A Pile of Sh*t

It was a writers’ conference.

I’d never even heard

of a writers’ conference,

but here it was.

In downtown St. Paul.

And we had just moved to Minnesota!

No matter that we were

on the other side of the Cities,

there was no question.

I had to attend.

I, a small-town girl

who had never driven in a big city,

who had no sense of direction,

who trembled when a semi

loomed in the next lane.

I, a small-town girl

who would have driven to the moon

to be with other writers.

And so I made my timorous way

across the Cities

and crept in among the writers,

accomplished all, I knew.

I even turned in

my just-completed draft

of Foster Child

to Maia Wojciechowska,

a Newbery medalist,

for a critique.

The next day I made the drive again,

a dream swirling in my brain.

When I walked into that conference,

people were going to be lined up,

lined up and whispering.

“There she is!” they would say.

“She’s the one Maia says

wrote that wonderful novel!”

When I arrived,

of course,

no one was lined up,

no one was whispering.

But the dream was durable.

It accompanied me

on the next morning’s drive.

And on the next.

Then on the second-to-last day,

I heard Maia in the hallway

returning a manuscript

to another writer.

“This is all a pile of sh*t!”

she shouted.

And my hopes,

my career,

my life

trembled at the lip of despair.

The dream was durable, though,

and it accompanied me still

on my last morning’s drive.

Though quietly,

very quietly.

Yet when I arrived,

nothing had changed.

No one lined up.

No one whispering.

And I knew

what my writing

was a pile of.

I found a seat in the back

for the opening session

and sank down

to listen.

What else was there to do?

I don’t remember a single thing

about that morning’s session

except for one final moment.

That was when Maia

took hold

of the mic.

“I’m sorry, Maia,” the moderator said.

“We’re out of time.”

“I can’t help it!” she snapped,

and everyone looked up,

waiting,

expectant.

I, waiting, too,

but without expectation.

“I’m so excited,” Maia said.

“I was kept awake last night.”

Her gaze traveled the room,

and we all waited some more.

Then came her announcement.

“Marion Dane Bauer,” she said,

“has written a novel

called Foster Child.

It’s good.

It’s

going

to

be

published!”

“Whatever comes to me from my writing,”

I told my family that evening,

“there will never be

another moment

as big as this one.”

And there never has been.

Because that was when I knew,

for the very first time,

that I could truly do

what I’d been born

to do.