Writers, UnPlugged: Lessons from the Writer Unboxed UnConference
By Lisa Cron | November 13, 2014 |
I’m writing this on the Saturday morning following the Writer Unboxed Unconference in Salem, still under the spell of the one of the most amazing weeks ever. It was the absolute best, hands-down, no doubt about it, most transformative writing conference I’ve ever been to – and I have been to a lot. I want to go on to say that other conferences had their fabulous moments, too, because sheesh, you don’t want to offend anyone, and it is true. But right now, it doesn’t feel true.
[pullquote]What made the UnCon different from other writing conferences is the same thing that can help you figure out what matters in your work, where to put your energy, and how you can care for yourselves and your writing career.[/pullquote]This conference played in a different ballpark and gave writers something seminal that other conferences don’t put first: real community.
This doesn’t mean everyone sat around singing Kumbyah (thank god). Rather, we came together as complex human beings. We listened, we learned, we argued, we debated, we found common ground, and through it all we didn’t pretend to be anyone other than who we were – let the chips fall where they may. Did it make us vulnerable? Sometimes scarily so. But it was liberating, expanding, clarifying, empowering.
I can hear you yawning, thinking And so? Unless you were one of the lucky pups who got to spend five days together as the winds rattled through Salem, why on earth would you care? Why would exploring the difference between the UnCon and all those other otherwise-worthy conferences matter to those of you who couldn’t come — which, let’s face it, with everyone’s crazy, busy schedule, along with a cut off at 100 writers, is most of you? The answer is that what made the UnCon different is the same thing that can help you figure out what matters in your work, where to put your energy, and how you can care for yourselves and your writing career.
What made the UnCon so different? As the iconic singer Tony Bennett said when asked what he can put into a song in his eighties that he couldn’t when he was younger, “The business of knowing what to leave out.” What gave the UnCon the power to transform every writer there — including, I’d venture to say, the presenters as well — was what they left out.
There were two main things:
- There was no talk about how to get an agent, how to find a publisher, how to pitch – nor were there any agents or editors taking pitches.
Why does this matter? Because pitching, and “getting an agent” requires a completely different mindset than writing. It’s focused outward – it’s about selling. Writing is focused inward – it’s about creating.
[pullquote]Pitching is focused outward – it’s about selling. Writing is focused inward – it’s about creating.[/pullquote]And selling isn’t just focused outward a tad. It’s all consuming, especially since it’s just about the opposite of what writers normally do — which is open a vein and write. While that may sound scary in and of itself, it’s nothing compared to the horror of pitching. Put simply, pitching is terrifying. Unless you have a knack for it (and most of us don’t, I couldn’t even pitch my own book after it was published) pitching is petrifying because it pushes so many of our very tender buttons at once. To wit:
- Having to talk to a stranger who you know is probably burned out from hearing pitch after pitch – so yours better be damn good from the very first word! (No pressure, though.)
- Knowing what your book is actually about.
- Being able to tell someone what your book is actually about, in 50 words no less.
- Asking someone who seems to have an incredible amount of power to judge you, on the spot, about the thing you care most about – with no leeway, no do-overs, no second chances.
- Trying not to phumpher, faint, throw up, or laugh hysterically.
What this means is that when you go to conferences that include pitching to actual agents, your focus tends to be on exactly that – with laser beam intensity. So even when you’re talking to other writers, it’s almost impossible not to scan the room in your peripheral vision, constantly on the lookout for a lone agent – a straggler – to pounce on. There’s nothing wrong with this. It’s human nature. We all have a driving agenda or else we’d be toast.
Trouble is when we’re constantly on high alert, we have to suit up internally – which means that cortisol (the stress hormone) surges, mixing with adrenalin – it’s a potent biological cocktail that keeps us on guard at all times. After all, when your goal is to snag an agent, it tacitly puts you in competition with all the other writers in the conference, who are trying to do the exact same thing. While you don’t do it on purpose, it can put up internal barriers, and sometimes their success feels like your failure.
[pullquote]When your goal is to snag an agent, it tacitly puts you in competition with all the other writers in the conference, who are trying to do the exact same thing.[/pullquote]And here’s the irony: most writers go to writing conferences to pitch long before their manuscript is ready to be pitched, anyway. When I went to conferences as an agent, I’d often ask to look at a manuscript, and then it never arrived. At first it puzzled me. But later, speaking with other agents and editors, I learned that it’s par for the course. Turns out even many of the writers who could speak clearly about their work weren’t really ready to show it, and they knew it.
