Thrills, Chills, and Quills Pennwriters Conference

Dear Xavier,

     You like music. And you like to dance. Do you like car rides?

     I drove to Pittsburgh by myself. I had written directions. But I couldn’t read and drive. I used my cell phone to help. Its robot voice called out turns.

     In the country we have trees. We have cows and horses. We have flowers and fields. We don’t have good cell phone service. The phone’s voice stopped talking.

     No worries. I knew most of the way. I listened to the radio. The Supreme Court talked about children. I wanted to hear that. But clouds and rain created static. I heard crackles, buzzes, and hisses. I didn’t hear much about children’s rights.

     In the city, traffic bunched together. Trucks slowed for bends. They were very slow. I could safely turn on the phone. I’m glad I did. Right away the robot voice warned me. “Object in the road ahead.” Cars and trucks swerved. Wood and cardboard lay across the road. They were as long as your daddy is tall. I missed them. Phew. Then the voice told me. “Turn right. Turn left. Go straight.” I reached the hotel.

     I found my friends. We went to classes together.

     I didn’t need help driving home. I didn’t turn on the news. I listened to a story. 

     Do you like listening to stories?

Love,

Janet

Dear Amelia, 

     When you were little, you told your dad stories. Do you still make up stories?

     In May I went to a conference at a Pittsburgh hotel. Story writers came. I met my friends Donna and Karen in the parking lot. They had a luggage cart. Some people call it a luggage trolley. “Put your stuff on our cart,” Donna said. 

     “We have room.” Karen waved her arm to welcome me over.

     I hung my long dress on the bar. They loaded lots of boxes on the cart. Karen pulled her suitcase and guided the trolley. Donna pulled her suitcase and pushed the trolley. I pulled my suitcase, carried a box with a handle, and watched for cars. The trolley weaved like a slithering snake. We made a funny story for passersby to tell.

    The next day, we ate dinner in a big banquet room. Over our heads lights hung inside copper tubes. The tubes were new pencil size. They ran in curves like trolley tracks. They reminded Karen of flutes. Donna said they looked like a guitar. Someone else said they were just copper pipes. We could all write about the lights. Everyone’s story would be different.

     I bet you could make up a story about the luggage trolley. You could tell a story about the copper lights. Or you could choose any object for a story. You have great ideas.

Love,

Jane

Dear Spencer Charles,

     You were on my mind and in my heart while I was at the Pittsburgh Marriott for the Pennwriters conference. I especially thought about you when I plopped my gear in room 302. You have a way of making a space your own. As I settled in, I had quirks to address.        

     First, no luggage rack. I could have put my suitcase on a locked storage box in the bathroom under the clothes rack. Not convenient. Since I didn’t need two queen beds, I placed the suitcase on the extra one. It looked like a postage stamp on an envelope.

     Second, the room lacked the small table and easy chair most hotels provide. The lamp for them stood alone in an empty space. I’d planned to eat the meals I’d packed at the table. Instead I slid my laptop aside and ate at the spacious desk. Fortunately the room had a working fridge in a cabinet beside the desk. The cabinet door opened right to left, but the fridge opened left to right. It took me two days to master that. Another glitch? The chair manufacturer had Steve Kerr in mind. I could have knelt on the seat I suppose. Instead, I knelt on the floor and fiddled with the levers underneath. None raised the seat’s height. I stuffed a pillow on the chair.

     I never adjusted to the quirky carpet. Dark blue piles rose higher than the light tan sections. The art over the beds resembled a map of the Ohio River and Pittsburgh highways. Maybe the rug was supposed to be water and sand bars? To my aging eyes the light spots resembled worn areas exposing the rug’s backing.

     But the cat photos you sent eased my settling in. They provided a touch of home. Thanks.

Love,

Mom

Dear Spencer,

      Do you like to jump? Your mom probably doesn’t want you to jump at dinner. Your teacher wouldn’t want you jumping in class. I bet you run and jump outside.

     In May I went to a writers conference. It’s like school. I sat in classrooms and listened to lessons. I talked with friends. My friend Sheila is about the same age as your Grandpa Larry. She did something special to celebrate her seventieth birthday. She jumped out of an airplane.

