New York City, baby!

Every once in a red moon, gregorific crawls out of her pages of ink to socialize with other writers. It's that time, ya'll. Gregorific is at the Backspace Conference in NYC. This conference rocks! This year, 150 writers from around the country have gathered to mingle and learn a bit about the industry. It's a smaller conference than, say, Writer's Digest. But bigger than, say, Pennwriters. 

I attend conferences for the same reason I attend my weekly critique group and sign up for webinars and local workshops. I'm hungry to grow. To learn. To keep improving and become the best storyteller/writer I can be. Conferences are expensive, so I go to one a year. I picked Backspace this year because it is a well regarded, smaller venue focused on learning, exchanging ideas, and networking.

It is supposed to be Backspace's final conference...but I heard tonight that may not be so. Perhaps, said an inside source over cocktails, it will be an every other year event or a modified conference format. 

There are 30 agents attending this conference, and ten well known authors. The agents sit on panels to discuss and answer questions about the road to publication. They also conduct first pages workshops and query letter workshops. I found all of these to be very interesting and informative. 

In these situations, it's hard not to feel desperate or pressured to make the most of the conference experience. To combat the heart-on-your-sleeve risk, I remind myself that it's a two way street. I want a great agent who is the best fit for my work and style, and they want writers of quality and spark.

I met several agents who I really hit it off with, and who appreciated my work. Several requested my full manuscript. I am thrilled about the prospect of my work being read and considered by skilled agents. It's a dream! 

While nothing is certain, it is a wonderful feeling to be noticed. I love to spend every day writing. I love to revise and edit my words until they smooth into a flowing story. I'm in no hurry to succeed. I enjoy the climb. The pursuit is a sweet rush.

But it's time to go back a space and thank my gregorific fans! You've been with me, supporting me, reading my gregorific yarns, as my journey unfurls. Thank you! It is a comforting feeling to have such a solid readership. Your loyalty is energizing! And might I add, you are each extremely good looking. 

Thanks for the love, 
~gregorific

Psst- Wish me luck in the exciting days (months) ahead. I will be editing, submitting, and the dreaded...waiting. I only report good news, so hang in there while I hang in here. And never stop dreaming.   

Ripples

Are we advancing beyond our well-being?

This existential pondering was instigated by an interesting book I read about humans who altered the genetic code to eradicate cancer, but in the process accidentally shortened the average life span to twenty years old.

You never know anything until you’re at least thirty, right?

So humankind was doomed. Hence the awesome fictional plot.

But it got gregorific thinking. With all the advances in modern science, who is the moral conscience governing our exploration? No one really. I mean we have the EPA and the FDA and the Department of This and That. But we do not share an overarching morality as a species. So, there is a fair amount of wiggle room.

Enough to decimate our way of life as we know it?

Last week, I heard a broadcast about the contamination of local rainwater. The news reassured listeners that it was a short-term problem of radioactive isotopes which had spread throughout the atmosphere from Japan. The EPA confirmed that the elevated levels of isotopes in my very own state’s rainwater were caused by nuclear fission. Seemingly, the quantity and quality of the contamination was not panic-worthy-bad-for-your-health. But still. None of it was good for you.

I was appalled.

I am appalled.

Horrible stuff is raining down in small amounts over the world. It’s announced as a fact. A common sense piece of information that I should have figured out myself. This affects us all. Read about a disaster in Japan and soon enough read about it affecting what is outside your own window. Or affecting what is inside your body. Or on your medical chart. 

Ripples, systems, concentric circles, the spiral, DaVinci…

Clearly connected. 

This is the same conceptual roadblock I hit when advocating for conservation of my local vernal pools. People are like, why bother? What’s it got to do with me? They worry about getting involved. 

It’s got to do with each and every one of us. Why do we not know that? Where did elementary, high, college, and PhD programs go wrong? I don't live in Japan. I don't live in a vernal pool. Yet, I do. Ripples, people. 

It’s not just a small seasonal pool at risk of being destroyed permanently. It’s not just the vulnerable salamanders and miniscule fairy shrimp whose habitat is being infringed upon and poisoned. 

I am the salamander. We all are. We love Dr. Seuss, but why don’t we believe him? 

It’s not Earth Day anymore. But still. The book I read portrayed how advancement can bring decline. This is what we are experiencing as we rave about modern technology and scientific breakthroughs and fret about pollution, our ozone, and acid rain. 

We are capable of curing the Earth from the cancer we have infected it with. We reach for faster and farther. But let's stop. And take better aim. And pick up the mess we’re making. Otherwise our own story will ripple into the SciFi horror genre.   

I am,
~ gregorific.

Simple Is As Simple Does

It’s the simple things. That’s a saying, right?

I assume that saying is out of style. Because everyone is in a hurry. Everyone is overbooked. No one has time to read anymore. If they do it’s on kindle. And even then it’s skimming while they cook or commute or do yoga. The less simple others allow their lives to become, the angrier I get.

It’s not cool, ya’ll.

Gregorific has rush rage. When someone is talking to me and they suddenly take out their cell to check email or tweet or post, I have an irrepressible urge to slap it out of their hands. Like an annoying, buzzing, vibrating fly.

I haven’t done it yet. 

Once I was at a restaurant and my kids and I were pretending the cardboard coasters were playing cards. I was totally beating them in blackjack. Later, I taught them how to play with real cards. Not as fun, my nine-year-old said.

Anyway, we’re in the restaurant and my seven-year-old asks me why we aren’t looking at our phones. I glance around and every single person is holding, or talking into, or typing, or gazing at, a cell.

Every single person. We double checked to be sure. People were right across from each other but in totally different universes. 

The food doesn’t take that long at this restaurant. I don’t live in a super boring town where there is nothing to talk about. What did they have to say to the person on the other end of the line? Or text or tweet? That they couldn’t say to the person directly across from them? Were they hiding? Taking a mental smoke break?

Eight people in all were ensconced in their digital worlds. My youngest began to pretend her cardboard coaster was a phone. It was hilarious. I tried to call but she put me on hold. She had to text a couple peeps and play some stack the states and then send a pic to someone and then check their status and post her own and then check email. Finally she beeped me in and I let her know our food had arrived.

She updated everyone by instagram, tumbler, tweet, facebook, blog, email, and text.

Then she put the coaster down, placed her glass on it, and we had a lovely, uninterrupted meal.

Simple is as simple does.

Hold, 
~gregorific