But there are other costs – deeper costs — of going to a writing conference with this mindset. For instance:
- You lose the ability to really listen to what the agents and editors are saying. When your main goal is to be liked, to be chosen, it’s hard to sit back and listen critically. Rather, you smile, nod and agree with just about everything, while in your head you’re looking for that moment when you can bring up your manuscript. It makes it almost impossible to really take in – let alone evaluate — what you’re hearing.
- It keeps you from really letting your hair down and talking candidly about your fears, and where you feel that you might need guidance, advice, support. Worse, you can go home feeling that you’re the only one who feels that way, instead of experiencing the glorious revelation that everyone else goes through that, too — which can be the best feeling, ever.
- You miss the opportunity to connect with other writers, not only to talk about your project, but to form a community that can sustain you out there in the real world. For instance, one thing we really commiserated about at the UnCon was how, despite how much we dearly love our family and friends, when it comes to writing, they very often just don’t get how it works. So they ask well-meaning questions — like, It’s been a year since you decided to become a writer, when’s your book coming out? — and then have no idea why you suddenly burst into tears.
[pullquote]Despite how much we dearly love our family and friends, when it comes to writing, they very often just don’t get how it works. So they ask well-meaning questions — like, It’s been a year since you decided to become a writer, when’s your book coming out? — and then have no idea why you suddenly burst into tears.[/pullquote]The Takeaway (and this is as true for your daily writing life as it is for writing conferences): If you focus first on craft and community, you’ll not only have a much better chance of writing something that other people want to read, but you’ll be part of a group of writers who have made that journey with you. And that, in and of itself, bestows the most sustaining gift of all: empathy, understanding, connection, deep debates, camaraderie. Not to mention someone to talk you off the ledge during those long dark nights of the soul, when you’re positive that no one will ever want to read what you’ve written, and are toying with giving up writing and becoming an interpretive dancer instead.
- There was no talk about how to self-publish, promote, or use social media to build an audience.
At just about every conference I go to, there is a very large self-publishing contingency, complete with booths set up by companies eager to help writers get their words into print. While there’s nothing wrong with self-publishing per se, you only have to hear that in 2012 over 390,000 books were self published, and that the average self-published book sells less than 150 copies, to know that there’s probably something that the vast majority of those writers missed. The point isn’t that self-publishing is inherently a bad idea, but that you have to be sure that what you’re self-publishing is something other people will actually want to read.
[pullquote]Here’s the real problem: once a writer’s focus shifts from writing to getting into print, the question of what you’re getting into print begins to take a backseat – almost always long before it’s ready for publication. [/pullquote]This is not a point the self-publishing companies make. Having a vested interest in helping you to get your work into print is a good thing when you’re working with a traditional publisher — because that publisher has paid you an advance. Having a vested interest in getting you into print because you paid the publishing company is a wholly different matter. Caveat emptor, anyone?
But here’s the real problem: once a writer’s focus shifts from writing to getting into print, the question of what you’re getting into print begins to take a backseat – almost always long before it’s ready for publication. My most vivid memory of this comes from a writers’ conference I spoke at last year. It was a great – if traditional – conference. It had sessions on craft, on getting an agent, on self-publishing and self-promotion. The agents and editors they’d flown in were incredibly impressive – funny, savvy and full of really good stories about publishing, what sells, what doesn’t and why. I gleaned all that from the speakers’ dinner we had the night before the conference began, and so looked forward to the hour long Q and A session the next day, where writers could ask these agents and editors questions.
But it turned out that none of the writers asked about any of that. There was only one thing they wanted to know: how could they keep publishers from stealing the electronic rights to their books? Mind you, this was a conference that was mainly attended by writers who’d yet to publish anything, most of whom were still a goodly distance from that splendid day. No one asked about craft. No one asked about what grabbed the agent or editor. No one asked anything that related to the content of what they were writing at all. It was kind of heartbreaking.
It was also understandable. Who wouldn’t want to believe that it’s simply a matter of greedy, clueless publishers holding them back, and that there’s an easy way to side-step that whole messy process and find instant success? It’s a seductive belief, that’s for sure. And while a select few of that 390,000 did find success, for the vast majority of them, 150 copies was about it. Not to mention that almost all of that very successful few were subsequently – and very happily — snapped up by traditional publishers.
[pullquote]By completely unplugging us from our external desire – selling, publishing, self-publishing, self-promotion, and instead focusing completely on our internal struggle — how can I best write my book, what do I want to communicate to the world, how do I want to change my readers? — the UnCon provided writers with a safe place to be vulnerable. [/pullquote]To have a chance of being snapped up by anyone – a reader or a publisher — only one thing matters: Craft. Writing. The story you’re telling, the words on the page. Which brings us right back to the UnCon.
