If I had to pick a single piece of advice to summarize yesterday’s blog, it would be this: if you are going to hang your agent-finding hopes — and your resources — on an array of contests, it honestly does pay to be selective. In this series, I have been going over what you can do to figure out which contests are and are not for you.
Obviously, the ideal outcome of your winning a contest would be a situation like mine: talent and hard work recognized (if I do say so myself), signing with an agent within the next couple of months, and selling the book in question to a publisher six months after that…but I am sorry to tell you, my results were not the norm.
I was, in a word, lucky. Thank you, Whomever.
Well, okay, it wasn’t JUST luck. I pitched to every agent at that conference who would deign to look at me for thirty consecutive seconds — and I maximized my chances of success by doing my homework before I entered the contest.
At the time, the Organization-That-Shall-Not-Be-Named had a well-earned reputation for bending over backwards to help its contest winners hook up with agents and editors. Not only were finalists clearly and vibrantly marked at the conference with rainbow-colored ribbons so agents and editors know who they are, but the winners in each category were invited to have breakfast with all of the agents and editors, where each winner was expected to stand up and give a universal pitch. Also, the top three entries in each category were displayed in the lobby at the conference, where everybody could read them.
This level of support is unusual, however. I’ve been to many conferences where contest finalists are not identified at all, and other conference attendees are far more likely to meet a finalist than any of the attending agents.
I find this is counter-intuitive, as most conference-related contests actively encourage their finalists to trek to the awards ceremony — and, after all, a contest only gains in stature when its winners go on to get published. You’d think that sheer self-interest would prompt them to take the extra step of making a few critical introductions, but often, they do not.
See why it might be a very, very good idea to check out a conference over and above its formal offerings before you attend it?
Because — and I hate to say this, because good literary conferences are a blessing to humanity, and the volunteers who pull them together deserve candy and roses from all of us — there are conferences out there that exist primarily for the enrichment and/or self-aggrandizement of their organizers.
No, Virginia, not all literary conferences — or contests, for that matter — are organized by the Muses and attendant cherubim for the pure advancement of Art. Some are — brace yourself, old girl — organized by mere mortals with agendas.
And although I hate to be the one to break it to you, sometimes that agenda is pretty transparently to permit the conference’s organizers to rub elbow patches with the speakers, agents, and editors at the expense of allowing attendees access to them.
Those of you who have attended snooty literary conferences know what I’m talking about, right? I’ve been to conferences where the glitterati were whisked away from the attendees so fast that the keynote speaker barely had time to choke down his rubber chicken at the banquet.
Call me zany, but if I’m going to plunk down the dosh to attend a conference, particularly one far away, I don’t particularly want to be relegated to the kids’ table while the organizers hobnob with the agents and editors at the Important People’s table, if ne’er the twain will meet.
Or are whisked off to private parties on some board member’s yacht, far away from anyone who might conceivably have come to the conference to pitch.
Or — not that I have a specific conference in mind here or anything — where the agents and editors are given so much alcohol so often throughout the course of the conference that some of them just don’t show up for pitching appointments.
Somebody catch Virginia, please; I think she’s just fainted again.
Any of these phenomena is a pretty good indication that a conference is not as focused upon hooking writers up with the people who could help them as one might hope — and since many literary contests are directly tied to conferences, it’s worth your while to visit one of the big writers’ forums to ask former attendees about how much access writers actually have.
Ideally, of course, you’d ask someone who has WON the contest in question, but if you’re looking for formal events that will bring you all decked in your winner’s laurels into the presence of the agent of your dreams, you can also try calling the organization sponsoring the contest and asking about access.
If that seems too direct and/or confrontational, you could always just post a question on one of the big writers’ forums’ conference pages, asking where the agents and editors tend to hang out at that conference. If the answer is the bar, you’re probably okay.
Why? Well — chant it with me now, long-time readers — there is pretty much always a bar within 100 yards of any writers’ conference; the combined ghosts of Ernest Hemingway and Scott Fitzgerald must howl unmercifully into the ears of any organizers who do not book halls in this manner. So historically, the free mingling of the insiders and the undiscovered at conference bars is one of the great democratic institutions of the literary world.
