Last week I bit the bullet and went to a ‘writer’s event’. This is not something I’ve done before, mostly because I don’t like going to events of any sort where you have to make small talk with strangers, or worse, where all the strangers know each other but make no effort to get to know you.
But off I jolly well went, because it’s good to hear agents and publishers talking about their work in person. The added bonus was that it was held in a private club on the fringes of Soho (that’s Soho London, not SoHo New York, or Soho anywhere else in the world). It was due to run from 6.30 to 9, which covered my all-important evening meal time. I hate eating too early or too late and didn’t think I could turn up to such a swanky place with my Tupperware. Even if I did, I doubted I would have access to a microwave. So I emailed the host, who assured me there would be food to buy. A posh overpriced quiche it would have to be.
So there I was, outside a discreet entrance on a busy night time street, standing in line with outrageously glamorous people. I realised that coming in my writing clothes, in other words jeans and a fleece, was a tactical error. A vamp in black directed me to the fourth floor. I huffed and puffed to the second floor, where I noticed there was a lift. I’m not cut out for climbing stairs, so I took it. On stepping out, another vamp directed to me a large room where all the outrageously glamorous people had congregated.
A third vamp showed me where to hang my coat and pointed out where I could get a drink. I felt self-conscious amongst all this glamour, especially as everyone seemed to know everyone else (nightmare scenario #2, see above). The room was over-heated but I didn’t want to take off my fleece as the t-shirt underneath was on its third wearing. I hasten to add this was not slovenliness on my part, but a climate conscious decision not to wash clothes so frequently. Plus I didn’t want anyone to see the stubborn takeaway curry stain that had resisted multiple treatments.
And then the vamp checked the guest list. I wasn’t on it. Had I forgotten to register? It looked like it until she took one look at my fleece and asked if I was here for the book event. I told her I was. Ah, she replied. This is a do for someone or other. The book event is on the third floor. I crept down the stairs shame-faced.
Alas, the writers’ event’s guests (is that the right word?) were only marginally less well-dressed, and many of them knew each other, calling out names and hugging. There was a bar but no sign of food. My reusable water bottle and I sat next to someone on their own, and despite my natural inclination to pretend that I was above social chit-chat, I struck up a conversation. To my relief, they were also a first timer.
After fifteen minutes of chatting, I wondered why the main event hadn’t started. In my non-writing work life, gatherings start promptly. Half an hour after the stated start time, the convenor, in an enviable bright red ensemble, bounced to the front and introduced the speakers who were perched on bar stools like crooners.
I won’t rehash what they said, as it was stuff many writers already know: how to approach an agent, the state of the publishing world, the pros and cons of self-publishing. After an hour, including questions from the floor, mostly from published writers known to the convenor, the event came to an end. It was eight o’clock. The last hour was set aside for networking (nightmare #3). Having managed to break the ice with a complete stranger, I thought I’d be capable of doing it again, but I was too ravenous to think. I asked a vamp (there was one on every staircase) where I could eat. There’s a restaurant on the first floor, she said. I was not going to a pricey restaurant on my own, especially not in my fleece and stained t-shirt, so I made my way home, stopping only to buy falafel in pita from my local takeaway. I ate it in front of the TV, wondering if I was cut out for the life of a successful author.
Will I go to another ‘event’? Probably, now I know the rules. But I’ll turn up just as the main event begins, wear something a little more presentable and eat beforehand. I may even stay on to make small talk with strangers. One has to suffer for one’s art.
So true...
So funny now that as a young teen I thought, writing: that’s it! I shall hole up in a hand-built cabin in some remote forest with books as furniture and not have to be anywhere near other people. Life will be peaceful, productive, and sublime. (It’s not entirely a bad thing, how wrong I turned out to be, but still a slightly amusing surprise.)