By completely unplugging us from our external desire – selling, publishing, self-publishing, self-promotion, and instead focusing completely on our internal struggle — how can I best write my book, what do I want to communicate to the world, how do I want to change my readers? — the UnCon provided writers with a safe place to be vulnerable. But by safe, I don’t mean unchallenging – in fact I mean the exact opposite. The most common thing I heard writers saying was, “I just realized I have to go back and rewrite everything.” But here’s the thing: even though that’s always a gut punch, they didn’t sound unhappy, dejected or angry. They sounded excited, eager, and full of ideas. I like to think that’s because they had so much support from people who really got what they were trying to be, to do, and to say.
And how does all this relate to us out here in real life? Here’s an example that comes to mind: oftentimes, when you really want to sit down to write, you decide that first you’ll just take one little sec and check your email, and then maybe your favorite blog(s), Reddit, Facebook, and the latest cat video trending on YouTube, (even for the cynical among us they can be embarrassingly irresistible). Point being: there are all sorts of things out there that vie for our attention, distracting us from the thing that matters most: creating a story that other people will need to read.
Thinking about being published, about pitching, self-publishing, and self-promotion can be great, but it’s merely the delivery method for what you’ve written. Focusing on it first is like spending years perfecting the bottle you’re going to sell your champagne in, before you grow a single grape.
The UnCon was about growing grapes, then turning them into champagne. I’ll drink to that!
Lisa Cron is the author of Wired for Story: The Writer’s Guide to Using Brain Science to Hook Readers From the Very First Sentence and Story Genius: How To Use Brain Science to Go Beyond Outlining and Write a Riveting Novel (Before You Waste 3 Years Writing 327 Pages That Go Nowhere). Her video tutorial, Writing Fundamentals: The Craft of Story, can be found at Lynda.com. Her TEDx talk, Wired for Story, opened Furman University’s 2014 TEDx conference, Stories: The Common Thread of Our Humanity. A frequent speaker at writers conferences, schools and universities, Lisa’s passion has always been story. She currently works as a story coach helping writers, nonprofits, educators and journalists wrangle the story they’re telling onto the page; contact her here.
So true, Lisa. It was unlike any other writer’s conference I’ve attended. The sole focus on craft made it unique, but it was the people who made it special. And the workshops were so useful that I wanted to work on my WIP right then and there. Your Wired for Story session truly un-blocked a lot of writers in the room, including me. WU is an amazing community. It is like family to me. During our five days in Salem we all checked our egos at the door and let our true selves shine. Thank you for being a big part of the success of this conference.
Thanks YOU Chris — the WU community is amazing, and even more so out there in the analog world. Here’s to maintaining and enlarging that community here. Onward!
Would love to attend something like this if it happens again. Sounds like a major breath of fresh air!
I’m with Nina. I wish I could have been there. Five days of focus on the craft of writing, surrounded by other writers? Listening to you and Donald Maass and the other amazing speakers? Pure gold. Your comment about family and friends made me laugh out loud. I need the WU community. You all have talked me off the ledge numerous times, and I’m sure you will again.
Wow, the conference sounds amazing! I love the idea of just living breathing talking thinking craft. Honestly, as a mostly unpublished writer I find it exhausting and disheartening to solely focus on agents, promotions, and social media. It’s not what I’m doing on a daily basis and it’s not going to get me published, but what may help is having a community of writers who are ready and willing to collectively nurture and support one another. Hope I can make the next one! Thank you for this wonderful and inspiring takeaway.
-Dana
YES Lisa! I am so disturbed by this trend among the groups and conferences that nurtured my growth as a writer, whose programs are now so skewed toward social media and marketing and away from the craft that will create worthy work. I treasured this about the UnCon as well. We all need to revisit the craft and our reasons for writing, no matter what stage we’re in, and the many levels of writers attending the UnCon sessions exemplified this.
Your post allowed me to forgive myself for my inability to follow what many authors put forth as a viable model: 50 minutes writing, 10 minutes social media. I can’t do it! Once my brain spraddles to “promo” mode it is very difficult to rein it back in for the deeply focused effort writing requires—and your hormone explanation shows why. I do much better staying off social media until my writing is done.
Ahem. So better take my own advice and get back to it! Your name on today’s post had me jumping ship…such a pleasure to meet you!
Hello Lisa,
My brain is still tired — you made me think so hard!
