I’ve been attending writer’s conferences for many years and have learned something new and valuable at each of them, but my experience at a particular conference taught me a lesson I’ll never forget.

It took place on a warm weekend in spring. Madison was alive with students who welcomed the weather in shorts. Shirtless joggers passed hand-holding couples in a snake-like dance on the sidewalks, and keg parties spilled out onto the scruffy lawns of student flats and apartments, day and night. 

The writers met in the lower level of the Lowell Center, and I was late. I said “hello” to the folks at the coffee urn, but couldn’t take my eyes off the woman at the left of the U-shaped table arrangement. She was exotic.

I took the chair next to her, pushed the tote bag in front of me to the left and sputtered some clumsy introduction while staring at the jewel on her forehead. Her name was Sahli, but because of her accent I called her Sally until I noticed her nametag later that day.

An offended writer interrupted us and complained that I stole his chair. He gave me a doubtful look when I apologized by explaining that I was Sally’s interpreter, and treated me indifferently for the remainder of the conference. I didn’t care. It was Sahli who I was interested in. I’ll snap at every opportunity to observe and talk with an exotic person – probably because I’m a writer, but I’m nosy, too.

Sally, I mean Sahli, was absolutely charming and she looked angelic in her sari. The light fabric fluttered behind her while we walked along State Street to lunch. I learned that she was originally from Pondicherry, India, but her home was with her parents in the suburbs of Philadelphia. She was visiting friends and would be going home soon.

Sahli was a quiet woman who seemed genuinely interested in my passion for writing UFO-related fantasies. She had spectacular big dark eyes and stared at me while I shared my theory and research into the use of tinfoil caps as either conduits for, or screens from, extraterrestrial mind probes. I read her my latest short story, too – The one that ends with the kid who saves Earth from a certain alien victory by tugging on the hem of a general’s jacket. The kid says, “Why don’t you try throwing water on them?”

The following day, Sahli’s chair was empty. She was gone. I learned that she never signed up for the conference. She just sat in for the previous day and no one seemed to know how to get in touch with her. Sahli remained an exotic mystery and I went back to my life.

Last year I passed a newsstand and a young East Indian man stared at me from the cover of Newsweek. He had those same spectacular dark eyes, like Sahli. It was a photo of M. Night Shyamalan and the headline claimed him to be Hollywood’s Hottest New Storyteller. Shyamalan had created the films Sixth Sense and Unbreakable. The multi-page article included stills from his new movie, Signs – the one where water kills the aliens. I nearly cried when I turned to a photo of kids wearing tinfoil caps on page fifty-three.

Where does Shyamalan live? Did you guess Philadelphia? You’re correct. And he was born in Pondicherry, India. How’s that for a coincidence?

I started this article stating that I learned a valuable lesson from all this. And I guess you’ve already figured it out.

Always be leery of exotic strangers at writer’s conferences because they could actually be Hollywood writer-producers who dress in drag, charm you, make you buy them lunch and dinner, and then steal the best of your ideas to make multi-million dollar movies.

 (Originally published July 22, 2003)