The time I gave a talk called 'Your Career as a Writer.'

What Happened When I Showed Up at a University Career Day

During the seemingly endless and frequently solitary writing and re-writing process, every writer dreams of some kind of acknowledgment in which their work is enthusiastically received by a crowd of appealing and fascinating people they would be honored to call their friends.

Here’s what a writer is not envisioning: pulling up to a completely deserted parking lot, then gingerly tip-toeing thru a venue so empty it looks like an abandoned ghost town from which the entire population recently fled the ravages of the dust bowl. I am thinking now of a book signing in the early 2000’s that was not only attended by no one but left me ducking air-born tumbleweed as I headed past a table stacked with my books that was also decorated by an enormous sign bearing my name. I headed, instead, for the back side of a bookshelf where I could cower, unobserved, while I decided which of the various excuses I could offer the book store owner to be allowed to leave the premises immediately. As I saw it, my choices were 1. a sudden onset of the flu, 2. a sudden death in the family, or 3. a sudden onset of the flu due to a sudden death from the flu in the family. 

Since that day, the fear of living through that kind of utter mortification again has continued to burn so brightly inside me that whenever I was asked to appear somewhere, it was an easy no-brainer to spare myself the agony and say no. And that solution had been working out just fine until the day that there was a request for my services that also included a paycheck big enough to cover my mortgage for three months.

That, in a nutshell, was the reason I found myself headed to a college Career Day Fair in Lafayette, Louisiana, sponsored by a deodorant, a woman's magazine and a line of cosmetics.

After many changes of plane, I was greeted at the gate of a very small airport by a ruddy guy who looked like he'd spent the morning racing speed boats. He was dressed in a green sportswear ensemble, each piece emblazoned with a logo endorsing a different kind of beer. He lead me to a stretch limo the size of a city block. Instantly I decided to sit beside him in the front seat, the better to wrest control of the steering wheel should his morning of sun and suds cause any sudden veering in to oncoming traffic.

“So! A career day fair!” I said, cheerfully, hoping to hear some good news,” How’s it all going?”

"Yesterday we had a dude from MTV," he nodded, clearly pleased with himself as we drove past endless mangrove swamps, "We had a pretty good turn out for that one… I forget what her name was."

"What other events do you have scheduled?" I asked.

"I heard there's a big astrology tent." He said, "I might stop by later."

During the twenty minutes of silent driving that followed, I tried to make good use of my time by shuffling through the note cards full of bullet points I had brought along to use in my speech. I'd been told that a simple Q and A would be sufficient. But because I’m an over-achiever, I had made a list of things I wanted young writers to know. First, I would try to fan the flames of their passion for writing by underlining the need for telling the truth about life as they experienced it. Then I would move on to thoughts about why, if you really wanted to write, you had to figure out ways around all the obstacles that might discourage you. I’d throw in that great thing Kurt Vonnegut said about how “We are what we pretend to be, so we must be careful about what we pretend to be.” Plus definitely quote Mark Twain on how successful books are made out of what's left out. After that, we would do Q and A.

When the car finally lurched to a stop, and I opened the door, I found myself looking up into the stunned faces of students hanging out by the campus activity center. One and all were now staring slack-jawed at the biggest limo in the world as it tried to parallel park. I watched intently as their interested expressions turn from mild disappointment to bewildered contempt when I, not Beyonce or Taylor Swift, emerged from the front, not the back, seat.

"In there," said my driver, pointing toward a generic looking building. A small hand-written sign taped to the front said ‘Career Fair’. I pushed through large glass doors into a big open room that reminded me of what they called 'the cafetorium' at my grade school, though I don't recall my grade school cafetorium ever having an enormous cauldron of Soft and Dry deodorant samples and a sign that said "Free! Help Yourself!"

 Just a few feet beyond that anti-perspirant buffet was a spectacle that will forever haunt my dreams: hundreds of rows of molded grey plastic chairs, newly set up, all facing the same direction, all empty. At the far end of the room, a small stage was decorated with an easel that held a photo blow up of a Cosmopolitan magazine cover. Above it was an enormous banner that said "Soft and Dry." And there, on the apron of the stage, was a gigantic gift basket, topped off with a big ribbon and overflowing with Avon products: moisturizers, cleansers, fragrances, shampoos, conditioners.

