Karen Spears Zacharias @ New Orleans, pt. 2

(The second of two dispatches from the author of Hero Mama on her latest literary excursion, the New Orleans Writers' Conference...)

I passed up the opportunity to have my palm, tealeaves and tarot cards read, figuring that the element of surprise is the most pleasurable part of writing and the writer's life. But the New Orleans Writers Conference was a good place to learn some techniques about how to prepare oneself for the unexpected, like that moment when some editor asks to see a completed manuscript.

That happened to attendee Robert Foote. He pitched his idea to an editor, who read and loved the first fifteen pages then asked to see the completed work. Equipped with more than just an idea for a book, Robert happened to have an entire manuscript, which he'd fortuitously packed along.

Tom Reiss, author of The Orientalist, said he had been preparing to write his book ever since he decided at age seven that he wanted to be a writer. Tom grew up hearing his mother's stories about World War II, and how it had left his French-born and bred mother a war orphan. There is really no scripted way to prepare oneself to be a writer, noted Tom Piazza, author of My Cold War. Piazza said that while some writers rely on outlines, or know ahead of time where the plot will lead them, he relies on the characters to lead him. He added that to him, shoving characters into a constructed plot felt like an act of violence.

The common tourist ailment known as overeating could lead to an act of violence upon the digestive tract. While the menu at Mr. B's was tempting, I settled for a bowl of gumbo soup Roy Blount Jr. entertained me and Piazza's partner, Mary, with his sardonic wit while trying to come up with something witty for a commencement speech he was due to give. (i suggested the best thing would be to deliver his speech in blog format.) Following dinner, a street quartet serenaded Mary, with the soulful "Only You."

(Editor's note before we go on: I can personally attest to the enjoyability of The Orientalist, and I've been looking forward to My Cold War for a while now...OK, back to Karen.)

Friday morning got off to a whirlwind. I sat on two panels, the first moderated by the delightful Ted Gideonse from the Ann Rittenberg Literary Agency, who showed up wearing a pink shirt. I'd heard Matt Lauer describe pink as the new men's color. It certainly was charming on Ted. Joining me on the nonfiction panel was the lovely Eleni N. Gage, author of North of Ithaka. Ted began the session by noting that Gage is Greek, while I'm married to a man of Greek descent, and Tom Reiss had been to Greece. Thus, putting us all on a level playing field.

I was tickled pink that people showed up for our panel because downstairs ,Carl Lennertz, author of Cursed by a Happy Childhood, was moderating a panel on humor with Roy Blount Jr. and Julia Reed. Nonetheless, our audience indulged in a few guffaws themselves. Afterwards, one fella approached me and said, "I don't mean this to be unflattering. I mean, you are much prettier in every way, but has anyone ever told you that you remind them of Roseanne Barr?"

"No," I replied. "But I've often thought we shared the same chubby cheeks." I wished we shared the same bank account.

My next panel was moderated by the multi-talented Ken Wells, who besides being prolific (he once wrote a novel in twenty days) is also a member of a Swamp funk band with his two brothers. Julia Reed and I were paired up with Burt Solomon (The Washington Century) and John M. Barry (The Great Influenza). I was so intimidated by the lineup that I introduced myself as a reporter for the National Enquirer. That sounded so much more legitimate than saying I'm the mother of four kids and often referred to as "the Erma Bombeck from Hell." Julia kept things spiced up with her tales of murder and mayhem and Mississippi politics, which come to think of it is somewhat redundant.

Ken Wells and I joined the crowd for lunch. Linda Ellerbee was the featured speaker. She spoke about her journey to being sixty and the trek she made to the ocean to celebrate. She spoke of the husband who abandoned her in Alaska, the AP job she lost after badmouthing her boss in a letter that inadverntly ended up on the newswire, and how the death of Julia Childs, with whom she shared her birthday, caused her to reassess her own life.

I was so struck by her message that I autographed and gave to her the only copy of Hero Mama that I had with me.

"Your story of survival mirrors my mother's in many ways," I said. "I wanted to give you a copy of my mother's story." Thanking me, Ms. Ellerbee said, "Well, then, I bet your mother would love a copy of my book."

There was a heavy pause in the air. Was she offering a book for Mama or chiding me for not buying hers? I'm still not sure, but I think it was the latter, since she pushed aside the gift I'd just handed her and continued to autograph stock, without looking up.

Saturday morning I had breakfast with Captain Mike Howell, the one-armed captain of the Mañana, docked here in New Orleans. He was the man who rescued the family of Mirta Ojito, which she writes about in her memoir, Finding Mañana. (Mirta and I met during the Jacksonville's Much Ado About Books festival.)

We were sitting at the counter at Russell's, down near the docks, enjoying our coffee and conversation, when some beefy-armed fellow in a white starched shirt and jeans turned from his seat next to Mike and asked, "Is this a first date or something?" Then he grabbed his newspaper and stalked off to another chair down the counter. I was so pissed. I wanted to storm over to the fellow and give him a lecture about what it means for a veteran who almost bled to death in Vietnam to meet with the daughter of a man who did. I wanted to give him a good tongue-lashing about respecting other people and particularly men like Mike, who gave up their youth for their country, simply because they were asked to.

But I knew it would be a waste of good oxygen on such a dull mind. So I muttered my complaints to Mike, and then noticed that the rude rascal had left his car keys on the counter next to Mike's coffee cup.

If he's still looking for them, they are probably still in the planter outside Russell's.

New Orleans is a town full of delightful mischief. I'll be back first chance I get.