Publications

A small sampling of books published by past participants:

Quotes & Articles

Stephen Grace

Tim Sandlin and the rest of the faculty at the Jackson Hole Writers Conference gave me the tools I needed to write publishable fiction and nonfiction, and they provided me with the confidence and inspiration necessary to pursue my goals as a writer. After attending my first Jackson Hole Writers Conference, a world of opportunity opened to me as an author.

Linda Jacobs, Las Cruces, NM

"It is impossible not to be inspired by the incomparable mountains setting and the intimate sense of community that makes this conference unique."

Ernest LaBelle, Arlington, VA

"The Jackson Hole Writers Conference has become a major reference point in my journey as a writer."

Janine Smith, Los Angeles, CA

"I ate barbecue with a famous author and editor under the fireworks on the mountain. What could be better?"

Ron Glazier, Irvine, CA

"The Jackson Hole Writers Conference gave me more inspiration and hands-on help to elevate my writing to the next level than any other class or conference I have attended."

Andrew Munz, Jackson, WY

"Having never been to a writers conference before, I didn’t know what to expect during the four days that I would be attending. I knew that there were going to be a variety of writers there, from published ones to those that still didn’t know what they were writing about. I was one of the latter. I had tried my hand at just about every genre I could think of; I thought up fantasy epics, murder plots, and simple family dramas, but never had the confidence or the determination to complete anything I’d set out to complete. I had dreams of being a novelist, but there was little motivation behind it; I didn’t know if I was writing something worth reading.

I was required to submit fifteen pages of my writing, and I ended up sending chapter one of a novel I was working on at that time entitled A Couple More Pages. I edited like crazy, and, after dropping off my manuscript, actually contemplated retrieving it and submitting something else. I spent a month in anticipation and fear, worried that those who would be critiquing my writing were, at that very moment, scoffing and tossing my sub-par chapter aside.

Arriving at the conference, I was admittedly scared. I was one of the youngest writers attending and to stand among adults who had spent decades pumping out novels and ideas was nothing less than terrifying. I braced myself for raised eyebrows, and remarks of “well, you’re definitely young…”

Conversing with the other attendees, I was surprised how helpful and supportive everyone was. It was interesting to hear about other writers’ troubles and difficulties, because they were dealing with the exact same issues I was running into. Character development. Plot structure. Descriptions. All of it. Suddenly I didn’t feel so insecure. It was then when I realized how many of us were at the conference to learn, and I immediately snapped out of my helpless-teenager mentality.

The panels were immensely remarkable; each published writer would recount their writing techniques and how to deal with common events like writers block and organization. The workshops also were fascinating—adding a bit more understanding and inquiry into the world of writing, publishing, and beyond.

The critiques that I had been dreading were beyond impressive. I received a great amount of tips and praise that I had not been expecting. To have real writers, agents, and editors look at your writing and give you honest, to-the-point feedback is nothing short of amazing.

All in all, I couldn’t believe how much confidence and determination the conference instilled in me. I met a lot of wonderful people who shared the same passions that I possess, and learned more than I could have had I just attended a creative writing course. In those four days, the unsure writer inside of me was dead, and I was anxious to continue, and eventually complete, my novel.

Though it was my first time attending the Jackson Hole Writers Conference, it certainly won’t be my last. I can’t wait to attend again next summer."

DC Stanfa, Cincinnati, OH

The gigantic mountains and pristine greenery surprised me, leaping out at me like 3D panoramic National Geographic photos. My expressive "ooh's" and "ah's" covered my secret embarrassment. I had no idea my trip to Jackson Hole, Wyoming would land me in the heart of the majestic Tetons and several national parks, including Yellowstone. It was a secret that I didn't think was necessary to share with Peter. This trip was so last-minute that I hadn't even looked at a map. I cut myself some slack; after all, the last geography class I'd had was in fifth grade. And although I consider myself fairly well-traveled, I'd last traversed the southeast corner of this state 25 years before, in the middle of the night on a Greyhound bus.

"I'm here for the writers conference. My name is Denise Stanfa. Actually, 'DC'," I said, remembering I'd made the reservation under my nickname, which is also my pen name.

My wit and senses had been sharpened by the altitude and clean mountain air, which was good, because selling corrugated boxes in the thick air of the flatlands for 20 years had dulled them a bit. The smart young clerk with excellent humor reflexes handed me the conference schedule, explaining that I was missing the first event, an author reading, which began at 7:00.

