Reflections on Community, Courage, and the Unexpected Magic of Showing Up
By Guest Contributor, Jay VanLandingham.
“A rising tide lifts all boats.”
-John F. Kennedy
Imaginarium Convention 2025:
Let me tell you a story about my first writer’s convention. The Imaginarium Convention, which
takes place every third weekend in July in Louisville, KY:
DAY ONE
I arrived at the Holiday Inn on Thursday evening after a two-hour drive from Cincinnati. As soon as I walked in, the rows of tables dressed in black cloth greeted me. I was excited to discover that my table was the very first one people encountered as they entered (or exited) the hotel.
A man at the booth beside me was in the process of setting up. He introduced himself immediately and told me this was “prime real estate” for our booths. We became instant friends.
DAY TWO
The convention officially began at noon on Friday. I had two hours to network and get acclimated before my scheduled workshop. The grand hallway was lined with tables and elaborate decor: steampunk, book displays, creepy clowns, and plenty of cosplay.
This convention had it all—writers, a film festival, cosplay contests, workshops, panels, and awards. Having never been immersed in the cosplay community, I found it welcoming, open, generous, and full of enigmatic people who could express themselves freely.
I was in my element.
I came to this convention with the intention of networking and making new friends. It wasn’t about selling books—it was about
relationship and community. Writing is an insular experience. And the life of an author can be isolating. Community support is vital to the success of an author, especially for those of us who hope to flourish in this career over the long run. I was pleased to discover that my booth neighbors were queer allies. In my experience, the writing community tends to lean liberal, and these spaces are often queer-friendly. There’s nothing quite as joyful as seeing others in their element—whether dressed head-to-toe in steampunk garb, wearing elven ears, or donning elaborate period costumes. I’d never been part of something quite like this, and this is where the gratitude began.
This was a weekend of firsts. I gave a workshop titled Writing for Change: Weaving Social Justice into Fiction with Care and Impact. I had a wonderful time talking with participants about writing stories that tackle social justice issues—without becoming preachy. Again, I was in my
element.
Immediately after the workshop, someone approached me and said they had worked at Farm Sanctuary and were “good friends” with Gene Baur. Another participant owned a publishing company. His wife ended up buying the entire Sentient series for her son-in-law—serendipitously, he had asked for eco-dystopian fiction for Christmas. And he’s also vegan.
Connection is everything.
Later, I sat in on a panel about literary fiction. Honestly, I didn’t feel particularly confident walking in. I’ve written literary fiction—mostly shorter works. Literary fiction was my entry point into writing, twenty years ago during my undergrad at NKU. But the other writers, along with the panel moderator, were kind and down-to-earth. I felt comfortable chiming in and speaking about what I know best—metaphor. By the end of the day, I was having dinner with author friends at a delicious Ethiopian restaurant in Louisville.
Being surrounded by other writers felt like being home. I don’t know how else to describe it. Maybe it’s the community that’s been cultivated over the twelve years since Imaginarium’s inception, but as one writer put it: “This conference is like family.” You could feel that energy in the room. It was palpable. The more I immersed myself in the weekend, the deeper the kinship I felt—akin to the connection I experience in queer and vegan spaces. A sense that “we are all in this together.”
Non-competitive. Collaborative. Supportive. Generous.
DAY THREE
By Saturday, I felt as much a part of the family as one can after just a few days among strangers. I spent the day chatting with my booth neighbors, who I discovered were members of the Disciples of Christ church. (ASIDE: I belonged to the Disciples of Christ for about twenty
years—and my mom still does.) I enjoyed the costumes, the networking, and the conversations that seemed random—but
weren’t. I sold a few books. And because I felt so comfortable—because the community had created this sense that I could do just about anything—I decided, on a whim, to participate in a “Pitch to an Agent” workshop.
Yep. That’s right. I pitched my new novel to an agent.
In all my years of dreaming about being an author, one of those dreams included the experience of having an agent. Not for accolades or ego, per se, but for the pure human experience of being a writer who is agented. I get one life on this earth—as a human, anyway—and I want to
experience as much as I can. Pitching to an agent isn’t an opportunity many writers have, let alone take. The agent liked my story idea—but with a caveat. She suggested changes that would have fundamentally altered the vision I have for the novel, and not in a way I could embrace. Simply
put, we weren’t a fit. She looked at me and asked, honestly, if I could see myself making those changes. I told her I couldn’t. She respected that. She reminded me—rightly—that I’m the author, and that staying true to the story must come first. She gave me her contact info in case I ever change my mind, and I genuinely appreciated the opportunity. If I do decide to pursue an agent, I trust the right one will emerge.
DAY FOUR
Here I sit, at 1pm on Sunday, as the convention gradually winds down. A generous, burly writer who refers to himself as “Viking” offers me a free copy of his book. We had spoken the day before while waiting to pitch to the agent. I found him to be a sweet spirit, and his gift was more
than welcome. A workshop attendee stops by and purchases the trilogy. I sign them for her. People come and go, packing up, making their final rounds. My friendly neighbors are gone, and I admit—I miss them. A gentle reminder of how lonely the writing life, or any creative pursuit, can sometimes feel.
Later, another participant from my workshop stops by. She’s in full cosplay: elven ears, a flowing dress. She thanks me, says the workshop was very “relevant.” Everyone has been so kind. Being located by the front door means I get to see everyone as they come and go. Most wave,
say hello or goodbye. Some know me by name.
It feels intimate. Open. I feel comfortable.
Stronger Together.
It’s Wednesday. I’m sitting here editing this article, still riding the wave of the convention. Making connections. Following new author friends on social and Substack. I feel at ease. A strong sense of connection, even while being out here on my own. I think of how newly planted trees settle—how their roots dig in, searching and stretching into new soil. That’s how I feel. Rooted.
This is the beginning of a new writing community. One where I can give and receive support.
Go find your community. It’s out there, waiting for you.
Jay VanLandingham is the author of the Sentient Dystopian/YA trilogy, and other works. You can
follow Jay on Instagram, Substack, or via his website at www.jayvanlandingham.com