There were a couple of dozen people in front of the table, and five of us behind it. We sat in a conference room for an hour, the five of us talking, the others listening--a mutual agreement between both parties. We spoke and offered opinions. They listened and hopefully the time they spent was worth their time.
Five strangers.
The panel ended. I quickly said a few words to the other panelists--the ones closest to me--before those in the audience came and asked them a question or three. I would love to have gone into another room and just chatted over coffee (or perhaps another beverage...). Like those on the other side of the table, there were things I would love to glean from the fellow panelists, too.
"Let me give you my card," the panelist closest to me said as we stood and prepared to leave. "Thank you," I responded. And I meant it. This person has decades of experience in the industry. She's a star, someone us beginners and semi-beginners dream of one day meeting, let alone having a conversation.
I leave with a small piece of paper, printed on both sides. I slip it into my pocket, a memento? A promise? Maybe both...maybe neither.
After the panel, I left the conference for the day, answering the calls of other responsibilities. But when I got home, I took out the card. It's like getting a signature of a celebrity. There are people that have reached the upper echelons of the publishing industry. And those not living in that world surround them like moths to a flame, for they possess (or, we believe they possess...) something we want. They have power (or, we believe they do...).
The card is a symbol of that perceived power. If, in the future, we have a chance to work on a project, hopefully, we'll both remember the hour spent in a conference room discussing novels, marketing, agents, and other things in that world. And even if that doesn't happen, hopefully those behind the table felt being in that room together was worth our time as well.
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