At a conference where the agents, editors, and speakers do not hang out at that nearby bar — i.e., in public — it’s usually a whole lot harder for a writer who wants to pitch to track ‘em down.
The writers’ grapevine can be very informative about this. If the agents and editors are not available because they are cloistered in private meetings with aspiring writers, or because they are having breakfast with contest winners like you, that’s one thing; that might be a good reason to enter the conference’s contest.
But if they’re nowhere to be seen because the local bigwig thriller writer has carried them off to his beach house the moment they stepped off the airplane, or because there’s a party in a locked hotel room that paying attendees know nothing about…well, let’s just say that the conference’s organizers will probably make better connections there than the writer who takes second place in the literary contest.
Especially if the entry fee to a conference-affiliated contest tied is high, I would advise checking out the contest description very carefully, to make sure it is worth your while. And there is no rule against dropping an e-mail to the organizers before entering and asking politely if there are secondary benefits to being a winner or a finalist.
This is not being pushy; it’s being prepared. If your name badge at the conference will be delivered to you pre-marked as a finalist, for instance, you might want to bring your own big blue ribbon to attach to it.
A sneakier way to find out how winners are treated in a conference-tied contest is to talk to NON-finalists who have attended the conference in question. Where the winners are treated extremely well, other attendees tend to notice – sometimes to the extent of being unhappy about what they perceive to be biased treatment.
I’m quite serious about this. If your mole says, “My God, the agents there wouldn’t give the time of day to anyone who didn’t have a top ten entry!” it’s a good bet that the winners get some enviable perks.
I’d enter that contest — but not attend the attached conference unless I was up for a prize.
Because, really, why? There are plenty of conferences that will demonstrate my profit motive in pursuing my writing equally well, where I will get more out of the experience. (If that reference puzzled you, please see yesterday’s post.)
And, honestly, didn’t all of us experience enough negative contact with cliques in junior high school to last us a lifetime? Why cultivate more?
It’s also a good idea to check out the list of your category’s winners from three or more years ago: how many of these writers can you find on a basic web search or by checking Amazon?
More to the point, do any of them show up as clients on agency websites? Or, for more recent winners, as debut book sales on Publishers’ Marketplace?
In other words, are this contest’s winners getting published afterward?
How past winners fared is an excellent indication of how you might make out if you win. However, try not to be overzealous: checking last year’s winners, or the ones from two years ago, is not entirely fair, as publication seldom occurs in less than a year after a book deal is signed.
An organization that supports its contest winners will usually be proud of them, so information about the subsequent successes of past winners is generally quite easy to obtain. If the sponsoring organization does not have a website listing member and past winner triumphs, try to scare up a chatty volunteer in the organization’s office.
How might a shy person go about inducing chattiness? Ask the volunteer what she writes, and if she has ever entered the contest herself. If she has, you’ll probably get an earful; it’s a safe bet that anyone who volunteers for a writers’ organization writes, but almost nobody thinks to ask the receptionist.
This same logic applies at most political campaigns, by the way: everyone who calls wants to speak to the bigwigs, but for organizational dirt, you can hardly do better than chatting up the dear white-haired retiree who devotes four hours per week to licking envelopes.
This may seem pushy, but most contest-running organizations will have a volunteer or staffer return phone calls and e-mails as a matter of course — see if you can elicit boasting about their post-contest success stories. Ask who their favorite winner was, and why. Ask if the organization sponsors readings for the winners, publishes excerpts, or offers other goodies to successful entrants.
Do I hear some of you groaning out there? “Anne,” protesting voices cry, “when are you going to stop with the research assignments, already? You want us to hunt down who represents what, the writing norms in our individual genres, and now the track records of contests in getting their winners’ work published. When will it end, oh Lord, when?”
Okay, okay, I’ll cop to it: I do advise doing a heck of a lot more homework than your average writing guru. I have seen time and again, though, that in the long run, investing the time to target submissions — be it to a contest, agency, or small press — actually shortens the path for an agent-seeking writer. It minimizes the expenditure of energy pursuing leads that turn out not to be all that helpful.
