This is how you attend your first “professional” writing conference. You will browse the conference website for weeks, intrigued by the caliber of authors who will be speaking and persuaded by workshop titles like “Writing for the Change You Want to See in the World” and “Personal Essay as Resistance.”
You’ll have a constant conversation in your head about justifying the cost of the conference and wondering if you even belong among such talent. In the end, you’ll go for it and, as emails from your new writing professors arrive with greetings and homework, your confidence will ebb and flow. You’ll know it’s just a one-shot deal and you’ll just get as much as you want out of the experience, but when one professor recommends decorating your journal for the conference, you think, “I don’t even have a journal.”
You’ll be at peace when you arrive in San Miguel de Allende, on a high from the wonderful gathering of family and friends and butterflies you just left, and a bit soar from the three buses and nine hours it took to get there.
You’ll arrive at your first workshop an hour early, 8:00 in the morning after that long day of travel, only to discover that despite telling Google otherwise, the time zone on your calendar was not changed. Remaining positive, you’ll grab some of the free coffee available for conference attendees, relax in a comfortable chair, and watch writers arrive, many with journals in hand already oozing with creativity judging by their decorated covers.
The first few times someone asks, “Are you a writer?” you’ll hesitate and stumble through various answers:
“I’m a traveler.”
“I write a blog . . . sometimes.”
“I was a teacher. I used to teach writing.”
“I like to write . . . sometimes.”
Then you’ll meet a woman from Portland who, when she senses your hesitation at the “Are you a writer?” question, gives you the answer you need: “I play at writing,” she declares with confidence, and you immediately tell her that you’re stealing her response.
You’ll be amazed that each and every workshop and keynote simply blows your mind away. You’ll wonder why teacher professional development can’t be this good. You’ll start filling the journal with the plain black cover that you reluctantly squeezed in your backpack. You’ll even bring it to a cafe one day and write for hours, feeling like you must look like a writer.
There will be too much to remember but you’ll try to capture some of it with nearly nonstop notes during each workshop.
“The best essays tell what happened, how I felt, what I learned.”
“Often a writer is grappling with personal conflict within themselves. Vulnerability is key.”
“What are my gifts? What breaks my heart? What does the world need?”
“You can’t do everything. You can do something.”
“If you felt it, someone else felt it.”
“Write for change. We owe it to the ghosts.”
Kaveh Akbar will leave you speechless, Margaret Atwood will make you laugh, Percival Everett will nearly bring you to tears. Jorge Hernández will do all of the above. You’ll notice how cute John Vaillant is, and realize you confused him with John Irving.
You’ll leave with a long list of things you actually want to read and more ideas to write about than you could ever actually write about.
You’ll extend your stay in San Miguel by four days so you can have time to process and write and just be, but you’ll spend most of your time hiking and seeing sights anyway. There will be days when your journal remains unopened. As you wander the streets, though, you’ll be inspired by the art that is everywhere in San Miguel.
But you will write a draft of a post where you play with writing. It will be written in second person, modeled after the essay “Pain Tours” by Leslie Jamison. You won’t be sure if this method worked, but you’ll feel good about trying something new, about playing with writing, and then you’ll hit the blue “Publish” button, sending it out to the world.
February 22, 2025 @ 08:31
Thanks, Tim!
February 24, 2025 @ 19:21
☺️
February 22, 2025 @ 08:50
As always, you inspire me Tim! What an amazing experience!
February 24, 2025 @ 19:22
Where are we going when you retire? 😊
February 22, 2025 @ 08:53
I can sense the experiment you’re trying in this post, stimulated by the conference. Your experience was most extensive than mine. But, I, too was stimulated, even by a short one-afternoon and evening visit. Being in the presence of such a gathering of thought leaders has to impact you. Nice work!
February 24, 2025 @ 19:23
Thanks, Doug. I’m sure I’ll be back again.
February 22, 2025 @ 10:16
Another enjoyable read. Thanks Tim!
February 24, 2025 @ 19:23
Thanks!
February 22, 2025 @ 12:08
Tim, I am so excited to learn that you took this mini-course on writing. It sounds like you learned a great deal and it shows in the writing that you did for this blog entry. I hope you will share some of your ideas with us when you get home. I play at writing too. as long as we see it as play and not a chore it’s all worth it. I miss you but it sounds like you are having an amazing time. thanks for sharing your adventures.
February 24, 2025 @ 19:24
I think you and Geoff and I should all come to this conference next year. You’d love it!
February 22, 2025 @ 15:00
This is so cool, on a number of levels – especially the rewards that can come when we take a risk and allow ourselves to be vulnerable and open. (Also, I too, wish that teacher professional development could be more like what you experienced.)
February 24, 2025 @ 19:25
Thanks for the comment, Aimee! Spot on!
February 22, 2025 @ 20:08
You sound inspired, Tim! Can’t wait to so what you’ll be sharing next.
February 24, 2025 @ 19:25
Oh no, that sounds like pressure!
February 23, 2025 @ 22:26
Tim,
Rather than tell me about it, you showed it to me. I was anxious and excited right along with you.
Thank you for taking me with you!
February 24, 2025 @ 19:27
Thanks, Jessie. That’s just what every writer wants to hear!
This is Real | The Alternate Route
February 25, 2025 @ 17:18
[…] day after the writing conference in San Miguel ended, I sat in an overflowing audience of mostly Americans and Canadians who were […]