After Friday at the San Francisco Writers Conference, Day 2 and Day 3 felt like a sequel along the lines of The Next Karate Kid. So rather than feign my own interest and produce a dull post, I’m going to be brief. Or at least try.

An Interesting New Website: Red Room, “the online home of the world’s greatest writers.” It’s some type of social networking site aiming to bring authors and readers together. This might mean a forum for authors to collectively self-promote. I hear Amy Tan wrote her very first blog post. Is that exciting? Regardless, after my first brief site visit, I’m intrigued.

A Cool Person: Jane Ganahl, co-founder of litquake, long-time journalist, author of Naked on the Page: the Misadventures of My Unmarried Life, and author liason for Red Room, surprised me by being one of the few presenters at the conference I sorta wanted to be friends with.

Advice I’ve Already Heard and Still Hate: Platform, marketing, publicity, platform. You must have a web presence. Blog. Participate in the interactive community: post comments, comment on comments. Most of the annoying advice came from Kevin Smokler, a public speaker who packs a punch, a guy with a quote for every occasion. He’s also a likable fella, even though I’m not into inspirational speakers; they all remind me of evangelical preachers. Throughout the conference, Smokler held fifteen minute consultations for $50 each (he donated all the money to conference scholarships), which means his going rate is $200/hour? He really must know his stuff because his entire schedule was booked up with one-on-one conferences.

Another Interesting Website: Booktour: Where Authors and Audiences Meet. Kevin Smokler founded this site and promotes it as a revolutionary all-encompassing list of literary readings. The readings are searchable by author and location. Even people in rural Mississippi can find out when John Grisham is coming to the local Borders.

Most Embarrassing Moment: Pitching an editor at Random House/Broadway Publishing. I thought the Editor’s Round Table was an event where a group of people sat at a table with an editor and asked questions about publishing, then rotated tables. I sat at a table with a sign for the editor at the biggest house at the conference. Why wouldn’t I?

Well, as it turns out, the point of this event was to pitch this editor. Okay, sorry, despite what editor Christine Pride said, I do not believe she looks at unsolicited, unagented submissions. Anyways, I was second in the circle. Yes, we did this in a group setting, and about thirty people crowded around the table waiting for the next chairs to open up. A timer was placed before me. I more or less read a piece of scrap paper that will eventually become the first paragraph of a query letter. Pride smiled sweetly and said her house isn’t interested in transgender themes; they already published a book with such themes this decade. Shucks. I did hear that the book, She’s Not There, is quite good, and I heard the author, Jennifer Boylan, read at Writers With Drinks last week. She’s a better writer than I am, but I think there’s room for two of us, just not at Broadway Publishing.

Least Embarrassing Moment: I helped an elderly man in a wheelchair during a couple of breakout sessions. When I finally said bye, he replied, “Thank you, son.”

Event I’m Happy I Missed: Speed-dating for agents. The line to enter the conference room snaked through the whole lobby. The event was broken up into 3 hour-long sessions. Each person had three-minutes to pitch an agent (one-on-one at least). It was the first time I felt bad for the agents.

Conclusion: I’m cured! My desire to work in the publishing industry is crushed, just as I hoped it would be. I can’t pinpoint exactly what did it–the people, the conservatism, the business aspects, the fear of working on books and projects I hate (many of them), or if it was seeing agenting and publishing for the reality not the fantasy. After this conference, all I want to do is ignore concerns about publishers and agents, avoid other writers, close my door and write.

Below are some highlights and lowlights from my first day volunteering at the San Francisco Writers Conference on Friday.

Creating Spiritual Alchemy by Putting Spirit into Words: My first assigned session. My duty was to keep time by raising placards at 10 min left, 5 min left and STOP. I introduced myself to the speakers. Then Andrea Hurst, the moderator, reiterated my duties: “He will hold up the signs.” It’s going to be one of those days, I thought. Not that I mind passing as a guy, but surrounded by women in sweater turtlenecks, sheer floral blouses, hankerchief scarves, and blazers from Talbots, I knew I’d get lots of double-takes in the women’s bathroom.

Eric Brandt (Exec Editor at HarperOne) told us, “Jesus books always sell.” Reverend Alan Jones ranted about the commodification of spirituality. During the Q&A, a person asked what to do about the fact that her book could reach many people, but unfortunately the subject of spirituality made their stomachs turn. Stop proselytizing? Everyone left believing that she can write the next Eat, Pray, Love, which means I’ll see many more spiritual memoir submissions at the literary agency in which “a moment changed my life and opened my heart to the peace and wisdom in the universe.”