Even though it only took 15 minutes to change into jeans and re-apply makeup, it was almost 8:00. I grabbed a bottle of water off the nightstand, sat down on the bed, and perused the schedule. The annual Jackson Hole Writers Conference, sponsored by The University of Wyoming, was very ambitious in its tenth year: back-to-back panel discussions, workshops, speeches and readings by noted authors. The celebrity list included Warren Adler, who wrote The War of the Roses, Susan Isaacs, Olivia Goldsmith (First Wives Club), screen writers, a movie producer, and several agents and editors.

I was a little disappointed, both about missing the author reading and also by the fact that my bottled water hadn't changed into wine, which I'd fully expected it to do. So, in search of social activity and a cocktail, I hitched a ride with the hotel manager into town—a walkable distance, but it was getting dark and I had no idea where I was going. He dropped me off at The Million Dollar Cowboy Bar, saying it was "world famous." For what, he didn't say. It could have been bar fights, for all I knew.

Six bucks cover charge got me into a modern-day, Old West-style saloon, an authentic replica right down to the saddled bar stools. They were invented all the way back in the 1980s, during the first cowboy nostalgia craze of my lifetime. I was wishing I'd packed my Tony Llama boots from that era, as my toes were naked and vulnerable in my comfy black slides. Cowboy hats and belt buckles the size of meteorites déjà vu-ed me back to the six years I lived in Dallas.

I mosied up to the bar and climbed on a "stool," sidesaddle. The bartender noticeably winced when I ordered a Chardonnay. I noticeably winced back as I paid six bucks for a two-and-a-half ounce glass. I scoped the knobbled pine horizon and the dance floor for writer-looking types. I was thinking: wire-rimmed glasses, paper-white skin weathered by heavy smoking and alcohol. You know, Earth shoes instead of boots. While I didn't see or connect with any fellow writers, I did engage in conversation and took turns dancing with four young men from Georgia. Chivalrous and entertaining, they didn't flinch at paying six bucks a shot for my Chardonnay.

Early Friday morning, in a large meeting room, I finally met up with about 80 writers—who, as it turned out, were impossible to stereotype because they were quite diverse in appearance and demeanor. As different as Bobby Knight and Doris Day. (The truth is, you'll rarely find a writer who is as angry as Bobby Knight or as sweet as Doris Day. They are usually too exhausted to be either.) One noteworthy commonality was the obvious lack of designer clothing and expensive jewelry, with the exception of a few pairs of Birkenstock sandals.

As the panel discussion—"Does A Writer Need A Life?"—began, the consciousness of the room was elevated by the wit and wisdom of published authors on the panel. The coffee helped process it along. The three panelists gave brief autobiographies: each, armed with an undying passion to write, persevering through tremendous struggles and failures, prevailed against the odds of getting published and the even greater odds of making a decent living writing.

Tim Sandlin, author of Skipped Parts and four other novels, two of which were made into movies, admitted that he had washed dishes right there at the Snow King Resort before he eventually could make a living as a full-time writer. Bill Fitzhugh, a humor writer (same genre as me, I noted), author of Organ Grinders and Pest Control, told his incredible story. As a struggling scriptwriter in Hollywood, he and his partner tried for years to sell their movie and TV sitcom scripts, finding brief success as writers in the soon-to-be-canceled or never-to-be-aired, crazy world of sitcoms. Bill said Roseanne Barr's people actually rejected a spec script because it was "too funny."

Frustrated, he acted on some good advice and re-wrote the movie scripts into books. He received 136 rejection letters before he found an agent who sold his first book. Ironically, Bill's greatest success came when Warner Brothers bought the film rights to Pest Control for a cool million. They weren't really interested in his original script. They never even read it. "They'll hire somebody else to write it and the movie may or may not ever get made," Bill said. He'd received his money, regardless.

Further discussion about the painful process of writing opened the door to questions and comments from the audience. Jon Billman, author of When We Were Wolves said, "Building a universe can be exhausting." The unpublished were happy to discover that we were in miserable company with the published. Success apparently doesn't diminish the misery much, according to Tim Sandlin. "Writing is like performing an operation on yourself, without anesthetic," he said.

Discouraged by the harsh reality that a writer's life is hard and often desolate, but encouraged by the success of the panelists with whom we were bonding, my fellow writers and I seemed to form a new, supernatural writers' support group. I felt it. I was part of it. The isolation, the passion, the pain, the two-and-a-half years I had spent writing my book surely were proof that I could also succeed.