We have been planning for months to attend an old friend’s wedding out of town. We made arrangements for the dog and put off adopting a kitten. 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. So that settled that question.
The Serendipity
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.