I went to a self publishing class last night. This was one of the first decisions I have made in the direction of trying to get actually published and to invest more time into this craft bestowed onto those crazy enough to revel in it.
I knew it might be slightly uncomfortable. I sat in the back corner and opened my La Croix water out of desperation and it came hissing out like a semi pumping on it's brakes. Everyone turned around.
"Hey, I'm Jodie." I said and closed my water.
The room was full of a wide array of people who looked like former professors and pseudo famous screenwriters who had taken a longer than expected hiatus.
The author leading the discussion looked liked Stellan Skarsgard. I couldn't stop thinking that. He offered insight regarding literary agents, beginning publishing and the highs and lows of being a writer. People asked him questions like he held the mystery to being published. I just soaked it all in.
He was educated. Attended Iowa University and Oxford. He spoke of an endless list of credits, appearances and publications he rattled off like he was reading the back of a medicine bottle.
I liked him when he said if he didn't write he would have ended up as Reverend Hightower in Light in August. Interesting, I thought and smiled. He also offered up this gem: “Don't dare try to write a novel without taking a somewhat decent creative writing college course. Just. Don't. That course will offer you the backbone of everything you need.”
I didn't like him when he said, “I don't “join” anything. I used to meet up for a writing group forever ago. It was just some me and two guys, one a drunk postal worker who wouldn't shut up...what was his name?”
“Bukowski.” I mumbled from the back row.
“Excuse me, what did you say?” he said with a shrill tone in his voice.
“Charles Bukowski.” I said matter of fact.
“How did you know that?!” he exclaimed like I had told him the winning keno numbers.
“I suppose because he was a drunk postal worker.” I said.
“Well his writing was rubbish anyways. Complete crap poet.” he yammered on running over the sound of his own voice.
I immediately dismissed the remaining advice he had to dispel from that last Bukowski remark.
When I left I wondered if he had meant he actually met with Bukowski or a coincidental drunk postal worker who liked Bukowski. I suppose I'll never know the answer.