The Right Word at the Right Time: Or dialogue 101. In summary: use dialogue to characterize and move the story, no “chit-chat,” fictional dialogue isn’t real dialogue, no adverbs, and use only the tags “said, ask, and reply.” The speaker, Sheldon Siegel, a charismatic Jewish corporate lawyer from Marin County reminded me of my dad, if only my dad wrote courtroom thrillers. He told the crowd that it’s okay to open a book with dialogue. This means I’ll be reading many more “commercial fiction” submissions in which I cannot tell who is speaking, where the characters are, and what is going on until the third page.

Lunch: As a volunteer, I wasn’t invited. But there were empty seats and so I got free food: creamy orange bisque soup that could’ve been lobster bisque without lobster; mashed potatoes, broccoli rabe and salmon; cheesecake and coffee. Score. From the speakers: Kevin Smokler quoting Eleanor Roosevelt, “No one can make you feel inferior without your consent.” Daisy Maryles, editor of Publisher’s Weekly, rattled off statistics like, 200,000-300,000 books are published each year. There sure are an awful lot of unread books.

Q&A Session with Nonfiction Agents: With no more volunteer duties, I attended this by choice. In a packed room, I even had the balls to raise my hand. The moderator (agent and conference founder Michael Larsen) sensed my balls, made eye contact and said, “The gentleman in the back.” I stood and asked about the necessity of a book proposal for a hybrid of personal narrative and reportage. Ted Weinstein, a local nonfiction agent, said I could probably get away with proposal, rather than having to write the whole thing first, the standard procedure for memoir.

The session had the quick pace of an auction and the best question came from a guy who asked: “If I have two books, one a memoir about being a gay bullrider and the other about gardening, do I need two separate agents?” The answer is: the “gay bullrider” book sounds more viable than another gardening book in a saturated gardening market. The other answer is that agents are not looking to sell individual books, but build careers. Of course this means more query letters at the agency from people offering their careers by saying, “I have five novels and an idea for a trilogy, all with screenplay potential.”

I also learned from Kathryn Sands (agent at Sarah J. Freyman) about the genres: faction, reality fiction (aka post James Frey creative nonfiction—ouch), stunt memoir, and chick non-fic, but Sands doesn’t believe in categories. She described knowing she has a good manuscript by having a “dowser” moment. Her body starts shaking and she can’t wait to share the info. I recommend slipping her some muscle stimulants along with your manuscript.

From Idea to Contract: Agent Ted Weinstein on the business of book publishing, or the Ted Weinstein Show: a salvo of advice and aphorisms recyclable at any writer’s conference. “We work for money, we live for acknowledgements.” “Oprah has done more for books than any other human being.” “My agent’s an asshole. My asshole.” “If you’re coming to us for feedback, you’re making a big mistake.” “It’s the role of the West Coast agent. We’re like Lewis and Clark to the rest of the world.”

After the session, I got in the front of a long line of people to speak with him. I introduced myself to him, described my project, and received the standard “send it to me,” as well as a decent, but somewhat cryptic piece of advice.

The Gala Party: I had not expected to stick around for the schmoozing. The one thing I didn’t mention so far is that throughout the day I met other volunteers, several writers, and former USF classmates. I bumped into a random friend and received a few introductions through the agents I read for. So, by the time the party rolled around, I wanted my free drink and actually had people to schmooze with. Many strangers introduced themselves and everyone offered recommendations for agents and books to read, as well as helpful tidbits from their own lives. Some say that “Writer’s Conferences are institutionalized discouragement,” but I think they are expensive group therapy. For the most part, I did a good job of not mocking people in my head. Especially since many of them are published authors and I’m not.

My best move of the day occurred when the bartender turned around. I snagged an extra free drink ticket poking out from the coffer. In a room full of writers, that qualifies as smooth and I received a round of high-fives from my new friends and a glass of wine that would’ve cost $8. I stuck around, chatted some more and was one of the last people to leave the hotel.

The words prequel and sequel are helpful when I’m about to indulge in anything. To avoid the hedonistic implications, I often have dinner the prequel and dinner the sequel, as well as dinner. I also do prequels and sequels to Sunday, because doesn’t everyone want Sunday the sequel instead of Monday?

The SFWC is the San Francisco Writers Conference, which is coming up this weekend. I’m overusing the acronym to avoid Googleability, which makes me the world’s only blogger who doesn’t want a bigger readership. I can just see someone Googling the conference for directions, finding my blog and booting me off the volunteer squad before the damn thing starts. I’m being particularly ridiculous because I attached this URL to my bio on the volunteer page, which means that I basically invited and encouraged those I’m in fear of to visit this site.

