By Sara Aboulafia
Last Friday night, I got the chance to step out into the sun, put on a summer dress, mingle with my lovely co-workers and fellow Lighthousers, eat tasty hors d’oeuvres the size of my thumb and lemon sweets from heaven, and imbibe wine and whiskey (in moderation, of course). Oh, dear Lord, if this is what you have in store for me, I thought as I pranced lightly around the gardens and green and took a second plate (only one, I promise) with fellow intern Kevin, then please, keep it coming.
But seriously, The Gourmand’s Tale was a hit, much thanks to the impressive caterers and our hosts, board members Emily Sinclair and Jay Kenney, the latter (Board President), who gave a very sweet speech on the lawn about why he first decided to join Lighthouse. I felt absolutely flushed from a mix of sugar and camaraderie, as Michael and Andrea (who retold their story of the humble beginnings of Lighthouse), glowed with satisfaction and geniality as warming as the Sazerac whiskey drink poet Jake Adam York passed out among us.
Ever the poet and historian, York recounted the origins of the drink, originally concocted in New Orleans by an antebellum Creole apothecary (coincidentally, NPR just did a story on the drink, which has been bestowed the title of official New Orleans cocktail). Everyone seemed to appreciate the story, even if the Anis-tinged drink got a mixed reception. I enjoyed the drink, since the only whiskey I’ve ever had is the cheap stuff passed around with friends, our fingers pinching our noses as we each took a swig, our arms eventually looped around each other in a circle. Of course, this is also another, different kind of alcohol-inspired story, even if by now it’s a strange, mixed-up memory.
Lighthouse board member (and talented fiction writer) Tiffany Tyson also presented her own story to go with her sinfully sweet and tasty lemon-ice-box pie, admitting apologetically that she usually had the dessert in her native Mississippi only at funerals (Christmas and Easter meant Pecan Pie), and which she associated with grief. But, of course, The Gourmand’s Tale was a celebration, of Lighthouse and the end of Lit-Fest. And though rain was forecasted for the night and dark clouds gathered, the weather held as the night progressed and we shared new treats.
Denver Poet Laureate Chris Ransick told a memorable foodie story that began in a France eatery on a trip with his wife, who was trying creme broulee for the first time. Ransick remembered their early days together as young twenty-somethings with two dollars to their name, and having to get day old-bread from a buddy at a bakery. They ate bread-pudding every morning for days, Ransick recalled with a laugh (one keen guest pointed out that any day that starts with bread pudding doesn’t count as deprivation). As Ransick spoke, a line formed for the chocolate decadence cake he brought while I was busy passing out lemon pie (and having two pieces myself); the chocolate decadence, of course, disappeared faster than you can say Ghirardelli (a chocolate freakazoid myself, I wanted to lick the knife, but since that wouldn’t be proper, I just scraped some of the bottom of the pan with my finger and licked it – politely – right there.)
Though Ransick treated us with gourmet chocolate, he stopped to remind us that food in this country is indeed a luxury, and that the ability to get any ingredient from around the world really belongs to very recent history (and may not survive as a privilege in the future.) Because I’ve worked on an organic farm and currently live in a cooperative household that buys local food, I do believe in eating locally and seasonally. Still, the decadence of the food that night left me wanting to imagine that it just sort of dropped from the sky, or appeared as a wizard drew his cape across the table. Gray clouds scattered across the sky, yellow lights glowing from Jay and Emily’s beautiful house, everyone looking and feeling their best – it was just enough magic for this romantic to believe it could happen.
If the Gourmand’s Tale was magical and sugary-sweet, than the Business Panel – which met at 10 AM the next morning at the Tattered Cover – meant getting down to the hard stuff, and chewing on some bitter fruit. Agent Betsy Lerner flew in from New York for the panel to give the inside scoop on what agents are really looking for out of a book proposal.
Participants brought in their hopeful query letters – letters sent to agents summing up their project and their own biography – as well as the first page of their manuscripts to be read and critiqued by Lerner after the program. Lerner brought her own sample of mostly awful anonymous first pages and query letters to dissect, from the maudlin to the self-congratulatory, (e.g. "Dear Ms. Lerner, here is a white-hot one for you!"), asking the equally as tough participants what they thought of the writing. Said one disapproving audience member, "If you can’t even write an engaging, concise letter, why would I want to read a book by you? That’s just my snotty attitude."
"That’s just my snotty attitude, too," said Lerner, adding that the more horrifying letters she’s received have come with bribes: a Starbucks gift card, a necklace with a little typewriter on it, chocolate (she threw that out, because she was afraid it was poison), and so on. Small gasps were heard all around when Lerner said that she did not want a writer to report the exact number of words in their manuscript, and many of the participants laughed at their own past submission flops. The veteran agent had seen her fair share of both flops and successes, and was full of clever quips and sage advice. A few of the highlights:
Do not send an agent "cutesy stationary, lavender paper, paper with little flecks, or paper with ink blots."
Writers too often refer to their work as a "labor of love." This becomes tiresome. "If you wrote to me ‘This was a labor of agony,’ that would be interesting to me."
"Nonfiction is generally sold on the proposal, an annotated table of contents and a few sample chapters; it does not have to completed."
"There’s something about an agent to agent referral that always smells rotten." In other words, don’t mention your last agent in the letter.
"A bestseller is like a meteor – you can’t predict when it’s going to come or how hot it’s going to be."
Don’t compare your book to a contemporary bestseller – "think about a book people haven’t considered in a while."
"Everybody likes sympathetic characters. I don’t…even your lightly flawed characters are not enough…If you can create monsters that are sympathetic, that’s key."
"Go through your manuscript and highlight your similes – see what they’re doing – you can at least take the clichés out."
Another point that too many writers overlook is the importance of the title, Lerner said. Lerner admitted with a grin that she was, herself, pretty demanding when it came to things like book covers and titles, going so far as to take or rip the cover off if it doesn’t seem "aesthetically attached to the book." She then challenged the participants to throw out their own book titles and see what kind of reception they would get: "In this crowd?" joked one member to a round of laughter.
Too much alliteration in a title? Scrap it. Sounds to much like another popular novel or movie? Rework it. Vague or foreign-sounding and difficult to pronounce? Reconsider. Even Lighthouse Executive Director Mike Henry’s own working title for his poetry book, Down From Buffalo, was not met with approval: "It’s going to be considered too regional," Lerner said, conceding that the point was a marketing and not a literary one. But with all of Lerner’s sage, down-to-business advice for the participants, she admitted that most of her new clients came to her through referrals and from her own browsing through literary journals and papers: "Referrals are my bread and butter…almost everything I take on is not a blind query letter."
That said, honing query letters and sample pages of a book until they dazzle is that much more important. Acting out of some brave spasm of courage, two members at the end of the panel read from their own first pages to audience commentary. Their reception was warm. "I’m just stoked because usually when someone is brave enough to get up and read their stuff it sucks," said one sassy audience member.
The business panels were the kind of tough love that every hopeful writer must endure, both from the publishing world and from their peers. But Lerner reminded the audience that harsh criticism (though it can be necessary) or hard-and-fast rules from the publishing world don’t have to completely deter your writing spirit: "There are always exceptions to the rule…if you’re a creative writer, or, God Forbid, call yourself an artist, you’ve got to do the thing no one else does."