You say the thing that matters most is “creating a story other people will need to read.” I couldn’t agree more.
And like Chris, I found the WU community simply amazing!
Deb
First, my hat’s off to T Walsh for her vision. I don’t know if there’s anyone else with the heart, warmth, savvy, and experience to draw a following with the high level of both dedication and empathy that culminated in UnCon.
Having said that, I must keep my hat off to you presenters. If T set the tone, you all kept it in resonant harmony. For example, the session on Story and Plot, with you, Don and Brunonia sitting up front – our superstars, so casually chatting together. And the friendly level of debate, and the inclusion of the rest of us in the conversation. It was unlike anything I have ever witnessed at any conference.
When you spoke about that intense focus on the external (versus our internal focus on our story and crafting it), I must admit to experiencing that feeling for part of the conference. Luckily, the wonderfulness of “The Conference That Hugs” distracted me until just prior, but I knew from the Friday prior that Don was going to use one of my openings for his session on Micro-tension. I gleaned that he was going to ask the attendees to deconstruct my work, figure out why it sucked, then we would find our way together to something better. Having 25 very smart writers figure out how to make my opening shine all the brighter – it should sound like a win, right? And it did… in theory. I found myself terrified just prior to it – utterly focused on my own fears and inner cringing.
But this altogether different group quickly found their way to making me feel at ease – starting with the instructor. It was clearly an “all together now” moment, and one I’ll never forget. And there was some comfort in finding that some of my fellows struggled as mightily as I have to create micro-tension on the page. But we all want to get better. I can’t imagine finding my way to a better grasp on a tricky subject than the one I gained at Uncon. Same goes for drilling down (in a specific way!) on backstory from your sessions, Lisa. The tools are there, as they always have been, but there’s nothing quite like seeing them in use, and actually handling them in a demonstration.
Thanks for being one of WU’s superstars. Thanks to you and Don and Meg, and all the presenters for “being so real” and keeping the resonant tone of UnCon. I’m a different writer, and even a different person, than I was ten days ago. Now, since it snowed last night, and it’s bloody cold here, I’ll finally put my hat back on.
Vaughn, I kept meaning to congratulate you on your willingness to be vulnerable in that micro tension session. It was SO HARD to get what The Don (I will always refer to him as such for all the evil he encourage us to wreak and glee with which he did it, there’s got to be some kind of Mafia connection) was talking about, and I don’t know whether I would’ve gotten there without his concrete examples, yours included. See there, it was, yet again, our willingness to be vulnerable combined with masterful teaching that made the event so powerful.
Thanks for this post, Lisa.
I’m thankful I was able to attend the conference and be challenged by all the excellent, thoughtful presenters. I came away from each session with renewed insight and gumption. Not one session was disappointing.
My writing life, probably like many here, is quite isolated. While I recognize the ‘business’ side of writing is a reality and perhaps provides its own rewards (or not), I’m glad to be part of a community focused on the quality of the story we want to tell, the things we want to say, be they comic, tragic or otherwise. This was the value of the conference for me – to be immersed in what it means to be a storyteller, and know it has importance and value even *before* the marketplace is considered.
Again, thank you.
Wow, Lisa, thanks for sharing your perspective on the UnCon. I followed along on the #WUUncon thread on Twitter and harvested a few golden nuggets, but boy how I regret that I couldn’t be there.
One thing you said today really caught me — “To have a chance of being snapped up by anyone – a reader or a publisher — only one thing matters: Craft. Writing. The story you’re telling, the words on the page.” It doesn’t surprise me to hear that the first Writer Unboxed Unconference was focused on this one thing that should be the prime concern of any serious writer (to the point of eclipsing all thoughts of publi$hing, book $sale$, and any other di$tracting non$en$e).
The Writer Unboxed community as I’ve come to know it since here and on the Facebook group is a reflection of this, so I wouldn’t expect anything less of the Unconference. It’s because of this story-first, craft-first attitude that I keep coming back here. When I decided to take writing seriously, I realized not only do I need the discipline and patience to get all the pieces together properly, but I need daily community and appropriate inspiration. While there are many writing communities, I have seen skewed messages like what you mention at various other writing conferences: focus on the wrong, cart-before-the-horse things like how can you get an agent? How can you make money? How can you reach readers?
With fingers crossed, I look forward to an Uncon 2!
The conference truly was amazing. I was one of those who realized I had to rewrite my work in progress from page one, and I was very excited about that prospect, because I know my work will be so much better as a result. There were so many “aha” moments when I realized exactly what my book is trying to say and how I should go about saying it. It was like getting glasses when I didn’t know I needed them; suddenly everything is clear. You were a big part of that, Lisa. So thank you.