The SFWC is three days of speakers, breakout sessions, Q&As with agents and editors–a smorgasbord of networking opportunities with infinite possibilities for self-promotion. Don’t leave your business cards at home! There is even a horrific-sounding event called “speed dating with agents.” Participants with sweaty palms stand in long lines, waiting for their three minutes to sell an agent on their manuscript. Agents practice looking interested so the participants stop shaking and stuttering. Or so I hear. The truth is I tried lesbian speed dating once and it will be a long time before I go near any speed dating again.

I’m vaguely interested in the keynote speakers: Clive Cussler, Tess Gerritsen, Daisy Maryles, and April Sinclair. (If you are interested, these speaking events are open to the public at $10 each.) My volunteer duties, as I’ve simplified them in my head, consist of introducing and providing water for the moderator and keeping time at five breakout sessions over three days. My assigned sessions cover spiritual writing, technology, blogs/podcasts, building literary community, using dialogue. There are a bunch of other sessions I’d like to attend in my free time about pitches/queries, magazine/internet writing, getting paid to write your book, and one with the intriguing title, “What do editors do all day.”

There will be about 300 attendees, 40-50 volunteers, and 80-100 speakers; I’m sure I’ll feel out of place amongst them all. I get this sense that for unpublished authors this is a big chance to make the connections that could one day result in publication. I don’t have any high hopes for meeting an agent or editor to advance my career. I’m just excited that it’s in a fancy hotel. I’m also excited because the whole thing is about books–writing, editing, promoting, marketing, and selling them. While a lot of writers I talk to dislike the “book business” part of the process, I find it fascinating. I love book talk, even when I think the person talking is not too bright. So, in my cynical way, I’m looking forward to the conference. Maybe I’ll even have something substantive to say about it.

When I woke up for “work” this morning, I had a voice mail message: one co-worker was sick, the other co-worker was getting sick, and since they were the only two would be at the “office,” I couldn’t go in. It’s like a snow day, my girlfriend said to me, turning off the alarm.

Except it wasn’t. Thursdays are my favorite day of the week. My “work” is an unpaid internship at a literary agency in Tiburon. My “office” is a gorgeous cottage on a winding road atop a hill so steep I can barely walk up it. There are views of the bay. Inside, it is like the unused study in a railroad baron’s mansion (which doesn’t bode well for ergonomics), bookshelves and desks built into the walls, leather couches, a fireplace and hanging above, a portrait of a man–probably a literary figure I should know–who appears to be missing his eyeglass and pipe.

It is a three-step journey for me to get to work. I get up around 6:20, ride my bike a couple miles to my co-worker’s house. We drive to Crissy Field, park, and carpool with the other co-worker over the Golden Gate Bridge to Tiburon. I’m not sure how long all the traveling takes, 1-1.5 hours maybe.

I don’t know how long it takes because I like the trip and I like the office. I like hearing my alarm signal me to prepare for an actual responsibility. I like that I keep busy on Thursdays, and that I escape the aimlessness of my self-structured days. I don’t even mind that I’m not paid. I just pretend the whole day is a book-themed field trip adventure to the breathtaking stomping grounds of the wealthy. Or something like that.

I spend most of the day reading unsolicited novel manuscripts and nonfiction proposals. Most of what I read is pretty damn poor (yet not without merit). I sign a lot of rejection letters. Before deciding I’m a power-mongering killer of dreams, remember that I also receive rejection letters, often after spending an entire day writing them. Being on both sides, as a writer and a gatekeeper, keeps all this publishing shenanigans in perspective for me. Sometimes it really does matters whether the reader has or hasn’t had his espresso before reading your submission.

My favorite part of the day is the morning, before I’m jaded and have paper cuts. When I’m hopeful that even though a best-selling manuscipt won’t be inside, I’ll meet an intriguing person. I have opened submission packages from the delusional predicting apocalypse, serving convicts, veterans (of the Iraq, Vietnam, and Gulf wars), people who write at elementary school levels, and those who have produced thousands of self-published pages. The mail pours in from every state in the U.S and from many countries, from people who have had painful lives, unique lives, accomplished lives. From people who are hopeful, humble, honest, desperate, yearning. Writers.

Not that all of the above makes for awesome literature. But sometimes it seems that in the worst writing there is the most inspiration. If Joe Schmoe in Nebraska is still going strong after pumping out his ninth unpublished horror thriller that is “a cross between Stephen King and Dan Brown,” then who am I to dust the ceiling when I could be writing. Other people are trying. They are sitting at their computers, seeking fame and fortune, desiring to entertain, communicate, connect, exorcise demons, and solidify in permanent ink a legacy that expresses, magnifies, refracts, and elucidates a life lived.

My mom had a snow day today. In New Jersey. But it was warm in San Francisco, hot in the mid-day sun. And it certainly wasn’t a snow day. It was just a day in which I missed crossing the paths of other writers.