“Did you bring your mom?”
“Yes! She’s right here!” I said as I pulled a tiny urn from my pocket for all to see. ALL. All six-hundred attendees of the Erma Bombeck Writers’ Workshop. All who giggled and clapped as I held up the Tiny Traveling Urn that brought me to the Dayton stage.
What a joyous moment as I “introduced” my mom to so many new friends.
I wrote, recently, about going in with delusion – a perfect description of my approach to the writers’ workshop, last week. My mental preparation was this: Cool. I won the first writing contest I ever entered and got an invite to my first writers’ event ever. I hope the food’s good. Delusion? Wonder may be a better word. Still, I’m glad that I had absolutely no idea what I’d signed up for as, if I had, I likely would have remained within the safety of my favorite couch cushions while attending virtually, at best.
Instead, I left my comfort zone, did something brand new, found out I wasn’t the only struggling writer on the planet, made about 500 new friends, learned a little about writing and a lot about myself. The only real downside is that I’ve had a hard time getting back into my regular-life because I can’t stop thinking about the experience..
I went simply to read The Tiny Traveling Urn aloud to a group of attendees at the awards’ ceremony. I stayed because the win earned me a free pass to the workshop. Before I put a single sock in my suitcase, I’d declared that, if the workshop wasn’t for me, I could sneak out the side door. My husband, tagging along as my emotional support person, even insisted that we drive as having plane tickets might seem a bit too close to a full commitment.
As it turns out, when I walked into the enormous room to take a seat at the table, it was a table at which I belonged. It took a minute (okay, days) for that to register. It wasn’t until I morphed back into my regular life that I really understood the impact of the workshop. What did I learn? What did I hear? What did I do?
As much as I could and not nearly enough.
A few of the highlights, in no particular order:
- Being a writer is a lot less cool when there are five-hundred of you in the same room. It was also a great reminder that there is so much more to me than what I put on paper. I often live behind that identity as there isn’t typically a need to elaborate. It was both terrifying and refreshing to hear, “Yeah, we’re all writers; what else you got?”
- Writers are regular people, no matter where their status. I mingled with beginner writers; I rubbed shoulders with best-selling authors; I met writers whose works have landed on stage or screen and some who are working their way there. We all share the same struggles, curiosities, and desire to be better every time we put pen to paper.
- Never eat Convention Chicken. Always go for the vegetarian option. Your 3:00 a.m. self will thank you, though you will miss the chance to question your life choices while longing for something less scratchy than hotel toilet paper. FYI: Walmart will not deliver Cottonelle directly to your hotel room at 3:00 a.m. Neither will Uber Eats.
- Don’t be afraid to raise your hand. In one workshop, we learned that knowing the difference between satire and parody can also be the difference between being funny and being hurtful. I was too nervous to raise my hand and ask: “What if I know the difference between satire and parody but my reader does not?” I sometimes spend more time worrying about who I am going to unintentionally offend than I do just writing. Next time, I will raise my hand.
- It’s okay to class hop. There were a half-dozen sessions each day filled with so many classes that, as a newcomer, I had a really hard time deciding which to attend. In my very first class, I was positively mortified at the number of attendees arriving mid-way through the presentation. Eventually, I realized these folks were actually hopping from one room to another, sampling the workshop buffet style. We could do that?!? In a few of the following sessions, I did the same thing. I stood right up in the middle of one class and went to another and, guess what? I was not tackled in the hallway by the ghost of Erma Bombeck.
- Being the funniest person in the room does not necessarily mean you should do stand-up. Some of us are just really good at storytelling, from a comedic angle, but that doesn’t guarantee translation to the stage. Some of us have the gift of witty comebacks but that isn’t the same as writing a set that lands. Finally, the pressure is off. Maybe. Still debating a stand-up class.
- Patience is key. Not for the workshop but for my husband who was attending my work event for the first time ever. It was actually quite difficult for him to navigate my need to be in my meetings all day followed by my networking dinners at night. I think I even saw him squirming at one point as he tried to find his place in my world. It was adorable and I love him for leaning in as best he could.
- Shoot your shot, then move on. I spent much of last week reliving all the stupid things I may or may not have said as I met people that I could not believe I was meeting in person. Did I maybe meet and greet a little too enthusiastically? Possibly. Did I slip the manuscript of my next book into a few hands? Definitely. Should I be wasting any time worrying if a relative stranger is sitting at their desk this morning trying to remember who the Workshops’ Resident Wackadoodle was? Nope. In fact, there may be someone sitting at their desk this morning wondering if I thought they were the wackadoodle. I’m not; you can move on.
- Be patient while waiting for the feeling. Just because you’re not sure something is for you, doesn’t mean that it’s not marvelous. Give it a few days to settle into your brain and our heart and your soul. I spent a lot of time at the event, wondering if I even belonged there, even as people stopped to introduce themselves and congratulate me on my submission. If you asked me mid-workshop how it was going, I’d have said, “I’m not really sure this is for me.” Today? Today, I’m picking out my wardrobe for the 2028 workshop while continuing to ride the high of belonging in a group with so many unbelievable people.
- You Can Write. You really can. If ever you’ve said to me, “Oh, you’re a writer? That’s really cool!” or “You wrote a book? I always wanted to do that,” my advice is this: just write. Writing is a muscle that thrives when worked out regularly. Whether a journal, a post-it, or a keyboard, just write. Write it for yourself. Write for others. Just write. It is a lost art that can easily be rediscovered–probably more easily than any other lost art. Writing is therapy. Writing taps into your creative side. Writing will help you discover new things about yourself and your experiences every time you put pen to paper. Don’t skip it because you’re worried that what you write won’t be good. It doesn’t matter, just write.
- Mark your calendar. The next Erma Bombeck Writers’ Workshop will be March 30-April 1, 2028. Click here to be added to the newsletter. I’ll save you a seat at the table.
Finally, Look for the Wallflowers. If you feel a bit out of place and nervous, look for others who feel the same. You may just find your new tribe. Here’s mine:
Some of my favorite quotes from the workshop:
“The comic and the profound often live right next to each other. To be funny and devastating in the same passage is a gift.” – Kelly Corrigan (who definitely thinks I was the Resident Wackadoodle.)
“If they didn’t want you to write about them, they should have been nicer to you.” – Jacquelyn Mitchard (Agreed, though I phrase it, “If you don’t like the way you’re written, be a better character.”)
“Humor helps us endure and stay human…Humor is not the opposite of seriousness. Humor doesn’t erase reality–it reframes it.” – Steven Rowley (who I also may have greeted a bit too enthusiastically)
“Stay in your lane; I don’t believe in that. You can write what inspires you.” John Searles (I cannot wait for someone to tell me to stay in my lane again so I can simply respond, “I don’t believe in that.” On the flip side, I do need to stay in my lane a little. I have a problem hearing what other writers are doing and immediately thinking, “Wait, now I want to do that, too.“)
“I was considered an overnight success at 45. No one saw the 20 years of hard work that went into it.” – Steven Rowley (By this timeline, I’m about seven years from overnight success.)