The Silken Tent (This is "JournalCon -- Getting Home," Part 4 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 9, 2000
Monday
Weekend workshops and conventions, especially of the "personal growth" sort that I favor, have a pattern that is fairly predictable. People come together Friday as strangers, spend thirty-six hours or so absorbing content and bonding with others, and by Sunday morning can be fraying at the edges, especially if Saturday night has been devoted to unfettered fun.
One of my fears about JournalCon was that I would not be able to fit in. There had been some bantering on the discussion lists about getting drunk as quickly as possible and staying that way as long as possible.
Don't get me wrong -- I am no teetotaler, nor do I have moral objections to the use of alcohol. I enjoy a glass of fine wine with dinner. In other eras of my life there have been times when I enjoyed far too many at one time, without the dinner. It was hard enough then to throw off what Poe called "the afterdream of the reveler" -- a euphemism for "hangover." As I get older, the fuzzy thinking arrives earlier and stays longer, and I have neither the time nor the patience to be out of my real head for more than about an hour.
I had one glass of wine at dinner Friday night. Others had much more but became neither obviously drunk nor in need of help getting around. A very few were never seen without an open bottle in their hands, their eyes a little too bright and their laughter a little too desperate. (One of them shrieked "You don't belong in here!" as I boarded the elevator Saturday afternoon. The four or so others appeared to find this remarkably witty. It was the only direct encounter I had with this individual, and it was enough.)
I had been concerned that since my presentation was scheduled for 10:30 Sunday morning there might be few interested in or able to attend it. After all, I'd hung out in Dreama's room until well after one in the morning, leaving only because I knew I had to get some sleep and knowing also that it was the kind of gathering that could last until dawn.
My fears proved groundless. Most people were refreshed and eager to take in what was left of JournalCon well before 9:00. The first session centered on "Communities and Controversies," and it was absorbing and thought provoking without once degenerating into gossip (a fear some had expressed).
John Scalzi and I then talked about "Journaler to Author: Writing as a Career."
John has never been other than a professional writer. He's supported himself and his family writing newspaper columns, reviews, and other bits of researched or commissioned material. He is able now to do so freelance while being the primary at-home caregiver for his two-year-old daughter.. He has an air of self-confidence and a belief in his own talents that he will be the first to suggest is an adopted attitude, a chosen pose. If it is, it works the way it worked for the Little Engine that Could. He thinks he can, and so he does.
He talked about what it means to need the income that writing can produce -- how you have to deliver on your promises, meet deadlines, be realistic about what you can and cannot do well (or learn to do well). He talked about carving a niche for himself in a crowded field (everyone's a "consultant") and the ways he keeps himself motivated and productive.
I talked about the other side of the same page. I am not seeking to support myself financially with my writing, not only because I don't have to, but because I don't think I could. John is twenty years younger than I am and has chosen (with a little nudge from circumstances) to be a freelancer, a person who depends on one contract after another from companies and individuals who regard him as a utility rather than a permanent member of their staff.
One advantage of "working for the man every night and day" (and the same man, I might add) for nearly three decades is that I earned the means to "retire" and pursue interests that may or may not result in monetary gain. I am not looking to make a living as a writer, but a name as one. I want people to say of me, "Oh, she's a writer," in the same way they identified me as a teacher in my other professional life. But not having income as a primary goal does not mean I am less serious about my work than someone who does.
I certainly am not saying that I am an artist and John is a hack. What was nice about our session is that it presented two paths to the same goal -- using writing talent for personal enrichment. In John's case, the need for monetary gain outweighs the need for personal expression. He is challenged to produce work that serves his clients without compromising himself. For me, as I seek personal growth over income, the challenge is to avoid self-indulgence and keep working at improving my craft.
The session went well and was well-received, I think. This can in large measure be attributed to the way John put me at ease, his gracious and open manner. (Go read some of his stuff. He's smart, funny, hip, and, underneath it all, sensitive. I love sensitive.)
I was pretty worn out after the session. That's when I made the decision to leave Pittsburgh early. I had planned to stay until Tuesday. But I was uncertain when my friend would be able to get back to town. Mondays are not good days for the things I like to do -- visit museums and historical sites and art galleries, and this particular Monday was a holiday. Cemeteries, of course, are nearly always available. But I figured that the residents of hostoric Homewood were not going anywhere, nor was Pittsburgh. I packed and checked out.
I had every intention of attending the Sunday afternoon readings and the closing session. At the elevators someone complimented me on the session and seemed genuinely interested in what I had to say. I knew that if I went back upstairs I would hang around until four or five or six o'clock getting more and more tangled up emotionally. I left without really saying good bye.
Thus I had a completely daylight drive back across Pennsylvania. At the Somerset service plaza (about half way home) I sat at an outdoor bench eating Cinnabons and looking at the blazing trees, colors so beautiful it hurt to look at them.
Part of me wanted to go back, unwilling to let go. Part wanted to get home, move into the next project now that my big weekend in Pittsburgh is over.
Thus do I live with a divided heart.
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