Lisa, this item made me weep and salivate. It required a fluffy green towel to pull myself together, wipe my lips, eyes, nose. The thing is that my wife was using the fluffy green towel at the moment of my greatest need. I just took it. She didn’t understand. Why would she? She got angry and wrapped on her robe, stomping after me. “Pull up your socks, Jeff.” she said. There was no drama in her voice, just a cold scold. Well, I don’t wear socks, neither did Einstein, so she said, “I thought you were smart?” What? “You always say Lisa Cron is the best thing that ever happened at Lynda.com.” Of course, I said. “You tell me that you watch her reruns all the time.” True dat. “So why worry about some writers’ uncon thing?” Now I firmed up. “Because Lisa was there.” That got her. “So it’s Lisa, is it?” I raised my shoulders, opened my hands, pleaded. “I’m a supplicant.” She said, “Really?” and undid the belt on her robe, which put off our discussion.
Otherwise Lisa, I swear I shoulda gone to Uncon. You’re a hero of mine. And now I’ll have to settle for your reruns on Lynda.com, which I recommend to the writers who, like me, missed the conference, especially the 101st writer who applied and missed out. Sounds like it was a gusty great week in Salem. Alas. I’ll see you on the video. Cheers. :-)
Lisa, your post is PERFECT. It captures the essence of the conference, making all the emotions I felt there bubble to the surface. I’m giddy, still riding the high.
Amazing to have met each and every one of you!
Denise Willson
Author of A Keeper’s Truth and GOT
It was quite a risk to put ninety writers, mostly self-professed introverts, together and see what happened, but what actually did happen was magic. None of us had to sell ourselves, so we could just BE ourselves. If all the activity still occurring over on the UnConference FB page is any indication, there were many lives transformed by this, many people who had always had trouble connecting to others who suddenly felt accepted and loved despite (or perhaps because of) their quirks.
The number of heart emoticons on that page would be laughable if they weren’t so purely felt.
Lisa is right that a large part of what made the UnCon so special was what had been left out. But I think we also have to take our hats off to all the presenters, who kept in line with the spirit of what this conference was all about, and also to Therese, who was insane enough to organize this event more or less on her own.
She has an uncanny ability to attract the type of people who check their egos at the door and open their arms (figuratively and literally) to everyone. I’m not sure anyone anyone else could have turned a group of stranger/friends into a family in five short days.
Lisa-
What can I add to this? The Un-Con was all that you, and others, have said.
Back in 1973 I was a skinny student in London. One night I slept outside in a ticket line to snag second row seats for an upcoming comeback concert. Shock of shocks, a guitarist was back from rehab. His friends were surrounding him in a welcome back gig.
The guitarist was Eric Clapton. On stage were also Pete Townsend, Steve Winwood, Ronnie Wood and Jim Capaldi. As the band rolled into “Badge” the energy was unreal. You knew you were present for a never-again, never-to-be-forgotten concert.
Even as the Un-Con unfolded I had a sense of being present at a time of legend (albeit a lower decibel literary one).
What made it so? You’ve beautifully captured that. There was for me also an anticipation, a need of the tribe to gather, a collective drawing together–if nothing else to celebrate the existence of a community like no other.
It was a gathering of friends. It was an affirmation of what matters. It was hope in dystopia.
I wonder whether that sense of moment, of legend, will now be captured in anyone’s manuscript? I hope so. Live it, use it.
BTW, that 1973 concert was recorded and released as “Eric Clapton’s Rainbow Concert”. (A remastered version came out in 1996.) Clapton live is nothing unusual nowadays, but in that company in 1973 he rose from the ashes to become the god he is today.
“Hope in dystopia.” A perfect phrase for writers in today’s world.
Makes a good book title, too!
Thanks for all you do, DM.
: )
Best concert I ever attended was Eric Clapton in Washington, DC, late 90s. After singing Layla as an encore, he came back and sang Somewhere Over the Rainbow a capella! Love. If I could get one reader to feel the way I felt hearing that, I could die happy.
It was a wonderful story; it made me feel I was present. I’m a fan of Eric Clapton.
Great post, Lisa and ditto. I’ve been to many conferences, some that also have a great atmosphere, but all of them have one thing in common: the ‘great divide’ between faculty and participants, which I too believe has to do with the presence of agents and editors in their agent and editor modes. Because we had editors and agents present at the Uncon but they weren’t there to talk about that, to be pitched to etc. It was all about craft and it showed. A testament to Therese Walsh and the entire organizing committee as well as each and every person who attended who checked their egos and ambitions at the door and rolled up their sleeves to work.
