Three Pages Attempt Again 10

Today I went to the Columbus Book Fair downtown. It's a two day event where authors come to present their work while the famous authors, like Paul Tremblay, get to galvanize their career by showing up while the rest of us normal folk struggle to get published. I shouldn't be so bitter. I've read some of Tremblay's work and it isn't bad, just not my cup of tea. I prefer my tea with a lot of bitter tears in it like Stephen King's tea. My dad and I went there early, around ten before the real event began. I went to find a room where other small time authors would give me their input on writing. There was a line for Tremblay before I got there and it tripled by the time my group was done. I did get some things out of the group. I was lucky to get a seat near the front. The authors there described what their process was like and how they got to be where they are. At first, I thought that only the guy would hold answers for me but there was this woman there who had written fifty books, mostly children's books, and even won an award for one of them. At this news the room clapped for her. The guy, whom I initially thought had better answers, was a poet of all things. I'm not into poetry so his advice fell flat to me. The other two women weren't as interesting as the award winner. She seemed to know her stuff. So much that I questioned her as the room ended and she went to her book signing. I got little less than "good luck" from her. These people didn't have my answers to writing or the encouragement I needed to continue to write. I don't know if God is the answer but it isn't other writers. I'm frustrated, I was hoping that these people would serve as a light for me in my time of need. I think I know why I got, not the cold shoulder but the "I don't know how to help you shrug," they don't know either. These people are newbs, unlike Trembley, who are just starting. They're ahead of me but still behind the real greats. I wonder where I, an unpublished writer, stand when I compare myself to them. I shouldn't but I can't help but do so. In fact, it was so much that I couldn't attend the second group I wanted. I even asked the award winner what kind of help I could get since I was in an intermediate area instead of a beginner's place. She didn't have an answer for me, and I doubted that the next group would have one as well. The problem was that the crowds had gotten so big at this point that it was adding to my irritation. I wanted to at least say hi to the writer I met last year, but I didn't see him. What does it take to "make it" in writing when there are so many people who want to make it just like me? I guess I'll have to find out. But it startles me that I'm so alone in this place. I feel like I need someone to help me to get to the top of the mountain but all the climbers are too busy with their own ascent to lend a hand. I saw that the guy author had graduated from the Iowa Writer's Workshop. In Iowa of all places. I looked up the shop and they charge nearly two grand per class. Am I that desperate for approval that I would spend that much money on classes? No, I'm definitely not going to Iowa to study. Where would I live? How would I afford the classes? I don't make two thousand dollars at my current job. There's this gatekeeping that's going on somewhere with writing and writers where only certain people can get in. I wish someone would reach out their hand to me, someone with some power or influence. I feel like Joseph in the prison and all I know is the baker and butler. And the butler has forgotten me. "Good luck." That's all I get. Not a sign post or a guide, just a handshake and a hope in the wind. Maybe I'll extend the same courtesy to her if I ever become big. I shouldn't be so bitter. She didn't mean any harm but the writing world is filled with inaccurate guides. Like everyone is in the dark forest and no one has a flashlight. But the ones with fire are unwilling to share.

God, do you still have something waiting for me? I'll try my best tomorrow.