was a program, a slate of speakers, a private space.
After I settled myself into my room on the sixth floor I went to the reception area on the seventeenth floor. This was my introduction to the elevators. The Westin William Penn has several banks of elevators -- some go only to the tenth floor, some go to eleven through seventeen, some go to all areas. They all do it slowly. I mean s-l-o-o-o-w-l-y. You can hear gears meshing and cables vibrating behind the door, and there's a good deal of whirring and whooshing, but your party can be over before the elevator comes for you. When it finally does arrive, it might take you to the floor you indicated, but then it might just go past it, or in the other direction.
On the seventeenth floor I entered a large room that had a cash bar, a table with chips and dips, and about thirty people sitting at round tables. Name tags had gotten lost in the details somewhere. "I'm Margaret," I said, aware that if any of them had seen my picture it was my "Glamour Shot" from 1993. (Someone said that on the basis of that picture she assumed I was "fluffy," but having met me she discovered that I do have some "depth." Trust me, I am neither fluffy nor glamorous.)
This was the part I was dreading -- meeting new people all at once at something like a cocktail party or a fraternity mixer. I don't drink, I don't dance, I can't bear smoke filled rooms anymore since they've become so rare, and I don't make small talk well. After a few hellos, I went back to my room to change for the Gala Dinner.
The same group assembled in the lobby at 7:30 for the walk to Dowe's on Ninth. This was our introduction to Pittsburgh's Two Block Rule. Everything is described as being "about two blocks that way." That means you go two blocks and ask somebody else. It took several forays in the wrong direction for us to arrive at Dowe's. I would not be exaggerating if I said that much of the camaraderie I would eventually take so much pleasure in was born on that walk.
At dinner I met more people, people who read this space, people whose work I read, people with whom I've had electronic discussions and arguments. There was Lynda, and Michael, and Columbine, Renee, Dreama and Ryan, and John Scalzi, who would be the other half of the session I was to help present. After dinner I left with Columbine before the dancing got underway. The walk back gave me some time for quiet conversation with this extraordinary person whose mother is a year younger than I am.
The morning session paired Carolyn Burke, generally acknowledged as the first on-line journaller, with Diane Patterson, whose seminal essay, "Why Web Journals Suck" has influenced a lot of beginners, including me. They talked about the early days of the internet when each journaller thought he or she was the only one who did such a thing. I skipped a technical session in favor of a nap.
After lunch there was an open reading. An hour and a half had been allotted for this. I'd signed the list first, so I was called on to read first. I read three pieces which together totaled less than 1500 words, about half the length of a very short short story. Patrick, who read after me, read two pieces that were probably a little longer than mine. Readings of this length and longer are common at open mike nights in the cafes and bookstores I frequent. Nevertheless, there's been some grumbling about Patrick and me taking too much time (one grumbler even indicated my three with a series of exclamation points). In all, there was time for only six people to read, about as many as had already signed the list.
Patrick and Dreama conducted a discussion of the healing and emotional growth aspects of what we do that was moving and enlightening. I had time before dinner to work on my presentation. A number of us went to a nearby Chinese restaurant and then hung out in Dreama's room eating Australian goodies and engaging in the kind of extended gabfest such as I haven't enjoyed since college.
By the time I decided to turn in for the night, I was feeling very much among friends and regretting that I'd spent any time feeling nervous.
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