What I Learned on an Elevator with Sebastian Junger: A Writing Conference Lesson

• DateFebruary 25, 2014
• AuthorMary Heather
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Years ago, when I was just starting to seriously contemplate this writing thing, my husband convinced me to attend my first writer’s conference.  I was a new mother and had just returned to my regular job as an environmental regulator in Hartford, Connecticut — so the thought of devoting $85 and an entire weekend to lectures and panel discussions on the business and craft of writing seemed indulgent, if not downright ridiculous.  I had not published anything.  I was not even writing on what I now consider to be a regular basis.  And I had no confidence.  No confidence in my writing, nor in my ambition.  No confidence that what I had to say was of any importance or value.

My husband was the one with the fascinating stories.  At the time, he’d just cared for a patient from Afghanistan who was involved in an international peace conference, and provided humanitarian aid and education for Taliban-oppressed areas.  Gavin had admitted him to the hospital, advised him against traveling due to his serious heart condition, and tried to help his patient’s son obtain a travel visa so he wouldn’t be hospital-bound alone.  Gavin was the one who met interesting people like that, not me.  I worked in a government agency cubicle, sometimes collected samples of water in the field, and when I did, sat in vacant parking lots, pumping breast milk for our daughter in the cab of the government truck.

Perhaps it was the parking lot pumping that prompted me to reconsider my creative pursuits.  After all, what did I possibly have to lose?  How could it get any worse than that?    

The writing conference I attended was the now-defunct National Writer’s Workshop, sponsored by The Hartford Courant.  The conference drew big names that year (2005): Garrison Keillor, Elizabeth Berg, Bob Edwards of NPR’s Morning Edition, and Sebastian Junger.  Sebastian Junger.  I loved The Perfect Storm.  I loved that his best-seller was true.   To me, Junger’s success represented the full potential of the creative nonfiction genre.   Plus, he was young and hot.  Maybe it was time to take this writing thing more seriously. 

I went to the conference, and listened to a humble Junger claim to not know much about writing, that he was just a curious adventure-seeking gonzo journalist “trying it out” and accidentally striking it big with The Perfect Storm.  He was delightfully down-to-earth, funny, self-effacing.  He talked about the extraordinary circumstances that prompted his upcoming book, A Death in Belmont, and about his recent travels in Afghanistan, where he was researching his next project.  He was taking his first big steps in what would turn out to be an extraordinary writing career, and I was there to see it.

As writing conferences go, it was a great first experience — the National Writer’s Workshop was a big event, which offered the security of anonymity to a writer like myself.  While dozens of people rushed the podium after Junger’s talk — eager to introduce themselves, press their business cards and e-mail addresses into his palm, maybe even glean some advice about finding an agent — I watched from afar.  Why?  Because I am one of those writers who lingers on the edge like Ferdinand the bull, my adrenaline-filled chest throbbing with angst from the mere thought of saying something intelligent to the literary elite.  In general, I’m unskilled at penetrating circles of conversation.  It’s an unsavory condition, this anxiety, but watching from the walls feels more comfortable, more secure.  The problem with this approach, of course, is that avoiding someone’s path means your paths will never cross.

— Unless you’re at the National Writer’s Workshop in Hartford, and find yourself on an elevator with Sebastian Junger.

I was heading to a late-afternoon panel discussion — on what I can’t recall — but I was standing in the elevator and it was well after lunch.  The sliding doors opened and a half-dozen people filed out.  Then a dark-haired, tallish guy in jeans and a black button-down shirt stepped on.  He didn’t look like a writer, or at least not an ordinary writer.  He looked like the kind of writer who preferred to do other things than write.  The kind of writer who would be named “Sexiest Writer” by People magazine, if such a category exists.  I glanced up casually, smiled meekly like one does in elevator spaces, and looked back at the floor.  Then I realized who it was and felt my head snap up.  For a fraction of a second, I locked eyes with this man, looked directly into his impossibly blue eyes, and realized that I was alone on an elevator with Sebastian Junger.

I’d like to think that I at least said, “hi” — that I behaved, to some degree, like a normal human being.  But in truth, I can’t be sure.  I wanted to tell him that I loved his book, wanted to tell him how amazing it was that his nonfiction had become a bestseller, that his research and storytelling were an inspiration to people like me who were devoted to the truth…  I wanted to ask him about Afghanistan, tell him about my husband’s patient, tell him how we’d invited the man over for dinner and that he’d eaten so fast he’d gotten indigestion and had to go back to the ER.  I wanted to talk to him like a person.

But instead, I was mute.  I looked down at the toes of my cute Mary Janes, hid behind my hair, said nothing.  Then the doors of the elevator opened and Sebastian Junger walked away.  It was strange.  I was strange.

— Which is what I’m still thinking, nearly nine years later.  The truth is, the Sebastian Junger elevator incident was a turning point in my writing conference experience.  The nagging memory of an awkward silence punctuated only by the bell tone of the elevator floor indicator is what motivates me to do things differently, what motivates me to participate in writing conferences, rather than to merely attend.  This memory is what forces me — even when every fiber of my being is pulsing with resistance — to make eye contact, extend my hand, and introduce myself.  Hello, I’m Mary Heather.  I’m a writer, too, and I’m so excited to meet you.

With AWP Seattle rapidly approaching, I will be spending my evenings psyching myself up for my planned and chance encounters with the authors whom I admire.  Mentally preparing myself for the gift of an introduction — reminding myself that writers want to hear from their readers, want to meet new writers, want to exchange stories and ideas.  Reminding myself that the last thing someone wants is to be alone on an elevator with a woman admiring her shoes.  After all, what do I possibly have to lose?  How can it get any worse than that?

Here’s to an inspiring AWP — don’t get caught admiring your shoes.

________________

Image courtesy of SebastianJunger.com.

About Mary Heather

I am an East-coaster and a West-coaster. I am an academic and a creative spirit. I am an environmental scientist who always wanted to write, and a writer with a nagging nostalgia for the complexities of environmental science. Above all, I am a mother — so whether I’m writing about the natural world, family, or place, I like to consider my work as environmental advocacy in the broadest sense.