One Hell of a Conference, by Janet Lee Berg

Writing is a grueling job that is never done. I wake up to it and go to sleep with it. One character or another pokes me in the ribs and causes me to toss and turn. The antagonist, with thesaurus in hand, whispers in my ear during REM, “Psst! Wake up! You’ve got to change the wording in chapter seven, third line down.”

The protagonist is in my other ear. “No, don’t listen to her! She’s nothing but trouble.” 

Lately, my characters are becoming way too real. They’re always in my face. I throw the pillow off my head and bolt up in bed. Leave me alone! I need my sleep!

I was overexcited to go on my trip to Florida to the Historical Novel Society Writers Conference, where I would be among hundreds of established and soon-to-be authors from all over the world, pitching our books to agents behind closed doors. OMG, I am so frazzled!

The next morning I was groggy as I headed out the door to catch my early flight, and my husband warned me: “This time, try not to pull another Calamity Janet.” He was referring back to an embarrassing incident I had experienced at a New York City conference, which I should explain: 

There I was, pacing the hall on the 1,000th floor, lacking oxygen, waiting for my name to be called, and wouldn’t you know it, just as I took the chewing gum out of my mouth to dispose of, the door opened and I was standing face to face with the agent I had to pitch to. His hand was extended in slo-o-ow motion to meet mine with the fat wad of Orbit Bubblemint sitting smack dab in the middle of my palm. I heard myself gulp, wishing that it was the gum I had swallowed, instead of my pride, to lodge in my intestines forever. 

What were those 10 helpful tips in the brochure again? I drew a blank. But I was pretty sure it didn’t say anything about chewing gum. It did say something about demonstrating confidence, so I went for the long shot, chucked the wad across the room and into a pail. What was I thinking — that he’d give me a contract on my athletic ability? I inserted my sticky fingers into the pocket of my very literary pants, knowing how this meeting was going down. 

That was five years ago, and since then I’ve learned a few things about the industry, have grown a thicker skin, and have given up bubble gum cold turkey.

When I arrived at the elegant waterfront resort full of old ghosts and history, I was immediately handed a Simon & Schuster tote bag containing my badge displaying the era I represented. Everyone was pumped up, organizing tight schedules. Later, we mingled at the bar in the crowded reception room, where we clinked glasses and shared stories, a thrilling experience for all. 

That’s where I met Helpful Hana, a successful medieval author who convinced me at the last minute to shorten my pitch session to two sentences, after weeks of memorizing my novels about World War II. I knew I’d be staying up all night, reworking all that I needed to squeeze into my new abridged version. *#@+*&~! (Hmm, I wonder as I type this — which symbols are used for expletives?)

After cocktail hour, we moved on to where we would dine in the cozy 12,000-square-foot ballroom filled with intellectuals. With a glass of replenished wine and the lack of sleep, I could hardly keep my head up as I sat next to a lovely gentleman chock-full of world history facts. His thick white historical mustache was moving up and down, up and down for hours, and I went into a hypnotic state, somehow nodding my way through the night.

At 7 the next morning, I ate a hearty brain-food breakfast in preparation for my 10 o’clock meeting and thought about how much wiser I was since the New York City Conference From Hell. Here, in the friendly Southern atmosphere, I was ridiculously relaxed in comparison. I swayed back and forth on a rocking chair on the veranda overlooking a marina, not knowing that the writers with tears in their eyes had come out of the room I was about to enter.

That’s right, I was about to meet . . . Agent Orange. Tick tock, I was running out of time; even the rocker seemed agitated. Ten more minutes and I’d be next — had I remembered my new and improved condensed lines? 

I practiced my pitch in my head. “ ‘Rembrandt’s Shadow’ is a historical novel based in part on real-life events of our family during the Holocaust. It’s the story of Sylvie Rosenberg, the aristocratic daughter of a renowned Jewish art dealer, who spends the first 15 years of her childhood without ever knowing her father’s love, until the day he trades his beloved Rem-Rem-Rem . . .”

I started choking on something. A gnat. A damn gnat flew down my — haagh! My throat. Did anyone else see this? Haagh! Haagh! I turned into a cat with a hairball. And all along I thought my biggest problem was subjunctive clauses!

Janet Berg? Was someone calling me? Gnat came with me, and we made our presentation together. I hoped he was more proficient at grammar. At least I had successfully deleted my memory of my long pitch and proudly recited my shortened version word for word, with a smile. 

Agent Orange paused, took one look at me, and said, “Is that all?”

“Haagh!” I answered, and that was that.

Janet Lee Berg, a contributor to The Star for many years, divides her time between Long Island and Charleston, S.C. Her book “Rembrandt’s Shadow” comes out in September.