You guys,
For our five year anniversary my husband took me to Capital Camp.
Sam had attended this investing conference for three years in a row and always came home invigorated, exhausted, and full of stories and new connections. “You gotta come,” he said over and over. So this year I did.
As the plane descends into Columbia, Missouri, Sam says he wants to introduce me as my real name at the dinner this evening because it doesn’t feel authentic to introduce his wife as Charlie.
But I’m Charlie Bleecker here, I tell him. This is my moment. I even have a name tag.
There’s no more time to talk about it. We’re exiting the plane with a bunch of Capital Campers and everything is hush-hush, then we’re getting in our Uber, then someone’s climbing in with us.
The man turns around from the passenger seat and shakes hands with Sam, then turns to me and introduces himself.
“I’m… well…” I start. My eyes dart from him to Sam. “I write under a pseudonym and I thought I was introducing myself as Charlie but now I don’t know.”
That evening I smile and nod at conversations I don’t understand.
Person A: “They’re near a billion AUM, we’re only at seventy.”
Person B: “Well I’m at five, so…”
Both: *laughter*
Me: *delayed laughter*
There are other conversations, of course. My name tag says, Charlie Bleecker, Memoir Snob, which is a great opener for me to talk about writing, podcasting, and my book. Almost everyone I mention it to says, “Have you talked to Greg yet?”
I have not talked to Greg yet. I see him around but he’s always in conversation, probably because he’s one of the cool kids.
There are a lot of cool kids at camp. These are the people you recognize from Twitter with big audiences and impressive resumes and a kind of aura around them like they have figured it all out. I cannot not bring myself to approach Greg because I feel like I’m in high school approaching a guy I have a crush on in the cafeteria and everyone is absolutely watching me as I do it. So I see him and think about approaching but don’t. I gather my things—backpack stuffed with free snacks and my second vanilla sage iced latte of the day in hand—and walk back to my hotel room.
And what do you know, I see Greg approaching. He’s alone and we’re going to pass each other on the street. I say hello as natural as can be. He’s carrying a huge plastic bin and sets it on the sidewalk and looks me in the eyes and even though he’s on his way to present at one of the events he makes me feel as if he’s got all the time in the world.
A couple hours later we sit on a couch in the atrium, which is the hangout space at Capital Camp where they have coffee, snacks, lunch, live music, and comfortable seating. It’s loud and crowded and thrilling to be in a shared space with so many ambitious people.
The first thing I tell Greg when he asks why I want to write a book is that I’ve always wanted to be famous. I talk about fame for a weirdly long time and finally add something like, “And of course, I want to help people.”
About twenty minutes into our conversation Greg says, “We’ve been talking for a while now and you haven’t even said what your book is about.”
“Oh,” I reply. “Do you want to hear what it’s about?”
Later he makes a joke about how I’m not taking any notes. I think it’s a joke. Is it?
I will wonder about this for the rest of Capital Camp.
Every time I turn around I’m in a new stimulating conversation with a new interesting person. I want more of it, all of it, don’t want to miss out on a single connection, yet I often divert my eyes, walk away, put on my headphones. This is the first public event I’ve been to since my kids were born and I’m not sure how to act.
I have one friend at camp, Emma. I walk around looking for her whenever Sam’s not with me, as if I have very important business but really I just hope she’ll save me from my awkward aloneness, or from the occasional conversation I don’t want to be in. “Oh thank god you’re here,” seems to be my message every time I see her.
On the final evening I see David Perell present on stage. I’ve known David for four years, have been on hundreds of Zoom calls with him, but this is our first time meeting in person. I watch him glide across the stage, pause for effect, tease the final message, captivate every single person in that audience, and I realize, I want to do that.
We have an early morning flight home and have to check two bags because we were given so much swag (I have three Capital Camp hats and two backpacks now). At the airport we meet another camper and he asks about my writing. I have now talked about this so many times in three days that I breeze through what I do and what my book is about in a way that no longer feels uncomfortable.
For the past five years I’ve lived in isolation and convinced myself I had support from an online community. Capital Camp showed me the inspiring effects of in-person contact.
I told one camper that this was my first conference and joked that I could never go to another one because Capital Camp was just too good.
“No, you need to go to more,” he said. “You need to go to all of them. You never know when you’re going to meet Mr. or Mrs. Luck.”
Something that was repeated over and over during the course of the event was the power and importance of relationships. I’ve been doing the creative work of writing and publishing over here, in my room, in my pajamas, assuming that all my hard work will pay off. But part of the hard work is building relationships. It’s not that relationships can’t be initiated or even built online but nothing can replace a face-to-face interaction, a handshake, a hug, a vibe.
Days after the event, when I’m home with two toddlers, folding laundry and planning meals, wearing my new T-shirt and drinking out of my new mug, I will announce, unprompted, multiple times a day, as if it were a dream, “Capital Camp was amazing.”
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Until next week,
Charlie
New conference added to my list now!
You're the best, Charlie.