On a whim, and because I'm wanting to get out and workshop a little, I signed up for a media bistro seminar on travel writing with the Globe's very perky David Abel (does he have those invisible braces?).  I've done a little freelancing on sex tourism in Eastern Europe for Genre, and am always looking for opportunities to write, but I'm not more interested in travel writing than any other kind. 

I was curious as to what one of media bistro's seminars was like, though, and figured if nothing else I'd get some inside poop on the Globe. 

I have to say, even without great expectations, I'd give the seminar mixed reviews.  But then I'm not straight (I'll explain in a minute).  As for the content of the seminar, Abel focused on process for the first half, with a feedback exercise that could have been trimmed down by pre-assigning a brief writing exercise rather than taking class time for it. 

I write almost exclusively in the morning, and by 3 p.m. what wit and charm I have at my disposal has all dried up.  I also write exclusively by keyboard.  This may seem like carping, but, honestly:  I can't even read my own handwriting.  So the in-class writing exercise was utterly wasted on me. 

Process is also something each writer arrives at in his own way, and is inseparable from his own distinct voice.  I don't speak like I write.  And I can't just write on command. This "dance, monkey!" business doesn't work for me. It's not like I light incense and put on sitar music and tie myself in knots. I don't have any weird rituals, but I have to say I do my best writing with my dick out.  So, again, I had to pass on this part.

Abel is a charming guy, but he does have a way of not giving you two examples when twelve will do.  His stories were fun and interesting, but I couldn't help but come away feeling like for some aspiring writers each anecdote was a little twist of the knife.  He was killing us softly with his song. 

Truth is the secret to success is secret for a reason. You could take a million such seminars and courses and never grasp the je ne sais quoi — not to mention the wu wei — of it all.  Abel was sensitive to the desperation of the great unpublished masses, but the simple fact of the matter is: writing to publish is a relationship.  It's social.  Most writers — or those who fancy themselves writers — are not.

The combination of the native awkwardness of writerly types and the sheer desperation of a gathering of them can definitely work to your advantage, though.  If you can get past the slightly acrid scent of futility in the room — it's something akin to what I imagine an Enzite Convention smells like — and you are a young, or even youngish straight male without a debilitating speech impediment, travel writing seminars could be the perfect place to meet chicks. 

Now, I haven't been to too many of these, but as expected, the girls outnumbered the guys, like, 3 to 1.  That's first of all.  Second: the girls were, on the whole, about half the age of the guys.  I was the youngest guy, aside from Abel, who looked to be around twelve (again — invisible braces?), and the other three men all had a minimum of ten years on me, and all had speech impediments.  Easy pickings, brohams.

The ladies, on the other hand, were all cute (except for one).  Nobody was covered in cat hairs (except the one).  And there was actually a hottie or two in the house.  Even the more cougary among them, who was probably in her forties — looked like she could get pretty freaky after a bananas foster martini or two.  Her toenails were freshly painted blood red — rrrowwrrrr! 

The youngest had just graduated from high school, and compared all travel destinations to Disney cartoons.  Perfect.  Drop by Blockbuster on your way back to your place and pick up Aladdin and a jug of popcorn — et voilà!  The elusive seven dollar "date".   

There was every flavor, boys.  You had a couple of geek girls (possible lesbian leanings, but nothing militant, except for one).  One of those tomboyish types who likes to hang out with the boys down the pub (great for NSA romps after a Sox game).  A young clueless one — one of those worshipful types who took, like, forty pages of notes, writing down word for word every word Abel uttered. 

And presumably Abel himself would not be competition, as he mentioned a girlfriend.  (But as of yet no ring, so just keep your eye on him.  He could be a slippery one — those invisible braces, y'know?) 

There's only one hitch: it will cost you a cool sixty-five bucks (although Abel had received the wrong attendance sheet, so you could have snuck in under the radar last night).  Still, if you worked the room, you could definitely get your money's worth.