     She wore a flight suit, helmet, and goggles. At the open airplane door, she looked at the clouds. She said to herself, “I can take the airplane back down.” But her guide told her, “Jump.” 

     Sheila jumped. Air rushed at her. Sky surrounded her. Her parachute opened. When it was time to land, she pulled up her legs. She sat in the air with her legs straight out. She landed on her butt without breaking anything. She enjoyed the jump but decided once was enough.

     A sign in the conference elevators made me laugh. “WARNING! No Jumping in elevator. Risk of Entrapment.” I wondered if someone had jumped in the elevator, unbalanced it, and got stuck between floors. 

     I didn’t jump in the elevator. Don’t jump in an elevator. Getting stuck wouldn’t be fun or safe. I don’t plan to jump from an airplane either. But you might jump from an airplane someday. You don’t have to wait until you are seventy.

Love,   

Janet

Dear Ellen and Chris,

     The weekend you headed off to Ireland with Ellen’s students, I attended a writers conference in Pittsburgh. I hope your trip was as stimulating as mine.

     Years back, Ellen, you scolded me. “Never say you can’t go with friends because you have to do laundry.” I remembered and didn’t let conference obligations or bedtime interfere with seeing friends. I stayed up late twice attending parties. Thursday Area 1, Northwestern Pennsylvania writers, gathered—chatting, laughing, and drinking. I consumed a lovely bottle of water. Saturday the conference held a Poe costume party. I decorated the green medieval dress, which I wore to your wedding, with jingle bells and sleigh bells for the poem, “The Bells.” Most people wore black or a raven “Nevermore” t-shirt. Chris would like the shirt. 

     In fact, friends made the conference sparkle—especially Christa and Angela. At Saturday’s luncheon, they stood by the door and scanned the crowd. Their faces brightened when I walked in. “We were waiting for you. We told ourselves, ‘We need Janet.’” My face warmed at their compliment. Like you promote students with their research posters, Ellen, we cheered each other on for the annual writing contest. The coordinator announced prizes after lunch. Angela won first prize for her short story and second for a novel beginning. Donna won second for poetry and for nonfiction. I won first for my nonfiction story, “Red Tail Mystery.” Christa photographed us. Later, we returned the congratulations to her. She won first prize for her fiction story “Fortune’s Son” in the on the wall contest. You were right, Ellen. Friends come before laundry.

Love,

Mom/Janet

Dear Addy,

     How’s school? What books have you been reading? Do you like scary books? 

     I attended a writing conference near the Pittsburgh airport. We learned about writing, not reading. I sat with Todd at a “Make Every Word Count” class on Thursday. We learned to make three different kinds of summaries. They are short versions of our stories. I needed to write a summary because my story, “George and His Hairy Snake,” was coming out in a Chicken Soup story collection. You were a baby when George was alive.

    I struggled to write the summaries in spare moments. After a breakfast meeting Saturday, I spread my papers on the table. Todd sat beside me so I asked him for suggestions. He helped me eliminate extra sentences and choose strong words like “strode,” “refused,” and “inseparable.” He has a kind heart.

     That night we had a costume party. People dressed in costumes for Poe, an author at the time the trolley was invented. His stories were too scary for me when I was your age. So I decorated myself with bells for Poe’s poem “The Bells.” I made lovely ringing sounds when I walked. Most people wore black or ravens, large black birds. My friend Todd and his wife Maryann dressed for the story, “The Tell-Tale Heart.” They both wore black. She had a hood that covered her face to represent death. Todd didn’t cover his face. He carried a red heart that Maryann crocheted. Though the story is scary—please don’t read it unless your dad says it's okay—I thought the costume was perfect for Todd. It showed his kind heart.

Love,

Janet

Dear Seth,

     What kind of books do you like to read? Do you like scary stories? 

     I don’t. I attended a Pennwriters conference in Pittsburgh. The writers held a party celebrating Poe. He wrote stories and poems when people still traveled by horse and buggy. I read his stories in high school. They scared me. I thought the party might be scary. It wasn’t. People wore happy smiles. They wore raven T-shirts and black clothes. They laughed at a plastic skeleton. A fake raven and a Poe quote decorated a table. The party was fun.

