A Jackson Holy Experience

by DC Stanfa

Grand Tetons, Wyoming, USA

The plane arrived on time, my luggage was accounted for, and it was intact. Three miracles, given my typical travel experience and the Delta pilot slowdown still affecting flights in June.

When the van driver was at baggage claim waiting for me, I took it as another sign from God that my impulsive decision to take the trip was in alignment with the planets and His will. (During moments like this I tend to forget about war and famine and the breadth of His job.) I've been known to chalk up finding just that "right" pair of shoes to divine intervention—and to call it more proof that "He" is a woman. Always helping me pick the right shoes and the wrong men. Hard to believe it's been two decades since I read a Shirley MacLaine book, isn't it?

In fact, the only brief delay was a traffic jam, Wyoming-style. Peter, the van driver for the Snow King Resort, explained that cars were slowing and pulling over to get a closer look at wildlife. "Five cars is usually an elk sighting, seven or more means it's probably a bear or moose jam." Sure enough, as we passed I saw Bullwinkle pull a rabbit out of his hat. Not really, but I did get a glimpse of an antler.

The gigantic mountains and pristine greenery surprised me, leaping out at me like 3D panoramic National Geographic photos. My expressive "ooh's" and "ah's" covered my secret embarrassment. I had no idea my trip to Jackson Hole, Wyoming would land me in the heart of the majestic Tetons and several national parks, including Yellowstone. It was a secret that I didn't think was necessary to share with Peter. This trip was so last-minute that I hadn't even looked at a map. I cut myself some slack; after all, the last geography class I'd had was in fifth grade. And although I consider myself fairly well-traveled, I'd last traversed the southeast corner of this state 25 years before, in the middle of the night on a Greyhound bus.

"I'm here for the writers conference. My name is Denise Stanfa. Actually, 'DC'," I said, remembering I'd made the reservation under my nickname, which is also my pen name.

When the desk clerk found my reservation without having me re-spell my name five times and without consulting a manager, I pronounced it Miracle Number Five and looked around the lobby for multiplying loaves and fishes.

"Would you like to put any additional charges you incur during your stay on the same credit card you guaranteed your room with?" asked the friendly yet thorough clerk. "Sure," I answered. "I'll still need to make an impression," he said. "Well, then, you'll have to try a little harder," I chuckled, as I slid him my Visa. He laughed along with me. He'd gotten the joke.

'Wit and Senses Sharpened'

My wit and senses had been sharpened by the altitude and clean mountain air, which was good, because selling corrugated boxes in the thick air of the flatlands for 20 years had dulled them a bit. The smart young clerk with excellent humor reflexes handed me the conference schedule, explaining that I was missing the first event, an author reading, which began at 7:00.

Even though it only took 15 minutes to change into jeans and re-apply makeup, it was almost 8:00. I grabbed a bottle of water off the nightstand, sat down on the bed, and perused the schedule. The annual Jackson Hole Writers Conference, sponsored by The University of Wyoming, was very ambitious in its tenth year: back-to-back panel discussions, workshops, speeches and readings by noted authors. The celebrity list included Warren Adler, who wrote The War of the Roses, Susan Isaacs, Olivia Goldsmith (First Wives Club), screen writers, a movie producer, and several agents and editors.

I was a little disappointed, both about missing the author reading and also by the fact that my bottled water hadn't changed into wine, which I'd fully expected it to do. So, in search of social activity and a cocktail, I hitched a ride with the hotel manager into town—a walkable distance, but it was getting dark and I had no idea where I was going. He dropped me off at The Million Dollar Cowboy Bar, saying it was "world famous." For what, he didn't say. It could have been bar fights, for all I knew.

Six bucks cover charge got me into a modern-day, Old West-style saloon, an authentic replica right down to the saddled bar stools. They were invented all the way back in the 1980s, during the first cowboy nostalgia craze of my lifetime. I was wishing I'd packed my Tony Llama boots from that era, as my toes were naked and vulnerable in my comfy black slides. Cowboy hats and belt buckles the size of meteorites déjà vu-ed me back to the six years I lived in Dallas.