That being said, though I heard this from many too, it is unlikely that everyone who was there has to re-write their entire WIP, and I doubt that Don Maass et al. would say that you should (apologizes if I am mispeaking for you!). Rather, take the lessons you learned about craft and examine what you have written to see if it’s following them. In many cases, I bet you already are, even if you weren’t doing it consciously. Where you aren’t, small changes to a few key scenes can often accomplish large overall changes to depth, tone, character and story. Remember, your most important job as a writer, other than writing a kick ass story, is to come to the end of it, step away and be satisfied. You have the tools to do this. Hopefully the conference will have given you the confidence to.
Hey Lisa,
First, as always, wonderful post. I chuckled a bit when you wrote about the straggling agent; in my mind I pictured a sickly gazelle limping along on the veldt. POUNCE! Ha!
And you truly hit the nail on the head about the UnCon. It was just as I expected, though. I knew it wouldn’t be Your Average Bear.
I didn’t go with a completed much of anything. The past couple of years have been quite difficult, not that I’m making excuses for anything vying for my writing time, but the external “shtuff,” as I like to call it, has been all-consuming.
That’s not to say those years have been creatively unproductive. I’d jot a short, a flash, a line, a phrase — whenever I could — but most of the time, I’d learn.
I’ve spent much time in the walls of WU, reading and gleaning and soaking — preparing myself. And gaining a sense of community.
That’s what I expected from the UnCon, that’s why I went to Salem, and that’s exactly what I got.
I needed a vacation with friends who knew me — without even knowing me. I needed to connect on a physical level with the friends I’d made online. I needed a great location in which to do it (which, was provided nicely!), I didn’t want to feel any pressure to do or be anything other than Mike Swift. And I wasn’t, and it felt good.
And the cherry on top was that I learned more on the craft of writing…from you, Don, Brunonia, Meg, John, T, and from each individual I had the privilege to cross paths.
I’m still relishing in the afterglow. And now, I’m catching up with chores (I was gone for ten days!), working on my own interpretation of the UnCon, and feeling inspiration to complete the work started in Salem.
Thanks for everything!
Lisa, Thanks for this. This statement resonated: “The most common thing I heard writers saying was, “I just realized I have to go back and rewrite everything.” But here’s the thing: even though that’s always a gut punch, they didn’t sound unhappy, dejected or angry. They sounded excited, eager, and full of ideas.”
And isn’t that the way it should feel? I mentioned to you at the conference that your presentations were like finding religion and I once again thank you for showing me the way. The same goes for Donald Maass, of course, and all the wonderful presenters. This was my first conference and, as you’ve so eloquently stated here, the bar has been set incredibly high. I feel so lucky that I started at the top and I now know what a writers’ conference should be about–storytelling! Thank you! Thank you!
Goosebumps. And a sudden longing to be back in Salem, because it was *that* good. I deepened friendships, excavated my true story, and embarked on self-discovery–knowing what goes on ‘beneath the surface’ makes our stories real. ‘Real’ connects us all in the purest form.
I loved your sessions, Lisa. You’re brilliant, and funny, and I learned so much from you. Thank you so much for being there for us.
It was such a gift to be able to connect with and learn with and from such an amazing group of people. I am still organizing my brain from the week, letting ideas distill and percolate. I know it will come out on the page when I return to steady writing.
The UnCon was unlike any conference I’ve attended. There truly was no ego. Just a group of writers who were there to learn, contribute, and support one another.
Thank you, Lisa, for this excellent wrap-up, and for your amazing sessions.
It was quite moving to me, after the UnCon, to find out that it was an unusual experience for the presenters, too. I’ve been thinking a lot about the instruction we received, and I’ve determined that it, too was unusual, in that it was all about us (the writers). It was about us and what was blocking us from telling our stories in ways that would grip the reader, and what could set us free to do so. Every presenter had their own take on what would set us free, and every take spoke to me in very specific ways — I got something I needed from every session. There were no sessions that sounded interesting but were, in reality, the presenter blathering on about himself and then reading from his book for 35 minutes. So thank you, presenters!
