We have been planning for months on attending an old friend’s wedding out of town. We made arrangements for the dog and put off adopting a kitten. And I made the painful choice to not attend the Willamette Writers Conference in my own city, despite having two book proposals ready to go, plus two completed novels, a start on a third, and a raft of long-form-journalism-type articles that I’m trying to place.
Well, Mr. G called from work today. He got offered a freelance photography gig the same weekend as wedding and conference. He wanted to take the gig to justify — and subsidize — his camera habit. I wanted to go to the conference. Let’s just say the dog doesn’t need to stay over at the doggy daycare place down the street Saturday night.
This is where the serendipity comes in. [serendipity: finding valuable or agreeable things not sought for] The only workshops I was interested in were on Sunday, which conference cruisers know is rarely the most useful day. The only agent I was really interested in meeting had slots available for pitching proposals on Sunday. Serendipity. It’s fun to say.
As soon as I registered, I felt the flood of freelance optimism come back. It’s like being some old-timey cub reporter: “This time, I can do it! I just know it!” The secret well of belief in my work is a job requirement; the press card in the hatband is just a perk.