I mosied up to the bar and climbed on a "stool," sidesaddle. The bartender noticeably winced when I ordered a Chardonnay. I noticeably winced back as I paid six bucks for a two-and-a-half ounce glass. I scoped the knobbled pine horizon and the dance floor for writer-looking types. I was thinking: wire-rimmed glasses, paper-white skin weathered by heavy smoking and alcohol. You know, Earth shoes instead of boots. While I didn't see or connect with any fellow writers, I did engage in conversation and took turns dancing with four young men from Georgia. Chivalrous and entertaining, they didn't flinch at paying six bucks a shot for my Chardonnay.

Early Friday morning, in a large meeting room, I finally met up with about 80 writers—who, as it turned out, were impossible to stereotype because they were quite diverse in appearance and demeanor. As different as Bobby Knight and Doris Day. (The truth is, you'll rarely find a writer who is as angry as Bobby Knight or as sweet as Doris Day. They are usually too exhausted to be either.) One noteworthy commonality was the obvious lack of designer clothing and expensive jewelry, with the exception of a few pairs of Birkenstock sandals.

"Does A Writer Need A Life?"

As the panel discussion—"Does A Writer Need A Life?"—began, the consciousness of the room was elevated by the wit and wisdom of published authors on the panel. The coffee helped process it along. The three panelists gave brief autobiographies: each, armed with an undying passion to write, persevering through tremendous struggles and failures, prevailed against the odds of getting published and the even greater odds of making a decent living writing.

Tim Sandlin, author of Skipped Parts and four other novels, two of which were made into movies, admitted that he had washed dishes right there at the Snow King Resort before he eventually could make a living as a full-time writer. Bill Fitzhugh, a humor writer (same genre as me, I noted), author of Organ Grinders and Pest Control, told his incredible story. As a struggling scriptwriter in Hollywood, he and his partner tried for years to sell their movie and TV sitcom scripts, finding brief success as writers in the soon-to-be-canceled or never-to-be-aired, crazy world of sitcoms. Bill said Roseanne Barr's people actually rejected a spec script because it was "too funny."

Frustrated, he acted on some good advice and re-wrote the movie scripts into books. He received 136 rejection letters before he found an agent who sold his first book. Ironically, Bill's greatest success came when Warner Brothers bought the film rights to Pest Control for a cool million. They weren't really interested in his original script. They never even read it. "They'll hire somebody else to write it and the movie may or may not ever get made," Bill said. He'd received his money, regardless.

Further discussion about the painful process of writing opened the door to questions and comments from the audience. Jon Billman, author of When We Were Wolves said, "Building a universe can be exhausting." The unpublished were happy to discover that we were in miserable company with the published. Success apparently doesn't diminish the misery much, according to Tim Sandlin. "Writing is like performing an operation on yourself, without anesthetic," he said.

Discouraged by the harsh reality that a writer's life is hard and often desolate, but encouraged by the success of the panelists with whom we were bonding, my fellow writers and I seemed to form a new, supernatural writers' support group. I felt it. I was part of it. The isolation, the passion, the pain, the two-and-a-half years I had spent writing my book surely were proof that I could also succeed.

"Marry Well"

The last comments from the panelists lowered my fervidity a few degrees. Tim said, "Every year only 1,000 new authors get published, and only around 10 percent of those will ever publish another book." Bill's comment was a simple piece of advice: "Marry well. I did." I hadn't married well or divorced well, but I did have a good day-job, I thought.

During the buffet lunch I re-read the mental note I had made regarding Bill. Before I could stop myself, my sales instincts and the supernatural buzz of this Jackson Holy experience propelled me. Bill was chewing a bite of chicken-Caesar salad when I approached. "I was wondering if you might let me buy you dinner tonight, and in exchange I could pick your brain a bit. I'm an unpublished humor writer," I said. "Uh, isn't there a planned dinner for the group?" "Not according to the schedule," I assured him. As he looked around for an exit sign I added, "Feel free to bring your wife or a friend." We agreed to meet in the lobby at 6:30. As I retreated, Bill was probably making his own mental note: in future, have a prefabricated excuse ready for shameless opportunists.

Conclusion—»