A wave of nausea hit as I realized how badly I had let down the people who hired me. Because they were expecting me to fill these empty seats, they were not only paying me a nice amount, but they had gone the extra mile and gotten me a gift basket. However mortified I had been at the abandoned book store signing, that amount was now doubled. I was very ashamed.

With still a half hour to go until my talk, I was utterly fixated on the thunderous sound of that empty room. I stood frozen, almost paralyzed. Then I sat down in the front row of that god forsaken, uninhabited seating area and pretended to read a career day brochure. A hopeful voice inside me reminded me about the hectic pace of college life. ‘Students always show up late for everything!’, it tried to comfort me. And that made me feel a little bit better for about a minute, until a murkier and smarter voice countered with ‘Doesn’t someone always show up early if there's going to be a crowd?’

"We're going to start in a minute," someone whispered in my ear. I looked up and saw my driver, Mr. Beer-Logo-Ensemble, making a surprise reappearance as the Career Day Fair Liason and MC. By now I was wondering what constituted the minimum definition of an audience. In other words, if it was only Mr. Beer-Logo Ensemble, did I still have to deliver my talk? Or could I acquit myself by offering to buy him a hot cup of beer?

And then, only moments before I was set to begin, I heard some footsteps entering the room. At first I was afraid to turn my head and survey my fate. But I pushed thru that fear and saw that a couple of people had showed up. There were now eight girls, bobbing in that sea of chairs. True, eight was still a very small crowd. But, I reminded myself, these were eight girls who cared enough about becoming writers to attend! Eight future writers who deserved to be encouraged, perhaps a young Eudora Welty or Harper Lee among them!

So, summoning a sense of purpose and dignity, I strode to the front of that empty room and mounted the stage. I was determined to make a difference in these young lives.

“You know what?” I said, dispensing with formality and coming down from the stage, “How about if we move our chairs into a circle and just use this time to talk about whatever you want!" The girls obeyed and the room came alive with the sound of chairs scraping the floor as they moved into a semi-circle around me. No one said a word. Everyone remained silent.

After we had successfully regrouped so that we now had the look of a college seminar, I took out my note cards. I decided to open with some encouraging remarks about choosing a life based on communicating through careful word choices. “It can be a challenging way to earn a living,”I admitted up front, hopefully with the right amount of humility, “but if writing is what you want to do, then I’m here to tell you to go for it. Ignore the depressing statistics. Follow your dream!”

A heavy set girl, sitting across from me, raised her hand. “Yes?”I said, “You have a question?”

"When is the drawing for the Avon basket?" she asked.

Hearing that, Mr. Beer-Logo-Ensemble raced to my side and yanked the mic out of my hand. (Not that a mic was needed to address eight quiet people. Perhaps he’d partaken of a few more brews while he waited around.) "The drawing for the gift basket is not going to take place until after Miss Markoe has finished speaking," he boomed, unable to disguise his irritation. By the time he handed the mic back to me, I had carefully scrutinized the faces of all eight girls in my tiny audience. I now viewed them all with suspicion.

"Any other questions?" I asked, nervously. Another hand went up. I looked at her expectantly, hoping to be thrown an eleventh inning curve ball.

"I'd like some information about moisturizers and cleansers." said the second girl.

"Cleansers and moisturizers? Okay! "I said, buying myself a little time while I did a fast re-calibration of the premise of my lecture. At the same time, I also began planning the food and drink I would order from room service the minute I escaped back to the sanctuary of my hotel room.

"Well, “ I said, “I can honestly say that I am in favor of both. Moisturizers and cleansers each have their place. But I always think back to the wise words of I believe it was Mark Twain who famously said "Cleanse first, moisturize later.” Anything else?"

No one stirred.

"Okay, then let's get to that gift basket drawing!" I said to a very nice round of applause.