It was so interesting to me that, in session after session, the changes I found I needed to make in my WIPs already had their seeds there — I just hadn’t let those seeds grow, I hadn’t played out the consequences, or put the consequences on the page. But I needed the needling of your presenters to not let me get away with doing the least possible. The question is how to recreate your needling now that I’m on my own…
The UnCon was transformative for all the reasons you and the other commenters listed, Lisa. But my big takeaway? If I leave a future conference feeling lonely and dissatisfied, it’s not because I don’t belong or don’t have the right to attend. Rather, I’m likely to be one of many attendees who were looking, if only subconsciously, to connect at an authentic level and were thwarted by the set-up. My personal challenge will be to remember who I was and *how* I was at the UnCon and to replicate it elsewhere, to seek out the other attendees who yearn for the same thing. If I can do that, even when I blow a pitch or get tongue-tied in front of an editor, I’ll still have achieved a measure of success. Honestly, I’m excited to see if I can carry the spirit of the UnCon going forward.
I’ll drink to that as well, Lisa! (After five pm, that is.)
Thanks for filling us in, since I’m sure there are other writers here besides myself who were unable to attend the UnCon.
I remember my first conference, in San Diego. I recall my body reacting in some very undesireable ways. Too bad one of the rules of conferences is never to approach an editor in the bathroom!
Since then, I have been to conferences from coast to coast, and the last one I attended four years ago made me feel like I was either speed-dating, or waiting to have my palm read at a psychic fair.
Hopefully, next year, I will be able to attend the UnCon.
Any videos to share?
And now you know why I had a big smile all through that first session ;).
In all seriousness, though, you captured the UnCon beautifully. I’ve only attended a handful of conferences and have learned something from each of them. But nervous as I was at attending the UnCon, it felt like home for the reasons you described.
I know it is essential we as authors understand the publishing side, the book media world, the promotions arena. But ultimately it all starts and ends with craft, learning how to tap into the stories within us and finding the words and skills to tell them. What a breath of fresh air to for one week be in the company of others ready to dive deep into that rich reservoir.
I’m so grateful for the experience, and for the writers with which I was able to connect on such a fundamental level. It’s a feeling I intend to carry with me, and to bring into any community of book professionals I encounter in the future.
We are a community of writers, truly. That is the key underpinning I took from my experience in Salem.
Salem is a place where once upon a time the mere whisper of the word “craft” in your direction, just might lead you to the gallows pole. Modern day Salem is a celebration of the witch. That is one helluvah change in POV. What better place could there be to hold a first, an Un Conference, and in doing so, help to dispel in the minds of a diverse bunch of highly creative people all the dark myths we’ve been taught about write-craft?
Thank you for opening and continuing to open my mind and heart to the core wired into of us all since the beginning of time. Story… a scientifically proved spell caster… the most powerful weapon in the arsenal of art… it takes a special kinda of wizard to show us that… thanks again, Lisa :)
You’ve given me the compass. Now, I’m off to learn to use it.
Beautifully said.
The UnCon is my Turning Point as a writer. I sensed the potential as soon as I walked into the Hawthorne Hotel to register and connected with Therese’s warmth and passion for writing. She is the Mama, the nurturer, a guiding force for all of us. Once you step into her light it does feel like home, as John J. Kelley put it.
The UnCon was home last week. And the best part of that feeling is knowing that the sense of community and the nurturing support I experienced with other writers isn’t going anywhere. Now, I will always have a safe place to land as my journey unfolds.
Until the UnCon, I often feared I was a poser. No more. The sessions cracked me open and allowed the underbelly of ideas to flow in such a way that even if I never get published, I know, without a doubt, that I am a Writer. Today, tomorrow and always I will write because the Craft is all.
How I wish I could have been there. I had attended a conference in September and taught at one in October, and I am still in the midst of helping run one coming up in January, so it just wasn’t feasible this year. I have high hopes that you’ll want to do it all again soon–because the next time around I wouldn’t miss it for the world!
I need not repeat what everyone else has said here: that for those of us who attended UnCon, it will forever be a dividing line in time, a defining moment that changed us from who we had been into who we will become. In years to come, it will be spoken of like Woodstock, and many who weren’t there will come to claim that they were. That’s fine. We know who we are, and we have the hats to prove it.
I would, however, like to make a request of all who were there and all who were not: Can we please banish the phrase “self publish” from our discourse and dialogue? Maybe it’s just me, but it always sounds like “vanity press” to me, and if UnCon taught us anything, it’s that vanity is not the guiding light of today’s writers. Instead of self-publishing, let’s speak of independently publishing, or indy-pub, and take our cue and model from the music business, where some of the most successful and popular artists have no use for “the music machine” and present themselves to their fans on their own terms.