As a writer — especially as a writer with a full-time job — you need to treat your writing time as precious. Three days or a week spent agonizing over a contest entry is necessarily time taken away from your actual writing, and the more expensive contest fees tend to run around the same amount as a good writing seminar. Weigh your options carefully.
I’m not going to throw you into the research pond without a paddle, however. Next time, I shall talk about evaluating the benefits contests offer non-winners — which, like the contests themselves, vary wildly.
In the meantime, keep up the good work!
5 Replies to “Picking the right literary contest for you, part IV: it’s all about me, me, me”
I’d love to know what conference you are talking about because it sounds eerily similar to one I attended last year.
I couldn’t find ANY of the agents or editors around the conference apart from the paid meetings, $40 for 10 minutes.
The conference did say you could pay nearly $100 to attend a dinner with the agents and editors and get to know them. My friend paid and she said she still didn’t get to sit with any of them or meet any of them because the agents and editors all sat together.
I felt nickled and dimed the entire time and even in the closing ceremony, the organizer made a comment about how much it cost to put the conference on and how little they made off of it — a comment I thought was quite tacky and a statement I highly doubted.
I am going to try a different one this year.
Just a disclaimer – I met many people who love this conference and attend it year after year, but this was my opinion:
Hoo boy, what a loaded question! I actually was giving examples from several different conferences, rather than a single one, and all of the ones I mentioned also have good point, so I left off the names deliberately.
I don’t think it’s any secret, however, that I resigned from the Organization-That-Shall-Not-Be-Named (although my write-ups on the agents and editors they used to invite are still listed in the categories at right) because I felt that conference attendees’ needs were starting to take a back seat to other concerns. Since I had organized the pitching training at their conference, and I was aware that some of my readers had both entered their contest and attended their conference upon my recommendation, I made a policy decision after their last conference not to bring any further attention to them by talking about the organization here.
My readers, of course, may mention as many names as they like — and I have to say, I’m curious about the identity of the conference you describe. No wonder you felt nickeled and dimed.
I can tell from what you say here, though, that the conference you attended was not one of the ones from which I drew examples. On general principle, I avoid pay-for-pitch conferences — some of the stories I’ve heard about Maui (oops), both from writers and agents/editors who attended, would make your hair curl. I dislike them for precisely the reason you mention: where access is paid by the minute, a writer is pretty much never going to be able to make a hallway pitch.
And I know many, many wonderful writers who landed their agents through hallway pitches. Or after-speech pitches. Or plain old walking up to them at the pasta bar and introducing oneself pitches.
The phenomenon of the agents and editors’ sitting together at meals is fairly consistent across conferences, however, for the simple reason that they tend to know one another before they get there. Also, I’m told that after a day’s worth of pitches, chatting with someone who ISN’T trying to sell a book is rather refreshing. (Although I have certainly attended behind-the-scenes parties where the agents were pitching to editors on the sly. And in the hot tub.)
I have to laugh because you just mentioned the conference I was talking about – Maui.
As I said, I know many people who love the conference, but I however, felt it wasn’t worth the money that you had to pay for every little detail/experience. And especially with John’s comment on the last day about the money. That got to me especially since I had insider knowledge from the hotel about how much it cost to have the conference.
Oh, that IS funny; it’s the conference that’s most open about being a for-profit enterprise. I had heard about a year ago that they were thinking about no longer giving it, but apparently, it’s still going on.
The Maui Writers was always on my to do list. By chance, I had a chance to volunteer at the Maui conference a couple of years ago. It was a great deal of fun and I attended some inspiring sessions when I was free. I also met some wonderful people. I certainly couldn’t have attended as a regular attendee as it is expensive. I was struck too that many things like the agent/editor interviews were extra which I think is one of the reasons the conference -that -shall not -be -named is a very good one. The atmosphere is different too. Very beautiful, very relaxing (right on the beach), but there were some very driven attendees. Many gate crashers. I was instructed not to bother the agents and I think others were too, but I got to visit on another level when they were free and looking for space to take a breath.
I’m glad that I had that opportunity to go. And as I was open to learning and helping just to be able to be there, I had an enjoyable, memorable time. I suppose that you really need to assess before you go to a conference what it is you want. Surrey and our not-to be named are good starts. I’d look into Whidbey Island this month.