     Other things made people nervous though—like getting up in front of a crowd.

     My friend Kathy was late giving a lesson on writing dialogue. That’s when characters talk to each other in stories. Her laptop wouldn’t connect with the projector. Three people fiddled with the devices. Kathy clutched her papers. She was late starting the class and already nervous. A woman dashed upstairs for her Apple laptop. That one connected. It was time for me to introduce Kathy. I stared at the people. A mistake. My tongue got tangled reading Kathy’s long award list. 

     And Timons says he gets nervous every time he has to teach. He paces. He clears his throat. Ahem! He offers malt balls to folks who answer questions. You can’t fall asleep in Timons class because he SHOUTS a word or two now and then. My favorite story of his is about a panda pillow. I cry when I listen to it. Timons says he cries when he reads it so someone read it for him. The pillow is the hero. I hope you like it. Here’s the link. Your mom or dad can type it for you. https://www.podomatic.com/podcasts/asimovs/episodes/2020-01-08T10_10_38-08_00    

Love,   

Janet

Dear Sophia,

     I hope you are enjoying school and have plenty of time with your friends, especially Austin. I wonder if you read any Edgar Allan Poe in English class.

     In May, I spent four days at a writer’s conference. I learned about writing elevator pitches and marketing books. I also had fun with friends. At Saturday night’s “Poe-tic” party, people dressed in costumes related to Edgar Allan Poe. I didn’t like his scary stories when I was your age. I still don’t. So I dressed for his poem “The Bells” which has lovely musical sounds. Tinkling, silver sleigh bells. Mellow, golden wedding bells. Loud, brazen alarm bells. Tolling iron bells.

     I adorned the green medieval gown that I wore to my daughter’s wedding with jingle bells—silver tacked to a headband, green threaded on shoe laces, and teensy brown scrunched on an armband. They tinkled. But even better, my father in-law had lived on a farm when he was your age. He’d saved their sleigh bells. They ring in rich harmonies. I attached them to a satin ribbon. If I pinned the ribbon to the dress’s shoulder, the weight of the bells would rip the fabric. Not a good plan. I could have wrapped the ribbon around my neck and let both ends dangle. But the weight gradually tightened the ribbon around my throat. Would I become a victim like one of Poe’s characters? I didn’t take the chance. A friend tied the ribbon to my sash. The bells rang. I could breath and mingle with my friends. I couldn’t sneak up on anyone, but everyone smiled at the music I created.

Love,

Janet

Dear Bob and Norma,

     I hope the rains are nurturing your patio garden yet allowing you time to sit out and enjoy your plants. I also hope Norma is gaining strength and more mobility every day.

     This May, I attended a writers conference in Pittsburgh. Since my nature story collection is 85% complete, I focused on marketing workshops. I took classes on distilling book content into elevator pitches, back of the book copy, and reviews. “Squish . . . Make every word count . . . Use active verbs . . . Dump wishy-washy adjectives and adverbs.” But the harder part is selling.

     Debbie Reynolds taught a workshop on handselling, or selling from a table at events. Deb and I became friends at my ZOOM writing group meetings and at an Erie conference. She is Assistant Editor for Sunbury Press, their Catamount Imprint. If her editor accepts my book, she will be my editor. She’s a hoot. At a party Thursday night, she bent us over laughing about her running away from home last month and leading her wacky writing group in a forester’s office with heads of “defunct” animals mounted on the wall. Her workshop was also funny though she gave great tips. Dress comfortably and define your persona. Place a catchy item in the middle of the table to draw people in. Think of it as offering a gift not asking for money. If it’s torture, sell on line. Most hopeful, Deb sells Catamount books at events. I would buy anything from her.

     At the workshop, my friend Christa nudged me. “We can share a table at farmers’ markets. I’ll bring my produce. You bring your book. I love your stories. I’ll sell your book for you!” Christa’s glowing face and Deb’s words inspired me. Hopefully, I’ll publish with Deb.

Love,

Janet