This is not to say that there’s no vanity component to today’s publishing environment. As Lisa points out, there’s a whole industry in place to serve (at a price) the writer’s need to be heard. But that’s not what I’m about, and it’s not what you’re about. So for our dignity, and for the sake of changing the industry’s perception of itself, let’s do away with self-publishing and the stigma that at least some people still attach to it. The day may come when every author is her own publisher, and no one will bat an eye. We can hasten the day by using language (and thought) that makes no apology for charting our own course.
For reasons described here, “self-publishing” is a phrase that’s like fingernails on a blackboard to me. I’ve banned it from my vocabulary, and hope you will, too. This tiny action will make our industry, indeed our world, a slightly better place.
I literally went to sleep smiling last night thinking again about the UnCon and everything that happened there. What I’m most proud of in terms of this event? That everyone trusted in the concept. Rock, paper, scissors? Bed time stories? Book therapy? It was a bit like a trust-fall. Trust that it can work, that you’ll be caught, and let yourself go. Everyone, that I saw, did just that. They let go, they were caught, and then they couldn’t wait to fall again. Thank you to everyone who attended for the trust. YOU rock.
Lisa, awesome post. i so agree. i’m still buzzing from what you taught us about STORY.
I’m reading your book Wired for Story in the bath at night – a warm bath given the polar vortex which has just arrived in Minneapolis :-)
I loved reading about the cortisol, adrenalin, and conference connection! I think the UnCon was more of a dopamine surge experience.
The UnCon was absolutely energizing for me! The intro dinner set the tone with friendly and deep conversation, and my first session (which was yours, Lisa) set the tone for delving into the specifics of craft. Thanks!
I want to stand up and shout “Bravo!” Lisa! Let’s have more shouts for getting back to why we show up in the first place – to be story tellers. I would love to attend a conference with a solo goal to be on just craft for once too.
As I move from writing one book to another and pressure’s mounting to be plugged in and do it all (write, promote, sell, etc) I find myself retreating more and more into a tantrum of “No!” I want to get back to that place where it was just me and the early dawn and writing those words that mattered with no other fingers pulling me away. Many days now I escape away from internet access in order to sink into my writing world.
I’m with Kathryn Craft here – we need chunks of time to sink into our fictional dreams and not be roused by a timer to wake up from it to engage and promote. For we all know that feeling we get when we wake from a wonderful dream – we wish for it back but it’s gone to not return. Think what we could create if we held on to that dream for a little while longer. More champagne dreams please!
This quote from Alan Watts sums up the whole spirit of the UnCon for me–unpretentious, full of a whole lot of reality and soul. (Note: what is moving about the quote below? Specificity. Thumbs up and thanks Lisa for teaching me to appreciate specificity)
“Advice? I don’t have advice. Stop aspiring and start writing. If you’re writing, you’re a writer.
Write like you’re a goddamn death row inmate and the governor is out of the country and there’s no chance for a pardon.
Write like you’re clinging to the edge of a cliff, white knuckles, on your last breath, and you’ve got just one last thing to say, like you’re a bird flying over us and you can see everything, and please, for God’s sake, tell us something that will save us from ourselves.
Take a deep breath and tell us your deepest, darkest secret, so we can wipe our brow and know that we’re not alone. Write like you have a message from the king. Or don’t. Who knows, maybe you’re one of the lucky ones who doesn’t have to.”
~ Alan Watts
Don Maass used the word “tribe,” and it fits. I kept thinking of the UnCon as a gathering of an extended family. Like Lisa and Don and other presenters, I’ve done a bunch of conferences, and this was absolutely unique. It has to do with the family it brought together and the caliber of writers who came and shared. In the workshop I “taught,” it was a true partnership with the writers there as we analyzed and discussed what can make a first page truly compelling. Now that I think on it, I think “partnership” is another key word for defining the UnCon. We joined together and linked our minds and hearts to advance both our individual causes and those of our partners. To quote one lovely conference organizer, “Write on!”
do you have to subscribe to comment? I left one yesterday-not here-:) really liked ur piece.
Thank you for your post. I felt almost the same way when I participated in a “First Five Pages” workshop. The other participants critiqued my work, I revised, and by the end, I felt I had a stronger piece. Now I have to rewrite the rest of the novel! Blogging is also a safe space for me to work on my craft. I know that publishers aren’t out there lurking and reading my blog, and I can explore ideas and ways to transmit those ideas for the people that find my blog. It forces me to be authentic, rather than write to what I think others want to hear. Glad you enjoyed the conference, I enjoy reading about it here.